On the Eve...

Another chapter of our book ends tonight, and another begins. Some people hate New Years. They see it as just another night, a silly celebration of the earth's rotational pattern. So be it, I say. In America it's no surprise that some of us would never take the time to say the things we'll say tonight or do whatever it is we'll do. But tonight we will, because it's the end of a year, and it makes so many of us realize that life is moving faster than we can often keep up. And if we don't celebrate, what would be left to do. Ignore time? The way I see it, we need to recognize the changing of the year, the melting of one season into the heat of another. Not everyone needs to see this change so obviously, with balls dropping from the sky or plastic zeroes worn as eyeglasses, but I think most of us do. I think we need to see the change to make a change. It's no coincidence new year's resolutions have become a trend. The inconvenient truth is that not everyone is happy about who they are. There's things we'd like to wash off our skin, problems we wish would just go away. On the flip, there's all the dreams we want nothing else but to make our realities, and all the people we hope will notice our smiles from across a room. We want more out of life. And if passing into a new calendar year means looking in a mirror and trying to figure out what it is we want out of our time here, then fuck yeah for the new year, because I sure as hell let too many days slip away with the assumption tomorrow's daylight will last longer than todays did.



That said, I hope you've found those few or many friends to chime it in with as cozily or wildly as you have planned. There's no shame in celebrating your ass off at a bar or eating a carton of lo mein while watching Titanic in your bedroom. It's a personal shot at redemption to say the least. And starting the year off doing exactly what you want to do is a great first step. I'll let you all know later how my midnight felt...



So cheers to 2009! Cheers to recognizing what you want, and going for it.

The Doors Are Falling

The doors are falling, the doors are falling

Doorknobs and windows and panels and peepholes

The doors are falling onto me.

Heavy they are, easy they're not

I reach, I grab, I open, I close

The doors are falling onto me.

Soon there are few, sooner there's one

I stare, I think, I consider, I dare

Open I do, there's nothing once through

The air, I presume, the empty, the broken

The doors have fallen into me

12 Drummers Drumming!

So I guess I should address the fact that another holiday has come and gone. Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanza, Winter Solstice, or even your birthday...whatever it is you've spent the last week celebrating, Happy that to you! Personally I celebrate the season as a whole. It's a big excuse that we all need. It's an excuse to see co-workers outside the office, to visit the family you've avoided since Thanksgiving, or to laugh with the friends you always do. It's an excuse to take the pictures that will pinpoint your memories, and to get that gift that you'll never buy for yourself. It's an excuse to take off from work and a reason to wear green pants. It's an excuse to tell that person you love them, that you've missed them. It's an excuse to be happy.


This year however, despite all the excuses I used, I felt as though I never got holidayed. The anticipation kind of skipped over me somewhere along the way. And though I would consider this year to have been unmemorable, it did strike a cord with my past...

When I was in 8th grade, I performed in the 12 days of Christmas as a drummer. I remember thinking how much it sucked because I had such little stage time. In case you're not familiar, the "true love" doesn't show up with the marching band until day 12. So to make up for our lack of part, the teachers let us stay standing after the song was over and hold our sticks in the air. While we did this, everyone else would collapse to the floor overdramatically becasue they'd been performing for so long (in particularly the pear tree). It really didn't do much for us except make it even more obvious how small our roles were. The curtain would still close within seconds, and the drummers were no more remembered than they had been. I kind of felt like Christmas was like that this year, barely there. Like it didn't even matter. In fact, it felt so passive, that I may as well been off stage waiting to premier the 13 bloggers blogging.

I've come to terms with three main reasons for this lost holiday:

1. School had me taking finals less than a week before Christmas day (and the Marist bubble allows for limited holiday hype).

2. I have no money, and thus gift giving resorted to signing my name as a co-giver on the bottoms of various cards.

and

3. (SPOILER ALERT!) I'm in limbo. I don't believe in Santa and I'm far from playing "Santa." In other words, I don't get much and I can't give much.


So then what was this week for me? After looking back on it, I've reached a consensus with my jumbled opinions. It has something to do with that last excuse, the be happy one. Maybe it wasn't the highlight of my year, or even my month, but I was happy. I was happy with my family, especially the people I only see twice a year (if not for the holidays, many of them could easily slip away completely). And I was happy seeing a movie with my friends, like we always do, if only to escape our families. Right now, this week seemed no more special than the last. But in the long run, I know it's these minor traditions that help us count the years, and even more so, count the people we pass them with.

Whether you get "holidayed" or not, December 25th will still roll around, Hanukah will still last 8 days, winter will start, and the year will end. It's kind of like my drummer days. You can't have the twelve days of Christmas without the 12 drummers drumming. They are essential to the song despite their brief life span. Suddenly my part doesn't seem so meaningless, no matter how fast it went, because it still happened; it had to happen. It was an excuse to be happy, as short-lived as it was. And that happy, helped me remember that year. There's a VHS somewhere with a label reading "Christmas Pageant 2000." And for ten seconds on that tape I make sure that label means exactly what it says.



If nothing else, I hope you had a Happy Holiday.

Living the Edible Dream

I needed money. That was the primary reason I even considered taking the job. It's the holiday season, I'm in college, and sitting at home doing nothing was getting old after just two days. So when my pal Julie asked if I'd like to work as holiday help at Edible Arrangements, I thought, absolutely. My first day was Monday. I was told only two things: bring a sweatshirt because I'd be working inside a gigantic refrigerator, and that they'd pay me ten dollars an hour off the books. Sounded good to me. Plus, does it get much better than fruit dipped in chocolate in a familiar flower arrangement? Nope.

