(Okay, I've used this song before, but good music is worth replaying, especially when it is an integral part of the story!)
I think that funks, like trouble, must come in threes. I had encountered two unemployed friends in the last week who were in funks also. At 1pm, I sensed I was drowning in the River Laundry-Folding-While-Watching-Back-to-Back-Episodes-of-Law-&-Order in Funkytown. It also dawned on me that it had been a week since I submitted my application for seasonal work at Bath & Body Works, and as of yet, I had received no phone call. Gawd, there wasn't a job to be found anywhere.
I wrote to my friend, Chris, and I told him that I thought I was in a funk. He said he sensed that, and I told him that I would under no circumstances play The Blue Nile (http://www.myspace.com/thebluenileglasgow). I love them, but when I am a funk, they make me even more "wistful" as Chris once said.
Chris, sensing a complete and total one-way ticket purchased by me to Funkytown said, "Whatever you do, no Blue Nile. I prescribe repeated plays of "Girl Put Your Records On." I had a think for 5 seconds, and I then responded, "You know what? You’re right. Out to bike with Girl Put Your Records On! Tawanda!" Thank you, Chris. ♥
I gathered all my biking things, flew out the door, got on my bike, and put "Girl Put Your Records On" on my iPod. And, I started the trip that would hopefully lead me out of Funkytown. Anytime I had to break out of Funkytown quickly, I needed a strategy. (The last time, it was to make a movie, which I've included below, because again, a good movie is worth replaying, especially when it is an integral part of the story!)
Today, while playing the game of Funkytownopoly, I chose the "Get out of Funkytown Before 3pm" card; on the back of the card, it said today's strategy was "at least." Have you seen the Funkytownopoly game? No. That's because I own the only copy!
At least...it was particularly warm day for November, so I knew that my feet and hands would not be frozen by the time I reached the rail trail, though by the time I reached the rail trail, I knew I had overdressed by a layer!
At least...I was not a grumpy, mean, and overweight Scottie dog like my neighbor's dog, Merlin.
At least...after encountering several people on the trail, they all looked like they were happy to see me, greeting me with big smiles. It's nice when a total stranger looks happy to see you. Unlike, Liam who was getting sick of me diving onto the bed every 30 minutes today, waking him up, and then wrapping my arms around him and madly kissing his nose. This is somewhat what Liam looks like when I spend too much time hanging around at home.
At least...I didn't have to walk my bike on the rail trail. This is one of the rail trail phenomena that I understand the least. I see many people, young and old, on the fairly flat trail walking their bikes. When these people leave the house, do they say, I'm going out to take my bike for a walk?" Of course, I suppose it could be that they're tired of riding. Yes, I know; I would never understand, because I never tire of riding.
At least...I didn't have to ride slowly like Ed who I passed on the trail on the way up to New Hampshire. Ed, who organizes one of the largest pro cycling racings in Massachusetts or maybe even in New England, drives 30 minutes to the trail to bike. As Bill says, "Ed has a bad ticker." Ed can't raise his heart rate too much, so in order to cycle he must bike on the flat trail and go pretty slow. Tangent at least...I was fortunate enough to catch up to and pass anyone who passed me with, as Bob says, "attitude."
At least...I didn't get left in the pumpkin patch on Halloween.
I got to glow brightly as Madonna that night.
At least...I could hum, because at the 12.5 mile mark, my iPod ran out of battery juice; so, for the 12.5 mile return trip, I had to hum "Girl Put Your Records On." Yes, at this point, the headphones are just for decoration!
At least...I wasn't 10 feet tall!
Okay, the tallest woman was 8 ft 1¾". I was 5'10", which at times has been difficult. My volleyball coach at Brandeis put me on the roster as 5'11". I questioned her about this one day, and she said it was for intimidation. I said, "But, if you're going to intimidate, why not just put me down as 6'?!?!" Anyway, did you know that at 5'10", I'm not "tall" according to The Gap? You have to be at least 5'11" for The Gap to consider you to be tall!
At least...I didn't feel like throwing myself off the dam.
But, I did feel like throwing myself on the counter at Bath & Body Works and beg for a job to keep myself busy. Liam would second that just to get rid of me as well!
Being a WizardofOzaholic, whenever I see that dam sign, it reminds me of this oddly enough.
At least...I wasn't a 7.5.
I think I'm an 8; however, I subtracted for my impatience, impulsiveness, my inability to solve a Rubix cube, and the fact that my second and third toes are longer than my big toe.
At least...I didn't have to worry about what time it was most of the day.
My vintage watches hadn't seen the light of day in months.
At least...I was fortunate enough to see this beautiful November day instead of the walls of a small cubicle.
Okay, I miss the cubicle terribly, but I'm trying to get out of Funkytown, so it's all about the positives, people!
At least...my house wasn't this small.
I could never fit my second and third toes in there, never mind my big toe! ("I'd never want a huge house, because my house is just right," said Goldilocks.)
At least...at the end of the 25 mile ride, I knew that the...
to...
being a...
(bump on a log)
was to always take the...
out of Funkytown and touch the post...
because there's no place like home; just say "No" to Funkytown. ♥
Here's a movie I made about the last time I needed to get out of Funkytown. The song is called "Only Got One" by Frou Frou.
Thanks for the Great Quote JD ♥ Note: "Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense." ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
And, for a limited time only!
Blog soundtrack:
This is another old email "story" I had written about 4 years ago. It seemed somewhat related to today's mood, so I decided to include it as an extra added blog bonus. It was about a trip back from Philadelphia. Philly is one of my favorite cities when it's not New York City.
Are You Okay, Honey?
