Pardon Me, but I'm Morally Opposed to Leaving the Driveway.

I tried to take my friend's dog for a walk today.
... I figured it would be more successful than my attempt *yesterday* - mind, yesterday I tried to take her for a "run", not a walk, which may explain the following:

1 step out of the door, the dog (Roxy) and I are both excited. I've never gone for a run with a puppy before, and if she zipped around outside like she spasmodically zipped *inside*... this could be fun.
2 steps out of the door - the leash jerks out of my hand.

... and Roxy can zip, let me tell you.

What followed was a half-block sprint chase, involving teasing, coy looks, and sudden spurts of energy (the dog) and pleading, shouting, and last, determined, desperate reaches for the leash (me).
... long story short - I caught the dog... who, upon being caught, sat down immediately in the middle of the street and refused to go a step further.

... I carried her back to the house.

Today, however, I was mentally resolved to make things turn out differently. Zippy could take a calm, long walk with me, and we could get to know each other a bit as I led her - securely fastened - around the neighborhood. With the air of Santa Claus giving out a particularly big gift, I knelt down in front of the dog and introduced the idea of a walk.
"Walk???????" I said, extra perky. "Do you want to go for a walk????????"

Roxy looked skeptical, but let me hook up the leash. She even let me walk her out to the driveway.
... but... on the driveway... she suddenly refused to go further. Apparently, she wants no part of venturing out into the street. Nerves? Maybe. But so staunch was her resolve that it seemed more like moral opposition. She'd been against that sort of activity from the start, she would *certainly* not change NOW.
... I picked her up and began to carry her down the street.
Perhaps, like my friend's puppy back home, she just needed to be shown that it was okay to venture down the block before heading back home. At the end of the block, I set her down, hoping that she would be energized to explore, now that she was away from the house.

... nope. Sat and watched me stoically.
... so I picked her back up, walked another block. We were now on a new street, though connected via curve to her own.
I set her down.
... and there she sat.

I picked her up again.
"Roxy," I said, "We are going for a walk whether you like it or not. I will carry you the entire darn way if I have to, but you and I are going to make it around the neighborhood." She regarded me, again, stoically, big dark eyes focused on my eyes, then my arms, as if to ask how silly I was to think that I was strong enough to carry her for 45 minutes or so.
... my eyes dared her to believe I wouldn't do it.

Finally - we reached a new part of the neighborhood, one not connected nor remotely related to her home street. With a small, small, hesitant pause, I set her down.
She scanned the street.
She looked at me.
She turned back to the street...

... the leash jerked out of my hand.



I love dogs.

... wait.... wait, don't hand me that Martini! You have to check my I.D, first!

I have been 21 for over 3 months now. Just long enough to start feeling comfortable walking into places without being paranoid that someone's going to kick me out for "looking like a teeny bopper", and not *quite* long enough for me to register that I'm supposed to be an adult.

Okay, I might be way off of the mark here, but tonight was my buddy's 21st birthday; a celebration of a coming-into-true-manhood and a just present of attempting to drown him in booze... and it occurred to me that the reason why I still felt awkward ordering a Martini is because I ... I, well...

... damnit, I don't want to.

Before 21, people called me a wuss - or similar sounding synonyms - for not drinking illegally. What, I didn't bong those cans of yellow water you call beer over at the frat house during Little 5 weekend? Blasphemy! Egad - I didn't do shots to celebrate everything from my 19th birthday to surviving my 19th day of college? Sacrilege! Bloody Hell - I've plumb forgotten to ask random upperclassmen to buy me bottles of strange liquid that'll make me choke and splutter and lose my grip on things!
... NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Now, post the epic birthday, I still have the tolerance of most grandmothers who are not Irish, German, Polish, or Russian (despite my own Polish/German heritage), and here is why:
I DON'T CARE.

Sorry, folks. Do I enjoy a good beer now and then? God knows that's the truth. I won't turn down the offer for a Guinness, and if given the opportunity, will definitely order myself something hoppy. That being said... tonight, I called my friend, the birthday boy, before the festivities. Funds were running a little low, and alcohol is expensive... the two combined don't really mix well. Would he mind, I asked, if I came but didn't drink? I wanted to be there but I didn't want to go into the red, either.
My friend's an easy going guy who knows me pretty damn well - and he didn't mind a bit. Thus, my slightly more relieved mood as I went over to my boyfriend's place to make dinner. Small talk led to figuring out plans for meeting up with the birthday boy and his traveling fiesta, and I brought up the small, seemingly insignificant fact that I would, "surprise", not be drinking to save a little bit of money.

