Part of Her World

 My sister and I weren't really kids at the same time.  She was nine years old when I was born.  By the time I had grown enough to have memories of our time together, she was a teenager; stuck somewhere between childhood and the grown up world.

Early memories being what they are, I don't have many of her that are clear. There are images of dancing for her friends, and playing games in the car. But, mostly I have vague recollections of general wordless sentiments.  With my adult vocabulary, I can now label those feelings.  I thought she was glamorous. In my mind, she had status, and I wanted her approval. I remember exaggerating my cuteness to invoke reactions from her.  I remember watching her get ready for her day, and teaching me how to apply makeup.

Perhaps my favorite memory, was our sleepovers.  Every now and then, she'd invite me to spend the night in her room.  I'd bring my Little Mermaid sleeping bag, and we'd lay on the floor.  I don't remember if we talked much. With our age difference, we couldn't have had a lot to discuss. At least nothing of substance.  However, I do remember that she sang to me. We had one song in particular, that was our song.  She'd sing it to me, while I laid in the dark admiring my big sister.

Now that we're both adults, this song still makes me think of her.  It brings me back, and projects me ahead at the same time. I recall falling asleep to my big sister's singing, and I think it's so great that I'm finally a part of her world.

Presque Vu

Lately I feel like I'm just on the cusp of saying something profound. Only, I can't figure out what it is. You know that feeling? Like something is right on the tip of your tongue. You just know that, if you give it a moment, when it comes out it will be incredible.

Except, most of the time it never makes its way out.  It gets lost. The thought slips off the back of your tongue, and falls into your subconscious; never to be shared with the world.

That's what I'm experiencing, but on a meta-cognitive level. It's as if I am about to make an immense proclamation that will, at last, resolve the jumbled mess in my mind. This revelation will tie up some of my loose ends. It will bring peace and order to my semi-chaotic life. 

For this reason, I feel compelled to force it. I think I should shut myself up in a room with some melancholy music and  a glass of wine. Maybe I should go for a soul-seeking late night drive down a back-country road. Afterwards I'll force a cry by watching a beautifully tragic film.

However, I know it doesn't work this way. Thinking about thinking will not cause thought. Exposing myself to more of the same, will only bring about redundancy. I guess for the time being, I'll have to just relax and wait. I will not force empty pronouncements in search of the one which escapes me. Instead, I'll attempt to be comfortable living my life on the brink of epiphany.

Stay tuned...

Blessings from Beyond

Before I tell you this story I must provide a caveat.  You need to know that I would not classify myself as religious, or spiritual in any way.  I don't really put much stock in "signs," ghosts, angels, or a higher power.  I'm not saying that this stuff doesn't exist, but none of it really makes a whole lot of sense to me.  That being said, let me walk you through my last 24 hours or so, to bring you to an unexpected spiritual experience that has just occurred.

"Fort Awesome"

I had a final exam today. So, naturally I spent the entire day studying yesterday. Well, all except for for one brief break that involved a glass of wine and building a fort with a good friend.  -- Stop judging me.  It's a perfectly acceptable way for two grown adults to spend a Monday afternoon.--

Around 5pm, I came home to get some dinner before heading out to a  five hour study group.  When I arrived home, I found a note from my apartment manager explaining that they would be installing new cabinets and drawers the next day, and I was expected to have them all (kitchen and bathroom) emptied out by the morning.  This irritated me.  I know the policy is 24 hours notice before entry, but when it requires me to uproot my entire residence, I think it warrants at least considering an extra day notice. I mean...right?

Nevertheless, after riding my bike home (uphill, in the cold November air, carrying a 20lb backpack) at 11pm, I stayed up in order to empty out all my drawers and cabinets.

Today, I awoke to a developing sinus infection, which made navigating my morning routine amongst all of my items in boxes on the floor or strewn about on counter tops all the more bothersome.  It was a nuisance, and not an environment conducive to studying. In an attempt to avoid any unintentional cranky attitude with the nice cabinetry installers, I left for the day. I spent the day downtown studying in preparation for a test that I was sure to do poorly on.

Despite all those irritating circumstances, my day was actually quite lovely. The sun was shining (which is a rare occurrence for a Portland November). The air was crisp, and the trees were a delightful variety of fall colors.  All things I adore. I spent the morning and afternoon studying and giggling with a pair of lovely ladies.

Then came the exam, which was as highly stressful as I had expected it to be. However, on the MAX ride home, I took part in a cathartic debriefing that was beneficial to my mental well-being.

