I Love Shoes

I love shoes. Given that I am a 25-year-old woman who grew up in the Sex & the City age, that is probably the most cliché thing I’ve ever written. However, I don’t love shoes because the clicking of high heels on a shopping mall floor makes me feel empowered and it’s not like couture pumps make me hand over my rent money. I love shoes simply because I spend a lot of time looking at them.

If you stare at something long enough, you start to feel very strongly about it, either negatively or positively. Try it. Stare at a random household object, like a spatula or a power outlet, for about 6 hours and you’ll definitely develop strong emotions toward it (or potentially toward me for suggesting you do this). In the case of shoes, I look at my own so often that life would be miserable if I hated them. So I love them. I don’t just sit in front of my closet and stare at my shoes for hours, I look at them quite often during the day while walking to my car, waiting for the elevator, sitting in a meeting, talking on the phone, ordering food at Subway. Why am I always looking down?

1) I am an introvert.

Don’t mistake this for shy. Introverts are not shy, they just prefer small groups of people they really like instead of large groups of strangers where they have to make small talk. Introverts are usually more intelligent and interesting. Think about some famous introverts—Beethoven, J.D. Salinger, Quasimodo—all captivating individuals. Now think of some famous extroverts—Katherine Heigl, The Situation, Donald Trump—all thin-haired dumb dumbs. Being an introvert is great until you are in a situation where you might run into people you know. Like work. Walking around the halls of the office is brutal. Typically, I’m walking with a purpose—I have somewhere to be and I don’t want to stop for small talk. However, walking the halls runs the risk of coming across a friendly, extroverted coworker who wants to stop and chat. That is why I look at my shoes. If I don’t make eye contact, you can’t initiate a conversation. If you recognize the top of my head because you’ve seen it so much and try to talk to me anyway, I will keep walking because looking down gives the impression of being deep in thought. I imagine people think, as I walk by “Wow, she must be wrestling with some deep emotions or solving a great world issue. It’s amazing how she can block the world out. What a beautiful mind. She’ll probably be a poet one day.”

2) I have poor eyesight

In 5^th grade, I had eye surgery to correct congenital cataracts. In addition to giving me synthetic lenses that make my eyes “glow” like a cat’s, this gave me better eyesight. Better, but not perfect. I still have to wear glasses, but this is a challenge in weather. When I walk outside, my head is always down and my eyes are pointed at my shoes. I have a feeling most four-eyes would tell you this, because getting rain or snow on your glasses is a pain. You can’t see without your glasses so you have to keep them on, but if you look straight ahead during even the slightest drizzle, your glasses get clouded and spotty. Then, when you finally reach shelter, you look like a total nerd with your spotty glasses. Looking down helps you keep your cool and prevents glasses from getting totally drenched.

My glasses give me great eyesight, but they do nothing for my observation skills. In college, I would complain that my schedule was so opposite all my friends because I never saw them on my way to class. It turns out a lot of them walked past me, waved at me, shouted my name, tried to trip me and I completely failed to notice. I believe I have a condition called face blindness where your brain cannot distinguish facial features enough to recognize different people. I saw a story about a guy who had it on 60 Minutes, or I made it up, I’m not sure. Either way, it’s socially inhibiting so instead of facing the problem head-on, I deal with it face down. As mentioned above, staring at my shoes prevents any eye contact, which in this case, avoids any social awkwardness from looking directly at a dear friend and walking right past her. If I have done this to you, I apologize. One day, there might be a cure for face blindness, but probably not since I made it up.

3) I am clumsy.

