(So as to keep you from thinking me a sociopath for addressing the following with careless light-heartedness, let posterity note that no one was seriously injured in the scenario detailed below.)
Throughout my 25 years I have rarely been recognized for my heroism. I’ve made a reputation for being sarcastic, impatient, brash even…but as far as my memory serves me, I’ve never been thought extraordinarily heroic.
This weekend proved precisely why that is.
So after almost one full year of planning my college roommate and I finally arranged a hang-out. She lives all the way in Wichita- a whopping 2.5 hours away- so it’s understandable that the scheduling took us so long…epic fail. As she came to Nompton in August ‘08 it was my turn to head to Kansas, so following a 10 hour workday I drained 2 Diet Cokes, grabbed my never-completely-unpacked suitcase and hit I-35 for a weekend of reminiscing.
Our mini-holiday was littered with outings fun only to complete losers like Melissa and myself…in college we’d make an evening of visiting the local pet store (for “puppy therapy,” which consisted of cuddling puppies and contemplating ways of buying them without being disowned by our parents), then gorging ourselves on Mexican food or sushi. So our reunion took a similar route; we went to a wildlife park, visited the Wichita humane society, and ate at the local hibachi grill. As I said, we are losers.
But the “highlight” of the trip occurred on our way home from our aforementioned jaunt to the humane society. It’s worth mentioning that on the drive there Melissa skillfully avoided several bags of partially demolished mulch on US-96. There was a bit of swerving and some slight braking, but for the most part it was an anticlimactic incident of road debris. No harm, no foul.
Unfortunately for several other Kansans, one hour later a less chillax driver saw the mulch and reacted quite differently.
So we’re driving home from the grown up version of puppy therapy, me yappin on about my newly discovered gift of child-rearing...it was an engrossing tale no doubt, and I was therefore dismayed to find she was paying me absolutely zero attention. For no reason I could imagine she abruptly began hugging the steering wheel, peering dramatically onto the highway ahead and mumbling something about, “no oh no oh nooo that’s not good.”
So I gaze out on the road, trying to locate the reason for her disrespectful distraction. We’re in the left lane, and in the right lane about 20 feet ahead another car starts braking in the strangest manner. It seems to mimic the “oh sh*t a cop” braking cars do when they realize they’ve been radared, so I chalk up Mel’s behavior to her not wanting to get a ticket. Here I am telling a fascinating story and she tunes me out to fret over a damn radar gun. Cheapskate.
Then, just as I’m about to do the obnoxious thing where you force those suspected of ignoring you to repeat everything you’ve just said, I catch something racing towards me out of the corner of my eye.
And I realize it’s the front-end of a car.
Suddenly two things dominate my thoughts as if etched to the inside of my skull:
1. So this is what a head-on collision looks like
and
2. OH SH*T IMA DIE (this thought quickly materialized into a stream of high-pitched yelling, directed inadvertently into Melissa’s right ear. Am very helpful in stressful situations.)
Miraculously (and I mean that, as the car was barreling directly towards us), Mel managed to brake enough to miss the runaway vehicle just as it smashed into the weirdly-braking car in the right lane. (In retrospect I now understand why it was braking like it was; clearly the driver saw the out-of-control car, had NO EFFING CLUE what to do about it, and was therefore preparing for impact by braking, squeezing his eyes shut and yelling OH SH*T IMA DIE. Of course I’m only speculating here, but I’m pretty sure that’s what I’d do in his stead.)
So we miss the car (which is already alllll kinds of smashed up as it hit a guardrail while flying across the median), and Mel pulls off the road while car parts fly as if propelled by an F-5. She comes to a stop, looks at me and asks “are you okay,” I stammer “HOLY SH*T” and she says “we have to go help.”
To which I respond with my best HAVE YOU LOST YOUR DAMN MIND face.
“What? What?? I can’t—I don’t know—what if we—WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF THE ROAD!!!” I finally succeed at verbalizing a complete thought, so she throws her 4runner into drive and pulls further into the grassy median. Then she turns again to me and says “we have to help,” and I ogle her in complete confusion and fear. I’d hoped by bringing to light our severe vulnerability—by pointing out the impending danger and doom associated with chillin’ on the road after several cars have smashed into one another—she would come to her senses and agree to get the hell outa dodge. I mean, I’m a pretty smart girl and everything, but Mending Bones 101 is not a required class for journalism majors…and hanging around unable to provide medical aid with the possibility of becoming wreckage-victims # 3 and 4 seemed quite unnecessary. But there she sat, insisting her plan to abandon the protective steel frame of the SUV was both rational and severely pertinent.
So she's staring at me, waiting impatiently for my “oi, let’s go save the day!” epiphany...and seconds before I blurt out “OKAY YEAH I HAD CPR TRAINING BUT OHMYWORD MELISSA WHAT DO YOU EXPECT ME TO DO??!” I remember something previously blocked by the distress afflicting my mind.
Melissa is a registered nurse.
Eureka!
At the same moment that I comprehend why she’s so determined to “go help” (because, by Jove, she actually can), Mel loses her patience with me and sighs “okay well I have to help” and hops out of the car.
“Yes, you—you help” I stutter.
“Yeah, okay…and you call 911 with my phone!” She points aimlessly into her car, apparently directing me to her cell but I of course do not catch on. So she turns to go help, I clamber awkwardly into the driver’s seat (I have NO IDEA why I did this, and it earned me a “what the hell are you doing” look from Melissa), and I begin fumbling around the console for her phone.
What seems like centuries later I find it, plaster it to my ear, realize I’ve forgotten to dial and look down at it only to realize IT’S HER EFFING IPOD. Sweet Jesus. After cursing my stupidity I once again begin my search, but as I tear apart the innards of her purse I think of something and stop abruptly.
Mel has an iPhone. I do not possess the mental prowess to operate an iPhone.
So I curse some more, realize I HAVE MY OWN DAMN PHONE and lunge for it (as it’s still in the passenger seat, where I logically should be). I dial 911 and am momentarily confused to see I’m calling “Emergency” (because who do I know by the name “Emergency”? Fail).
Then a forcefully calm voice says “911, what’s your emergency?”
And I say,
“There’s been a wreck….”
And I pause.
Because I don’t have a flippin’ clue where I am.
“What is your location, miss?”
Pause.
“Umm….” And feeling like one of those punkass kids who prank calls 911, I mutter “I don’t actually know.”
Long pause, on the part of the 911 lady. “Okay…”
“Ooo, can you find me with GPS!?” I practically holler, thinking I am Genius and have found the solution.
“Maybe…” she says, but it’s soon clear that as I have a lame-ass, non-smart phone I might as well be in a small black hole engulfed by the Bermuda Triangle. So she asks me if I’m on an interstate, and then we debate whether that’s the same thing as a highway…and then she asks what part of Wichita I’m in, and all I can offer is that it’s by the humane society. Fail, fail, fail.
In the interim I’m filling in details about the accident, in a pathetic attempt to do SOMETHING worthwhile…
“I don’t think anybody’s injured, but airbags did deploy…except in the one car, which I think is too old for airbags.”
The lady latches onto to this line of conversation.
“So what kind of cars were involved?”
My heart sinks a little lower in my stomach, because I know I’m about to Epic Fail the 911 dispatch woman yet again. “Umm, the one that crossed the median is silver…?” (and in my defense it was so crunched up I literally couldn’t tell the make or model), “and the other is tan. NO! Brown. Umm…brownish tan? And old?”
Then, increasingly desperate to save face, I spot a man meandering the grassy median and proceed to chase him down.
“Sir? Sir!” I call. Perhaps this fellow can tell me where in BFE we are! But I keep calling, and he doesn’t respond…at one point he looks directly at me but walks the other way. To quote Stephanie Tanner, how RUDE.
So my self-righteous don’t-you-ignore-ME-buddy mindset kicks into gear, and I haul ass to catch him as he wanders the opposite way down US-96. “Excuse me sir! SIR!!” I literally yell inches from his face, and he finally turns to gaze wearily upon me.
“CAN YOU PLEASE TELL ME WHERE THE HELL WE ARE??”
With an irritating amount of difficulty he tells me our location, which I then relay to the dispatch. I give him a quirt nod and a dismissive “thanks,” then mentally shun him for being a douchetard and hesitating to provide necessary information in a time of crisis.
But as I glare after my newfound Least Favorite Person in Wichita, he wanders back to his car. Which is the vehicle that was broadsided just moments before.
And he was the driver of the vehicle that was broadsided just moments before.
I am a horrible person.
I consider re-chasing him down and apologizing for being an ass, but I figure he’s so much in shock he won’t remember it 5 minutes later…and besides, the 911 lady is once again asking me difficult questions.
“Can you tell me what direction you’re facing?” she says with practiced patience. I choke back the words WELL WHAT DO YOU THINK? and instead mumble something about getting my bearings.
I look left, right, and up, then realize with despair that I have never, ever been able to tell what direction I’m facing. So in my frustration I seek aid…but instead of asking any one of the dozen or so people now gathered on the road, I spot a passing van.
And run after it.
I’m waving my arms, my phone tucked awkwardly under my chin. The driver looks alarmed and confused (as well he should be), but making the naïve assumption that I must have a good reason for chasing him down he slows and rolls down his window.
“WHAT DIRECTION IS THIS??” I blurt out, pointing furiously in the direction of traffic.
“Uhh, east?” he replies with trepidation. He continues on by reciting our exact location, and as I got that info from the last guy I jumped I wave him impatiently onward and shout "East! It's EAST I'm facing east, east!" into the phone.
“Okay…thanks.” says the 911 lady, in a please-calm-down-you’re-hurting-my-ears voice. Then she asks “are you calling from a 911 cell phone” and I get desperately confused…saying that yes, I am on a cell phone and yes, I did call 911, so does that make it a 911 cell phone? Apparently her wires got crossed and she thought I was calling from within the 911 network…and I guess she thought I actually worked for 911...…in which case ohmyword I hope she requested to have me fired.
But as I continue to iron out the 911 cell phone debacle, Melissa suddenly returns and begins ushering me back into the car. “Everybody’s okay,” she says, buckling with care and casting one last glance at the metal massacre in her rearview mirror. “Thanks for calling 911!”
Pause.
Longer Pause.
After cautiously rejoining traffic on the fateful US-96, she looks curiously at me (back in the passenger seat where I belong) and repeats, “hey, thanks for calling 911.”
And in that split second- in the “do or die” moment when I can opt to take the high road and reveal my utter ineptitude at heroism- I do the most obvious and logical thing I can think of.