Before re-entering Portland city limits, I received an e-mail announcing that my score was available.  I was pleasantly surprised to learn that I had gotten an A!  This was entirely unexpected, as I my previous exam results in this class were...um....well...let's say: "less than great."

At this point, I had almost completely forgotten about the whole cabinet and drawer debacle. While I searched for my keys in the hallway outside my unit, I prepared myself for the headache of seeing my apartment in shambles over a cosmetic "upgrade" that was not needed.

Imagine my astonishment, when I encountered some very aesthetically pleasing new additions to my kitchen.  And...

...a few random items not belonging to me.  These were mostly throw-away items, like a receipt for Crate &  Barrel belonging to a previous tenant, a few unidentified ziploc bags, an old tag from an item of clothing which was probably also belonging to a previous resident...and this:

My initial thought at seeing this was, "how sweet, my apartment manager left me a birthday card." (FYI tomorrow is my birthday).  Then it occurred to me that this did not happen last year.  So, now I'm confused.  I then open it up to read this:

"My lovely Granddaughter - I think of you with much affection and love. Have a wonderful birthday. With my love and blessings, Grandma F."

Now, I'm utterly bewildered.  I swear to you, that is my late Grandma Francis's handwriting! I also promise you, that this card is exactly the type of card and message that I received from her every year of my life until I was 18.

The logical, grounded, agnostic in me is compelled to point out that obviously this coincidental. It was found amongst a pile of garbage, that had clearly been discovered while reinstalling the cabinets and drawers.  It means nothing.  For goodness sake, it was included with a receipt to a store I have never visited, some busted-up garbage ties, and a few wrinkly old ziploc bags!  It's nothing.

However, another part of me can't help but feel overcome with emotion.  I don't know what this means, but it seems like something. Is it a sign?  I mean, it's as if my deceased grandmother is here with me, and trying to tell me something.  I know that she wasn't, but I just can't shake feeling, like she visited my place today, and I just missed her.

Is that absurd?  Has anything like this ever happened to you?

Putting It All Out There

For nearly a year now I have been interested in tracking my blog statistics. Given that I apparently want to be famous when I grow up, my statistics are not as great as I would like them to be.  This perplexes me. I mean, I think I have something to say, and that it is worth taking two minutes out of your Facebooking routine to read.  However, it's becoming increasingly evident that I am wrong about this.  I'm not happy with this realization, and I would like to change the circumstances that have led up to it.

I thought that maybe emulating my most popular posts might be a good place to start.  So, I did a little research.  I was surprised, and subsequently embarrassed at what I found.  My most popular (by far) post, is from a few years ago. It's a neurotic little rant about a crappy day that I had when I was underemployed.  I definitely consider it to be a sub par post. It's poorly written, and I'm actually quite disappointed with it. In fact, I'm not even going to link you to it. That's how strongly I feel about this.  However, and this is completely beyond my comprehension, it has drawn a lot of attention. This particular post (find it on your own if you're so curious) surpasses all of my others in readership.

Now, I find myself in a blogger's predicament. Do I replicate that whiny uninsightful window into my past just to gain attention? Or do I stick to my plan, muse about the world and the various aspects of growing up within it, while simultaneously coming to grips with my less than desirable reader counts? I mean, who is this really for?

I find it especially hard to make this decision when the only feedback I receive comes from my mom. Her unfailing support is nice, but not exactly helpful (love you mom). So, I've decided to do something that makes me completely uncomfortable......

I'm just going to put it out there, and ask for your attention for a moment.

If you find yourself clicking on my link today can you help me out? First, thank you for momentarily abstaining from your Facebook addiction.  I know how hard that is, and I appreciate you for doing it.  Now, leave me a comment.  Tell me what you thought.  If you truly like it, subscribe. If you're not sure, click around.  See what I have to say. Here are some posts I'm especially proud of:

Expose Yourself
Meaningful Moments
Steve the Housefly
My Own Personal Undertoad
My Anonymous Childhood Boyfriend


After you've done that, and you just can't stand to be away from Facebook any longer (let's face it, that's what's really going on here), go ahead and go back.  But, when you do: share a link to your favorite post (it'll make my day), or "like" and follow Mindy's Musings. Because if you don't do one, or any, of the above...I might have to do something even more obnoxious to get your attention, but I promise that it will bother me more than it bothers you.

Evolution of A Childish Aspiration

When I was just a little girl, I wanted to grow up to become a chemist. I wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but I knew I liked mixing things together to see what happened. So, I told everyone that I was going to go to Stanford, and one day I would impress the world with my chemical skills.

