Will You Sign My Dead Chipmunk?

Two days ago, my cousin Marissa and I left Los Angeles a little before 1pm, to drive down to San Diego for a book signing that started at 7pm.  Yes, we did get to Barnes & Noble four hours early to inquire about Jenny Lawson’s signing, and no, we didn’t regret how excessively early we were.  If you haven’t yet, you must read her book: Let’s Pretend This Never Happened (A Mostly True Memoir) and visit her blog, because then you’ll understand why we absolutely needed to be seated as close as humanly possible to her. 

We asked the nearest sales clerk for information about the event, but we weren’t satisfied with his answer of, “It’ll be over there at 7pm,” and him quickly flicking his wrist and not even bothering to look up from his bookkeeping.  We did not arrive hours in advance to get information we already knew, so Marissa kept politely prodding for more details of where and when we could begin lining up.  You could tell he was a bit bothered with our questioning of every detail, so Marissa saved us by cheerfully adding, “We’re really excited to meet her!”  At that, he softened and inquired as to whether we bought her book yet, and gladly signed a ticket for us, showing that we had.

Noticing that we were the only two nerds there and ready for the signing (and pretty much the only two in the store) we felt more than comfortable leaving to meet up with my other cousin, Marissa’s sister, for a long lunch.  She was quick to laugh and question our attire, as we were matching in our Lawsbian Pride shirts and gray shorts.

We got back to Barnes & Noble a little before 5pm, and after perusing every square inch of the store, we sat ourselves down in the cleared out kid’s section, where Jenny would be doing her reading (which is hilarious because she has an awesomely funny, but foul, mouth).  We were sure people must have thought we were child predators since the cushions we sat on were located right next to the play table, but we sat down anyway and tried not to stare too much at the cute kids who came to play with the train-set on the table.   

For the last few weeks, I have been working on a Jefferson Peabody cross-stitch to give to Jenny, and with my luck, I still wasn’t quite done with it.  I had worked so hard and was determined to give it to her, so I sat and stitched furiously, my hands shaking with the anxiety over not finishing in time.  While I stitched, Marissa was audibly enjoying herself while re-reading Jenny’s book.  Amazingly enough, I finished just as my online Lawsbian friend, Shelly, arrived at the store. 

It was the first time we’d be meeting in person, and I was terrified of being the usual ball of awkward that I usually am, but Shelly’s warm personality kept our conversation going, and the three of us sat and chatted the time away while we waited for the chairs to get set up.  The event organizer was really nice, and offered up-to-the-minute information on what he was doing, and how he was planning to set up the area without us even inquiring.  As soon as he got the first two rows set up, Marissa, Shelly, and I plopped ourselves down on the first three seats of the front row.  A brown chair next to Shelly was marked with a post-it that said it was reserved for a relative.  We were told it was for her sister-in-law, but being the super Jenny stalkers we are, we knew her husband, Victor, didn’t have a brother, and began to excite ourselves over the prospect of it being Jenny’s sister, Lisa….and it totally was!  I got to share side glances and knowing smiles with her on a few occasions throughout Jenny’s appearance, and that made the night just that much more special.

We brought our humanely taxidermied critters, and they were
just as excited to be sitting right up front.

But to get back to the waiting part: While I was sitting, nervously clutching my book in my lap, I noticed Bree, my cousin-in-law, (is that even a term? She’s my cousin’s husband’s sister….so it makes sense in my head) sitting in the row behind me.  I had no idea she was a fan too, so I tried to get her attention, but my soft voice was overshadowed by the excitement she was causing over the 2-foot metal chicken she had in her hands.  If you’re not a Bloggess fan, you should go read this to see what the hub bub was all about.  I finally caught her attention, and after sharing a hug, she showed me pictures of our niece’s 2^nd birthday party.  (Well, she’s not really my niece, she’s Bree’s niece, but she’s my cousin’s child, so she feels like a niece to me…and now I’m realizing that I apparently like to make up family relationship names…that’s cool, right?)