I lie.
“Oh yeah, no problem. It's the least I could do.”
They say you can die a hero or live a coward...but I choose to be the blithering idiot caught somewhere in between.
Much love.
Showing posts with label douchetards. Show all posts
Showing posts with label douchetards. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Why I'm morally opposed to being set-up.
So I’m sitting at the front desk of the church childcare center, basking in my 1.5 hours of the workday that do not involve snot-nosed busted-lipped crying whining 3-year-olds. I love the baby chillens, I do. But I’m constantly amazed by their sheer and utter grossness. (If you have a strong stomach, be sure to ask me about the day Joey forgot that he’s potty-trained. Yeah, that was epically disgusting.)
But I’m sitting there, and in walks a parent of one of my favorite baby-chillens. She stops to talk and starts chatting about work or weather or some other such nonsense. Then, without word of warning she says, “So Miss Frankie, how old are you?” (The baby-chillens call me Miss Frankie, and thusly so do their parents.)
Immediately I become apprehensive.
If you’re happily married (or at least married in some capacity), you may not understand my aforementioned apprehension. But. I’ve been blissfully single for most of my adult existence, and I’ve therefore learned the DANGER! DANGER! signs that indicate I’m about to be propositioned with someone’s uncle’s cousin’s half-brother thrice removed who is also, GASP, single. And when somebody new to my life starts a sentence with “so” and ends it with “how old are you,” it’s safe to assume the next words out of her mouth will be, “well I just so happen to have this friend…”
So I pause, give myself a brief BE STRONG THIS IS A TRAP mental pep-talk, and say, “I’m 25.”
“Oh really? Miss K thought you were 20. Well I just so happen to have this friend…”
(I KNEW IT.)
“…and he’s a great guy but he only ever dates psychotic girls.”
Long pause. This is when I’m supposed to be complimented by the subtle inference that I’m not psychotic, therefore allowing her to blindside me with her upcoming proposal. Luckily and/or tragically however, I’ve been tricked like this countless times before. You ain’t getting me that easy, lady. I am an experienced evader of set-ups, and implying I’m not a psycho just proves you don’t know me from Adam.
So I say, “Oh yeah? I completely understand…I only ever seem to date psycho guys! That’s why I’m on a dating sabbatical. “ And just in case “sabbatical” isn’t a word familiar to this stay-at-home mom, I add “meaning I’m not dating. At all.”
(After countless awkward conversations where I’d admit to being available, get set-up with the King of the Douchetards, feign illness or unexpected travel, piss off my set-upper and then be deemed “too picky to find love,” I finally developed a strategy for these type of scenarios. Now whene’er I sense the DANGER! DANGER! signs meaning I’m about to be set-up, I act jaded and deeply cynical and say things like “I’m never dating again” and "men are pigs.” Nobody wants to mess with a woman scorned.)
So she looks at me, cocks her head and asks, “bad break-up?”
“Several.”
(I’m intentionally vague in hopes she’ll assume my last dating go-round ended in arson, mandatory anger management classes and/or restraining orders.)
She nods the way people do when they don’t really get what you're saying but would like you to think they do nonetheless. “Well I guess that makes sense then. I was just going to say that my husband’s friend Blane is a great guy, and you’re just such a sweet girl that I thought I’d get y’all together.”
Things get very awkward for a moment as she waits for me to succumb to the pressure and say, “ahh what the hell, my number’s 555…” But though the take-this-as-a-compliment-and-say-you’ll-go-out-with-him silence is deafening, I stick to my guns.
'Yeah...I’m just reeeeeally not dating right now.”
“Hmm. Okay. But he really is a nice guy...he’s got a great job, and he’s really cute!”
And just as my armor of cynicism begins to break under the awkwardness, she decides to elaborate on my potential manfriend, Blane.
“Yeah, Blane’s great…I think he’s good looking-"
(“I think” means “he’s really not but I don’t know how to tell you that and still get you to go out with him.”)
"He’s 35-"
(Umm, did I stutter? I said I’m twenty-five! A 10 year age difference does not a good match make.)
“He has a two-year-old but never sees her-"
(He’s a dad…and he’s a deadbeat dad at that.)
“And he's got a fantastic job. He’s a prison guard!”
..........and that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I’m morally opposed to being set-up.
Much love.
But I’m sitting there, and in walks a parent of one of my favorite baby-chillens. She stops to talk and starts chatting about work or weather or some other such nonsense. Then, without word of warning she says, “So Miss Frankie, how old are you?” (The baby-chillens call me Miss Frankie, and thusly so do their parents.)
Immediately I become apprehensive.
If you’re happily married (or at least married in some capacity), you may not understand my aforementioned apprehension. But. I’ve been blissfully single for most of my adult existence, and I’ve therefore learned the DANGER! DANGER! signs that indicate I’m about to be propositioned with someone’s uncle’s cousin’s half-brother thrice removed who is also, GASP, single. And when somebody new to my life starts a sentence with “so” and ends it with “how old are you,” it’s safe to assume the next words out of her mouth will be, “well I just so happen to have this friend…”
So I pause, give myself a brief BE STRONG THIS IS A TRAP mental pep-talk, and say, “I’m 25.”
“Oh really? Miss K thought you were 20. Well I just so happen to have this friend…”
(I KNEW IT.)
“…and he’s a great guy but he only ever dates psychotic girls.”
Long pause. This is when I’m supposed to be complimented by the subtle inference that I’m not psychotic, therefore allowing her to blindside me with her upcoming proposal. Luckily and/or tragically however, I’ve been tricked like this countless times before. You ain’t getting me that easy, lady. I am an experienced evader of set-ups, and implying I’m not a psycho just proves you don’t know me from Adam.
So I say, “Oh yeah? I completely understand…I only ever seem to date psycho guys! That’s why I’m on a dating sabbatical. “ And just in case “sabbatical” isn’t a word familiar to this stay-at-home mom, I add “meaning I’m not dating. At all.”
(After countless awkward conversations where I’d admit to being available, get set-up with the King of the Douchetards, feign illness or unexpected travel, piss off my set-upper and then be deemed “too picky to find love,” I finally developed a strategy for these type of scenarios. Now whene’er I sense the DANGER! DANGER! signs meaning I’m about to be set-up, I act jaded and deeply cynical and say things like “I’m never dating again” and "men are pigs.” Nobody wants to mess with a woman scorned.)
So she looks at me, cocks her head and asks, “bad break-up?”
“Several.”
(I’m intentionally vague in hopes she’ll assume my last dating go-round ended in arson, mandatory anger management classes and/or restraining orders.)
She nods the way people do when they don’t really get what you're saying but would like you to think they do nonetheless. “Well I guess that makes sense then. I was just going to say that my husband’s friend Blane is a great guy, and you’re just such a sweet girl that I thought I’d get y’all together.”
Things get very awkward for a moment as she waits for me to succumb to the pressure and say, “ahh what the hell, my number’s 555…” But though the take-this-as-a-compliment-and-say-you’ll-go-out-with-him silence is deafening, I stick to my guns.
'Yeah...I’m just reeeeeally not dating right now.”
“Hmm. Okay. But he really is a nice guy...he’s got a great job, and he’s really cute!”
And just as my armor of cynicism begins to break under the awkwardness, she decides to elaborate on my potential manfriend, Blane.
“Yeah, Blane’s great…I think he’s good looking-"
(“I think” means “he’s really not but I don’t know how to tell you that and still get you to go out with him.”)
"He’s 35-"
(Umm, did I stutter? I said I’m twenty-five! A 10 year age difference does not a good match make.)
“He has a two-year-old but never sees her-"
(He’s a dad…and he’s a deadbeat dad at that.)
“And he's got a fantastic job. He’s a prison guard!”
..........and that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I’m morally opposed to being set-up.
Much love.
Monday, May 11, 2009
The Empty Promises of Patrick Swayze's Hips
NOTE: The following is a piece I wrote for class, but in the spirit of posting something to the ol' blog during this frenzied finals week I thought I'd share it now. My professor told me to address love and relationships from my position as a woman scorned. (Where he got the "scorned woman" thing I HAVE NO IDEA, as I'm very much a hopeless romantic and am not the least bit cynical. ...oh bugger off, what do you know?) Kristina should be especially happy to see this, as she's been wanting to read it for quite some time. I hope the rest of you enjoy it too, and much love.
When I was 11 years old and Sister 13, we were finally, finally allowed to watch Dirty Dancing (which in retrospect is still dreadfully young. Abortion? Teen sex? The side of Patrick Swayze’s naked ass? It’s a miracle Sister and I turned out as morally sound as we did). We were overjoyed to the point of giddiness for two reasons:
1. Everyone else our age had already seen it and, as we were both socially…challenged, we felt being up on Baby and Johnny’s torrid love affair would help our cool-factor (it did not).
2. We were young and naïve, and therefore still completely enamored with the ideals of movie love.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, this second point would prove to create an earth-shattering crossroad in my life.
I remember sitting Indian-style in front of the TV (in the‘90s “sitting Indian style” wasn’t so un-PC), totally engrossed in Johnny’s chin-dimple and the way his hips moved when he danced. Sister sat beside me, no closer than 3 feet to the screen as that was the rule, and together we settled in for 100 minutes of mild raunchiness never before experienced by our virginal eyes.
Without realizing it, we were building our expectations of our existences to come; we were on the verge of transitioning into teenagers (a conversion that would result in our hating each other for 3 to 5 years), and we were thus on the cusp of boys and relationships and first romances. And as the opening credits rolled and sweaty miscreants grinded in slow-mo to “Be My, Be My Baby,” a societal fairy-tale began seeping into our impressionable minds.
Then, somewhere between “I carried a watermelon” and “nobody puts Baby in a corner,” my all-business, proud-feminist mother marched into the room. Standing defiantly in front of the screen, she put her hands on her hips and in her sternest, do-not-question-what-I’m-about-to-tell-you voice said, “This is not how it happens in real life.” Then she turned on her heels and was gone.
This is not how it happens in real life.
Sister and I were frozen in place, not knowing what to do but being entirely aware that, on some fundamental level, our views of the world had been forever changed. After several moments of stunned silence, we turned back to the TV and pretended not to be scarred for life. We still enjoyed the movie; we booed when Johnny got fired and we cheered when Baby did the lift, but underneath our exaggerated reactions, we knew a part of our souls had died.
At least, that’s what I thought at the time.