Later on, I adjusted my dream. I began to participate in community theater. I pranced about a poorly ventilated room, in a stifling cowardly lion costume in the middle of a heat wave, and told myself that one day I was going to be discovered. Filling various background and secondary character roles, I made believe that I was astonishingly important. I told myself that someday, someone incredible was going to see me and know that I was destined for the world stage.

In my adolescence, I began to sing. I was in choirs, and the occasional musical. Every so often I'd have a brief solo, but nothing momentous. Mostly, I just stood in the front row (for height reasons  ̶  don't get excited), and blended the discordant voices. Nevertheless, I had my dreams. In my world, a famous relative of a classmate would pick my voice out from the chorus, and ask me to sing with them. That, or an unknown music executive would hear my latest Car-eoke session (it's a thing), and think "give that girl a record deal." After all, I am a rock star behind the steering wheel.

Now I'm an adult, and I'm pursuing a grown-up career. I've moved beyond my childish dreams of fame resulting out of mediocrity. Instead, I'm electing to make an impact on a smaller, less appreciated, scale. Meanwhile, I'm going home to my computer, and writing about my experiences. I post my thoughts, and interpretations to a blog, and link it to the social media world in the hopes that someone, somewhere, will notice and appreciate my skill.

But, that's different.

Officially Unnoticed

Here I am, crossing the finish line, going entirely unnoticed.

As I have mentioned, I had a unique upbringing rife with dudes in lycra costumes atop various versions of an odd two-wheeled contraption.

My parents are ACTIVELY involved in the cycling community. They're famous even. As a result, we were always at bike races. They were so common place to me, that I thought all sports had a bell lap, and I didn't realize most men don't shave their legs until I was in middle school. I can barely remember a spring or summer that didn't include me going to a bike race.

I had a brief period in high school when I was "too cool" to hangout with my parents. When that stage hit, I opted to stay at home during several of the weekly races (at this time I think there was a race four days a week), but I still came out every now and then. When I went off to college I missed every race in the spring, and there was a couple of summers I had a job and couldn't go. However, I've been back, and regularly officiating or helping out for three years straight now.

At my greatest estimate, I've missed a cumulative 3 out of the last 26 years of bike races in Oregon. That being said, I seem to have gone unnoticed. I'm at these events all the time, and barely anyone knows who I am. This wouldn't be that surprising to me, if my siblings also seemed to be invisible to this particular community...but alas that's not how it is.

My older brother was absent from bike racing for a much longer time frame than I. He spent multiple summers at camps, and schools in other states. Now that he's local again, he's at easily half of the races that I am, but everyone knows who he is. When he and I walk the course together, people wave and call out to him while I walk alongside quietly making sarcastic comments. No one seems to notice. But, my brother is bigger and louder than I am. He has more of a presence than I do. So, I guess that makes sense.

Explain my sister then. Nine years older than me, my sister has been absent from this community for a long time. I have markedly less childhood memories that include her at the races. Then she went to college several states away, and worked in the Southwest over the summers. Afterwards, she lived in another state for years. She must have been gone from Oregon bike races for at least ten years. Now, she occasionally helps out, but she's by no means a regular. Despite all this, people still mistakenly call me by her name. I stand next to my parents, as people ask about her, and what she's up to. Don't mind me, I'll just take your registration fees while you chat.

How does nobody know who I am? My father's theory is that people do know who I am. He thinks that they don't acknowledge me because they find me intimidating.

That's really hard to type without laughing. I mean, I'm not exactly the pinnacle of intimidation. I'm rather small. Hell! Just last week, I bought clothes from the children's department, and they fit me perfectly. That's not very threatening. Well, my father thinks the reaction comes from an association with my parents. Okay, I'd agree...except for my siblings don't seem to command the same "intimidation," and they're not only equally associated with my parents, but they're normal sized humans!

None of it makes any sense. I'm around all the time. I'm often scoring your points races, or calling ties off the camera. I am usually the one with photographic proof that you've broken the rules. I'm a person you probably want to know (I like cookies), but sure! Go on thinking I don't exist. Keep wondering who that little girl at the finish line is. Step in front of me in the port-a-potty line, and bump me out of the way at registration like I don't know what's going on. Even more, continue to yell at me for trying to fix your number. You probably know more about it than I do anyway. It's not like I've seen 6 million numbers or anything.

It's actually kind of funny. I get to see and hear things that I wouldn't if people knew I was of the famed Murray family.



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Romantic Blindness

I assume that there is a man flirting with me somewhere in this vision test, but I just can't see it.

