FOOD for Thought

Over the next couple of days, I expect to put on about ten pounds.

No I’m not entering myself into a hot dog eating contest (and although, I think I’d be pretty good at it, the thought of a bun dipped in water disgusts me more than eating 72 hot dogs). It’s Easter. I’m Italian.

Sure, those two last statements are “facts” but absolutely no excuse for gaining ten or five pounds in a single sitting. Yet they have been nailed into my head with a hammer whose force is supposedly love and caring, along with such statements including “That better not be all you are eating” and “You should really finish this; do you want it to go to waste?” Growing up, I jokingly called myself the family’s extra food disposal, but since my adorable chubby teenage years and my pleasantly plump college era (where I was on my own, no excuses), I decided for once in my life to make healthy choices, when applicable. I’m not as good as I can be, and I never will be as good as people who really try. I eat burgers and fried food and so many bagels (which, I laugh to myself every time, equal seven slices of bread), but I do all that “on occasion.”  Now that I live on my own, the Italian mantras previously discussed are silent, and I choose veggie burgers and chicken sausages and veggies from a can and most importantly, PORTION CONTROL. I wish I could some how find out how many calories I was eating at, let’s say, twelve years old, because it was probably equivalent to that of a high school wrestling star. Every meal was an unbutton-your-pants event, and at the time, I really did dig it. Why? Because I do love food, but it also felt nice to be encouraged to do something. I honestly don’t know which my family was more proud of, my consistently good grades, or the fact that I could polish off two full plates of raviolis, a couple of meatballs, a sausage, and a cup of assorted nuts, and be hungry again in the course of two hours.

I have no issues with any of this whatsoever. The past is the past and I should be thankful that there were loving people who cooked for me and made sure I was full (There are children starving in Africa, you know!). My problem is current, and it started when I decided to turn towards a healthy lifestyle.  I still go to my grandmother’s once a week and happily over indulge on whatever four course meal is prepared for three people, but when prompted to take leftovers one random Sunday I uttered “Oh, no thanks.”

My remark was met with silence and a death stare.

No thanks! Who is supposed to eat the rest of this? I obviously cooked for 72 people thinking that you would take 70 portions home! What are you even eating over there? You look too thin. What are you losing weight for anyway? Do you have an eating disorder? WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH ALL OF THESE CHICKEN CUTLETS?!?

There are no quotes on the above paragraph because the remarks listed are slight exaggerations, SLIGHT being the key word.

I stuck to my guns. Oddly, although my initial reaction was fear, I sort of met the opposition with a challenge. I am not doing anything wrong, pretty much every (female) person I’ve ever known has been a diet at one point. And this is not a diet. I am not eating salads or Kale or green smoothies, I am simply eating under 5,000 calories a day.  There are not many situations in which I am 100% confident I am being the normal participant, but I felt like I had this one. I refused to take home a refrigerator full of food so that my whole week could be a caloric wash.

As I look forward to the holiday, my actual FAVORITE holiday, I have a little scar on my pride. “And I don’t even know what to make for Easter since YOU (you heathen, that wants to control your calorie intake) won’t even take any of it home.” <– That’s a direct quote, minus the parenthesis. Even though I won’t take any of it home, Easter is a two meal extravaganza at our house, and I will pretty much be pressured into eating until I explode. So, I’m just not looking forward to it. I’m not looking forward to getting on the scale Monday morning and seeing the hard work of approximately two weeks go down the drain for one day. JESUS WOULDN’T HAVE WANTED IT THIS WAY. He was pretty skinny, and he fed a whole crowd with five loaves of bread. FIVE. Pretty sure he would think we were gluttons; fat, Italian gluttons.