I know, this sounds like a Bella Swan cop-out (yeah, I made a Twilight reference) but I truly am uncoordinated. I was on the basketball team in 5^th and 8^th grades and between the two years I made a total of one basket. I fell off my bike and scraped my knee when I was 15. I walked into several screen doors at various high school graduation parties (why is the food always on the porch???). You can imagine how graceful I am in a pair of heels. Since I’m looking at them the majority of the day, I choose shoes that are pretty. These aren’t usually ballet flats. I really admire women who can casually walk around in stilettos like their wearing slippers. In the middle of summer, I will go to work wearing my Ugg boots and change into my high heels once I’m firmly planted at my desk. When I have to make the trek to the bathroom or head down the hall to a meeting, I keep my eyes glued to my shoes. Any misstep and I could end up face down on that low-grade carpet. Even in flats, I have to watch my step. My shoes come untied a lot and I trip over absolutely nothing. I’m basically a toddler with shoes that don’t Velcro.

My love of shoes runs deeper than just the materialistic side of it. Staring at my shoes gets me out of a lot of awkward situations, or that’s how I like to think of it. All this downward looking probably makes me appear more awkward than if I would just look up and own my hatred of small talk and misty glasses. However, I’m pretty sure it’s giving me a spine problem popularly being diagnosed as text spine, so that’s pretty cool. My back condition is as trendy as shoes.

Sorting Through My Solitude

I do a lot of things by myself. I live by myself. I go shopping by myself. I eat at restaurants by myself. I’m an introvert to the fullest extent, so usually, I revel in all this “me-time”, but the looks I get from strangers as I order my second gin and tonic and toast myself get a little annoying, and how often I shave my legs is directly related to the amount of human interaction I have, so I figured I’d better make some friends. The last time I made really good friends was at Notre Dame, so what better place to look for new friends than the Notre Dame Club of Cleveland? I could be sure they all shared my love of Notre Dame football and 25-cent hotdogs, and that’s what friendships are made of. The club was sponsoring a service project at the local food bank, so I signed up in hopes of meeting some other guilty Catholic introverts to befriend.

I was one of the last people to get to the food bank, so when I walked into the volunteer room, everyone had claimed their seats and the room was pretty divided. One side was full of young, well-dressed, attractive people, all paired up with a significant other and chatting away with other couples. On the other side were the rejects—single, frumpy looking men and women, complete with hair scrunchies and Notre Dame sweatshirts, staring at the floor or examining their fingernails. My own hair was scrunchy-less, but poofy. My top was kind of cute, but my shoes didn’t really match. Most significantly, I was alone. I knew where I belonged in this group. I sat next to a woman with ashy blonde hair and Velcro shoes. As desperate as I was for friends, I knew this wouldn’t work. I tried to edge my way onto the attractive people’s side by awkwardly jumping into their conversations. I overheard a man named Greg introduce himself two seats away from me and instinctively responded “Nice to meet you!” even though I was not the one he had been addressing. I shrank back into my plastic chair, accepting my seat on the friendless reject side. If I couldn’t make friends, at least I would do my part for the community by sorting some canned goods.

A man with a lobster claw for a hand was in charge of the volunteers. As he led us into the warehouse, one of the attractive people started talking to me. I yammered away, desperate to make friends. I tried to keep myself in check lest someone mistake my enthusiasm for a bubbly personality, but it was difficult when these friend-making opportunities were so few and far between. Lobster man started dividing us into pairs, and I was determined to get paired with my new best friend to solidify our friendship. I could have a shopping date planned within the hour! But then that jerk dumped me for the peppy blonde who didn’t even look like she had gone to Notre Dame. My options for partners dwindled quickly, with pre-established couples obviously picking each other. A man in his 50s wearing a Notre Dame polo that showed off his moobs grinned at me. Lobster man asked for a single volunteer. I jumped at the opportunity.