Apparently I don't know how to tell if someone is interested in me.  It's like a kind of blindness.  I just don't see it.

For years, I thought that no one had ever hit on me. Then I started thinking about this, and at the risk of sounding conceited (which I definitely am not), this seems improbable. I mean, it's a numbers game.  I don't exactly know the formula, but it must be something like (disclaimer the following formula is entirely made up and does not reflect any actual scientific laws of dating. I mean let's face it, I'm not exactly an expert here):

(my age + the amount of men living in my area ÷ by the number of times I go outside of my house) ± some quantitative value for social expectations with a margin of error of some extraneous variable.

With this in mind, I started looking for it more.  Which led me to the conclusion that I only attract weirdos. This could be flattering... except there was a brief period of time when I couldn't weed them out. This combination posed a serious dilemma for me.  I was out in the world, unable to detect attractiveness, and super susceptible to compliments. Looking back, I was probably an easy target.

Luckily, I prevailed with only minor tales of awkward encounters.  However, I hadn't really learned anything from any of these experiences.  I still felt as though there were no viable dating options for me out in the world.  I began to attribute this to a lack of interest on the part of most nice, attractive, age-appropriate men.  As you can imagine, this has been a blow to my self-esteem (which I have precariously placed on a shelf midway up my psyche).

What usually happens when I get like this, is the logical side of my brain has a little pep talk with the histrionic side. It explains that there's no need to feel how I do.  "I'm perfectly desirable," it says. Emotional Mindy doesn't care about this pep-talk. So they brawl, while I watch romantic comedies in my pajamas.

After the most recent brawl, I realized what's going on here.  I have a social blindness with regards to flirting.  I just don't know it's happening. So, it seems like I'm ignoring it, which sends all the wrong signals.

I'm still not entirely convinced that I get much attention from guys (or maybe just those that I find worthy) in the first place, but I'm willing to admit it probably happens more than I think it does. It just never goes anywhere because I don't acknowledge it.

People aren't much help either.  No one is going to do what I need, which is for someone to explicitly tell me "I'm interested in you."

Come on people!  I need some help here.  I'm not likely to send the right signals, because I'll probably be assuming there's no need. I mean, I've been known to interpret prolonged eye contact as a sign that my makeup is smudged, and I get nervous at the end of things. This means I usually bail on a date before any socially typical closure has occurred, and I miss the signs that it's not necessary.

What's a maladroit to do? How do I over come this?

Am I the only  person afflicted with this particular social blindness? Has anyone else had similar experiences? 




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Expose Yourself

There's a beautiful magic in being vulnerable. It's possibly the hardest thing to do, but when you allow yourself to be exposed that's when you get the most out of life.

It's from this openness, this bare and defenseless state, that the greatest things are going to happen. These events will be truly awesome, and if you place yourself in this position, the world will come to you.  You will experience it all.

People don't do this very often. It's hard to tear down the walls we've built for ourselves. It took years to erect them, but it's more than just that.

To think you can truly experience everything seems wonderful, but if you really give it some thought, you'll find it's rather frightening.

Everything is all encompassing. Good and bad. Magnificent and grotesque.

Those second options are daunting. They seem overpowering, and have the potential to be terrifying. One horrible experience can erase all the others. Suddenly you're living your life in fear. Waiting for the next bad thing, and missing all the good.

Head down, and eyes on the ground, you miss the miracles around you. Nervous for the future, you build a fortress around you. In doing so you deprive yourself of the connection with the world that you crave. It's a self-propelling cycle. You stick to your defenses. Call in the reinforcements, hug your core, withdraw from the nightmare you're worried about.

No doubt that's easier to do. Being vulnerable requires bravery. You have to look up from the ground. Make eye contact with the world. Spread your arms open wide, and bare everything. All the while, not knowing what will come at you.

It's scary because you can't take anything to protect yourself. If you do, it will indiscriminately defend you against whatever comes your way.

The bad, and the good. The grotesque, and the magnificent.




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Rebel on Wheels

OKAY! Fine! Let's talk about it.

I have a bike now.

If you actually know me, you can be classified into one of two thoughts on the subject. One of the groups is probably thinking something along the lines of: "so what?", "haven't you always had a bike?", or "why is this a big deal?"

The other group thinks this is really exciting. They think it's great that I've finally come around, and some of this group may even think I'm assimilating into bike culture. This group, however, may continue to be baffled by how someone of my pedigree has made it into adulthood without a bike (to which I respond -as if it's a defense- "I have a bulky old mountain bike that I keep at my parent's house and never use").