I began my first day skewering Strawberries. Well, first I'd wash them, then pick out all the duds, and then skewer them. After a few hours of that I was promoted to skinning melons and cantelopes. I know what your thinking, how do I get a job there? It gets better though. By noon I was doing so well, they let me work one of the "slicing mechanisms." This included use a machete to chop the melons in half, and spooning out the seeds. Afterward, I'd place the halves into the slicer and pull the lever downward using both arms. Just a few chops and pulls later, it was clear I had found my niche in the kitchen.


Now there were a fair share of downfalls at Edibles. First, my shift was 12 hours. This is a long day. Especially considering I never left about a six foot radius. Imagine standing in front of your kitchen sink for 12 hours. That's it. That's what I did. My back is still feeling it. Which brings me to my second point...lack of seating. Or not so much lack of, but total absence of. There were no chairs, or stools, or even inademate objects that one could pretend was a seat. My friend michelle who was also on the holiday help team did try to make an empty cantelope box a nifty chair, but the cardboard gave out faster than she could say "cantelope." The truth was though, there wasn't even much time to think about sitting, because we were always working. Always. For 12 hours. Our lunch break was 15 minutes. Fifteen minutes of leaning, because that was how good it was going to get. Thankfully, lunch was paid for by the company. Which sounds good, but is essentially just their way of not letting you escape the premesis long enough to find a seat.

To make it through each day, I was forced to find entertainment in what was around me. My first day that entertainment came in the form of James and Maria's love saga. Never have I experienced two individuals flirt with one another so obviously and from opposite ends of a room. She was dipping apples into chocolate in the back and he was designing baskets in the front. Yet somewhere in the air between them was a raw sexual magnetism that made crossing the room to wash my melons quite awkward. She giggled about being pregant with his child, he ate one of her berries...their material was priceless. Other spectacles included a 70 year old man showing up with a convertible filled with pineapples and watching my friend Michelle have a psychological breakdown after squishing one too many heads of lettuce into a basket. You can't script these storylines.

After just two days of work, it was time to retire. I did have the option to come in on Christmas Eve, but for some reason I was able to find 1000 reasons not to, starting with my back pain and injured left wrist. I will always remember my time there. Years from now, if I'm ever a a well known American figure and Conan or Ellen Degenerous ask me about my most memorable job experience I will most likely refer back to the 48 hours I spent in that refrigerator. I don't know if I can beat Madonna's stint at Dunkin Donuts in Manhattan or Brad Pitt in a chicken suit at a fast food joint in LA, but turning cantelopes and honey dew into flower petals is something to be proud of. Edible magic in fact.

The very first entry.

Well for starters, my name is Tim. I could tell you all the basics about who I am, but if successful, my stories should speak for themselves. So here goes, my life as a blogger officially begins...

Why 'My Wet Socks' you may ask? Well it wasn't the first thing that came to mind. In fact, I had compiled a list of my finalists and asked an especially critical friend to give me his thoughts. All were shot down except for one. But no, it wasn't this one. He actually preferred 'Just in Tim.' I know what you're thinking, brilliant. Haha, no I admit it was lame, "ghey" even. But for me, every list of potential titles always winds up having a pun in there somewhere. I was back to the drawing board. 'My Wet Socks' came to mind just a few minutes ago actually, and I just went with it. Sometimes you have to do that I guess. Just go with it. However, the wet socks do have a story...

As many of you could relate, wet socks are one of the worst annoyances life can treat us to. I dealt with the crisis Friday night. The second my Vans hit the snow, I knew my toes were pissed at me. I would've worn boots, but I was going to see a friend's band play at a lounge in the city. And being honest, boots don't say "I'm just kicking back, listening to my friends make music." Boots say something more like "I'm prepared to combat any weather force, despite all laws of fashion." So naturally, I went with the Vans.

It began with just a little moisture and poor insulation. But every street corner we hit, we were faced with a blacktop of slush to play hop-scotch on. The worst was the melted ice. Resting motionless beside the curb a guy could easily fall under the impression that 'hey, there's a patch of shiny black pavement, it must be okay to step there,' only to find his right foot completely submerged in ice water within seconds, and again two blocks later. Apparently hypothermia coincides with gullibility, and yours truly was the victim.

It's that sort of situation that spurs one or two alternatives, both of which are absurd, but nevertheless have successfully crossed your mind. There's option A: Go numb or go home. In this scenario you've ripped off both your shoes and socks and are running rampantly to your destination with no time to think. And then there's option B: Road block. In this scenario you just stop. You give up against the unyielding explosions of frostbite against your toes and stop right in your tracks. You've now accomplished easing the annoyance but have inadvertently caused sidewalk traffic by just standing there, and for who knows how long...do you plan on letting winter pass? Like I said, you will inevitably continue on.

Wet socks, to me, are the epitome of bodily discomfort. And anything that makes me think twice about taking that next step is worth overcoming. Thankfully, that night I was on my way to see friends I cared about, playing music that I loved to hear, at a lounge I presumed had heating. And it didn't take long to feel comfortable under those conditions (no pun intended Mike).


So that's the title for you. I think it sort of sets me up nicely for my purpose here; to speak honestly about my life. From the insane, to the ironic, to the awkward, to whatever makes me think twice about my next step...I'll write it for you. But it's all to be taken as a snapshot, each piece just a polaroid on the huge canvas that we all like to call "the bigger picture." I hope you enjoy.