There are two jobs for volunteers at the food bank—reading expiration dates or sorting food. Since there were too many volunteers, I was placed in between an expiration date reader and a food sorter to “pick up the slack”. Both jobs are pretty easy. There was no slack. Nevertheless, I tried to help. I scanned left behind cans and boxes for expiration dates and placed them on the conveyer belt. When a jar of sauce would pass me by, I’d snatch it up and toss it in the sauce bin behind me. It was pretty mindless work, so I took the opportunity to talk to the girl next to me. She had come with her boyfriend, but as it turns out, people with significant others can be sociable! We were chatting away (me probably more than her, despite my best efforts to not look desperate), but in doing so, I started shirking my food bank responsibilities. A couple of old farts next to me had gathered all the sauces I missed and when I came to gather them for the sauce bin, the man said to me, “Finally! We thought you were never coming back!” As a knee jerk reaction, I responded with “I have ADD.” Somehow, that blatant lie was supposed to explain my long absence from the sauce bin. Then I topped off that gem by grabbing one of the cans he had set aside and saying, “This isn’t even sauce. These are diced tomatoes!” and throwing it in the sauce bin anyway. I have obviously been away from humans for too long. It's a wonder I didn't start throwing my own feces and claiming I had Asperger's as well.

After all the cans had been sorted, lobster claw man came by to thank us for our work. One of the Irish fans piped up and said she would love to help out again. Sebastian hands said we all needed more practice to master the art of spotting botulism, then singled me out. “This young lady over here was too busy being miss chatty to sort her bins!” He grabbed a can of Manwich meat with his one giant finger and thumb to demonstrate. “She’d pick a can up. Look at it. Talk some more. Look at it again. And do that about five more times before finally just putting it down on the belt! Girl, you need a lot more practice ‘fore you come back!”

I left the food bank with no phone numbers, no shopping dates, and no feeling of helping the community, since apparently I did such a crappy job at it. Maybe it’s better that I spend the majority of my time in solitude. It gives me a chance to practice swiftly reading all the expiration dates in my pantry.

False Signs of the Snowpocalypse

You might think that the scariest thing about moving to Cleveland would be the crime or living by myself or starving to death because I get lost every time I try to find the grocery store. However, the part about Cleveland that sends me into fits of terror is something I’ve been dealing with my whole life—weather. I grew up in Ohio and spent the past five years in Indiana, which are both places with hard winter and lake effect snow, but never before have I watched the morning news before hitting the road on a snowy day.

Just a month into my new job, and I’ve already started a routine. I wake up, flip on the TV and set the channel to WKYC, Cleveland’s NBC station. The anchor and meteorologist fill my morning with cheery banter surrounding stories about school board meetings and photos viewers sent in of their dogs. They gently tell me to wake up and gleefully instruct me to grab a cup o’ joe. Then, just when they’ve gained my trust, even my friendship, their jovial attitudes turn dark and the weather and traffic segments begin. The weather woman warns of the doom that surely awaits me as soon as I leave my apartment. She tells me the visibility is so low I will need bat sonar to navigate my way to work, that I will freeze to death if I can’t make it to my car in under two minutes, and that it will be even worse on my drive home. Then, she puts on her whitestrip-enhanced smile and tosses to the traffic guy, who has a grizzly beard and more bad news. He says that traffic is so heavy I need to leave an extra 15 minutes early, even though I’m already running 20 minutes late because I stayed in bed a little longer to watch their news story about teens raising awareness for puppy cuteness or something. The grim traffic man reports that there are already several accidents and some cars are sliding right off the road into deep ravines filled with sharks. He warns that I better get my butt moving or I’ll be next. Then, the morning news resumes its cheerful disposition and tells a story of a local cherry farmer who makes jewelry out of the pits.