For many years following that memorable incident I held a tiny grudge against my mother. I thought her words were completely unwarranted, and I attributed them to some sinister desire to hurt my feelings/be a mean-spirited-dream-crusher (keep in mind that at this point I was the epitome of a foul-tempered teenager, and I was pretty much in a mood 24 hours a day). More than anything in the world I wanted to believe my mother was wrong, and I’d therefore be damned before I’d heed her warning.
Then real life happened to me.
At 17 years old my first love was what you might expect; I fell fast and hard, named both of our future children (Robert and Amber), let him sloppy-French-kiss me even though I hated it, and began preparations for our long, happy life together. And then, just as I was becoming convinced that there was no truth to the saying “love hurts” or to my mother’s words, he dropped by my house one night and lowered the boom: he didn’t love me anymore. Suddenly I knew what it was to have a broken heart.
At that point in my naïveté I still wanted to believe the fairy-tale, so when he called two months (and 12 pounds of woe-is-me-weight-loss) later, I joyously accepted his proposal to get back together. Maybe this was my dream come true! In every life some rain must fall, right? But now things would work out and be perfect…the break-up would become a distant memory, and now I’d have my Prince Charming.
I don’t have to tell you what happened next.
So after heartbreak #2 and 8 more pounds lost, I finally decided to branch out to new specimens. I started dating other guys…some secret pot-heads who used me for free meals, others manipulative womanizers who pitted me against their exes. There were those who called me a “princess” and then hit on my friends, and some who told me they loved me (but could I just dress differently and be less opinionated?).
With every new date seemed to come a new disappointment, and I quickly lost faith in relationships altogether. If true love existed, then where was my perfect romance? Where was my slow dance ‘neath the moon? Where the hell was my Johnny?!
And then my mother’s words played quietly through my head.
This is not how it happens in real life.
Our society sets us up to believe in love at first sight and happy endings and Johnny Castles. We’re raised in a culture where reality is considered over-rated; people would rather seek movie-perfection and fail trying than settle for the world as it actually is. I don’t claim this as an original thought; we all know romances like that between Johnny and Baby are oversimplified and idealistic. We’ve all heard “only in the movies,” and few of us would admit to believing a Cinderella story could happen for us.
And yet, we do believe it….or at least, we’re keen enough on the idea to feel slightly cheated when our relationships don’t turn out that way. That’s not to say my past beaus were actually upstanding gentlemen, because they weren’t. I had remarkably poor taste in the past, and I’m hoping to God that I’ve since learned from my mistakes. But there is merit in expecting something human from your relationships- and by “human” I mean complicated, often frustrating, awkward at times, and most of all…real.
Johnny wasn’t real, and Baby wasn’t either. He wouldn’t have abandoned his playboy ways for the cute-ish girl named Frances, and she would never have been able to learn to dance like that (I mean, come on). But if you think about it, who would want that kind of relationship anyway? Real love can’t survive between wayward bad-boys and innocent do-gooder girls (and I should know, as that’s what caused heartbreak # 3).
So I guess what I’m trying to say is this: for anyone younger and thus less baggage-riddled than I, please heed the lesson my (come to find out, well-intentioned) mother once tried to teach me. Do not expect perfection. Do not expect swells of music when you kiss, or heartfelt I love yous on the second date, or hand-holding strolls on the beach that fade to black and end with the assumption of happily ever-after. Because as a wise woman once warned me, This is not how it happens in real life.
In real life there is heartache. There is arguing, and tension, and differing opinions and constant compromising. Sometimes your relationships won’t work out; you may be mistreated, and karma may never avenge you. You might be lonely for a little while. You might be lonely for a long while. And you may never have a blockbuster “love realized” moment to rival Johnny and Baby’s legendary last dance.
But if you’re very patient and just a bit lucky, you might find somebody who is pretty great - who cares about you and understands how you feel and wants to support you from day-to-day. You may meet someone who makes you laugh and holds you while you sleep, and you may just find someone who will love you for exactly who you are.
And if you do find that, don’t be deterred if there are bumps in the road or if his hips don’t move quite like Johnny’s. Trust me on this one, or at least trust my mother; your romance won’t be like Johnny and Baby’s, and that’s okay. Because real life love isn’t like movie love. It’s something a little bit different. It’s something a little more complicated. It’s something a little more real.
And real is always better in the long run…even if you never go dirty dancing.
This is dedicated to the eternally dreamy Patrick Swayze, who put my middle name on the map and made me proud to be a Frances.
When I was 11 years old and Sister 13, we were finally, finally allowed to watch Dirty Dancing (which in retrospect is still dreadfully young. Abortion? Teen sex? The side of Patrick Swayze’s naked ass? It’s a miracle Sister and I turned out as morally sound as we did). We were overjoyed to the point of giddiness for two reasons:
1. Everyone else our age had already seen it and, as we were both socially…challenged, we felt being up on Baby and Johnny’s torrid love affair would help our cool-factor (it did not).
2. We were young and naïve, and therefore still completely enamored with the ideals of movie love.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, this second point would prove to create an earth-shattering crossroad in my life.
I remember sitting Indian-style in front of the TV (in the‘90s “sitting Indian style” wasn’t so un-PC), totally engrossed in Johnny’s chin-dimple and the way his hips moved when he danced. Sister sat beside me, no closer than 3 feet to the screen as that was the rule, and together we settled in for 100 minutes of mild raunchiness never before experienced by our virginal eyes.
Without realizing it, we were building our expectations of our existences to come; we were on the verge of transitioning into teenagers (a conversion that would result in our hating each other for 3 to 5 years), and we were thus on the cusp of boys and relationships and first romances. And as the opening credits rolled and sweaty miscreants grinded in slow-mo to “Be My, Be My Baby,” a societal fairy-tale began seeping into our impressionable minds.
Then, somewhere between “I carried a watermelon” and “nobody puts Baby in a corner,” my all-business, proud-feminist mother marched into the room. Standing defiantly in front of the screen, she put her hands on her hips and in her sternest, do-not-question-what-I’m-about-to-tell-you voice said, “This is not how it happens in real life.” Then she turned on her heels and was gone.
This is not how it happens in real life.
Sister and I were frozen in place, not knowing what to do but being entirely aware that, on some fundamental level, our views of the world had been forever changed. After several moments of stunned silence, we turned back to the TV and pretended not to be scarred for life. We still enjoyed the movie; we booed when Johnny got fired and we cheered when Baby did the lift, but underneath our exaggerated reactions, we knew a part of our souls had died.
At least, that’s what I thought at the time.
For many years following that memorable incident I held a tiny grudge against my mother. I thought her words were completely unwarranted, and I attributed them to some sinister desire to hurt my feelings/be a mean-spirited-dream-crusher (keep in mind that at this point I was the epitome of a foul-tempered teenager, and I was pretty much in a mood 24 hours a day). More than anything in the world I wanted to believe my mother was wrong, and I’d therefore be damned before I’d heed her warning.
Then real life happened to me.
At 17 years old my first love was what you might expect; I fell fast and hard, named both of our future children (Robert and Amber), let him sloppy-French-kiss me even though I hated it, and began preparations for our long, happy life together. And then, just as I was becoming convinced that there was no truth to the saying “love hurts” or to my mother’s words, he dropped by my house one night and lowered the boom: he didn’t love me anymore. Suddenly I knew what it was to have a broken heart.
At that point in my naïveté I still wanted to believe the fairy-tale, so when he called two months (and 12 pounds of woe-is-me-weight-loss) later, I joyously accepted his proposal to get back together. Maybe this was my dream come true! In every life some rain must fall, right? But now things would work out and be perfect…the break-up would become a distant memory, and now I’d have my Prince Charming.
I don’t have to tell you what happened next.
So after heartbreak #2 and 8 more pounds lost, I finally decided to branch out to new specimens. I started dating other guys…some secret pot-heads who used me for free meals, others manipulative womanizers who pitted me against their exes. There were those who called me a “princess” and then hit on my friends, and some who told me they loved me (but could I just dress differently and be less opinionated?).
With every new date seemed to come a new disappointment, and I quickly lost faith in relationships altogether. If true love existed, then where was my perfect romance? Where was my slow dance ‘neath the moon? Where the hell was my Johnny?!
And then my mother’s words played quietly through my head.
This is not how it happens in real life.
Our society sets us up to believe in love at first sight and happy endings and Johnny Castles. We’re raised in a culture where reality is considered over-rated; people would rather seek movie-perfection and fail trying than settle for the world as it actually is. I don’t claim this as an original thought; we all know romances like that between Johnny and Baby are oversimplified and idealistic. We’ve all heard “only in the movies,” and few of us would admit to believing a Cinderella story could happen for us.
And yet, we do believe it….or at least, we’re keen enough on the idea to feel slightly cheated when our relationships don’t turn out that way. That’s not to say my past beaus were actually upstanding gentlemen, because they weren’t. I had remarkably poor taste in the past, and I’m hoping to God that I’ve since learned from my mistakes. But there is merit in expecting something human from your relationships- and by “human” I mean complicated, often frustrating, awkward at times, and most of all…real.
Johnny wasn’t real, and Baby wasn’t either. He wouldn’t have abandoned his playboy ways for the cute-ish girl named Frances, and she would never have been able to learn to dance like that (I mean, come on). But if you think about it, who would want that kind of relationship anyway? Real love can’t survive between wayward bad-boys and innocent do-gooder girls (and I should know, as that’s what caused heartbreak # 3).
So I guess what I’m trying to say is this: for anyone younger and thus less baggage-riddled than I, please heed the lesson my (come to find out, well-intentioned) mother once tried to teach me. Do not expect perfection. Do not expect swells of music when you kiss, or heartfelt I love yous on the second date, or hand-holding strolls on the beach that fade to black and end with the assumption of happily ever-after. Because as a wise woman once warned me, This is not how it happens in real life.
In real life there is heartache. There is arguing, and tension, and differing opinions and constant compromising. Sometimes your relationships won’t work out; you may be mistreated, and karma may never avenge you. You might be lonely for a little while. You might be lonely for a long while. And you may never have a blockbuster “love realized” moment to rival Johnny and Baby’s legendary last dance.
But if you’re very patient and just a bit lucky, you might find somebody who is pretty great - who cares about you and understands how you feel and wants to support you from day-to-day. You may meet someone who makes you laugh and holds you while you sleep, and you may just find someone who will love you for exactly who you are.
And if you do find that, don’t be deterred if there are bumps in the road or if his hips don’t move quite like Johnny’s. Trust me on this one, or at least trust my mother; your romance won’t be like Johnny and Baby’s, and that’s okay. Because real life love isn’t like movie love. It’s something a little bit different. It’s something a little more complicated. It’s something a little more real.
