the3six5

My eyes were snapped open at the crack of 11ish this morning. I grabbed my iPhone to whip it across the room for daring to wake me (not) so early. Then I remembered it's mostly made of glass and fairly pricey. I set it down gently on my bedside table.

Friends of mine who live in other states had been up long enough to be productive and post about it. Productive. On what I'm fairly certain is a Sunday. Ridiculous.

Not that I haven't accomplished anything today. I've been working on an important writing project for a well known client of mine, researching, gathering information and creating a few drafts. But I also happen to live in a city that is essentially peerless when it comes to diversion. None of us can escape time. None of us can control time (yet...c'mon, DeLorean time machine). But each and every one of us can either make the most of every minute or become quite adept at wasting them. A city offering 24-hour access to entertainment and distractions can easily become the bane of even the most focused and ambition person.

Only those who live in Las Vegas or spend a great deal of time here understand the surreality show of this city. Yes, we have a workforce of nine-to-fivers just like any other city but even they understand - and must deal with - the altered state of time here. It seems to be less of an imposition here and more a general guideline of when we should maybe, possibly do certain things. And to be fair, it's difficult to go against that way of life when, even living in a quiet suburban community like any other in America, you are instantly reminded you live near the (in)famous Strip by the massive beam of light Luxor shines into the night sky.

At any rate, I've been acutely aware of the time all day, watching it slip away minute by minute from my bedside clock, iDevices, microwave and oven clocks, the clock on a couple of cable boxes and one in the car, and reflecting on it. And just like everyone, I wish I had more of it.

-----

About the author: David F. Klemt is a freelance writer and paralegal who has been navigating the altered reality that is Las Vegas for nearly a decade.

Today was one of the first Saturdays in so long that I had nowhere to be, nothing to do. It’s amazing the places your mind will take you when it’s not preoccupied with to-do lists.

I’ve been a little too focused on what’s next recently. I’m afraid that with all of my energy being put into reaching my goals, I’m beginning to miss out on my own life. It’s a funny thing. So often you meet people who are stuck in the past. Then you meet others, the hustlers, focused on the future. Too few people are living in the moment. I imagine it’s a happier place to live.

So today, I guess I tried to do just that. I tried to enjoy this Saturday for what it was. Enjoy the people who I encountered and the menial things that I did.

Lessons learned from a day left to my own devices: 

• It’s almost always a bad idea to try on those jeans that haven’t fit you in three years. It is purely a self-sabotage move. But if, in fact, it is that rare unicorn of an occasion where the jeans slip on... Well, damn that is a good feeling.
• Writing is always more fun when it is for yourself.
• There is nothing good on TV during the day on Saturdays. There are, however, many shows that will make you question our country’s values and definition of entertainment.
• Nothing gives you acute anxiety quite like googling your own name and looking back past page 2 or 3.
• Without definitive plans for your day, there is very little incentive to shower.
• It’s much more difficult than you would think to start reading a book. There’s a staggering level of commitment involved.

Is this what a normal Saturday is like? A Saturday with no meetings, no deadlines, and no one else to please but myself? Is normal supposed to be this boring? This painful?

In being painfully normal, I have to wonder if today was very normal at all.

----- 

About the author: Kaitlin Maud is a Digital Strategist working in advertising. She's an active tweeter, occasional blogger, devoted Yogi & Boston sports fan.

I have some important news, you guys. I SLEPT THROUGH THE NIGHT and today I feel glorious. I was fearful, after two nights of being awoken around 4 am by the sounds of Apollo the Super Kitty taking down a water bug on the floor of my 5th-story walk up, he'd make it a hat trick.

See, I'm a teacher. A middle school teacher. A middle school Latin teacher. And I need all the energy I can get.

Today started off much the same as the usual: I accompanied my advisory to chapel, and then taught my amazingly diligent high school students for an extended period. (On the walk to the classroom, as I dodged giant backpacks in my sparkle shoes, I heard a frustrated exclamation that "everything in this world involves math!" and got a good giggle.) We learned about the degrees of adjectives and adverbs, did a little reading about Quintus and his "toga virilis", had some good times. I spotted some modern graffiti on my way out, "Danielus est melior quam Mattus" and thought, "Well, at least his grammar is correct." 