Just after I’ve convinced myself that the weather can’t be all that bad—I mean, I looked out my window and there’s zero precipitation—the meteorologist steps back in front of her green screen to point at a bunch of arrows that are meaningless to me but she says indicate a blizzard or a plague of locusts. I look out my window again and start to doubt my vision. She is on TV. She has a clicker in her hand that makes a smoke-like graphic move across a map. Even though my eyes are sending my brain an image that says it is not snowing, the weather woman must be right, so I start to panic. Not only am I going to have to fight the 4 gods of winter—Snow, Ice, Wind, and Seasonal Depression—but I will have to do it partially blind! I scan the closings scrolling across the bottom of the screen, hoping my place of business has the compassion to protect its employees from the storm, but no such luck. I pack up my things and prepare to leave my apartment for what could be the last time. I bid farewell to my cat and put out extra food just in case the snow piles up past the 10th floor and no one is able to reach my apartment. I take one last look at my apartment, and head out toward my destiny. On the way down in the elevator, I try to think of the great life I have lived, but all I can picture is my tiny car careening off the road into Lake Erie. Then, I’m eaten by a polar bear.

I expect a snowpocalypse, but when I drive out of the parking deck, the world is not a whiteout—it’s perfectly fine. Cleveland is not breaking off from the rest of the state under the weight of the snow and floating away to become a Great Lakes iceberg. In fact, the roads are dry. There isn’t even any traffic. I briefly wonder if perhaps I am the only survivor of a terrible snowstorm that quickly melted and moved on. But then I realize that the people I trusted so much, those I considered friends and who I allowed into my home to start my day, had lied to me. The anchor and the meteorologist and the bearded traffic guy were all in cahoots to trick me and make me panic so they could have the roads all to themselves. Oh, they’re good. They really had me going. Then comes the part where I vow never to watch them or believe them again.

And the next day, the cycle repeats.

This is going to be a long winter.

Is Gelato the Cat Bipolar?

Is Gelato the Cat Bipolar?

Supporting Arguments:

• He sometimes sleeps curled up next to me. Other times, he wakes me up at 4:30 in the morning.
• Though he is relaxed and purring, Gelato will occasionally lash out while I am petting him and bite me.
• Gelato will cry at the top of the steps, seemingly waiting for me to come pet him or feed him. However, as soon as I get near him, he runs away.
• Gelato never plays with his anemone-shaped toy when I toss it to him or perform any other gesture inviting him to play. However, the anemone tends to change locations during the night.
• Gelato will usually eat tuna straight from the can, but on some occasions, he will unexpectedly turn his nose up at it, leaving me to find stale tuna hours later.
• Gelato find household items, like pens and shoelaces, very entertaining. However, store-bought toys have no appeal to him.

Defending Arguments:

• Gelato is a cat.
  

What Beats an Applebee's Steak Knife?

Some people are very easy to Christmas shop for. My parents are not these people. Dad never has any ideas except for “consumables”, but getting him candy is counterproductive to the healthy lifestyle he’s supposed to be living, and getting him golf balls when there’s a foot of snow on the ground just seems mean. My mom thinks she’s easy to shop for because there are so many things that she likes. The problem is, she goes ahead and buys all these things while she is Christmas shopping out of fear that no one will think to get them for her.

Giving a great Christmas gift is really important to me. I love to see the joy on a loved one’s face when they open something so unexpected, yet so absolutely perfect. It’s one of the ways I’ve maintained my status as the favorite child. Last year, Alex threw his old fedora and a stolen Applebee’s steak knife into a giant cardboard box without wrapping and gave it to Mom. This year, he plans on getting her a tattoo. With this kind of competition, it would seem I wouldn’t have to try very hard to give the better gift. However, since Alex is the baby, his thoughtless tradition of calling whatever item he grabbed from his bedroom floor that morning a present is considered adorable. With the kind of stuff Alex pulls off, I sometimes wonder what he could get away with if he were actually retarded. Despite Alex’s gift-giving misgivings, he has inspired my idea for the perfect Christmas gift for the parents this year—a lava lamp.

A couple months ago, Alex went shopping. Instead of buying clothes or things that might actually be useful, Alex traditionally blows all his cash at Spencers on things that make the basement look like a rave. This time, he bought a giant poster of a naked girl and a Bob Marley lava lamp (nevermind that Alex probably has no idea who Bob Marley is). He hung the poster in the basement and put the lava lamp below it as a sort of shrine to buyers’ remorse. While Alex was enjoying his new décor with a few friends, my Mom went down to the basement to get something and this is what happened:

Mom: Hey guys, how’s everyone doing?

