Archive: October 2006

It’s here! My new John Mayer CD came in the mail today! JG carries it up from the mailbox and I grab the scissors en route to opening my (not so) long-awaited package from my buddies over at Amazon. Heartbeat quickening, I break through the box and that weird cellophane stuff that always reminds me of Parafilm from my chemistry days of old. Then I have it in my hands, with just a thin layer of shrinkwrap between me and Happy New Music Land! I tear through it on my way to the CD player and pop the disc in.

I press Play, and oh! The strains of that popular radio single in my very own living room! I can play it anytime I want now! But enough gloating, there are liner notes to explore. Ooh, big fat ones, this time. I feel the anticipation of learning a whole album’s worth of new songs with the cheat sheet right in my hands, with the plus side of black and white photography. But that’s just like my John. So down to earth. I flip back to read the thank you section and what’s this? A line for me? “My Fans keep me honest.” Swoon! Okay, fine, it’s not just for me, but whatever, I am totally included in the act of keeping John Mayer honest. It’s there, in print! If anyone needs me, I’ll be hanging out with John. How can you not love a guy who put the periodic table on his first full-length album? Sigh.

I’m not normally a blithering idiot, but I buy music so rarely that a new album is a little personal holiday. I don’t have an mp3 player, and while I appreciate the flexibility and customization afforded by having playlists and things, I love albums. I love the cover, the liner notes, the order of the songs. I love imagining John Mayer in a studio, thinking about how he’s going to craft not only the songs, but the album as a whole. I love thinking about the songs that didn’t make the cut, and what is it about the ones that did? Were they extra special? Were they that much more honest? To me, the whole mp3 thing takes away that magic because I can’t imagine that artists intend to write singles outside of the context of an entire album. I don’t want a piece, I want the whole pie.

I am really good at making personal goals, if I do say so myself, and not just for the New Year. On a fairly regular basis, I mentally mash together a ball of things I’d like to start or stop, and it just rolls around my head until the superfluous ones fall off and I’m left with the things that are pretty necessary to life (go for oil changes regularly) and/or just plain common sense (get the heck out of bed when the alarm goes off). You’ll notice that I didn’t say that I am good at reaching personal goals, so I get very excited when I manage to accomplish something in which I am not naturally skilled.

The items that have repeatedly fallen off the ball o’ goals are many and varied. I’m on my third time trying to learn how to play the guitar. I’ve never really stopped biting my fingernails. My mail-filing system has broken down to a pile of envelopes with a mishmash of post-its sticking out to remind me of something. My exercise routine hasn’t been as consistent as I’d like it to be, thanks to a few hellish weeks at work, but hey – there’s no time to re-start like the present. And by “the present”, of course, I mean “tomorrow”, because my current attempt at a regimen doesn’t include weekends.

There is one goal that I am bound and determined to get out of the way, and I am dedicating today and the rest of this week to that end. I am going to knit scarves for the seniors on the girls’ volleyball team that JG is coaching at the high school where he teaches. I made this claim before the team was determined, without knowing how many seniors there would be or even how long the season would last. Well. There are three seniors, Senior Night is a week from tomorrow, and I have all of 1.1 scarves completed. This is not good.

The plan for today is to hunker down on the couch and knit for the rest of the night. Oh, I’ll take a break to make dinner and eat, but while JG watches his normal Sunday TV lineup, the twitching, clicking bump next to him will be me, knitting. Any time this week that I would normally spend reading or browsing up ways to spend my online gift cards will, instead, be spent in the sweatshop of my own making, driven by the intent to start a tradition and attain the level of supercool coach’s wife. Even if my intentions aren’t entirely pure, at least they’ll be fulfilled.

This week has been a jumble of overlong workdays, mornings that came too early, and an enduring, mysterious dry skin condition that leaves me sadly unkissable, unless I’m in the mood for some burning pain. Oh, sign me up.

When I attain this rare state that consists of edgy, hurting, and stressed, the smallest things set me off. It’s raining today…That stupid song keeps playing during my commute… They change the time of one of my favorite shows! ARGH! The nerve!

And then, I got an email that just added another one to the list.

At my company, when there’s a new hire, the hiring manager sends out an email that introduces the person and some basic stats, like start date, education, and hobbies. We also get an email address so that we can send early greetings and that person sees people’s names before the first day. I try to send a welcome email more often than not because I loved getting them when I was first hired. So I write a quick email to the new girl about who I am and what I do, and I can’t wait to meet her, and so on and so forth, and I sign my name how I like to be addressed.

That last part is the key.

I firmly believe that when you receive an email, you should address your response in the way that the person signed it. For example, I wouldn’t normally spell Tracy as Traycee, but whoever I’m emailing obviously does, so I should respect that. Even if it induces some eye-rolling on my part.

Well. The new hire wrote me back, and if my name was Traycee, she spelled it Tracy. ARGH.

It’s not like my name is some fake-o way of spelling things, but I am particular about it. I think it shows attention to detail and, again, respect, to pay attention to how your recipient wants to be addressed. I suspect that this obsession stems from my name being misspelled, wrongly capitalized, and incorrectly spaced for my entire life. Not that I have any baggage. Or whatever.

I know it’s a stupid thing.

My lips still hurt.

This weekend, JG and I attended the UD football game against New Hampshire, the #1-ranked Division 1-AA team in the country. He grilled burgers for dinner while I sat in the back of the Subaru. We had great football weather – snappy breezes and some low clouds – and it was exciting to be at the stadium for a night game. We even busted out our blue-and-gold, tacky-but-spirited scarves for the evening.

New Hampshire won with a score of 52-49, which is much closer than we expected it to be, but our defense could have been so much cleaner. I think it’s safe to say that I have never screamed as much as I did at the game. In my four layers of UD clothing, I hopped all over as we scored 7 touchdowns (!) and messed up 2 blitzes. I was that tiny, high-pitched girl who knows more about football than you’d give her credit for, especially when I hollered bloody murder about those flubbed sacks that went on to become touchdowns. For the love…!

I’m paying for my enthusiasm today; my throat is not happy with me. Even with the soothing/burning sensation of hot chocolate on the way home, tea on Sunday, and a conscious effort not to talk too much, my voice is two octaves lower than it should be. My reward for my team spirit was a sore and scratchy throat, accompanied by sneezing and coughing. Ugh. I don’t care, Saturday’s volume was worth today’s discomfort! After all, the team needed me!