... This, apparently, was a negative surprise. J. looked confused.
"But... but, it's Josh's birthday."
"Right, but if I need funds for the rest of this week, I don't want to spend them on beer."
"Well, that's fine, but this is one of those times where you kind of need to drink."
..... mind you, I didn't record the conversation. I don't have the exact quotations, but the gist of the whole thing was that there are certain occasions where alcohol is not only necessary, but necessary.
... that makes sense.

In other words - situations where its unavoidable. One must drink, or fail at fulfilling one's part / destiny.
... okay... yes... weddings. Toasts. Supremely awful moments, but that's advocating using alcohol to solve one's problems, and that's not what I actually believe.

I understand that, on the occasion of someone's 21st birthday - that momentous occasion of making it to legal drinking age - one typically celebrates by knocking back a few pints and a dozen or so shots with one's friends. At the same time... Josh knows me. He understands that, given my light-weight stature, my typical sparse drinking habits, and my general lack of income (Hi, College), beer is less important than me actually being there to celebrate with him. He would have made fun of me for just chugging water all night, but he would have thought it amusing, not insulting.
... thus, when J offered to buy me a drink that night in order to spare my wallet, I was pleasantly surprised... but that wasn't the point. Yes, I was saving a few dollars, but I have a freakin' fantastic time hanging out with friends, with or without the addition of booze, and that was ultimately what I was going for. It's not in my nature to go out drinking for drinking's sake, and it's not in my nature to understand why I *have* to do that.

[shrug]

... and that might explain why a six-pack lasts over a month in my fridge.

brief brief brief brief brief... briefing

First: I might just be on here more often.
"might" is the key word in that sentence, but hey - I'm here right now!
..... [smiles?]

Second: it's Easter.
..... I should be at Church.
The Roman Catholic in me is balking at the fact that I'm still in my boxers and faded Indiana t-shirt, and not moving towards going to Mass. However... sometimes I want to bind, gag, and shove that Roman Catholic into the corner and just pepper her with rhetoric for a while.
... yeah, I have a few issues.

The point is not the joy in masochism, or self-torment / deprecation, nor is it a battle against the Church itself. I don't agree with all of its views, but I was raised to respect and appreciate the majority of the morals and virtues that it extols, such as loving thy neighbor, or honoring thy father and mother. My reluctance to go to Mass today is not a boycott, is not a gesture of defiance, is not me sticking *anything* to the man.

.... I just don't want to go without my family.
God and I get along pretty well, and I can't deny that I'm incredibly blessed to be as fortunate as I am. However... sitting in a pew by myself, without my family, without my cousins, without the laughing and joking and celebrating afterward, without the light-hearted, care-free nature that marked all of my childhood Easters... can't do it. I know that's not what religion is all about, but nothing is wrong with my faith, or my morality. Easter for me is not just about Jesus, it's about some of the best childhood memories that I have, and all of them involve family. I don't need the Easter basket: the chocolate, jelly beans, peeps, and adorable spring cards...
... what I need is to laugh so hard at myself or with the rest of family that I practically choke on my food. I need to hold hands with my little sister and big brother in Church and pretend that we're not all thinking: "ewwww...., I have to hold hands?! I'm not five anymore!" I need my mother to send me upstairs a half a dozen times to change my outfit, and my Dad to exasperatedly herd us all into the car. I need joy, laughter, and well... comfort with the rest of the Meiers / Skibickis.

Yes, Easter is Christ's Rise from the Grave, his ascension from the human to the Divine. The entire Christian and Catholic world rejoices, because He, and this Day, symbolizes our redemption, our freedom from sin and earthly constraints.

.... but it's also one of those days that I can't celebrate truly without my family. [shrug] Instead, I'll enjoy the sun and the slow, glorious day... and give thanks in my own way.
Happy Easter, everyone. :)

Hey there! Remember me?

1. Yes - I'm awful at this. I keep promising myself to update, and I never do...
2. .... partially because I wonder if anyone ever reads this. If you do, Hi! Sorry!