Alex and Co.: Gooood (all awkwardly avoid eye contact because of giant naked poster)

Mom: This is new (Mom heads toward poster). Woah! Cool Bob Marley lava lamp! I love lava lamps!

Alex and Co.: (snickering, waiting for Mom to notice giant naked poster)

Mom: That’s awesome! You should take that to your dorm! Lava lamps are great! Ok bye!

Later, Dad came downstairs…

Dad: Hey guys, what’s going on?

Alex and Co.: Noooothing (all look bashful because of giant naked poster)

Dad: Hey, is that a lava lamp??? That is one cool Bob Marley lava lamp!!!

Alex and Co.: You think so?

Dad: Yeah! I love Bob Marley! Well, see ya!

Alex and Co.: (now wondering if the giant naked poster has parent invisibility powers)

It wasn’t until days later that Mom discovered the giant naked girl poster hanging directly above the lava lamp she so admired. I had no idea my parents were so smitten with lava lamps and Bob Marley that the combination of the two would send them into a sort of tunnel vision, but now I know exactly what I’m getting them for Christmas.

Winter Memories

The snow is falling, the Christmas lights are twinkling, and everyone is bundled up in hats and marshmallow coats. This time of year always reminds me of an event a few years back that still has me chuckling. Actually, I wasn’t laughing about it at first, which is probably why I haven’t blogged about it until now.

It all started on a cold winter day in Columbus, Ohio. My mom and I had enjoyed a day of shopping at Easton mall, then we parted ways. Mom went to spend a night relaxing in a hotel room, and I left to spend some time with my dear friend Metzger, an OSU student at the time. Mom told me she would call me when she was on her way to pick me up at Metzger’s apartment the next morning, then Metzger and I headed out for the night.

The next morning is where the trouble/hilarity began. I had my phone on vibrate, so I didn’t hear my mother’s eight phone calls. What I did hear was a crazed woman outside Metzger’s apartment, yelling into a cell phone. I looked out the window to see my mother standing outside in the snow, wearing a beret, and asking passersby if they knew where Stephanie Metzger lived. I knew she would be angry, so I wasn’t sure if I should hurry up and get out there, or hide and come up with a good excuse. I looked at my phone and noticed the nearly dozen missed calls and voicemails, and decided to grab my stuff and run out of the apartment in my pajamas.

The progression of voicemails went something like this…

Voicemail 1:
“Hi Elise, it’s me. I’m just about ready to leave the hotel and come pick you up, so I just wanted to make sure you’re awake. I’ll call you again in a little bit! Bye!”

Voicemail 2:
“Hi Elise, it’s your mom. I’m on the road now and I don’t really know why you’re not answering, but I’ll be there shortly. Ok, bye.

Voicemail 3:
“Elise, why aren’t you answering your cell phone??? I think I’m on the right road, but I don’t know which apartment is Stephanie’s. This is really irresponsible. “

Voicemail 4:
“Ok, I don’t know where the hell you’re at, but this is ridiculous! The roads are getting terrible, it’s snowing like crazy, and we have to drive back to Stow so you better get your little ass out here now!”

Voicemail 5:
“Hi sweetie, it’s your dad. Mom’s pretty upset and I’m a little concerned about why you’re not answering your cell phone. I really hope you call Mom back soon because she’s really angry and taking this out on me. Ok. Bye”

That’s about when I woke up. My mom wasn’t kidding about the roads. What is usually a two-hour drive turned into a five-hour one because of, what my Mom dramatically calls, “the blizzard of the century”. Lucky for me, that blizzard saved me from taking on too much wrath because it was all directed at the snow. All I came away with was a wonderful memory of my mother standing outside of some OSU apartments in a beret, accosting undergrads.