As soon as Bree went back to her seat, a girl with a cool camera around her neck who was taking candid photos of everyone asked if I was Erica.  Turns out, it was Melanie, the one who started the Hope Blog Relay that I took part in!  I was pretty much as awestruck as if I was meeting Jenny, so I jumped right up and gave her a hug, and then sat right back down, all awkward-like, and mumbled something about how great it was to meet her in person.  I thought I scared her away, ‘cause she quickly retreated to the back where she continued to take pictures, but turns out she was feeling just as socially inept as me!  So like opposing magnets, our awesome social skills kept us from sharing more than a hug and a quick hello.

Time seemed to fly by, and soon enough, Jenny was right in front of me.  And I mean right in front of me! 

Best story time EVER!

She read one of my favorite chapters (of course it’s the one about poo), and we all laughed our asses off the entire time.  It was fun sneaking glances at the trying-not-to-smile-security dude and the Barnes and Noble employees who were hearing her story for the first time.  After an awesome question and answer session, it was time to line up for the signing.  Being in the front row, we got to line up first, and I happened to get shuffled to the very front of the line!  I gawkily stood there fumbling around with my phone, my book, my cross stitch, and of course, my taxidermy newsy chipmunk, Marjorie, watching Jenny take a seat and prepare to meet us all, and waiting for someone to usher me forward.  

When they finally said I could approach the table, I was a mumbling fool, but Jenny was so sweet, that she helped calm me down.  She was all kinds of excited to see Marjorie, and said that she was the first chipmunk she’s ever signed!  And when I gave her the Jefferson Peabody cross-stitch, she was beyond grateful.  She didn’t just give a polite thank-you, she was genuinely impressed and happy to receive it, and it made my heart happy.  I couldn’t have asked for a better reaction:

So excited!

As we prepared for the picture, and I made sure to position Marjorie in it, she remembered that she had brought Copernicus, who was sitting in her purse right at her feet.  I watched her struggle to pull him out of the clawing tangle of things in her purse, and contemplated helping, but wasn’t sure if it was cool to reach into a New York Times Best Seller author’s purse, so I held back.  After seconds of her struggling, which felt like minutes, I decided, awesome author or not, she needs help, and it’s the humane thing to do, so I reached down to help untangle Copernicus.  At the same time, her sister rushed in to help, and suddenly there were too many hands, and I heard her sister softly say, “No,” and wasn’t sure who she was talking to, or what she was referring to, but I’m pretty sure it was directed to me, the complete stranger, putting her hands on her sister’s purse junk.  I get it though.  If I were ever famous, I’d like to think that my brothers would look out for my possessions too.  In any case, out popped Copernicus, and with Jenny victoriously holding him, we snapped a picture together. 

I love how genuine she is! I mean, look at that smile!

When it was all over, Marissa and I were literally shaking with nervous excitement, and our giddy smiles stayed plastered on our faces all night.  It truly was one of the best days of my life, and one that I will never forget.

Marissa, Jenny, Me, Copernicus,
Not-So-Bad-Ass-Legolas, and a naked Marjorie.

And if you made it to the end of this post, thanks for sticking it out!  There was just no way I could cut any of that day from this entry, so I appreciate your dedication. 

She validated my Cool Girl Book Club name by
voluntarily writing, "You Rock!"

Quirky Blogger

“Most bloggers are emotionally unstable and are often awkward in social situations, which is why so many of us turned to blogging in the first place.” –Jenny Lawson Let’s Pretend This Never Happened: A Mostly True Memoir

While I don’t believe I’m emotionally unstable, I do attest to being quirky (the nice word for weird) and slightly uncomfortable in social situations; especially with people I don’t know well.  So yes, I couldn’t help but laugh and kind of relate as I read that line last night. 