3. Thursday is my 6 month anniversary. I never know how to approach these sort of things - most of my friends are enrolled in the "anniversary's are an invention of Hallmark" school, and there is a large part of me that agrees with them. When you care about a person, the passage of time should be secondary - enjoying the present should take precedence over the past. At the same time... I am my parents' child. (Literally and figuratively - I'll explain. Sheesh.)
Every anniversary, my Dad makes a point to go out and find my Mom this gorgeous and yet, humorous card... and fills it out with the most beautiful, heart-felt, loving message that I've ever read. Mom, on her part, is often less lovey-dovey oriented than Dad... she's affectionate in her own way. It's hard to explain, but it balances things out - you don't have to be over the top to let people know that you love them. Her cards, however, are the same way - meaningful, amusing, and with a message inside that leaves my Dad no doubt that they've belonged together for the past 25 plus years.
... it's the sort of message... the sort of writing... the makes you wish that, one of these days, you'll have something that amazing for yourself.

... Not just the card! Don't get me wrong - if I just wanted the card, I could write a pretty decent love letter to myself. It's the idea that you could spend the rest of your life with a person and continue to grow more and more in love with them the longer that you're with them. Most relationships grow tired, stale. People forget to appreciate the little things that made them so happy and focus only on the growing annoyances, insecurities... things spiral downwards until everything just explodes. A fireball of love-gone-wrong, if you will.

... so here's my... main malfunction. 6 months. For me - a HUGE deal. My mind has a skewed sense of reasoning and logic, and it takes something bigger than me to recognize when things are worth while. 6 months... compared to 25 years, pretty tiny, but on *my* scale, ridiculous. 6 months of making, enjoying, and working at a relationship with the person that I love. I didn't even believe I was capable of it. (This is growing quasi-emo, I know...) So yes, an anniversary is just another day to spend money, support the economy, and wear your fancy shoes... *however*... it's also a day to remember that, even after 6 months... or 25 years... two people still want to be together.


In other words - maybe I'll find a nice card.
... and then take him somewhere thoroughly un-romantic.
That... just might work.

I can't decide - predictability vs. forced multiple personality disorder?

I need to get out of the dorms.

Paying for my ritual banana, apple, and nalgene-water-refill at the food court this morning, the woman working the cash register absentmindedly pointed at my bottle and asked:"Water or Soda?"
... before I could finish saying "water", she looked at my face.
"Oh! It's you!"
A beaming smile as she rang up "water".
"I should have known - just a little tired this morning."

... to my credit, I gave her a friendly smile, and returned the favor when she wished me a "good day" after finishing paying for my "usual morning order".

.... people have "usual morning orders" at their favorite diners... they have "usual" drinks at bars, they have "usual" birthday cakes (or maybe that's just my family), they have "usual" restaurants that they frequent... and yet, I can't think of anyone else who is on speaking terms with the older women who've worked at the Wright Food Court for... well, longer than I've been here.

There's the woman who works weekday evenings - she tells me almost every time I get dinner that she's glad to see that someone eats fruits and veggies.

There's the nice lady - I think from Eastern Europe originally - that reminds every other person in line to weigh their salads... but asks me how I eat them so often without getting bored.

Usually seen in the morning, there is the woman who looks like she could be grouchy... and then she laughs, and you realize her grandchildren must *adore* her jokes. ..... however, she's more prone to frown at you if you take too long to get out your meal card.
.... then your blood runs cold.

Finally, let's not forget the above mentioned morning fruit ringer-upper... J. has gone through the line so often with me now - with his own ritual breakfast items - that she merely has to see our smiling faces approaching to correctly - down to number of fruit items - add up a total.

My Eat Wright Buddies Group does not exclude men. I have lived two and a half years in the dorms... it had better not. I became running buddies with one of the managers there last winter. He saw me - sweaty and gross in my running gear - so often, grabbing dinner post-run, that we began to trade workout and training tips. He got engaged a month or so ago - I think he told me before it became official on Facebook.
.... and hey - today... (somewhat unfortunately) - that feels like a big deal.

Oh - and last (for today, and certainly not least) - the guy who works mostly at the salad bar. (Can you tell that salad is a common theme here?) I don't even know his name, but after mistaking me for one of his bosses, we've hit it off and have been food court friends ever since. He knows that I play bass and get a little worried about performances, and I know that he works full time and can't wait to get home for the holidays. In some odd, dorm-bubble shaped way, we look out for each other.

What amazes me is that I have seen some of these people outside of the Food Court - funnily enough, I saw one in a grocery store.
... heck, that got a chuckle out of me.