I really hope it's OK to laugh about this now.

Song and Flashdance

Either this job search is making me crazy, or the questions potential employers are asking are getting ridiculous. It's probably a little bit of both.

Evidence to support that Elise is going crazy

Exhibit A:
One job application for a copywriter position asked the question "What is the best piece of copy you have ever written?" My response:

After years of toiling away at pages and prose, I finally completed what was sure to become the next great American novel. As I held my completed 4,224 page masterpiece, a plane full of babies crashed into a nearby field. I cast my life’s work aside and ran towards the flames, grabbing the first child I saw. I turned him over to see if there was still life in his eyes, but there was not. There never had been. This “child” and the hundreds of others scattered among the burning debris were nothing but plastic dolls. I knew right away that this was the work of my arch nemesis, Plaige Urism. I looked up just in time to see the evil woman grab my book, hop on her hovercraft and take off. My cry of despair rivaled the din of the weeping robot babes, but there was nothing I could do. After that, I wandered through life a shell of a person, my spirit gone with my novel. Years later while walking past a book store, I saw my story. It had been divided into seven volumes and was being sold to millions all over the world. My elation at finding my long-lost masterpiece quickly turned to despair when I saw the byline: J.K. Rowling, Plaige’s secret identity. Not only had she stolen the best piece of copy I have ever written, but she had also denied me fame and fortune. Now, there is nothing I can do but hope that one day, I can write a book to rival my own.

Honestly, I'm a little surprised I didn't get that job. Claiming to write the Harry Potter novels shows creativity and awesomeness, but perhaps it displays too much crazy.

Exhibit B:

In an in-office interview for a marketing job at a welding company, I was asked the following question:

"What experience do you have with welding or welding machines?"

My response to the executive who had spent the past 30 years of his life with the company:

"Well, I've seen Flashdance....so....that's about it..."

I have yet to hear back from them.

Evidence to support that potential employers are asking ridiculous questions

Exhibit A:

In an online job application for a marketing position, I was given the following writing prompt:

"Writing in the first person, describe a turtle's greatest accomplishment"

My response to this inane, totally irrelevant, but kind of fun question:

It’s not easy carrying your house around with you everywhere you go. Imagine, every time you want to go to the grocery store or the movies or even just to visit a neighbor, you have to pick up your home and all your belongings and trudge on over to your destination. That’s why turtles are so slow, and that’s why simple things like crossing the street are so perilous. In my 72 years, I had never seen a single member of my family cross the street, but we always speculated about the other side. We could see that the grass was indeed greener, and we guessed that the worms were plumper, the ponds more inviting and the birds less threatening.

One not-so-special Tuesday morning, I decided I did not want to wonder anymore—I wanted to wander. I kissed my wife and eggs goodbye and slowly began the long journey across the road. Thankfully, the traffic was light and I made it an entire five feet without encountering a single vehicles. My luck would not last for long, and the rest of my journey was plagued with cars and trucks and mopeds whizzing by, threatening the home I bore on my back. I kept walking, focusing on each step, until I felt grass under my feet. I had made it, and the other side was just as wonderful as I had imagined. I looked back across the street to see my family celebrating my great accomplishment, or at least I assumed that’s what they were doing—I had forgotten my glasses at home.

I think that story is downright precious, so if I don't get this job, I'll at least have a great start to my collection of children's stories.

Exhibit B:

For another marketing job, I was asked to "choose any word and add, subtract or change a few letters to make up a new word and define it." After running through several manipulations of the words "eggplant", "giraffe", and "leotard", I settled on the following:

Fedorable (adj.) - adorable or charming while wearing a felt hat with a curved brim.


I'm not sure where this evidence leaves me--either crazy, or a victim of the ridiculous. Either way, finding a career is turning out to be a lot less professional and a lot more song and flashdance.