As I approach adulthood (or, deny that I’m already in it), I find myself reminiscing of old arguments that I had with authority during childhood, and I am beginning to side more with my parental units. For one, technology, my kids will have none of it ever and YOU BET YOUR A$$ they will never have it at the dinner table. But, this food thing? I will never force my kids to eat (you know, outside of the toddler years) more than they want to just because I purposely cooked too much for no apparent reason. Me cooking in the future is still up for negation as a whole. Also, it is not the ITALIAN CULTURE to be fat! Hell, maybe one good aspect of the Jersey Shore was that all of those bitches were pretty fit.  Sure, non-whole wheat pasta isn’t the best food you can eat, but you don’t have to eat it every day three-times-a-day just because you are Italian.  Furthermore, I want my kids to grow up knowing that everything in moderation is OK. They will see me eat a yogurt and pretzels. They will see me eat a burger with cheese and mayonnaise as I discard those nasty, wilting lettuce leaves to the side. They will see me get dressed to go to a yoga class. They will see me devour half a bag of popcorn on the couch during a rainy movie marathon. And if they turn out to eat more than me or eat less than me, as long as they are healthy, I won’t give a F what they decide to look like. Nowadays, people consider their diets almost as sacred as their religion (or lack there of), and everyone has their own opinion. Whether you only eat organic or you are BBW and PROUD OF IT, I don’t friggin’ care. And no one should care really, again, as long as you are healthy.

Have a hearty and healthy Easter and here’s to eating how much of whatever you want 🙂

Drunk 4am Conversations

Me “Hey, you know what I was thinking about?”

Him “WHAT were you thinking about?! (sprinkled with fake excitement)”

Me “Well, you know how I have that skype interview tomorrow?”

Him “You mean today, but go on.”

Me “Yea, well, whenever it is.. You’re going to need to leave the apartment.”

Him “… you are kicking me out of my own apartment”

Me “Just for like a half hour. You can take the car, and I’ll give you 20 bucks. Why don’t you just go get some cold cuts?”

Him “I don’t neeeeeed any cold cuts. Why can’t I just watch TV in here (the bedroom)?”

Me “Because you will still be able to hear me, and you will make fun of all the things I say when it’s over.”

Him “…. I’m going to walk naked behind the camera.”

Me “Of course you are”

Him “I’m going to sit across the table from you, and give you thumbs up or thumbs down based on your answer”

Me “That would be horrible…”

Him “I’m going to dress entirely in one color, and stand behind you. And pretend to be a wall”

Me “.. that one didn’t even make sense”

Him “I’m going to cover the walls with spaghetti”

Me “… what?!”

Him “Like that commercial… with the kids and the dad and the mom is away. And there is spaghetti all over the wall BUT she doesn’t know because they skyped in the one clean square.”

Me “oh! I do know that commercial”

Me “You know what you should do? You should go get my car washed.”

Him “I could, but I won’t. I am going to sit under the table and poke you so that they think you have some sort of twitch”

Me “That could actually help… You’d think places would have a handicapped quota”

#endscene

Obligatory End of the Year Synopsis

Twenty nine is a really weird age.  I’ve perpetually joked around about being a “different person every time I roll out of bed,” but I don’t think there’s been a time in my life when that’s been MORE accurate than it is now. I’m pushed constantly (by society, peers, the media, family..) regarding who I’m supposed to be and where I am supposed to be at, that I feel like I’d be completely overwhelmed if I actually gave a shit.  Furthermore, how do people who actually give a shit even roll out of bed? I gave up “giving a shit” what other people thought about my life choices probably in college.  After being released into the wild, I was bombarded with freedom, frat boys and alcohol; more frat boys and alcohol than a 18 year old girl who had had an 11pm curfew the legit month before could handle.  And, as I began to make choices on how the hell to deal with this, some people in my life bailed, more than a few decided to stick around, and countless others decided to join the party.  One question I like to ask myself frequently is: if every decision you made (whether you found it wise or not in retrospect) led you to this exact point in your life, would you make all of the same decisions? I’ve lucky never answered No to this question, which I consider a success in itself.  Although the choices in life I have made may have hurt others, others that I cared about, and even myself at times, I just consider those a learning experience.  You can’t undo the past, so what is the sense in worrying about it?