I totally turned to blogging because I have stories I want to share, but I hate telling long stories in front of people.  Besides the fact that I turn beet red and start stumbling over words whenever I notice undivided attention turned on me, I also tend to get cut off every time I begin talking, and I immediately assume it’s because people aren’t interested in what I have to say (part of my very mild self-diagnosed OCD that I’ll get to soon).  When I’m in a big group of people, once I get cut off, I can usually just trail off and am luckily forgotten about.  But if I’m one-on-one and get cut off, I feel like I need to follow through with what I began, so I’ll usually just cut to the chase, leaving out all the entertaining parts and ending with a lame ass story that not even I was interested in hearing, which then leaves me blushing and ashamed that I opened my mouth again. 

Like I mentioned earlier, I’m pretty sure I have a very mild case of OCD.  If anyone else got cut off while talking, they’d brush it aside and continue on with their story or leave their tale for another day.  But not me.  I sit there thinking how dumb I was to have even started talking, and put myself down for even thinking people would want to listen to what I have to say.  I begin to wonder if others are secretly laughing at me and privately glad that I was shut up.  I seriously obsess about this for the next minute or so, completely ignoring the other conversation around me, but putting on a fake smile and nod so that I can hopefully fit in while I calm my ass down.  That’s the tip of the iceberg to my social awkwardness, and the showcase to my quirkiness.

When I was a kid, my hands always had to be equal; and a lot of the times, this equality revolved around the staircase in my house.  If my right hand lightly slapped the banister, my left hand had to slap it as well.  Sometimes, I’d even go back up the few stairs so that I could hit the banister in the approximate same place.  We also had a light switch at the top and foot of our stairs that controlled the same overhead light.  If I flipped the switch upstairs, then I had to flip it downstairs with my opposite hand.  This worked well if the light was off, because ultimately, the light would end up off again.  It led to issues when the light was on, however.  I would flip the switch off upstairs, then switch it back on downstairs, which would leave me with a sense of guilt for leaving a light on in an area I wasn’t going to be in, so I’d flip that same switch back off (with the opposite hand of course), then be left with two uncomfortable options: leave the light alone and walk away with my other hand feeling left out, or let equality prevail at the expense of running electricity.  I usually chose the latter; assuming one of my brothers would save the world’s energy problem for me.

For some reason, I grew out of that; maybe it was moving out of the house for college.  Nowadays, my OCD is mostly manifested in my placement of objects.  If an array of items is in front of me, I’ll usually line them up neat and tidy.  Everything on the desk of my classroom had a specific place that I would fix constantly throughout the day.  Just last week, as I was eating a clam dinner, Greg noticed me carefully stacking my empty shells off to the side of my plate.  After he knocked them over, I wanted to stack them back up, but instead, I stubbornly settled on making the fallen towers more spread out equally across my plate.  One of the shells that used to be on top was sadly layered by another shell, and as much as I told myself to let it go, I had to pinch it from the bottom of the plate and set it delicately on the top: it’s rightful place among it’s fellow shells.

I’ve been delighted reading the above-mentioned book, and pouring over her blog.  Jenny Lawson has not only given me the renewed energy I needed to get my own blog up and running again, but she’s validated the reasons I write, and makes me feel not so alone in my weirdness.  I actually feel pretty normal compared to her, though after this entry, many of you might disagree. 

Anyone can whistle, that's what they say--easy

I had fun at my voice lesson today.  Those are words I never thought I would say. 

For those of you who don’t know, I’m taking a beginner’s voice class at my local community college in order to satisfy my last requirement to earn my Music Supplement to my teaching credential.  Learning, and trying to master my singing voice never held a shred of interest to me.  The thought of taking a voice class seemed absolutely terrifying, so when I discovered that there was no way to get my supplement without it, I made Kevin take it with me.

I left each of the first three class sessions knowing in my heart that I would never come back.  I even thanked Kevin for trying with me, but told him I would understand if he wanted out.  I just could not see myself actually singing to my classmates at the front of the classroom, not to mention singing solo in the concert hall for three recitals.  Nope, there was no way I would do it.  That is, until I heard others sing.