And real is always better in the long run…even if you never go dirty dancing.
This is dedicated to the eternally dreamy Patrick Swayze, who put my middle name on the map and made me proud to be a Frances.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Demonic Day of Doom
Firstly, I’d like to say how thrilled and indeed blessed I feel to be here today, with you people, on planet Earth. For it is no exaggeration to declare that I very nearly died last week.
Not because of a failed attempt at jaywalking or because I ODed on Nyquil (which I swear I’ve almost done before), but because I quite nearly had a complete meltdown: an emotional, psychological, mental, physical, Total System Failure.
April 1: Day of foolery for most, and Sister’s birthday to my Beloveds and me. [Momentary aside: the morning started off a little rocky as I signed onto Facebook (damn you, Stalking Machine), and found that my then-dating-partner was in cahoots with…well I’ll just say it…America’s Next Top Model. Now, in my defense I’m not usually the jealous type. But things between Manfriend and I had been damn confusing for a hot minute anyway, and at 8 in the morning my judgment is generally skewed. My logical brain immediately spoke up with a resounding “be cool, bitch…be cool,” but my illogical brain (which is far louder and more outspoken) began hollering “does he like her?? Will they date?? ARE THEY GETTING MARRIED??! WILL THEY HAVE BABIES???!” What can I say; I’m blessed with an active imagination.]
Lucky for me I had bigger fish to fry that day, and so I powered through and pushed past my suspicions that my dating partner was betrothed to a younger Giselle Bundchen. (Let posterity note that the aforementioned manfriend and I are no longer dating. WAH wah. Relationships are fun, no?)
But the real issue at hand, the true ticker that was causing me ulcers and clammy palms and blurred vision and impaired driving, was one I had been anticipating since the start of this semester. For April 1 was my personal day of reckoning. My day in Satan’s grasp…my day of 1.5 hours of public speaking.
I hate public speaking.
HATE. IT.
If you know me well, you probably know that I’m not a fan of talking in front of large groups of people. If you know me very well, you know I’ve loathed presentations since age 4 (when I had to be bribed with popsicles to be in my preschool play), and that I avoid such scenarios like an outbreak of Ebola or the Bubonic Plague.
So needless to say, the day was doomed from 12:01 AM. But God, being the kidder that He is, decided to have some fun with me…and see just how much torment I could take before losing it completely and cackling about like Archimedes from Sword in the Stone (which I’m told I did most of the day anyway…yeah thanks, Aubrey).
Total System Failure: A Synopsis and Overview
Unfortunate Incident # 1: I drive to campus at 9:45 AM, and begin my usual hunt for a parking spot. Typically I park in the garage so conveniently located across from Gaylord, but today I’m sh*t out of luck finding a free space. So I go to pursue plan B…and cannot get out of the garage. Can. NOT. Some damn Pepsi truck has lodged itself in front of the garage exit, and so I find myself trapped like an ant in an ant farm. (Remember ant farms? Those were fun…though Sister’s ants always made far more intricate tunnels than mine. I may have some unresolved issues from my childhood - but I digress.) So I sit there. And sit there. AND SIT THERE. For twenty effing minutes.
(One adverse side effect of a creative mind is that it often comes with some (to a lot) of neuroses, and I’ll admit to being no exception to that rule. So sitting in a line of jam-packed cars, surrounded by cement walls and pillars and dividers and what have you, did no good things for my claustrophobic tendencies.) So finally, finally the damn truck-driver learns how to drive, and I’m freed from my paved-coffin-of-doom.
Unfortunate Incident #2: I then begin meticulously perusing the nearest-by parking lot (and by “nearest-by” I mean it’s in BFE) for an empty space. Upon finding one I zip Little Red in, open my door with great speed (as I’m now officially late for work), and find myself in a Marilyn Monroe-esque type scenario. My lovely peasant skirt, which I’ve worn so as to feel pretty during my Presentation of Death, lifts itself as if of it’s own accord up around my ears. I’m not kidding you. And I of course have seven different bags in hand, so there’s nothing I can do but stand there and think “which pair of PINK panties am I now displaying to the entire Sooner World?”
Unfortunate Incident # 3: After realizing only a parking-meter-maid has seen my unda-carriage and I’m thus able to regain composure, I take one, maybe two steps in the direction of my destination. And trip. And fall. And this isn’t one of those, “whoops, caught my shoe a bit and now I’m just fine” moments, this is a “OH HOLY HELL I’M GOING TO SMASH MY FACE ON THE GROUND” kind of trips. But I didn’t…instead I flailed about like a drowning cat and merely slammed my torso into the rear of somebody’s (dirty) car. Of course my right boob took most of the fall. Which felt awesome. Then I hear a husky male voice not far from where I’ve landed (grasping for dear life onto the back of said car, my seven bags askew across the pavement) and I hop up to respond to what I assume to be his, “oh darling girl, are you alright?” questioning. So I turn, plaster a “damn I’m a dumbass but I’m okay” look on my face…and realize he’s not talking to me at all. He’s on the phone, and merely looks at me in a disapproving (and perhaps mocking) manner. So I’m sure my attempt at a brave-face read to him as a “hiya I’m a schizophrenic” expression. AWESOME. So I gather my things and start once more for Gaylord Hall.
Unfortunate Incident # 4: I make it all the way to Gaylord without another embarrassing moment, and I’m just about to hoister myself out of my pit of sorrow and self-loathing when I walk through the doors. And trip. AGAIN. Now mind you, I’m wearing flip-flops. Not heels; not stilettos that make one’s ankles wobble or one’s knees bow. I’m wearing the simplest of simple flip-flops, and I’ve tripped AGAIN. This time I’m in the atrium of Gaylord, which means at least 17 undergrads, 9 grad students and 4 professors have witnessed my graceless entrance. So I force a laugh (which sounds just as forced as it is) and proceed to the stairs. OF COURSE the library where I work is upstairs.
Unfortunate Incident # 5: I make it up 2 steps and see my dear friend Chris descending the stairs towards me. I smile at him, begin babbling about how sh*tty my day’s been thus far, and you guessed it…I EFFING TRIP AGAIN. I’m indeed lucky to have Chris there to catch me, as otherwise my shinbones would be irrevocably scarred from the fall. But the only thing more embarrassing than falling in front of strangers is falling in front of friends. So I mumble something about my shoe being broken or SOME nonsense, and being the gentleman that he is Chris goes to examine it. Damn thing isn’t broken (which I of course knew to begin with). I’m just a douchetard.
(It’s worth mentioning that Chris himself tripped on the exact same stair a mere hour after I did. That made me feel better…until Unfortunate Incident # 7).
Unfortunate Incident # 6: I stumble into the library, and my boss greets me with an icy “WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN” look. Deserved, I know, but it only adds to my desire to crawl into a ball on the floor and hum “Yesterday” to myself. So I grab a laptop, sign into my OU email account, and find I’ve received an ominous email entitled “Puerto Rico: An Update.”
Side Note: I have been unabashedly excited about my upcoming study-abroad trip to Puerto Rico. I never got to do an abroad program at my lame-ass undergrad school (my life is dreadfully unfair; I know), and one of my top goals for grad school was to do one through OU. So when I found this program, which would grant me 6 hours credit in Travel Writing during a two-week stint in Puerto Rico, I was ECSTATIC. Freaking blissful, I tell you.
And the email reads: We have had several people contact us regarding this trip and although the ones who have shown interest are ready to hop on the plane and start learning and writing, we haven't had enough people sign up to make the trip economically feasible. And, sadly, taking a smaller group would be cost-prohibitive for everyone. We are disappointed, as I'm sure you are.
It goes on to say that I shouldn’t fret, as they’ve already started planning another trip. For next May. WHEN I’LL HAVE GRADUATED. I sit there, staring at the computer, in absolute and complete disbelief. If I was a public-crier, I would’ve cried. Instead I did something worse; I opted to go talk with someone (anyone) about it in the Dean’s office. Which is upstairs.
Unfortunate Incident # 7: At this point I’m literally dragging my feet as I make the slow and agonizing trip towards the third-floor staircase. I run into Man Candy (one of two fellow JMC students Hot Librarian #2 and I giggle about when we’re bored at work), but all I can muster is a “hhmmello.” I begin climbing the steps, grasping tightly to the banister (as I’ve learned my lesson from falls number 1, 2 and 3). I make it juuuuust almost to the top of the stairs, let go of the banister…
AND. I. TRIP.
This time I stop. I do not laugh, hop up to regain composure, curse at my shoes, or cry (which is becoming a more realistic threat with every passing moment). This time I simply lay my forehead on the banister and breathe. Several people pass me; they look concerned, but I do not care. I’ve lost the ability to walk, my trip to Paradise Island has been canceled, and I have to give a 90 minute presentation in a matter of hours. TO HELL WITH YOU AND YOUR SEMI-CONCERNED GAWKING.
The rest of the day went without notable incident; when I finally regained the will to live and walk I proceeded to the Dean’s office and glared at his assistant Tyler for at least 9 minutes. Poor Tyler has nothing to do with the trip or its subsequent cancellation, but he was the nearest human person when I entered the room and by that point I was nigh out my mind. So I sat at his desk, told him how mad I was and how I’d tripped four times and how April 1st is the Day of Satan and his followers, and then descended (without misstep, miraculously) back to my library to endure the rest of the day.
From 6:30-8:00 (or 8:30 or 9:00 or Eternity - I lose track of time in that class), my dear partner and I spoke on globalization and its effect on gender equality. I was a little apprehensive, but mainly I was numb…the day had quite literally kicked my ass, and I was then on autopilot until I could crawl into bed and pretend none of it ever happened. At one point I snapped at my friend Alex for laughing at one of our videos; I thought I was being funny and sarcastic, but later he apologized so profusely that I realized he thought I absolutely hated him and his gender as a whole. Epic Fail on my part. After the presentation was over everyone clapped and began gathering their things to head home, and I walked up to my fellow Hot Librarian and said quite simply
“hug me.”
In front of the entire class and my professor (who was still obviously mentally deciphering my presentation grade) I asked Aubrey to hug me. And to her credit, she did…she gave me a nice big hug, and she made me laugh by referencing our v-neck shirts and how they were forcing men to stare at our tatas (it was part of the related presentation-debate…you had to be there, but be thankful you were not). But after our impromptu hugfest I realized something disconcerting: I’ve not been that emotionally drained in a very long time. When I’m at my veryveryvery wit’s end I ask random people for hugs, so that just confirmed that April 1st had waged total war on me…and quite obviously and unfortunately, it had won.
