Drops of Blood on My Forehead

God, I hate blogging.

Weird for one who writes professionally to admit such a feeling. But if you're going to look inside this copywriter's head, that's a truth you're going to discover.

One of my favorite quotes about writing is from American journalist, author and dramatist Gene Fowler, who reportedly said,

  Writing is easy: All you do is stare at a sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.

That's what it feels like for me when it comes to personal blogging. I write for a living, all week long, in a variety of channels including blogs. Every day, I speak as the "voice" of someone else – our agency, our clients, etc. So when it comes time to speak in my own voice, via this blog, why is it such a struggle? I suppose a therapist could have a field day with this – uncomfortable speaking in my own voice, perhaps? Afraid to open my head and heart publicly?

I prefer not to analyze it, but simply to acknowledge it. And as any writer knows, sometimes you just plough through and hope that in the course of writing a lot of drivel, occasionally something gold will show up. You just may not recognize it, covered in drops of blood as it may be.

Much To Do About... Lists

I'm a list guy.

I thought about this recently when I saw the title of Aubrey Plaza's new film, The To Do List. (Granted, her list is a bit more colorful than mine...). I almost always have a "to-do list." Things to do over the weekend. My list for the week ahead. My daily little punch-list that sits by my computer at work. Reminders of things to get done. People to see. Places to go.

I sometimes wonder what it says about a person who lives by the list. A bit OCD, perhaps. Time management gurus would applaud the lists, I suppose. They do help me to organize my life, or at least to not forget all the things that I want or need to accomplish. But for me, it's a bit more about the odd moments of satisfaction I get when I cross things off the list. There's some unusual sense of fulfillment that occurs whenever I am able to check off or cross off items from my list. It is finished. I have accomplished something. Now I may rest, or play, or do something less important.

I suspect I inherited this tendency from my mother, who was equally - if not more - obsessed with lists than I am. She was a librarian, and I suppose this makes sense. She maintained order in every aspect of her life, and I adopted this tendency. I even remember her adding items to her list after she had already done them, just for the pleasure of being able to cross them off her list. I won't admit to that much.

But I will admit that "write blog post" has been on my list(s) for weeks now... and it will be tremendously rewarding to go cross that one off, just as soon as I edit this and hit "publish."

An Uninvited Visitor

10:27 a.m. Stall #1, men’s room, 25^th floor.

I am minding my own business, finishing my business, when an unexpected guest crawls under the door, stopping near my left foot. Unaccustomed to visitors when I'm in the stall, it catches me by surprise. I prefer privacy in here and my peaceful respite has just been invaded. We quickly reach a “Cuba Missile Crisis” moment, me staring down at him; he staring up at me. Who will make the first move? 

Confession: I’m not fond of creatures that crawl. They make me squeamish. My initial response is to squash. For some reason this morning, however, I’m feeling a little more inclined to pardon this intruder. Or maybe I’m just not as confident in my squashing ability from this position. Instead, I try a tactical move. I stomp my left foot a few times and move it around a little, intending to scare the creature out of the stall. Wrong move. Instead of instilling fear or a flight response in him, I seem to have ignited a fight response. He scurries even closer to me and I suddenly have an “eek” moment, akin to the old lady on a chair screaming from a mouse. I have a split second to act before he reaches my foot and, dreadfully, please Lord, no, makes his way up my pant leg. I choose violence, and abruptly squash him good. 

Not a pleasant way to end my time in the stall, but better than the alternative cockroach-up-my-pant-leg scenario. I quickly suit up, scraping the bottom of my shoe on the floor to erase the evidence - and this messy reminder of my encounter.

(Note: Couldn't stomach posting a picture of a real cockroach, so this will have to do. Had the little critter actually been this cute, he may have lived to see another day.) 

An Unexpected Introduction

Hello, lady in bathroom on Amtrak train. Nice to see you. Most visitors to public bathrooms choose not only to shut the door completely, but to lock it. You chose a different path, and hence our introduction. I'll always remember your startled expression and flailing hand, which I don't think was an invitation to shake it. Anyway, pleasure to meet you under such awkward circumstances.