Most of the students in my class could hold a decent tone; but no one was amazing.  Some people sang soft or pitchy, and others were just flat out bad.  If anything, I knew I wouldn’t be the worst singer in the class. 

A friend I met during my Peace Team adventure back in ‘03 nicknamed me “Horse Whisperer” because while goofing off and singing out of a hymnal book we’d found, she noticed that although I was whispering out my songs, I was actually singing pretty well.  I never took her compliment to heart until I entered this class.  I started thinking that maybe her words were more than just a friendly opinion, since I knew I could sing better than a handful of the kids in my class.

The first day that I bit the bullet and sang in front of my peers, I was shaking so much I thought for sure everyone could hear it in my voice.  However, I was told that I sounded good, I got some decent feedback from my teacher, and most importantly, once I was done, I felt relieved because I knew without a doubt that I would be able to handle the rest of the semester.

The class sessions have since become enjoyable for me, and I’m learning more about my voice and pushing it to places that I never thought it could go.  I’m also finding it easier and easier to sing in front of my class.  While the nerves will never dissipate completely, I don’t let them fill me with terror like they used to.  I’ve already sung successfully in one recital, and my second recital will be on Monday.  After today’s individual voice lesson, I’m feeling confident, prepared, and actually eager to sing.  Who would’ve thought? 

Mr. Schatz's Daughter

A week or so before school started, I was asking my youngest cousin how she felt about beginning 6^th grade at a middle school.  She was so nonchalant about it despite the fact that she had missed orientation, had no idea what classes she would be taking, and knew she’d be changing middle schools this year or next.  I marveled at her relaxed demeanor because the summer before I entered junior high as a 7^th grader, I was a wreck!

The newness and uncertainty of what I would encounter at Fleming Jr. High stressed the shit out of me!  Nowadays, they acclimate kids to switching teachers and classrooms.  Back then, my classmates and I went from a self-contained K-6 education to being thrown into a three building, multi-storied school with six different periods for each of our classes, all fit between passing periods with tardy bells. Not to mention I would have to learn how to open a locker; which was the scariest part for me.

I would work myself into a fit of tears over the stress of owning a locker.  I was extremely short for my age, so I was concerned I’d be assigned a top locker and not be able to see the combination lock.  And oh man was the combination lock a whole other mess in itself!  Being the nerd that I am, I was super stressed that I wouldn’t be able to master the complex task of working a combo lock.  Thus came Daddy to the rescue!

My dad was, and still is, the highly respected Athletic Director for San Pedro High School.  Besides bestowing upon my brothers and me the love of sports and athleticism, he also would come home with all sorts of fun sports and school related paraphernalia, and for this tragic time in my life, he brought me home a few combination locks to practice on.  After mastering those locks, I felt way more secure about using a locker at school, and a huge chunk of my worries dissipated.

I don’t remember where my first locker was situated, but I do recall that I was tall enough to see the dial clearly, and with my summer of practice, was able to open it easily.  Since I came from Lomita Magnet and qualified for Honors courses, I had elementary school friends in every single one of my classes.  And to make everything even better, due to the fortunate proximity of my classrooms, there was plenty of time during the passing periods to get from one class to the next.  That is, unless you’re a shy, awkward, scatterbrained nerd; like me.

After giving us newbies a week or so of free passes to being tardy, the school started implementing the Tardy Sweep.  If you didn’t make it to class by the time the tardy bell rang, you were required to sit in a detention room all period.  Of course, even though I knew I had more than enough time to get to each of my classes, I still felt nervous about this new rule and would pack up quickly, never lingering to chat with friends at the end of class to make sure I was not caught in that sweep. 