BUT. I survived. It is now a new week, I have a new Happy Flower Bracelet I bought at the Medieval Fair, I LIVED THROUGH MY PRESENTATION, and Man Candy should waltz in here any minute now to try and borrow a laptop from me (he won’t be able to do so as they’ve all been checked out for a class, but I’ve conveniently neglected to tell him that. I never said women aren’t manipulative). So I guess I should feel somewhat achieved, if for no other reason than for not letting my day of dysfunction, disappointment, and dreaded public speaking get the best of me. April 1st may have kicked my ass, but I kicked April 2nd’s ass by living to see it…and while I’m at it, I think I’ll go ahead and kick the rest of April’s ass as well.
For what’s the point of living through it if you can’t laugh at it later?
Much love.
Not because of a failed attempt at jaywalking or because I ODed on Nyquil (which I swear I’ve almost done before), but because I quite nearly had a complete meltdown: an emotional, psychological, mental, physical, Total System Failure.
April 1: Day of foolery for most, and Sister’s birthday to my Beloveds and me. [Momentary aside: the morning started off a little rocky as I signed onto Facebook (damn you, Stalking Machine), and found that my then-dating-partner was in cahoots with…well I’ll just say it…America’s Next Top Model. Now, in my defense I’m not usually the jealous type. But things between Manfriend and I had been damn confusing for a hot minute anyway, and at 8 in the morning my judgment is generally skewed. My logical brain immediately spoke up with a resounding “be cool, bitch…be cool,” but my illogical brain (which is far louder and more outspoken) began hollering “does he like her?? Will they date?? ARE THEY GETTING MARRIED??! WILL THEY HAVE BABIES???!” What can I say; I’m blessed with an active imagination.]
Lucky for me I had bigger fish to fry that day, and so I powered through and pushed past my suspicions that my dating partner was betrothed to a younger Giselle Bundchen. (Let posterity note that the aforementioned manfriend and I are no longer dating. WAH wah. Relationships are fun, no?)
But the real issue at hand, the true ticker that was causing me ulcers and clammy palms and blurred vision and impaired driving, was one I had been anticipating since the start of this semester. For April 1 was my personal day of reckoning. My day in Satan’s grasp…my day of 1.5 hours of public speaking.
I hate public speaking.
HATE. IT.
If you know me well, you probably know that I’m not a fan of talking in front of large groups of people. If you know me very well, you know I’ve loathed presentations since age 4 (when I had to be bribed with popsicles to be in my preschool play), and that I avoid such scenarios like an outbreak of Ebola or the Bubonic Plague.
So needless to say, the day was doomed from 12:01 AM. But God, being the kidder that He is, decided to have some fun with me…and see just how much torment I could take before losing it completely and cackling about like Archimedes from Sword in the Stone (which I’m told I did most of the day anyway…yeah thanks, Aubrey).
Total System Failure: A Synopsis and Overview
Unfortunate Incident # 1: I drive to campus at 9:45 AM, and begin my usual hunt for a parking spot. Typically I park in the garage so conveniently located across from Gaylord, but today I’m sh*t out of luck finding a free space. So I go to pursue plan B…and cannot get out of the garage. Can. NOT. Some damn Pepsi truck has lodged itself in front of the garage exit, and so I find myself trapped like an ant in an ant farm. (Remember ant farms? Those were fun…though Sister’s ants always made far more intricate tunnels than mine. I may have some unresolved issues from my childhood - but I digress.) So I sit there. And sit there. AND SIT THERE. For twenty effing minutes.
(One adverse side effect of a creative mind is that it often comes with some (to a lot) of neuroses, and I’ll admit to being no exception to that rule. So sitting in a line of jam-packed cars, surrounded by cement walls and pillars and dividers and what have you, did no good things for my claustrophobic tendencies.) So finally, finally the damn truck-driver learns how to drive, and I’m freed from my paved-coffin-of-doom.
Unfortunate Incident #2: I then begin meticulously perusing the nearest-by parking lot (and by “nearest-by” I mean it’s in BFE) for an empty space. Upon finding one I zip Little Red in, open my door with great speed (as I’m now officially late for work), and find myself in a Marilyn Monroe-esque type scenario. My lovely peasant skirt, which I’ve worn so as to feel pretty during my Presentation of Death, lifts itself as if of it’s own accord up around my ears. I’m not kidding you. And I of course have seven different bags in hand, so there’s nothing I can do but stand there and think “which pair of PINK panties am I now displaying to the entire Sooner World?”
Unfortunate Incident # 3: After realizing only a parking-meter-maid has seen my unda-carriage and I’m thus able to regain composure, I take one, maybe two steps in the direction of my destination. And trip. And fall. And this isn’t one of those, “whoops, caught my shoe a bit and now I’m just fine” moments, this is a “OH HOLY HELL I’M GOING TO SMASH MY FACE ON THE GROUND” kind of trips. But I didn’t…instead I flailed about like a drowning cat and merely slammed my torso into the rear of somebody’s (dirty) car. Of course my right boob took most of the fall. Which felt awesome. Then I hear a husky male voice not far from where I’ve landed (grasping for dear life onto the back of said car, my seven bags askew across the pavement) and I hop up to respond to what I assume to be his, “oh darling girl, are you alright?” questioning. So I turn, plaster a “damn I’m a dumbass but I’m okay” look on my face…and realize he’s not talking to me at all. He’s on the phone, and merely looks at me in a disapproving (and perhaps mocking) manner. So I’m sure my attempt at a brave-face read to him as a “hiya I’m a schizophrenic” expression. AWESOME. So I gather my things and start once more for Gaylord Hall.
Unfortunate Incident # 4: I make it all the way to Gaylord without another embarrassing moment, and I’m just about to hoister myself out of my pit of sorrow and self-loathing when I walk through the doors. And trip. AGAIN. Now mind you, I’m wearing flip-flops. Not heels; not stilettos that make one’s ankles wobble or one’s knees bow. I’m wearing the simplest of simple flip-flops, and I’ve tripped AGAIN. This time I’m in the atrium of Gaylord, which means at least 17 undergrads, 9 grad students and 4 professors have witnessed my graceless entrance. So I force a laugh (which sounds just as forced as it is) and proceed to the stairs. OF COURSE the library where I work is upstairs.
Unfortunate Incident # 5: I make it up 2 steps and see my dear friend Chris descending the stairs towards me. I smile at him, begin babbling about how sh*tty my day’s been thus far, and you guessed it…I EFFING TRIP AGAIN. I’m indeed lucky to have Chris there to catch me, as otherwise my shinbones would be irrevocably scarred from the fall. But the only thing more embarrassing than falling in front of strangers is falling in front of friends. So I mumble something about my shoe being broken or SOME nonsense, and being the gentleman that he is Chris goes to examine it. Damn thing isn’t broken (which I of course knew to begin with). I’m just a douchetard.
(It’s worth mentioning that Chris himself tripped on the exact same stair a mere hour after I did. That made me feel better…until Unfortunate Incident # 7).
Unfortunate Incident # 6: I stumble into the library, and my boss greets me with an icy “WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN” look. Deserved, I know, but it only adds to my desire to crawl into a ball on the floor and hum “Yesterday” to myself. So I grab a laptop, sign into my OU email account, and find I’ve received an ominous email entitled “Puerto Rico: An Update.”
Side Note: I have been unabashedly excited about my upcoming study-abroad trip to Puerto Rico. I never got to do an abroad program at my lame-ass undergrad school (my life is dreadfully unfair; I know), and one of my top goals for grad school was to do one through OU. So when I found this program, which would grant me 6 hours credit in Travel Writing during a two-week stint in Puerto Rico, I was ECSTATIC. Freaking blissful, I tell you.
And the email reads: We have had several people contact us regarding this trip and although the ones who have shown interest are ready to hop on the plane and start learning and writing, we haven't had enough people sign up to make the trip economically feasible. And, sadly, taking a smaller group would be cost-prohibitive for everyone. We are disappointed, as I'm sure you are.
It goes on to say that I shouldn’t fret, as they’ve already started planning another trip. For next May. WHEN I’LL HAVE GRADUATED. I sit there, staring at the computer, in absolute and complete disbelief. If I was a public-crier, I would’ve cried. Instead I did something worse; I opted to go talk with someone (anyone) about it in the Dean’s office. Which is upstairs.
Unfortunate Incident # 7: At this point I’m literally dragging my feet as I make the slow and agonizing trip towards the third-floor staircase. I run into Man Candy (one of two fellow JMC students Hot Librarian #2 and I giggle about when we’re bored at work), but all I can muster is a “hhmmello.” I begin climbing the steps, grasping tightly to the banister (as I’ve learned my lesson from falls number 1, 2 and 3). I make it juuuuust almost to the top of the stairs, let go of the banister…
AND. I. TRIP.
This time I stop. I do not laugh, hop up to regain composure, curse at my shoes, or cry (which is becoming a more realistic threat with every passing moment). This time I simply lay my forehead on the banister and breathe. Several people pass me; they look concerned, but I do not care. I’ve lost the ability to walk, my trip to Paradise Island has been canceled, and I have to give a 90 minute presentation in a matter of hours. TO HELL WITH YOU AND YOUR SEMI-CONCERNED GAWKING.
The rest of the day went without notable incident; when I finally regained the will to live and walk I proceeded to the Dean’s office and glared at his assistant Tyler for at least 9 minutes. Poor Tyler has nothing to do with the trip or its subsequent cancellation, but he was the nearest human person when I entered the room and by that point I was nigh out my mind. So I sat at his desk, told him how mad I was and how I’d tripped four times and how April 1st is the Day of Satan and his followers, and then descended (without misstep, miraculously) back to my library to endure the rest of the day.
From 6:30-8:00 (or 8:30 or 9:00 or Eternity - I lose track of time in that class), my dear partner and I spoke on globalization and its effect on gender equality. I was a little apprehensive, but mainly I was numb…the day had quite literally kicked my ass, and I was then on autopilot until I could crawl into bed and pretend none of it ever happened. At one point I snapped at my friend Alex for laughing at one of our videos; I thought I was being funny and sarcastic, but later he apologized so profusely that I realized he thought I absolutely hated him and his gender as a whole. Epic Fail on my part. After the presentation was over everyone clapped and began gathering their things to head home, and I walked up to my fellow Hot Librarian and said quite simply
“hug me.”