However - with the exception of the grocery store escapade - seeing them out of context... out of uniform, out of their cash register domains... its as if we have never met. I remember who they are, but perhaps the lack of tray, nalgene, and multiple pounds of greenery make it difficult for them to remember me. The grocery store incident, I believe, is different only because we were still surrounded by food, and I had multiple vegetables in my cart. I can't help but wonder, then, if they would still be able to pinpoint my identity if I went through the line with a few slices of pizza and a big ol' bowl of ice cream.
... in a way, it makes me a little ... well... sad. The Wright Food Court is not their life, it is not who they are, but that is all I'll ever know about them. And - just as my salads do not define me (God, I hope they don't) - that may be all that they find of interest about me.

And, on that note - if I finally left the dorms... moved into my buddie's apartment... did all of my main shopping at the local grocery store / co-op, and took a dorm food hiatus (hiatus = break from dorm fare as coma = nap)...
... if I came back just one last time... and loaded up my tray with all sorts of fruits and veggies... broke out the nalgene... and went back to the same cash registers...
... well... would it be as if I never left?

... or would I finally need to look for a new "usual" as they'd struggle with the idea that they'd seen me before, somehow, somewhere.

short (and stupid)

You know, it has never really occurred to me that relationship issues are fixable.
Well - no, that's not true. I figured that they had to be, given that many other people seem to do it pretty easily.

[clarification]: *my* relationship issues have never seemed fixable. Usually, I'm spiraling through extreme scenarios and outcomes in my imagination as opposed to "imagining" that two people could logically work through a rough patch. Most of the time those scenarios involve weaponry ("A duel to the .... well, not the death, but if I win, we still go out!" "It'll never work [sob sob], I've trained far too hard and I'm far too competitive... I knew that we were never meant to be!" "... You could let me win!" "I don't know how!") or at least, some sort of soap opera 'last-phrase-to-say-before-you-get-out-of-earshot': "The aliens knew I was incapable of love!"

It was kind of anti-climatic, actually. The talking and logic thing. I was maybe expecting lightning to strike, at least.
"Oh, ____! My sudden near-death experience makes me realize that talking this out with you is more imperative than ever!"

Huh.

But, hey - we all have to be wrong sometimes!

ps: Ben, it works!

Well, boy, am I bad at this.

So... I figured that by saving this page under "Bookmarks", I'd see the link enough to be guilt-tripped into updating regularly.
... It kind of worked - I've seen it regularly, and have felt daily pangs of "what a sorry excuse for a blogger I" ... I just haven't actually updated.

Whoops.

To placate the gods of cyberspace, (no lightning, please), a short piece to [hopefully] spawn more writing later. I call it:
"Thanksgiving - the Skibicki Version"

[for your reading pleasure]:
Perhaps it's part of our Polish ancestry (though none of us know any of our "native" tongue; our Babci passed on few words to her children besides those they shared at school and probably giggled about.
"What's that mean?!"
"Thank you very much."
"No way!! It sounds far too silly."
"You must be right! My mom's probably just making it up.")

- mais oui, perhaps it's due to our bloodline, but holidays are not complete without the Polish Homemade Bread. Babka, I think. (It sounds silly enough to work.) However... usually, "holidays" means the holidays - Christmas Break. Therefore, the appearance of a loaf... a golden, moist, prune-butter (pvebla?) filled, crumb-topped loaf... at our Thanksgiving celebration...
Madness.
Pandemonium.
.... Joyous rioting.

Some thirty, forty (I lost count somewhere in the cousins area) people, all of them jostling for a piece before dinner. Those *not* jostling where clearly not part of the family, but they didn't know the power of the Babka, and could thus be grudgingly forgiven. However, cousin Katie - sitting guard with a gigantic butcher knife, managed to protect the goodness until dinner was served. (At least an hour of being called the "Bread Nazi". We're a very kind family.)

... well, dinner is finally underway; the adults have filled their plates, the kids are now in line - circling around the countertop and jostling for the person in front of them to move faster so that they could take their sweet time with the mashed potatoes themselves.
As I am just about to take a piece of bread, Jason - friend of cousin Parker - speaks up. I'm pretty sure he says something akin to "so this f******* bread must be pretty special for everyone to be fighting over it."
I could be wrong.
I could have sworn I heard that f-bomb drop.
... however, that is not the issue.
... the issue... is my autopilot response as I grab one of the last pieces of baked perfection:

"Well, in the Skibicki family, we don't f*** around with our bread."


... whoops.
At least I can go down as the first Skibicki to drop that particular bomb at a family gathering. Hoowah!


Happy Holidays, everyone.