Simple, Floral Pleasures

 A few years ago, I discovered the simple joy of having fresh flowers in my office and work space. I had a European colleague who, unbeknownst to him, inspired me to begin this practice. I often noticed that he would have fresh flowers in a stylish vase in his office. (I have no idea if his international background played a role in his office décor choices. But somehow it feels right, or more romantic to think that this is a European practice. It just has more panache than the office tchotchkes you typically find around an American desk.)

Initially, I felt funny buying flowers for myself. It wasn’t an “I’m special and I’m worth it” kind of purchase. It just always seemed like flowers were meant to be given to someone else, to brighten their day and celebrate their special occasion. I enjoy doing that – and of course I enjoy being on the receiving end of a floral gift.

But there’s something about the natural beauty, the vibrant colors, the exotic patterns, sometimes the accompanying scent of flowers in a vase near my desk that adds an extra dimension to my day. It’s one of the simplest pleasures, but one that heightens my senses, deepens my appreciation for the beauty of creation – and helps set a mood for my own creative work.

 

There’s something about a shoeshine

What is it about having my shoes shined that brings such a good feeling?

It’s not just the end product, although there’s a certain proud feeling walking around in a pair of newly polished, squeaky clean, shiny shoes. It has nothing to do with being served or pampered. No, it's more than that.

There’s something almost Zen-like in those five to ten minutes that I’m sitting in that big, comfy, worn-leather, throne-like chair. It’s a feeling of being removed from the world for those few minutes, where nothing else really matters. Relaxed in the chair, I am held captive until the shoeshiner is done his or her job. (A job they do with remarkable focus and pride, I might add. When I’ve polished my shoes at home – and it’s been a long time since that happened, since I’ve discovered the joy, ease and inexpensive option of visiting the shoeshiner – it’s been a real chore. The sooner I finish, the better. But while I would be done the job in a few minutes on my own, the shoeshiner goes on and on, polishing and wiping and shining for another five minutes or more. But I digress.)

Held captive in that comfy chair, sitting high above ground level, I am the king of my domain. I can read the morning paper, listen to some music, check emails, or simply people watch – all while sitting completely still for those few moments, nowhere else to go… nowhere else I’d rather be. While the rush of the city and Grand Central terminal goes on around me, I am still, peaceful, contemplative. We don’t get many moments like those every day. Who knew a simple stop at the shoeshine stand could deliver so much more than a shiny shoe?

My Dog is Like a Super Villain

Like a super villain, my dog is bent on utter destruction. Instead of plotting the end of the world, however, my dog is content to settle for a less lofty goal.

Mostly, he’s happy destroying his toys. Utterly destroying them. I recall as a child how much I cherished my most prized toys. If something happened and one of them got slightly damaged, let alone destroyed, I was devastated. In fact (true confession here), once when my "Captain Action" action figure lost a hand, I went so far as to “borrow” (OK, steal) the hand from my brother’s Captain Action figure to restore my Captain’s dismembered plastic body. (Sorry, Kyle.) I  just couldn’t stand the thought of playing with a damaged Captain Action.

But I digress. My point is that this dog has the complete opposite instinct. When he's playing with his toys, he is hell-bent on destroying them and he will settle for nothing less than their utter destruction – no matter how “indestructible” their packaging claims them to be. Fortunately, these days his destructive tendencies are channeled primarily on his toys. Earlier in his young life, his path of destruction included our couch and an “indestructible” dog leash (special word of thanks to the honorable “indestructible” dog leash company that honored its promise to replace any leash that was destroyed…).

Captain Action surely would have interceded (even minus one hand) to stop Megamind or Dr. Evil or any other super villains he faced from their paths of destruction. We, however, allow Cooper to continue on his ruthless mission of destruction, replacing the Kongs and balls and other “indestructible” toys when and as needed. So long as he channels his destructive tendencies on his toys and nothing else in the house, it's a simple price to pay for allowing him the pleasure of fulfilling his super-villainous instincts.