In front of the entire class and my professor (who was still obviously mentally deciphering my presentation grade) I asked Aubrey to hug me. And to her credit, she did…she gave me a nice big hug, and she made me laugh by referencing our v-neck shirts and how they were forcing men to stare at our tatas (it was part of the related presentation-debate…you had to be there, but be thankful you were not). But after our impromptu hugfest I realized something disconcerting: I’ve not been that emotionally drained in a very long time. When I’m at my veryveryvery wit’s end I ask random people for hugs, so that just confirmed that April 1st had waged total war on me…and quite obviously and unfortunately, it had won.
BUT. I survived. It is now a new week, I have a new Happy Flower Bracelet I bought at the Medieval Fair, I LIVED THROUGH MY PRESENTATION, and Man Candy should waltz in here any minute now to try and borrow a laptop from me (he won’t be able to do so as they’ve all been checked out for a class, but I’ve conveniently neglected to tell him that. I never said women aren’t manipulative). So I guess I should feel somewhat achieved, if for no other reason than for not letting my day of dysfunction, disappointment, and dreaded public speaking get the best of me. April 1st may have kicked my ass, but I kicked April 2nd’s ass by living to see it…and while I’m at it, I think I’ll go ahead and kick the rest of April’s ass as well.
For what’s the point of living through it if you can’t laugh at it later?
Much love.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The Ultimate Douchetard
Good God, I’m the dumbest person alive.
So Edward and I walk into my house yesterday, and we’re doing that thing where you talk idly about the weather just for the sake of making noise.
“It’s so nice out...I’m so glad it warmed up.”
“I know; I can’t wait for summer.” (We say this to each other at least once daily; if we were to have a motto, this would be it.)
Then we’re inside, and Edward says
“You should open up some windows!”
To which I reply that I was just about to do that very thing…because I was, and GOD HELP ME if he thinks he thought of it first. So I go to the front living room window and I slide it open with great skill and caution (the house is 89 years old and could quite possibly collapse upon me if I cause too much disturbance). And then I stand back, look at Edward, and make the “ahh, such a beautiful, breezy day” face at him.
He smiles and looks outside, and then his face scrunches up and he bends down to examine the window. A look of understanding quickly flashes in his eyes, and he turns slowly to look back at me.
Then he reaches out and taps the glass…of the storm window. Which is still closed.
“Did you know you have storm windows?”
Silence.
He turns and opens said storm window, letting in the breezes I was only just imagining before.
“This is a storm window, Frankie. There are two panes of glass here.”
More silence.
I look at him, sheepish and wide-eyed. The wheels are turning in my head, and I make a little “Op!!” noise as I realize what I’ve done.
“There are two panes of glass here”…so I have to open two windows. Not just one.
“Frankie. Did you know about the storm windows?”
I glance back at Edward, who clearly hopes I did know about them but also obviously recognizes I did not. I start to grin and admit that no, I didn’t realize there was ANOTHER window to be opened. I mean, WTF.
Then he looks at me in a tragically piteous manner, and says
“So…so let me get this straight. You’ve lived here a year, and every time you’ve opened this window…”
He lets the sentence die, because it’s all too pathetic to be voiced out loud.
I’ve lived here FOR A YEAR, and I always open that particular window when it’s nice out. And not once has the damn thing actually been open. Not. Once.
Good GOD.
Edward laughs at me, and I join in to show how unphased I am by my retardedness. I mean, the guy now knows I’m a dumbass; he needn’t know I’m humiliated too. Then after lots of incredulous head-shaking, he asks
“Haven’t you ever noticed that you weren’t getting a breeze?”
Long pause. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut in an attempt to make myself or the entire world disappear. And when that doesn’t happen, I sigh and admit (and this is true)
“I just always thought it was a reeeally still day.”
…I am the ultimate douchetard.
Much love.
So Edward and I walk into my house yesterday, and we’re doing that thing where you talk idly about the weather just for the sake of making noise.
“It’s so nice out...I’m so glad it warmed up.”
“I know; I can’t wait for summer.” (We say this to each other at least once daily; if we were to have a motto, this would be it.)
Then we’re inside, and Edward says
“You should open up some windows!”
To which I reply that I was just about to do that very thing…because I was, and GOD HELP ME if he thinks he thought of it first. So I go to the front living room window and I slide it open with great skill and caution (the house is 89 years old and could quite possibly collapse upon me if I cause too much disturbance). And then I stand back, look at Edward, and make the “ahh, such a beautiful, breezy day” face at him.
He smiles and looks outside, and then his face scrunches up and he bends down to examine the window. A look of understanding quickly flashes in his eyes, and he turns slowly to look back at me.
Then he reaches out and taps the glass…of the storm window. Which is still closed.
“Did you know you have storm windows?”
Silence.
He turns and opens said storm window, letting in the breezes I was only just imagining before.
“This is a storm window, Frankie. There are two panes of glass here.”
More silence.
I look at him, sheepish and wide-eyed. The wheels are turning in my head, and I make a little “Op!!” noise as I realize what I’ve done.
“There are two panes of glass here”…so I have to open two windows. Not just one.
“Frankie. Did you know about the storm windows?”
I glance back at Edward, who clearly hopes I did know about them but also obviously recognizes I did not. I start to grin and admit that no, I didn’t realize there was ANOTHER window to be opened. I mean, WTF.
Then he looks at me in a tragically piteous manner, and says
“So…so let me get this straight. You’ve lived here a year, and every time you’ve opened this window…”
He lets the sentence die, because it’s all too pathetic to be voiced out loud.
I’ve lived here FOR A YEAR, and I always open that particular window when it’s nice out. And not once has the damn thing actually been open. Not. Once.
Good GOD.
Edward laughs at me, and I join in to show how unphased I am by my retardedness. I mean, the guy now knows I’m a dumbass; he needn’t know I’m humiliated too. Then after lots of incredulous head-shaking, he asks
“Haven’t you ever noticed that you weren’t getting a breeze?”
Long pause. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut in an attempt to make myself or the entire world disappear. And when that doesn’t happen, I sigh and admit (and this is true)
“I just always thought it was a reeeally still day.”
…I am the ultimate douchetard.
Much love.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Don't mess with the Fashion Master
As we age, there comes a time when it is necessary to pass the torch of Things We Once Were to younger generations (I'm 25 now...I'm old...I can talk like this). Previous pageant queens relinquish their crowns to newer, shinier Plastics; former record holders surrender their titles to stronger, springier athletes. It's a short distance between Late-Breaking Story and Yesterday's News, and the older we get the harder it is to be a headline.
Fortunately for me and my naiveté, it wasn't until my Sooner Land arrival that I realized this truism would soon apply to me. Perhaps I've made mention of this before, but I was Best Dressed in high school. Hold your applause. I took my position quite seriously; throughout college I vigilantly maintained my unique albeit impractical personal style (and I ruffled more than a few feathers with said style, which is always a good indication that one's Look is working). Despite my less than desirable fashion-locale (Shawnee, America = shopping-barren-wasteland) I kept up on the trends, and I graduated still feeling like a fashionista, regardless of my age.
That all changed when I came to OU.
Beyond the fact that I'm a haggard grad student now and thus am too jaded and exhausted to care, I simply cannot keep up with the apparel of my Debutant Sorority Princess counterparts. These girls must shop 23 hours a day (the other hour being reserved for parties at the Fiji house)...and they most certainly have more cash to burn than I, what with their Daddy-provided expendable incomes. Ahh, to be the offspring of a Texas oil baron. Louis Vuittons, Dior sunglasses, and UGGs (ugggggh) are a dime-a-dozen here; if you don't have these basic accessories, you do not register on the Fashion Radar. And I, a former fashionista and Best Dressed title winner, have none of the above.
Therefore, when I waltz into my undergraduate Journalism History class (a course I now have to take as it was not required for my BA, which further supports my suspicions that I went to a pretend school...but I digress) I drop my bags, silence my phone, and settle in for an hour and 45 minutes of Couture Research ala Undergrads. No, I do not pay attention in class; it's a 4000 level course, so it is my right as a Master's student to feel I am above listening to the lectures. Trust me, it's science.
Typically I marvel at the ever-evolving styles to be observed; I saw a girl in a magenta sequined-beret last week, I kid you not. The clothes kids are wearing these days are retro, throwback, vintage, not a bit sensible...and utterly fantastic. Most afternoons I lust over designer pieces that I will never own, and I almost always leave feeling like I need a "come to Jesus" talk from the God of Fashion (Dolce or Gabbana; either one will do). But last Thursday, as the lecture began and I thus prepared to zone out, I noticed something startling. As I scanned the room, a new trend was evident to me amid the sea of heavily peroxided heads of hair. And as this new style seeped into my fashion conscience, I became quite deeply disturbed.
Baby bows.
I saw baby bows.
Pinned to the perfect quafts and intentionally messy ponytails...were baby bows.
For anyone currently confused by this terminology, think of it literally; baby bows are exactly that - bows for babies. They're tiny, cheapy, cheesy bows that people glue to bald baby-heads presumably to alert the world that "hey, this slobbering bundle of rolls is a girl, and God help you if you call her a 'he.'" (New moms are weirdly protective of their children's gender integrity.) These bows are dumb and unnecessary for babies, as they don't make newborns look any less like pinkish old men, but for sorority sisters...they're creepy.
And I mean creepy.
What kind of message are you trying to send with an infant child's bow stuck to your head? Hmmm? What twisted daddy-complex does that address? I also noticed that some girls had branched out beyond the baby version, and were wearing those suuuuper tacky cloth headbands that have giants bows on one side. I wore one of those once...when I was 5. It was a fashion faux pas then, and now - if I were to wear one now, well it would be an atrocity for which I would invite you to lock me up at Griffin Memorial and throw away the key. Hold me to that, please; I'd rather be trapped in a padded room as a crazy patient than walking the streets as a fashion victim.
But back to the issue at hand; I was incredibly demoralized by this clear disregard for actual style. If Gianni Versace saw what I saw - Gucci bag and True Religion jeans, topped off with a pink satin hairbow from Gymboree - he'd roll over in his grave, twice. I swear to it. There is no excuse for this trend. I bought into the return of fluorescents and I'm almost on the plaid-shirt-dress bandwagon, but baby bows are an outrage...and I will not stand for it.
Therefore, as I teeter on the cusp of handing the Style Baton to these young sprites, I've decided to hold my Best Dressed Fashionista title for awhile longer. It is a vital role, being a trendsetter, and I just don't think these kids are ready. So in the spirit of being an inspiration to others, I've once again begun perusing the pages of Vogue magazine, and I've made return voyages to my old shopping stomping-grounds. This weekend I bought a dress I daresay I do not need; the rebirth has already begun. And until I see a complete extinction of the horrific baby bow trend, I will dutifully adorn myself in skinny jeans and Free People hippie shirts (and I'll carry my fake Louis Vuitton...but if you tell anyone it's fake I will cut you). I have to do what's best for society. I have to be me. And I am Best Dressed 2002, bitches.