But today was also very special in another way. It was Community & Diversity Day in the middle school. Senior leaders shared stories about their middle school experiences, and then led workshops for the kids. The honesty of one student's narrative, of being born in China, adopted by two dads, and becoming proud to tell his history in the tumultuous sea that is middle school, brought tears to my eyes. 

While my students were in the capable hands of the seniors, I ate an awesome lunch, listened to Tchaikovsky's Serenade for Strings in its entirety, and played Pictionary with 15 twelve-year-olds. (My clues were Harry Potter and Mozart.) Finally, we filed into the theater to hear another teacher's story of growing up "different." It included references to her teen years such as slap bracelets and JTT, and it ended with the proclamation, "Embrace Your Inner Geek," to which an entire auditorium of teens stood and erupted into applause. As I hooted from the back row, my bespectacled, Latin-teacher self smiled wildly and thought "Damn. I'm a lucky girl."

-----

About the author: Jamie Nestor is a Bananagrams-loving, Brooklyn-living, cheese-obsessed nearing-thirty Latin teacher, who has passions for for cooking, education reform, and negronis. 

It's Australia Day. Most of the world would be blissfully unaware that today is the day we celebrate (depending on your opinion) "invasion day", "first fleet day" or just "Aussie Aussie Aussie, Oi Oi Oi" day. A lot of Aussies celebrate the public holiday by having a BBQ and a few beers. People listen to the TripleJ Hottest 100 and debate fiercely over the winner. 

This year a few celebrated by having a very heated protest in which our Prime Minister was jostled and shoved as she was escorted to her car. Like Australia itself it seems that there are many different ways of "celebrating" our nation as there are versions of what we really are.

My day involved being support crew for my husband and his team as they did a 38km practice walk as part of their preparation for the 2012 Oxfam Melbourne Trailwalker. This will be his second event, having successfully completed it last year. The walk is 100km in 48 hours: this year 750 teams of 4 people will attempt it. Almost half won’t finish it with all team members, quite a few teams will drop out altogether. For those that do finish it it’s a great achievement, one worth celebrating.

Now, at the end of the day, we’re watching Red Dog – an Aussie movie about a dog traveling the Australian outback. It’s a great movie, full of friendship, love and typical Aussie humour. There’s also a fair dose of nostalgia, blokey-ness and awesome 70’s stubbies. 

Australia has come a long way since the era in which Red Dog was set. We’ve evolved in so many ways. We’re still a young country but we’re maturing. Think of us as the just-about-to-graduate Uni generation: still wildly full of hope and dreams but taking on more responsibility. We’ll continue to grow and learn. We’ll continue to debate just what it means to be Australian. We’ll continue to disagree on what should have been number one in the Hottest 100.

For the record: this year it was Gotye’s “Somebody That I Used to Know”. It’s the first time in years I’ve actually agreed with the winner. Maybe I’m evolving too.

-----

About the author: Dee Kelleher is the proud owner of a mid-life crisis, a dog and a cat. She has discovered an emerging artistic side which competes with her logical career.

There are days when I do not see the light.

I’m on the Metro before the sun is up. My office is windowless. By 7:48am my inbox included at least three times the usual amount of new emails, and the list of tasks for the day was long. Days like this can be really depressing.

Until I take inventory.

I woke up to a mix of commentary on the POTUS’ SOTUA (we’re big on acronyms in DC) and Oscar nominations.

I hopped the train with my favorite conductor, the one whose tone is just cheerful enough, who gives passengers the time at each stop, who announces “the last stop in the District of Columbia” as the train enters Friendship Heights.

Dolly, Madge, Sondre, and Eugene sang to me on my walk from the train.

A handmade banner displaying Hufflepuff pride floated over the entrance (it’s Harry Potter week, of course).

It’s my brother’s birthday.

A guest speaker addressed high school students about coming out, and students buzzed about it all day.

Students in the Lower School celebrated “Crazy Hat Day.” And the halls were some pretty crazy hats.

Lunch conversation jumped from the President’s speech to remedies for a sore throat (ginger and honey in hot water works for me) to clarifying a few important details about Hogwarts.

A colleague and I had a long and very hopeful conversation about three students who are struggling and what we need to do.

A quick glance in a window reflection confirmed that today has, indeed, been a good hair day.

A flurry of students rushed in after the last bell with questions, to which I responded in my most teacherly voice, “And where do you think you could find that?”