The back story here is that I've been around bikes and "bike people" my entire life. My childhood consisted of cramming into the backseat of a blue mini van named Pewee, or a red jeep with a porcupine rack loaded up with bikes of all types. We'd travel throughout the state listening to books on tape, and playing I-spy Alphabet, until we came to whatever location in which the lycra-clad were convening that particular weekend. At races, you might have seen me running around collecting rocks or pine cones to sell to my neighbors (no joke). Or I'd hop into the passenger seat of the follow vehicle with a My First Radio blaring the soundtrack to Beauty and the Beast, in order to help my mom by writing down the numbers of riders who fell off the back. Heck, to this day the basement of my parent's house is like an episode of Hoarders: Cycling edition.

One SMALL corner of my parent's basement.

For some reason, my unwillingness to get on a bike and ride confuses people who know my past.  I think it's obvious.  It's like the summer that I discovered bologna sandwiches. I thought they were delicious!  I ate them every day for a ridiculous length of time.  Then, one day I woke up, and just the sight of that Oscar Meyer package started the bile production going. It may not be that extreme with bikes, but the point still stands.

Also, we can't discount the rebel theory here.  I'm a good girl, and I get along with my parents really well, but everyone's got to rebel somehow.  It's a natural part of life. But, how does a good girl rebel?

When you're a Murray it's simple.  Don't get on a bike.

So, about two months ago, I was sitting in my apartment, which seems to be located right in the center of Portland bike-culture.  I was reveling in the irony of my existence at this particular location.  - In my neighborhood I'm surrounded by hipsters on color coordinated fixies doing track stops at every intersection and acting as though they don't want attention for it. Well guys, I'm not impressed.  I've seen it all before. -  I started to come around.  I thought, "maybe commuting on my bike isn't such a bad idea."

About two weeks later, after consulting with my father, I wind up with, of all things, a modified track bike, that has been christened "Mindy's Man Chaser." -- The story behind that title is a bit long, but I may share it at a later date. Now, I'm tooling around my neighborhood, and running errands on my bike.

What has happened here? I'm experiencing some kind of identity crisis. For one, I'm a Murray.  That means I should know what I'm doing right? Wrong.  It means I know what I'm SUPPOSED to be doing. I'm like the ultimate poser, and coming to grips with that has been quite an experience.

I am playing both the part of the official, and the dork with the big helmet and the older sister starter.  Check out my brother the speedster on the left though!

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And I Thought I was Studious

Image found here

It's the return of the exam experience.  Last Wednesday, I was given a take home exam for my research methods class.

"Yes!" I thought to myself. "I'll be able to work on this in my own comforting environment.  I'll sound like a genius!"

Think again.  I didn't get a chance to really look at it until two days ago.  I brought it to my parents house, with all my books, only to discover that I needed easy access to files on my computer.  Not there.  So, I scribbled down some notes, and wrote a half decent answer to one of the ten questions.

Yesterday I took the 1.5 hour MAX ride to school, and hungout there all afternoon in hopes that I would be able to get some stuff done.  I did, but none of the study rooms were open, so I was awkwardly balancing my stuff on a couch in the lounge, with no access to an outlet, and worried that my laptop would die.  Despite that, I answered one question, and jotted down some notes to a second question.

This morning I thought, "I'm gong to get this damned thing out of the way!"  I got up early, and rode my bike the the local library, only to discover that it's not open until noon.

GARH!

But, I was already out and about, so I figured I'll just ride over to the local coffee shop, buy something cheap (which I can't afford) and pound out some responses.

When I arrived, there were no open outlets.  Almost all the tables were full, and there was a damn toddler group happening in the corner.

Ordinarily, I would think this toddler group was the greatest thing ever. It's a man and a women dressed outrageously (one's a fire fighter, the other a pirate).  They're loudly reading books, and singing songs.  They're blowing up balloon animals (and subsequently popping them with their tiny little fingernails), and the cutest little tykes are running around squealing at everything.  It's fantastic...except when you're trying to write a take home essay, about research methods, with the hope of sounding at least partially educated.  Add to that the general coffee making sounds, and the fact that my battery is nearly dead.

I can't focus on this stuff.  I'm sure I sound like an imbecile, and I'm probably going to turn in something that my professor deems worthy of ejection from the program. At this point, I've fully answered one question, and written down some inattentive vague responses to two other questions.  I have 10 questions total, I only need to answer 8 of them, but at the rate I'm going, I'm probably better off answering them all.

Is it possible to avoid taking this exam all together? Or, you know maybe I could just catch a freaking break in the study department.

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