Now leave your baby bows at the DOOR.
Much love.
Fortunately for me and my naiveté, it wasn't until my Sooner Land arrival that I realized this truism would soon apply to me. Perhaps I've made mention of this before, but I was Best Dressed in high school. Hold your applause. I took my position quite seriously; throughout college I vigilantly maintained my unique albeit impractical personal style (and I ruffled more than a few feathers with said style, which is always a good indication that one's Look is working). Despite my less than desirable fashion-locale (Shawnee, America = shopping-barren-wasteland) I kept up on the trends, and I graduated still feeling like a fashionista, regardless of my age.
That all changed when I came to OU.
Beyond the fact that I'm a haggard grad student now and thus am too jaded and exhausted to care, I simply cannot keep up with the apparel of my Debutant Sorority Princess counterparts. These girls must shop 23 hours a day (the other hour being reserved for parties at the Fiji house)...and they most certainly have more cash to burn than I, what with their Daddy-provided expendable incomes. Ahh, to be the offspring of a Texas oil baron. Louis Vuittons, Dior sunglasses, and UGGs (ugggggh) are a dime-a-dozen here; if you don't have these basic accessories, you do not register on the Fashion Radar. And I, a former fashionista and Best Dressed title winner, have none of the above.
Therefore, when I waltz into my undergraduate Journalism History class (a course I now have to take as it was not required for my BA, which further supports my suspicions that I went to a pretend school...but I digress) I drop my bags, silence my phone, and settle in for an hour and 45 minutes of Couture Research ala Undergrads. No, I do not pay attention in class; it's a 4000 level course, so it is my right as a Master's student to feel I am above listening to the lectures. Trust me, it's science.
Typically I marvel at the ever-evolving styles to be observed; I saw a girl in a magenta sequined-beret last week, I kid you not. The clothes kids are wearing these days are retro, throwback, vintage, not a bit sensible...and utterly fantastic. Most afternoons I lust over designer pieces that I will never own, and I almost always leave feeling like I need a "come to Jesus" talk from the God of Fashion (Dolce or Gabbana; either one will do). But last Thursday, as the lecture began and I thus prepared to zone out, I noticed something startling. As I scanned the room, a new trend was evident to me amid the sea of heavily peroxided heads of hair. And as this new style seeped into my fashion conscience, I became quite deeply disturbed.
Baby bows.
I saw baby bows.
Pinned to the perfect quafts and intentionally messy ponytails...were baby bows.
For anyone currently confused by this terminology, think of it literally; baby bows are exactly that - bows for babies. They're tiny, cheapy, cheesy bows that people glue to bald baby-heads presumably to alert the world that "hey, this slobbering bundle of rolls is a girl, and God help you if you call her a 'he.'" (New moms are weirdly protective of their children's gender integrity.) These bows are dumb and unnecessary for babies, as they don't make newborns look any less like pinkish old men, but for sorority sisters...they're creepy.
And I mean creepy.
What kind of message are you trying to send with an infant child's bow stuck to your head? Hmmm? What twisted daddy-complex does that address? I also noticed that some girls had branched out beyond the baby version, and were wearing those suuuuper tacky cloth headbands that have giants bows on one side. I wore one of those once...when I was 5. It was a fashion faux pas then, and now - if I were to wear one now, well it would be an atrocity for which I would invite you to lock me up at Griffin Memorial and throw away the key. Hold me to that, please; I'd rather be trapped in a padded room as a crazy patient than walking the streets as a fashion victim.
But back to the issue at hand; I was incredibly demoralized by this clear disregard for actual style. If Gianni Versace saw what I saw - Gucci bag and True Religion jeans, topped off with a pink satin hairbow from Gymboree - he'd roll over in his grave, twice. I swear to it. There is no excuse for this trend. I bought into the return of fluorescents and I'm almost on the plaid-shirt-dress bandwagon, but baby bows are an outrage...and I will not stand for it.
Therefore, as I teeter on the cusp of handing the Style Baton to these young sprites, I've decided to hold my Best Dressed Fashionista title for awhile longer. It is a vital role, being a trendsetter, and I just don't think these kids are ready. So in the spirit of being an inspiration to others, I've once again begun perusing the pages of Vogue magazine, and I've made return voyages to my old shopping stomping-grounds. This weekend I bought a dress I daresay I do not need; the rebirth has already begun. And until I see a complete extinction of the horrific baby bow trend, I will dutifully adorn myself in skinny jeans and Free People hippie shirts (and I'll carry my fake Louis Vuitton...but if you tell anyone it's fake I will cut you). I have to do what's best for society. I have to be me. And I am Best Dressed 2002, bitches.
Now leave your baby bows at the DOOR.
Much love.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
We pay no attention to the Man behind the curtain
Well kids, Tornado Season is upon us. Every year it seems to come earlier and earlier - when I was little I associated it with Spring Break and Sister's biffday (which is in April), and now I've come to register it with Valentine's Day and my biffday (which was 3 days ago...spitspit). I tell you, God's messing with us. I think he's sick and tired of the cockiness and the "I dare a tornado to suck me up" attitude most Oklahomans have adopted. He is a god to be feared and respected, and if massive tornado-storms with hail and sideways rain every spring won't do it, he'll keep us in a state of constant wariness by dropping his Twisters of Torment whene'er he pleases. It's a good plan in theory; people generally dislike unforeseen disasters, and having rainwrapped cyclones pop out of the clouds mid-February certainly qualifies as an unexpected act of Godly fury. However, this is Oklahoma. You drop a tornado on us unawares and (assuming we survive) we'll stand on our porches, watch that sucker evaporate back into the sky, and shake our fists at it in the most obnoxious "you can't get me that easy, Jesus" fashion we can muster. God underestimates our stubbornness.
Yesterday marked the first day in 2009 of widespread OMIGAWD THE SKY IS FALLING weather reporting on Oklahoma's fantastically sensational local news stations. The only reason I know this is because I accidentally unplugged my DVD player (by tripping over it, which hurt), and my personal marathon of Arrested Development episodes was rudely interrupted by a weatherguy exclaiming "THE TORNADO'S GONNA HIT QUAIL SPRINGS MALL." At first I was merely perturbed, as I A) didn't believe him and B) couldn't figure out how to get my DVD to start up again. But then a snippet of a phone conversation came trickling back into my brain....my mother had called earlier, and was blustering about getting ready for something....what was it?? And then I remembered; she was going to the movies. At AMC. In Quail Springs Mall.
You might assume that this prompted a Freak Out on my part; frantic texting and dialing and skyping Sister in Virginia to tell her our mother was woefully following in the footsteps of her favorite movie character, Dorothy Gale. But on the contrary. I called my father to say "uhh, so about Mom...." and once he assured me that all weathermen lie I pushed my concerns aside and cozied back into my couch for more TV marathoning.
(Well that's not entirely true. I did call Sister and leave a message detailing the aforementioned Wizard of Oz scenario - but that was merely to pay her back for ignoring my phone call, and thus she deserved it. You kids are aware that people can tell when you've clicked "ignore" on an incoming call, yes? Okay, then...stop doing it.)
And so a few hours later, after peeking out the window every now and again to assure my house was still firmly attached to the ground, I talked to Mother once more on the phone. Yes, there had been tornados all around her and yes, the entire mall was shut down due to the impending doom, but she got to see the conclusion of Slumdog Millionaire so she was in a chipper mood. No harm, no foul.
Point is, Oklahomans cannot be swayed in their defiant disrespect for Mother Nature. We've heard the "you're going to die if you don't climb in the bathtub with a mattress over your head" song and dance too many times, only to resurface 30 minutes later with mussed hair and a sneaking suspicion that somewhere, Gary England is laughing at us. Those weatherpeople get off making us act like douchetards, I swear it.
So, now that I live in a stamp-of-a-house that doesn't seem all too securely fastened to Earth, I am embracing my midwestern instincts to Fear Not the Weather (even when it's logically the smart thing to do). I don't have a central room, and I certainly don't have a cellar (and even if I did, I bet you it'd be 20 times worse than The Spider Room...and I'd rather try my hand at involuntary windsurfing than submerge myself into such a Pit of Despair). No, this Tornado Season it's just me, my 89-year-old bungalow and my innate Oklahoma ignorance against the wrath of God. I really don't think it'll be that bad. If my teenage self was able to survive my mother's fury after slamming one too many doors in her face (she single-handedly removed my bedroom door from its hinges in a fit of rage and stole it away to A Place Unknown)....well then, I can survive most anything. I hope you kids are ready too; just put on your best "I ain't scurred" face and keep one eye on the sky. And if you hear the chaotic howl of a westerly wind or the ominous call of tornado sirens, remember; that's your cue to walk outside and look up. Afterall, you're not in Kansas anymore, my friends...
You're in Oklahoma now.
Much love.
Yesterday marked the first day in 2009 of widespread OMIGAWD THE SKY IS FALLING weather reporting on Oklahoma's fantastically sensational local news stations. The only reason I know this is because I accidentally unplugged my DVD player (by tripping over it, which hurt), and my personal marathon of Arrested Development episodes was rudely interrupted by a weatherguy exclaiming "THE TORNADO'S GONNA HIT QUAIL SPRINGS MALL." At first I was merely perturbed, as I A) didn't believe him and B) couldn't figure out how to get my DVD to start up again. But then a snippet of a phone conversation came trickling back into my brain....my mother had called earlier, and was blustering about getting ready for something....what was it?? And then I remembered; she was going to the movies. At AMC. In Quail Springs Mall.
You might assume that this prompted a Freak Out on my part; frantic texting and dialing and skyping Sister in Virginia to tell her our mother was woefully following in the footsteps of her favorite movie character, Dorothy Gale. But on the contrary. I called my father to say "uhh, so about Mom...." and once he assured me that all weathermen lie I pushed my concerns aside and cozied back into my couch for more TV marathoning.
(Well that's not entirely true. I did call Sister and leave a message detailing the aforementioned Wizard of Oz scenario - but that was merely to pay her back for ignoring my phone call, and thus she deserved it. You kids are aware that people can tell when you've clicked "ignore" on an incoming call, yes? Okay, then...stop doing it.)
