Emulation at its finest.

You know how pets are supposed to take on attributes of their owners? Kind of like in 101 Dalmatians when all the dogs physically resemble and act like their people?

[Update ... Was watching "I Love You Man" this weekend and totally forgot about this little gem:
"Hey, check out those two. I call them bowsers. It's my nickname for people who look just like their dog."]

And those old adages about pictures and actions and words? Like, if pictures really do speak a thousand words, and actions speak even louder than those words ...

What does this mean??

I guess it means that I'm committing the whole family - the BDW could make history as the first canine member of Alcoholics Anonymous. We'll be famous.

Remember the Alamo.

(New York, meet the Alamo)

F.M. (Professional) L. I have been so stressed out these past few weeks. Besides living in my cubicle, I've done little other than obsess over the progress I'm making (or not making) as I attempt to climb the corporate ladder.

I’ve always been, for lack of a better term, an overachiever. Well, the laziest version of an overachiever that could feasibly exist.

And I suppose you could even argue that I only think I’m lazy because I’m rarely satisfied with my best efforts. (Although my friend Sunday begs to differ, since it knows what percentage of the day I sometimes spend in bed …)

I think I described my younger self pretty succinctly over at IITGI - one of those obnoxious, goody-goody AP kids that never drank or went to parties, who hung out at Barnes & Noble after school and drove to the coffee shop on Saturday nights instead of to the kegger.

Rewind even further to the dreaded middle-school years and I was one of those kinda-shy, kinda-quiet, nerdy Pre-AP kids that hung out at the mall after their parents dropped them and their friends off at the movies for the night.

I was like, one step away from being the female version of Kevin’s dorky friend Paul in The Wonder Years. Well, minus the Jew part I guess. And the glasses.

I never enjoyed attention much at school and was content to sit quietly at the back of the class, diligently completing assignments as long as I was left well enough alone.

I remember once – this must have been maybe 7th grade or so (who am I kidding, I remember exactly – it was 7th grade …) – in Texas History our teacher asked us to write a song about the Alamo and then stand up in front of the class the next day and sing it aloud.

I would have done just about anything – short of being pantsed in the middle of the quad – to avoid standing in front of my classmates, singing some stupid song about the Alamo to the tune of Gilligan’s Island (because somehow it was decided that singing about the Alamo to the tune of old TV sitcom songs was the coolest route to take with this heinous assignment).

I would have taken toilet paper stuck on my shoe or tucked into my underwear, trailing out from under my skirt; tripping in the middle of the cafeteria while carrying a tray full of food; a huge, oily zit in the middle of my forehead.

In retrospect, the end result was probably worse than if I had just gotten the fuck up out of my seat and sang the stupid song. The teacher – wise to the sensitivities of being an awkward 7th grader – thought he would be clever and threaten anyone who didn’t want to sing in front of the class with an F on the assignment.

As far as I was concerned, this was the best news I’d ever heard. I told him I’d take the F. He refused, insisted I was being silly and told me to just sing the song already.

He pushed me so hard to stand up in front of my peers and sing that I actually started crying in the middle of the classroom.

Epic.

He eventually let me off the hook, but I’m sure the image of a 13-year-old girl crying in the middle of Texas History probably held more staying power in the minds of the class than a 13 year-old girl with a crappy singing voice.

Point being – I am terrified that I’ll always be that scared-shitless 13-year-old girl crying in front of everyone.

I’ve learned to get the eff over myself and deal with my anxiety over the years, but I still get extremely nervous in high-stress situations.

For instance, today, I found myself sitting in a client meeting as the most junior person in the room, surrounded by three CEOs of hugely successful companies (one of them mine); my boss and two other co-workers; a famously-connected, old school New York City socialite; and five or six other consultants from various industries in attendance to “provide counsel.”

No, I didn’t cry – and if you even entertained the idea, then you’re on my shit list.

But, as I sat there introducing myself to this table full of wildly influential people, I could barely keep my hands from shaking as I clenched my notebook and pen for dear life.

I’m working on it, OK?

Someday, I'll nail it. I’ll be the girl that everyone goes to for advice, for big-picture strategic ideas, for guidance and feedback and input and wisdom.

Until then, I’m caught somewhere between the wide-eyed middle-schooler bawling her eyes out in Texas History, and the wide-eyed junior staffer trying not to lose her shit at the important meeting.

Lucky for you, someday when I'm an influential-power-bitch (once I figure out what the hell I'm doing, what great things I'm supposed to accomplish and how the hell I'm supposed to accomplish them) you’ll be able to say you knew me way back when.

But if you EVER tell anyone that I cried in the middle of Texas History because I didn’t want to sing about the Alamo, you’ll be dead to me.

(Kidding!)

(Kind of …)

Holy Hiatus

It’s a good thing I can’t just up and shelve everything in life. I’m pretty sure that “I’m not really feeling it right now” would not be a valid excuse for taking a break from, oh… say… work for a week.

Sorry blog.

But that’s kind of what I’d like to do. Take a break from everything for a week. A mental health week. They have those, right?

And I mean from everything, including myself. As soon as the neurotic, obsessive, anxiety-ridden part of my brain escapes from the little corner to which it’s been previously banished, the happy, rationale part tucks itself away, hidden in the shadows.

Sometimes it’s hard to coax the sane thoughts back out and wrangle the unhealthy ones into submission. But most times, I’m able to figure it out.

I’ll feel like a needle skipping across a record player, stuck listening to the same annoying three-second snippet over and over and over on repeat.

Until reality comes along and nudges me back into the groove – the crazy subsides and I realize it was just that – crazy.

It doesn’t take much – a sunny City day, a phone call from Smaddy, an impromptu skeeball practice, a trip to the park for some Frisbee and Orange Man sighting, a “voicemail” from BDW (yes, Momma J left me a VM of the BDW barking at me – no judging [either of us]), Rice to Riches with the LP, a book and a bench in Union Square, Evie’s abbreves [abbreviations] and LP’s use of the words “hooker bear” and “douche bomb,” a view of the Statue of Liberty from Panda’s roof.

And Mom – don’t let this go to your head [Ed. Note: she’s totally going to] – if all else fails, you usually know just what to say to put it all into perspective.

It’s amazing that I let myself forget all of these little things that equal bliss; instead allowing money, taxes, budgets, deadlines, obligations, small mistakes, other’s judgments, self-doubt, insecurities etc. occupy my thoughts and time.

I think I’m learning, though. I think I’m getting the hang of it.

And if not, the one thing that I have learned about myself over the years – that I absolutely know for certain – is that I’ll figure it out eventually. I may not get there the easy way, but I will get there.

And I’ll try not to make you wait too long for me to catch up – promise.