One day after 3^rd period English, it took me longer than usual to put the papers away in my notebook and I noticed that my friend Carrie left for 4^th period History without me.  I was a bit bummed, but understood, since I, myself, got nervous waiting for slow friends to pack up their belongings between periods.  I quickly gathered my things and rushed out the door to catch up.  I saw her and a few other friends ahead of me, but they were walking in an unfamiliar direction.  I figured our teacher must’ve moved class for the day and I missed the announcement the day before.  Being shy, awkward, and embarrassed to approach them, I just kept a few paces behind them instead of jumping in and inquiring where they were going.  I followed them all the way across the campus right into a class with a teacher I had never seen before, and classmates I didn’t know.  That’s when it dawned on me that it wasn’t time for History!  My 4^th period was Leadership, which was located directly downstairs from my 3^rd period room and ALL the way back across campus.

I quickly bolted from that room and walked as fast as I could to my class (running was against the rules).  The tardy bell rang when I was only few doors away from my class.  Despite the bell, I walked in the doorway, pausing to face my teacher who was sitting across the room at her desk, and I explained, “I thought it was a different period and I walked to the wrong class.”  To which she replied, “Sorry Erica, but you’re tardy.  You need to go to Detention.”  Knot in my throat and tears welling in my eyes, I swallowed, blinked away those tears, and began my walk of doom to the detention room.  Halfway there, I ran into our Vice Principal who questioned my being out of class.  I explained my situation and then he asked me my name. 

“Schatz?” he asked with a sense of familiarity.  “Any relation to Bob Schatz at San Pedro?”

“Yes, he’s my dad,” I meekly answered.

“I know your father,” he retorted.  “Good guy.  Come on, I’ll take care of this.”

That man accompanied me back to my classroom where, without an explanation, insisted my teacher let me stay in class despite my tardiness.  As I took my seat, she shot me a dirty look, as if I went running to tattle on her and got her in trouble.  I couldn’t help but smile sheepishly all the while turning a deep crimson. 

After those first few weeks of Junior High School, I was comfortable and accustomed to the new routine, and I loved every bit of my time there.  I was glad to know being Bob Schatz’s daughter gave me some leverage, but I never had to use it again.  Besides having the perks of my dad’s status throughout my school years, he was, and still is, a great father.  From something as small and touching as bringing home combination locks, to being a non-judging, unconditionally loving rock of support when I finally found the courage to end a six year abusive relationship, he has given me so much of the confidence that I have today.  Having Mr. Schatz as my dad may have saved me in Junior High, but him just being my daddy really has saved me in life.   

Bunion, perhaps?

Until a few days ago, I’d never really known what bunions were.  I correlated bunions with wrinkly old lady feet jammed into uncomfortable leather slip on shoes.  I also knew bunions could be relieved with spongy, donut shaped stickers.  But what were they exactly?  I never really cared to know, until recently.

About a week and a half ago, I realized that I’d injured my right foot while running.  The pain ran from the top of my foot at the base of my pinky toe down along the outer side of my foot, stopping just before my ankle.  Instead of giving myself a break from running, I threw on my sturdy Asics in lieu of my 5 Finger Vibrams in hopes that the stability would ease the pain.  And it did; however, my injury never got better.  Being unemployed, uninsured, and concerned over the increasing pain, I had no choice but to use Google to diagnose this injury myself.  I found many people with the same problem, but never any solid answers.  After days of searching, I came across a thread where one of the commenters gave five words of support.  These words ultimately did not solve my injury, but still managed to turn my world upside down: “Sounds like a Tailor’s Bunion.”

Of course, the first thing I did, was Google “Tailor’s Bunion,” and I was shocked to discover my “6^th toe” disfiguration ALL over the internet!  (No, I don’t really have a 6^th toe, and before you go and Google it yourself and start thinking that I have those horribly disfigured feet that you see plastered all across your screen, do me a favor and please click HERE first to see a picture of what mine looks similar to.)  Also referred to as a Bunionette, this gem of a disfigurement is basically the 5^th metatarsal bone jutting out while the rest of the toe bends inward.  Supposedly it’s really painful, but I’ve never had any problems.  That’s probably due to the fact that mine doesn’t stick out as much as those you see in pictures.