Another colleague walked into my office and announced, “I survived an hour and a half surrounded by fifth graders with with sharp scissors.”

I consider this inventory and chuckle at the thought that this is my “normal,” and the words of the poet emerge,

            My candle burns at both ends

            It will not last the night;

            But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends –

            It gives a lovely light.

_________________

About the author: Bill Hulseman is an educator who dreams of hosting an NPR talk-show and who occasionally rants on his blog, And That’s Why.

I woke early this morning, the grey light pouring through the cracks of the curtain. I work from home and the computer is only a few steps away. I want to write about space ships zooming past, but I have bills to pay, so I write about communications and networking instead.

The waves crash against the sea wall at high tide. Once the sea recedes, I'll jog along the shore, smiling at dog walkers and young men digging up lug worms for their fishing. If it doesn't rain. Everything is misty and grey at the moment, a slate grey sea under an ash grey sky, with a silver grey streak of horizon to join them. It will probably rain.

Perhaps I should bake instead.

The winter sun disappears into the grey mist, the sea and sky merging into an almost flourescent blue. Swansea's afternoon darkness manages to surprise me every damn day. My son phones me. He's an apprentice in London and lives in a small room in a shared house. He wants to tell me about someone interesting he met on the tube.

My mother emails me from the airport, flying to New York for a conference or maybe it's an exhibition, I lose track. She sends me a recipe for black bean and avocado enchiladas. I'm in that magical time, I guess, where neither my children nor my parents need me.

My boyfriend arrives home. We spend the evening on the web -- news and blogs and comics and art and stories. Amusing, thought-provoking, outrageous, enraging.

I bought a joint of beef on special and we ate it with roast vegetables and drank red wine. There's a woman I'd like to be who does things differently. She eats green leafy vegetables and always gets enough sleep and never drinks too much and always meets her deadlines. She probably doesn't stare out the window either, doesn't even notice Mumbles lighthouse glowing in the distance. So maybe it's not all good.

Today was a quiet day, an unexceptional day. I'm content. I pour another glass of wine and toast my reflection in the mirror. Tomorrow, I'll write about space ships.

-----

About the author: Sylvia Spruck Wrigley is an author and a pilot, writing from Swansea and Southern Spain. Her book You Fly Like a Woman is on Amazon.

If time machines are ever invented, please come to San Antonio, Texas at 8:00am on January 23, 2012 and ask for Chris Bolton. I have some stuff to talk to you about.

Awesome.  With any luck, this could turn out to be an interesting day.

The word “Monday” is derived from an old English word meaning moon’s day. It sounds like a bit of an oxymoron to me, but I’ll go with it. On this particular moon’s day I’m having trouble sorting through all of the glitz and glam that is my life. With the ghosts of Shakespeare and Twain fighting to control my writing prowess, I reflect upon the daily happenings. Strangely enough, all I can conjure is a list of transgressions. All I can do is describe my events and let future historians sort it all out.

The sun burst forth from the horizon to shower its golden rays upon the Texan soil. My still sleeping body gets bathed in the warmth of a new day. The distant drone of automobiles signals the world that the worker ants have begun their daily trudge. A snooze button gets absentmindedly pressed, for the dreams are too tantalizing to be shattered just yet. A cat utters its morning meow - a desperate begging of attention. The dreams are slipping. “Please God, just let me sleep a few moments longer!” A body begins to stir underneath. It’s at this point that my outlandish reign over moon’s day is about to begin. Mark your calendars and clear your schedules because on this day:

I woke up. 

I went to work.

Sarcasm at its finest, folks. 

Drumroll.

End scene. 

-----

About the author: Chris Bolton is a 23-year-old male inhabitant of San Antonio, Texas. He has a degree in film and digital media. He’s just a normal dude.

The first thing I noticed this morning, as it often is after a late night with guests, was dishes. Dad was rinsing, mom drying - a pattern some forty-five years in the making. Liam, all of four years, was struggling to finish his coffee cake. His twin sister, Maisie, reclined on the sofa, sounding out letters in a book she can't quite read yet, while their older sister Audrey helped clear what was left of the breakfast table. My wife, Karen, put away the makeshift bar, noting that we had over-estimated the demand for beer (and under-estimated our guests' taste for rum). My sister Shannon sat at her laptop filing her taxes while her own twin, Erin, reclined in my father's chair with eight month-old Zoe, whose morning nap was long enough to warrant a remark.