And so a few hours later, after peeking out the window every now and again to assure my house was still firmly attached to the ground, I talked to Mother once more on the phone. Yes, there had been tornados all around her and yes, the entire mall was shut down due to the impending doom, but she got to see the conclusion of Slumdog Millionaire so she was in a chipper mood. No harm, no foul.
Point is, Oklahomans cannot be swayed in their defiant disrespect for Mother Nature. We've heard the "you're going to die if you don't climb in the bathtub with a mattress over your head" song and dance too many times, only to resurface 30 minutes later with mussed hair and a sneaking suspicion that somewhere, Gary England is laughing at us. Those weatherpeople get off making us act like douchetards, I swear it.
So, now that I live in a stamp-of-a-house that doesn't seem all too securely fastened to Earth, I am embracing my midwestern instincts to Fear Not the Weather (even when it's logically the smart thing to do). I don't have a central room, and I certainly don't have a cellar (and even if I did, I bet you it'd be 20 times worse than The Spider Room...and I'd rather try my hand at involuntary windsurfing than submerge myself into such a Pit of Despair). No, this Tornado Season it's just me, my 89-year-old bungalow and my innate Oklahoma ignorance against the wrath of God. I really don't think it'll be that bad. If my teenage self was able to survive my mother's fury after slamming one too many doors in her face (she single-handedly removed my bedroom door from its hinges in a fit of rage and stole it away to A Place Unknown)....well then, I can survive most anything. I hope you kids are ready too; just put on your best "I ain't scurred" face and keep one eye on the sky. And if you hear the chaotic howl of a westerly wind or the ominous call of tornado sirens, remember; that's your cue to walk outside and look up. Afterall, you're not in Kansas anymore, my friends...
You're in Oklahoma now.
Much love.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Does Playboy qualify as an academic journal?
Grad school is a ruse, you know that? It's all smoke and mirrors. The next time you get an email from I'm-Kind-of-a-Big-Deal Joe Blow, MA, put two marks for "douchetard" next to his name in your mental catalog and move his message to the junk inbox.
Because MA doesn't mean "I'm smarter than you" or "I'm uber qualified for my job" or even "I worked semi-hard so I could put two letters at the end of my signature." MA just means a person has an unusual amount of tolerance and time for BS.
That's not to say I won't boast and brag and be completely obnoxious when (when, not if) I get my Master's; I was brought up in a household where we announced any and all titles we received as a sign of our awesomeness and superiority over others. Best Dressed in high school? Yes I was, thank you...put it on the list of ways to answer the phone:
"Frankie Avenger, Best Dressed at EMHS...may I help you?"
It's simply the way I was raised. My father has loads of ridiculous letters after his name, and he insists on articulating them all anytime he calls me (or Sister; his unspoken but none-the-less clearly second-favored daughter). It's funny I guess, if you haven't been living it for 20 some odd years...but the most clever thing about it is that he both admits the lameness of the letters while also gaining respect by letting their presence be known. Because it doesn't really matter if they mean diddly-rat's-tail-squat; if you've got letters after your name, somebody somewhere is gonna be impressed. People are stupider than we generally give them credit for.
So yeah, one day I'll send you emails that say
Regards-
Frankie Avenger, MA
(I can't wait until I'm grown up enough to sign emails with "Regards.") But let it be known now that those letters will be earned through my personal mastery of utter prattle. I'm constantly bemused by the dumb junk I'm made to read; page after page of citations and et al.'s and quotations so spliced and deconstructed that they could only make sense in the mind of the author (and perhaps in the mind of a crackhead; I really can't be sure). Point being, it's nonsensical academic jargon that matters only in the stuffy world of research junkies and PhD's.
So do not fret, my Bachelor's-only friends. For though I am climbing up and beyond you on the educational food-chain, I'm doing so by learning that which will certainly never benefit me in the Real World. And there you are, holding down a good job in this age of economic and professional uncertainty...something I may never again have the chance to do if Obama fibbed and actually has no idea how to Heal This Nation. Hey, I voted him into office - I can talk smack where smack-talk be needed.
Ahh well. The hours not spent pretending to care are open for suggestion and interpretation; a freedom for which I sacrificed my first Big Girl Job without as much as a second thought. Therefore, I should now be thankful that this Friday I have the option to
A) read about human rights/equality in the globalizing climate of modern mass media culture
-or-
B) go to Christie's Toybox with a married friend to help her pick out Unmentionables (and sneak peeks at various elements of Filth hitherto-unknown by my piteously naive little mind).
Hmm, wonder what I'll decide to do? I do need to learn how media conglomerates are taking over the universe....but I'm far more interested in seeing an actual pair of edible undies and/or furry handcuffs. Sue me. Plus, I'm pretty sure the Greatness of Christie's has more real-life applicability than any of this research crap I'm supposed to be reading. I'll probably never be the CEO of a multi-billion dollar corporation on the verge of achieving media monopoly, but there is a chance I'll someday have a husband who will want things spicy in the bedroom (fingers crossed I get to dress up like Princess Leia). So, I must prepare for the future that lies before me...and that evidently means spending an afternoon at the local sex toy shop.
I may not be a very good grad student, but I'll make a fine lova one day.
Much love.
Monday, February 2, 2009
I suggest you keep your distance, sir.
Grouchy.
I am grouchy.
I am sick as a dog. After a full week of doing everything right (ie drinking fluids, sleeping 89 hours a day, and drenching myself in Zicam/Nyquil/Vitamin C), I've surrendered to that fiend known as the Common Cold. She is a backstabbing beast of an illness...and she has taken me down for the count. Thus: grouchy.
I was very tolerant and optimistic the first few days of misery (largely because they were snow days that I could spend snuggled in my duvet), but now I'm just pissed at the world: for being cold, for having germs, for not stopping time when I don't feel well enough to function. That might be the most frustrating thing about being sick; people all around still expect you to think/talk/act normal, when all you want to do is curl up in the fetal position and whimper and eat oreos. Just now I had a student ask if we (we=Hot Librarians) have an industrial-strength stapler. I looked at her, fighting the instinct to feel very put out that she was bothering me, and said, "no, we don't." I couldn't even muster the strength to say "no, we don't...I'm sorry." Because I'm not sorry; go get your own damn stapler and leave me to wallow in my grouchiness.
(Come to find out we do have an industrial-strength stapler. I'm not only grouchy; I'm also a bad librarian.)
To top it off I find it nigh impossible to be funny when sick. Instead of coming off as a kidder I keep coming off as...well, as a psycho-bitch. Things that I say in jest keep falling flat, and I'm pretty sure I've hurt at least 3 people's feelings today. This morning I told a guy I blamed him for my sickness, because he was the last ill person I saw before my body began to sabotage me. And instead of laughing and saying something obnoxious back (which was the reaction I sought), he leaped into a drawn-out explanation as to why it couldn't be his fault. I just sat there, weighing the pros and cons of explaining my joke (pros: not look like a psycho-bitch, cons: expend precious energy and be lame (because explaining one's jokes is lame)). I eventually mumbled something about "no of course, it couldn't be your fault," and resigned myself to be being purposefully droll for the remainder of my illness so as to avoid awkward moments like that one. I then coughed unattractively and left his office with just a scoche less will to live than when I entered it...if there's one thing I hate more than being sick, it's being serious. And now I have to be both.
So for today, and for tomorrow, and for the near future in general (or until I break down and go to the doctor), I suggest you keep your distance from me. I go right, you go left, I go to Target, you go to Wal-Mart (spitspit)...it's better this way. Oh, and avoid eye contact with me if you can, because I'm pretty sure I'm just glowering at everybody these days. If you cannot stand to tear yourself from my presence, you must agree to take everything I say or do with a grain of salt - I will not be held accountable for my behavior when sick. It's bad enough I've lost this week in the prime of my life; I refuse to lose my dignity as well. For without my dignity, I am nothing...now look the other way, because I've got to spray Afrin up my nose.
Much love (and phlegm).
I am grouchy.
I am sick as a dog. After a full week of doing everything right (ie drinking fluids, sleeping 89 hours a day, and drenching myself in Zicam/Nyquil/Vitamin C), I've surrendered to that fiend known as the Common Cold. She is a backstabbing beast of an illness...and she has taken me down for the count. Thus: grouchy.
I was very tolerant and optimistic the first few days of misery (largely because they were snow days that I could spend snuggled in my duvet), but now I'm just pissed at the world: for being cold, for having germs, for not stopping time when I don't feel well enough to function. That might be the most frustrating thing about being sick; people all around still expect you to think/talk/act normal, when all you want to do is curl up in the fetal position and whimper and eat oreos. Just now I had a student ask if we (we=Hot Librarians) have an industrial-strength stapler. I looked at her, fighting the instinct to feel very put out that she was bothering me, and said, "no, we don't." I couldn't even muster the strength to say "no, we don't...I'm sorry." Because I'm not sorry; go get your own damn stapler and leave me to wallow in my grouchiness.
(Come to find out we do have an industrial-strength stapler. I'm not only grouchy; I'm also a bad librarian.)
To top it off I find it nigh impossible to be funny when sick. Instead of coming off as a kidder I keep coming off as...well, as a psycho-bitch. Things that I say in jest keep falling flat, and I'm pretty sure I've hurt at least 3 people's feelings today. This morning I told a guy I blamed him for my sickness, because he was the last ill person I saw before my body began to sabotage me. And instead of laughing and saying something obnoxious back (which was the reaction I sought), he leaped into a drawn-out explanation as to why it couldn't be his fault. I just sat there, weighing the pros and cons of explaining my joke (pros: not look like a psycho-bitch, cons: expend precious energy and be lame (because explaining one's jokes is lame)). I eventually mumbled something about "no of course, it couldn't be your fault," and resigned myself to be being purposefully droll for the remainder of my illness so as to avoid awkward moments like that one. I then coughed unattractively and left his office with just a scoche less will to live than when I entered it...if there's one thing I hate more than being sick, it's being serious. And now I have to be both.
So for today, and for tomorrow, and for the near future in general (or until I break down and go to the doctor), I suggest you keep your distance from me. I go right, you go left, I go to Target, you go to Wal-Mart (spitspit)...it's better this way. Oh, and avoid eye contact with me if you can, because I'm pretty sure I'm just glowering at everybody these days. If you cannot stand to tear yourself from my presence, you must agree to take everything I say or do with a grain of salt - I will not be held accountable for my behavior when sick. It's bad enough I've lost this week in the prime of my life; I refuse to lose my dignity as well. For without my dignity, I am nothing...now look the other way, because I've got to spray Afrin up my nose.
Much love (and phlegm).
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