 

As subtle as it was, I never really saw it as a disfigurement, and I played it off as another thing my little brothers could make fun of me for, and thus, my “6^th toe” became a joke among us.  I think I was in a state of shock when I discovered it was an actual disorder!  I couldn’t stop laughing and feeling taken aback.  After living thirty years thinking one way, and then discovering everything you thought was wrong, is the weirdest, and creepiest feeling ever! 

Despite the internet making it extremely clear that I have a Tailor's Bunion on both my feet, I still don't think of myself as someone with a bunion.  Even though I now know better, I can't drop my preconceived notion that bunions=old lady feet.  I don't have any of the problems associated with Bunionettes, so I prefer to just push the thought from my mind.  Besides, they're the feet I've always had.  They're my 6^th toe jokes.  They're my feet.  And they're not a disfigurement.  So there!

Marathon Woes

I ran my first, and possibly last, marathon on March 21, 2010.  Running the LA Marathon had been a dream of mine since high school, but being a competitive athlete, there was no way I could take off the weeks needed for recovery afterwards; the race is always held in the heart of Track season.  After a college injury and advice from my trainers, I reluctantly stopped competitive running altogether.  Without the motivation to race, I gradually discontinued any sort of training.  I still ran here and there, but it wasn’t until the summer of 2009 that I decided to get back into races. 

I use the word “races” as a term, not literally.  I was not willing to re-injure myself and do any all-out competitions; I just wanted to get out there with other people who shared my passion and run the best that I could.  So that October, I got my cousin Marissa, her husband Alex, and my friend Danny to join me in our first half-marathon.  With limited time for training, and all of us just getting back into running, it was surprising how easy the 13.1 miles were!  When I finished, I felt like I could have easily kept going.  This spurred our interest in a full-length marathon, and we quickly began a training program. 

Despite numerous long training runs (the last four Saturday runs being 16-22 miles each), I still managed to hit that wall during the actual marathon, and I hit it at mile 16.  Basically, the thought of going another 10 miles was messing with my head, and I started to feel discouraged.  Luckily, I had my cousin by my side, and with Marissa’s support, I was able to get over that mental block.  We were doing this together, dammit, and nothing was going to stop us! 

Then something happened that I was completely unprepared for.  Somewhere during mile 19, I peed my pants.  Yes, you read that right.  I straight peed on myself, and I couldn’t stop it!  I was so embarrassed, I couldn’t even tell Marissa what was happening to me.  It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever had to endure while running.  Small squirts of urine would seep out regardless of how hard I tried to keep it in.  Those who know me well, know I don’t drink a lot of water, even on runs, and I think that was my saving grace.  While my dark blue shorts slowly became saturated, nothing ran down my legs, and for that, I was grateful.  But the thought of having a dark spot in the crotch of my shorts gave me further motivation to finish the race.

My new goal was to quickly get to each water station so that I could create a façade of cooling myself by dumping water all over my front in an attempt to hide the ever-growing patch on my shorts.  And it worked!  When I was emailed my marathon photos, the first thing I looked for was my pee stain.  Fortunately, not even a hint of it could be seen!  Although I was mortified when it started, and worried that there would be photographic evidence, by the time I hit mile 22, I didn’t care if onlookers could tell.  I was the one butchering my body to complete 26.2 miles and they were just standing on the sidelines; judge away!

After 5 hours 4 minutes and 50 seconds, I crossed that finish line (relatively dry) with Marissa and Danny by my side, and it was one of the most intense feelings I have ever experienced.  Tears of pride, pain, and relief streamed down my face as I hugged Marissa and Danny.  We did it!  Will I do it again?  “Hell no!” was my immediate response for a long time.  However, lately, I’ve been contemplating running another.  Each time I think about it though, there’s a big question looming in my mind: Is it worth the possibility of urinating on myself to get a time under 5 hours? 

It just might be.