On Thursday morning, while I sat and waited for some TSA individual to sort through my belongings, a man came up to me, who himself had gone through the same embarrassing violation of personal space, and he asked, "You bought a one-way ticket, didn't ya?" I shook my head "yes", and he said, "That's it. That why you're here." He then said, "It's really kind of stupid that they frisk us one-way people, because any terrorist knows now to buy a round-trip ticket!" And, you know what, he was right.
When at the airport upon departure today, I stopped at the newsstand. I still hadn’t consumed all my coffee, so I stood there dumbfounded as I pondered the magazine choices saying to myself, “Hmmm, Glamour or The New Yorker. Glamour or The New Yorker?” It was as if I was going to feel guilty if I bought the Glamour, because then I’d deem myself someone whose only concern was fashion; however, I didn’t want to be too cerebral and buy only The New Yorker. Finally, the caffeine kicked in and I was like, “Jean, you can afford to buy both and be a person who is both cerebral and fashionable simultaneously. Look at Paris Hilton. Not!”
I headed over to my gate, and within ten minutes, boarding commensed.
A few moments later, some guy gently tapped me on the arm while I was in queue C, and he asked, “Honey, are you a B or a C?”
I answered, “I’m a C today, but I can assure you that most of my friends and family will attest to my being at least a B+.”
He laughed.
You know, I like it when people call me “Honey” like that. Of course, my sister, Julie, would have shot daggers out of her eyes at the man who dared to call her “Honey.” She hated it when my Dad kiddingly called us "broads." I always knew he was kidding and thought it was funny.
I have found that I like being a “Honey,” a “Sweetheart,” a “Darling,” and even a “Babe.” I mean, after all, they’re just terms of endearment.
Despite my being a Southwest “C,” I went all the way to the back of the plane, and I got a seat in my favorite place, row 27, seat C, which was at the back of the plane by the window. I’m like a big dog. I like looking out the window, except I have no inclination to stick my nose out it or drool down the front of it.
When everyone was seated, I noticed a rather rushed couple heading down the aisle with a boy about Isabelle’s age and a newborn infant, and heading up the tribe was a very overweight woman, who looked to be "Mom" to the man or woman.
I heard her yelling to the airline attendant, “We need two rows together!” I was thinking, “Hey, this woman is kind of bossy.” The attendant was doing her best to accommodate them.
The wife arrived first holding the newborn baby girl in her arms. She motioned to the little boy to move into the empty row behind me. She then said to her husband, “Oh, honey (note the term of endearment!), where’s the car seat?”
By that time, he had stopped at my row and proceeded to dump all four bags that he was carrying over his shoulders (the diaper bag, Mom’s carry-on bag, a bag of parcels, and a bag of toys) into the seat at the end of my row and started to load them into the overhead storage bin.
His response to her was not even about the location of the car seat; it was your basic traveling-with-two-kids-and-mother-in-law-and-carrying-way-too-much-stuff kind of frustrated response. He said, “This is ridiculous having to cart around all this stuff! Next time, we’re sending it all down in a U-haul. [BIG sigh] The car seat is back at the entrance to the plane; I haven’t had a chance to get it of course!”
His wife then said quite relieved, “Oh, the airline attendant is bringing it down here!” He finally got the car seat, put it in the seat for his son, and buckled his son in. He sat down next to his son, and then his wife sat down with the newborn on her lap.
Then, the mother-in-law, making sure that they were all appropriately tucked in, flung her flawlessly white sneakers, which I later found out she hadn't been wearing since she went through airport security, a little pair of size 7 brown boy’s sandals, her purse, and a little teeny-tiny green, white, and pink checkerboard newborn fleece into the seat next to me and sat down in the aisle seat, heaving a big sigh of relief herself. She reached for her sneakers, and then she exclaimed to the all of those sitting around her, “Forget it! I’m not putting my sneakers on!”
I was thinking, “Ugh, I hope her feet don’t smell!” It turned out that they didn’t.
She then barked to the flight attendant, “Hey, can you give me a belt extender!” I gave her credit, because it wasn’t like she was shy about the fact that she needed a belt extender. The flight attendant handed her one, and she buckled up.
She then kept putting her hand around her items in the seat next to me, and the gesture almost made me think she was afraid that somehow I might try to reach over and steal her belongings; however, I later surmised it was more of a gesture that made her feel like she had everything with her and all was in her control.
The pilot came on the loud speaker and announced we’d be delayed as there were a number of departing planes. I picked up my copy of The New Yorker and started to read a story about a couple whose daughter was stillborn.
Then as we taxied toward the runway, I began to feel an overwhelming sense of sadness, and I began to cry. Not sobbing crying, but my nose began to run, and my eyes began to water. I was thinking, "God, is it this story I'm reading? Was I still somewhat disappointed in myself that I bought the mindless issue of Glamour magazine that boasted on its cover, "The Illustrated Guide to a Great Sex Life" instead of picking up "National Geographic?" Was it a delayed reaction to the overwhelming impression that I got yesterday when I felt that my husband wanted me to leave Philly early and head home? What the hell was my problem?"
I reached into my bag for a Kleenex; thank God for those mini-packages. Then I turned my head to the window, blew my nose, and wiped under my eyes. (Question to Self: When are you going to wise up and invest in waterproof mascara?) But, the tears came again, and I wiped yet again.
And then I felt a hand on my arm, and I heard someone say, "Are you okay, Honey?" I turned; it was the mother-in-law. And I tried to say a "Yes" followed by a "Thank you", but then my nose began to run and a huge tear rolled down my cheek.
I put my hand on her hand and squeezed it, and I nodded yes, and then eeked out a "Thanks."
She asked, "Are you going home, Honey?"
I nodded yes, and she said, "Good. We are too."
I managed a smile, and she took her hand away, and I reached for another Kleenex. And in an instant, all my tears were gone. Sometimes, it is the kindness of strangers [ed. Or a rail trail!] that can save you, I think.
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