Rookie of the Year!

This was a my goal when I was in roller derby — to be named Rookie of the Year. In this “figuring out my athletic career” phase (and acting as Interim Lamest at Making a Decision), being labeled with such high regard for my guest posts to ‘Burgh Living is sincerely just as sweet. I really look forward to this collaboration, and I hope you enjoy as well!

Check out ‘Burgh Living’s so sweet introduction to my series.

THEN, read my first impressions of the ‘Burgh.

Your comments and feedback about my experiences thus far are much appreciated.

Skate (b)log: The Indecision

As much as I miss roller derby, I love my new life, where with its relaxation and NO PLANNED PLANS… and limbs without bruises. I enjoy spending time with the boyfriend at home, without having to miss saying “good night” because I’m not home until after 10 (and you all know, that boy is in REM sleep by 9) or missing dinner because I have practice (and I’m back to living on Apple Cinnamon Cheerios again).

And yet every night that I miss the opportunity to drive to a neighboring city for practice, I beat myself up about not having the motivation to start over. That somehow my social anxiety wins once again. I miss the intense exercise, the adrenaline high from the speed, the stress release from hip checking someone to the ground and the ability to push myself to do things I never knew I was capable of. More so, I miss the camaraderie of the girls. Women, much like myself, who never cared that I was socially awkward because some of them are too. That we all get discouraged, anxious, scared, hurt and ache just the same — no matter our body shape, size or skating skills.

Then, I wake up with aching shoulder sockets (seriously, from sleeping?) and grindy hip flexors (even for my short time participating), which makes me reconsider my thoughts about continuing to play. But then I think about my calves and ass and how they could use a little skate time to redevelop into fierce muscular definitions. And that I probably have another two-to-three good years in me.

So, why is my mind (and body) screwing with me? Why is this decision so hard?

“Stop Being White Trash!”

That’s what the female counterpart yelled at her male companion while he walked at least ten steps ahead of her on Penn Ave. Likewise in anger, there was another old man all sincerely pissed off that he couldn’t find an unlocked entry door at Heinz Hall. Then there was a guy across the street from us arguing with someone passionately. Without knowing the back story, these people were MAD, dammit!

And we certainly had a chuckle at their expense.

It doesn’t happen to me often, but out of impatience, stress, frustration or hunger, I can be a total bitch. And yes, I take this out on AB. But I definitely do not prefer to be this way in public. Other than trying-not-to-cry crying (oddly enough, nearly every time I am drunk), I can usually save our “fights” (if you can even call it that) for home base. But I have experience Being Angry in Public in past relationships. Perhaps, too much.

Before moving to Pittsburgh, I was extremely difficult to be around. For weeks. Thankfully for the boyfriend, he was still traveling each week, thereby encountering my wrath via FaceTime (OMG I hate how that application makes my face look contorted and freckled). EVERYTHING, no matter big or small, stressed me out. I took everything out of context. I took everything personally. And I cried WAY too much for a someone inherently resilient and so set in her ways and… happy. That’s not to say that I have softened upon our arrival here because I am still having minor meltdowns.

We’ve been here for almost one month and are slowly settling into a new relationship structure — one that existed before he took this job in Pitt nearly six months ago. So, since we have technically been “long distance” during this time, learning to be around one another CONSTANTLY can be… well, a challenge. I admit, that I am not the most pleasant person to be around especially when I am bored. Even more so when I expect certain things, but don’t ask for them. “Saving my battles,” if you will, I do not nag (I write everything on a white board on the fridge or memorize it for my kitchen sink). But I DO explode — in tears, typically because these things bottle up, as I’m sure you all know.

I also cannot adjust to his sleep schedule (one that includes him passing out on the couch at 9pm whereas I am usually up until past midnight), therefore, I’m experiencing a bad cycle of insomnia. I probably shouldn’t retire to bed at the same time as him, but you know, I missed that every night. And while I’m sure he didn’t miss my night sweats or my foot reaching all the way across a king-size bed, at least he is sleeping next to me. And somehow that makes me crazy happy.

AB is really good in dealing with my unexpected onslaught of emotions (as I have only seen him angry MAYBE once… and even feeling stressed is new to him). I give him a lot of credit, as he can sense when something is up. If I am stressed, he knows how to talk me down. If I am angry, we can talk through it. If I am generally upset, and don’t really need words or your freaking advice right now, he just hugs. If I’m wrong, well, then he has NO qualms in telling me. And when I’m hungry, he cooks. Even if he tries to kill me with oysters being a listed ingredient in that jar of Asian sauce.

And he knows the location of the nearest cheese shop.

PT: I dream of penis

I suppose I can think of worse places to lie my head:
Crocheted Penis Pillow (ETSY, where the world of awesome handmade and perversion collide)

{h/t Kel, I think}

Made to Order

I’m a sucker for a good burger — even more so if I can have the juiciest, bloodiest medium-rare burger. With cheese, of course. But those perfect hamburger dreams can quickly spoil upon receiving a sandwich that is blackened, char-grilled and cooked so dry that it is unpalatable. I don’t claim to be a cook (for seriously, ask my partner), but at least I know that a rare burger should have a lot more than a bit of pink in it. It should be oozing, dripping delicious juices… ahem.

But is it my place to tell you when my burger is overcooked?

Yes.

This analogy can easily be compared to my work with clients. Sometimes my copy can be, well, over or under-cooked. Perhaps it could require just a bit more sales oompfh, or maybe I went a little overboard on the snark. Every business, industry and individual has its own target audience and its own approach to messaging. But what good is that message if I’m not writing it for its intended purpose and reader?

You hire me because you need SEO consulting or Web content, and you trust that you know what I’m doing (I do). But just the same, it’s more likely that you know your business better than I do. I try to get as much information out of my clients as possible during a first meeting (or email) — and most of that is through listening. I hear your tone, your company history, your goals, your adjectives, and most importantly, your PASSION. And I translate all that into words for your vision and visitors (and little bit for Google). And yes, I’m incredibly good at it (toot, toot). I sit back and enjoy my creation (and wipe the grease off my face from over-imbibing in that deliciously cooked cheeseburger). But for as much information as I gather before the start of a project, sometimes I get the wrong order.

Now don’t get me wrong, a little creativity and an extra piece of cheese rarely makes anyone upset — it could make a great project idea even better. But only the person placing the order can make that determination. I always take accountability for my misinterpretations, and as freelancers — just as that cook — we need to adjust our own ideas to what the customer expects. Client relationships require honest feedback and open communication from both sides, which doesn’t mean you tell me how to do my job… just that you have another preference.

Some times a redo is necessary and sincerely makes all the difference. But if we never tell someone, “this is not what I ordered,” — copy OR burgers — they will never be able to correct the mistake.

I sat and ate that stupid burger in silence — it wasn’t at all what I wanted, and I should have said something (which I beat myself up for afterward, especially after paying the bill). While I may have waited longer than the rest of my table for my meal, it would have made my experience better.

And my stomach a lot happier.

As a client, how do you tell your freelancers that his/her content doesn’t meet your expectations? And as a freelancer, do you include these necessary rewrites as part of your services?

UPDATE: Ha! And randomly, I discover this gem from The Oatmeal today about client relationships.