We said goodbye to my grandmother last night in a scene amidst the kind of snowstorm that's common in New Hampshire at this time of year. Her heart, nearly ninety-three years old, had grown as tired as it was generous. There had been a brief service, at which I had managed a few words of remembrance to a crowd of people who knew her in a very different capacity than I. Later at my parents' house: a wake.

Very near the end of her life, my grandmother had related to me that she had come to find a special kind of joy in being part of a large extended family. I had associated that notion with milestones: first days of school, graduations, weddings, births, and even funerals - the milestones by which we typically measure the relentless march of family and time.

As the scene played out this morning in my parents' living room, set against the icy backdrop of Great Bay, I was aware of yet another possibility: that from my grandmother's chair (unoccupied this morning) she had found, in the mundanity of our routines, the coming and going, the celebrations and (occasional) arguments an altogether different working of definition of family - its story written not in neat chapters, easily sub-divided, but in the well-oiled mess of the morning after a painful goodbye.

-----

Abouth the author: Ian Fitzpatrick is a founding partner at Boston-based agency Almighty. He lives with Karen, Audrey, Liam and Maisie, just outside of town, and can be found on Twitter @ianfitzpatrick.

Yesterday was my birthday and tomorrow I decide if I’m moving to Mumbai or New York City. Today it’s the middle of January, and I’m sweating in Miami. I’m now 364 days away from thirty, which feels exactly the same as being 366 days away.

I woke up before my alarm because I wasn’t hung over, a sign that I’m now 29 plus. Mature. It also means I set an alarm for a Saturday morning. A year ago I would’ve hit the snooze button a minimum of 10 times. Not because I was hung over, but because no part of my being wanted to get out of bed.

Back then I was a full time adult with a steady income and serious deadlines. Between then and now I gave it all up to try something new. Something creative. A substantial step back to redefine what’s a step forward. Now I’m a student, which means there is no income, just the deadlines.

So I set the alarm to work on a Saturday because I took Thursday off to go to the beach. But the work feels a lot less like work. There are no bosses, clients or offices. Instead, today I stole internet, drank cheap coffee and I wrote. A lot.

That’s work now, and I’ve learned that doing the work is crucial in this life experiment. If I’m not working I focus on the step back, which depresses me and takes me to something close to regret. Somewhere I don’t want to go. But when I work my mind goes back to the potential step forward. The same feelings that made me take the leap to begin with.

Today felt like a step forward. Even if it was a step closer to thirty. I hope to do it again tomorrow.

-----

About the author: Pepe Hernandez is too old to grow up and learn Twitter. But he loves to Tumbl.

This morning I awake to my girlfriend Jen telling me how much she loves me as she leaves for work. Together we’ve started our own company and are almost ready to close our first major deals with retailers and can’t wait to celebrate it. 

For now I still work full-time at a boutique marketing agency, so I have to wake up at 9.  Last night I had a couple drinks at an industry networking event before going home to have a few more over a Skype.  I can usually hold my alcohol pretty well, but today I have a slight hangover which makes getting up a little slower. 

I only work 3 miles away but in LA’s morning rush-hour that’s still at least 20 minute drive, which sucks. The “long” drive without a radio gives me plenty of time to think about our company, and now we are closer than ever before to make it. I try to use that as motivation. Some days are harder than others, but today is Friday and the weather is beautiful.

The first thing I do when I get into work is turn on my computer and warm up a cup of tea.  I was the first employee since the company transitioned from PR to marketing some three or four years ago, and now there are about 10 of us all between the ages of 20-30 (with the exception of our CEO).  Although our boss can be controlling at times, I love everyone I work with and the work schedule I’ve been able to create for myself. I need to constantly count my blessings so I don’t get too down on why things have been taking so long with the side business.  People tell me I’m lucky all the time, and I know that I really am. One…two…three…

Beach season is coming up, and I have awesome coworkers and a great girlfriend who tells me she loves me every day.

-----

About the author: Anthony Cerreta is an Interactive Producer who integrates social media with online marketing and traditional advertising. He is also the Cofounder of Ferbs Cosmetics tattoo cover up.