I don’t want to sound like some self righteous, “I’ve got everything figured out,” pompous asshole, because I am far from having everything figured out.  I’ve just come to peace with the fact that I may never figure anything out. And with this peace, this stability, I’ve given myself room to make mistakes and learn from them. Yet with my own “sense of self” discovered, I’ve really developed an intense, passionate hatred towards people who tell other people how to live.  These people, I’ve noticed, have come out of the jungle since 27ish.  Trampling through all of the happy 25 through 30 year olds, these self proclaimed Einsteins are polluting not only the media with their blogs and articles, but they have taken over the souls of some friends and acquaintances and turned them into “not always very nice” people.  I just don’t understand how some people can judge someone so strongly on aspects that have nothing to do with “the judgers” actual life.  So, instead of a list of “Resolutions,” my goals and aspirations for 2015, I decided to make a list of things I do now that probably aren’t going to change anytime soon:

1) Sometimes I want to eat healthy, Sometimes I want to eat my weight in calories.

You’ll notice a trend here as I embark on this “list” (honestly, this whole idea pains me. There are enough lists on the internet, but what the hell); I really wanted to focus on the dichotomies I face daily.  There is so much pressure on us to be a certain weight and look a certain way, especially as a female.  I’ll admit, when I see someone I haven’t seen in a long time, my first thought is “Did they gain weight? Do I look better than they do?” which is NOT where my mind should go, but I’ve been infected with this “obsession” as much as anyone else.  Related to how we should look, we are told how we should eat, and I have STILL not gotten over that b*tch that told me not to eat a bagel past the age of 25.  There are fad diets, “the organics” (as I like to call them), and there are also the “not-so-pleasantly-plump” who become OUTRAGED at anyone who occasionally wants to eat a salad.  I love getting comments on what I eat, mostly because any comment regarding how someone eats is, point blank, none of your business.  Anyone who knows me KNOWS I eat a light lunch (a sandwich or a yogurt) and a huge dinner (especially if I’m going out… ALL of the burgers).  Is this the right way? No. Do I give a shit? No. The most hilarious part of it to me is when I pull out my lunch and the comments start to fly: “Is that alllllllllllllll that you’re having? That’s not even a lunch!” In turn, during an “impressive” dinner; “For a little girl, you can surely pack away a lot. Did you just get thirds? No, you can’t have the rest of my fries.” Who are these people to deny me fries?!?!!?! (That really hasn’t happened, but you get the point). If you have your own obsession/diet, you go girl (or boy) and I’m not going to stop you or comment on you, and I actually feel perfectly comfortable eating my 7 course meal while you munch on your salad (or vice versa if it’s my lunch time), but whenever someone makes a comment, it just shows me that they don’t have that confidence in themselves, which is where the real problem lies. So, I’ll be over here eating my carbs and my pesticides and you can just like, go over there and have a good time. Or we could eat together and talk about something else, ok?

2) Sometimes I want to stay sober, Sometimes I want to black the f*ck out.

The age of 29 had a completely different meaning in the 1950’s. I could currently have three kids and spend my day at home cooking, cleaning, and making sure I raise three perfect geniuses that say “yes, sir” and “yes, ma’am.”  Some people have this lifestyle now, which I completely respect.  If I was this fictitious person whom I’ve just described, and it was noon on a Tuesday, this would not be an appropriate time to get black out drunk.  While some may argue there isn’t any appropriate time to get black out drunk anymore “at my age”, I think that they are entitled to their opinion and I’m entitled to mine.  Until a human head emerges from my insides, I can still find those magical nights, maybe a couple of times a year, where I’d like to purposely over indulge in alcohol. And I can go home to my non-responsibility Saturday morning life and pass out in my underwear and maybe vomit a couple of times. Why can I do this? I can do this because of the following reasons: I work five days a week; I can afford to pay my rent, eat, and any other of life’s amenities; I am sober at least 90% of my life. Basically, I’m winning at life already, so why not take a night off once in a while.  In turn, sometimes people will invite me to go out to lunch, or to a family function, or to see their new baby (wink, wink), and they will turn to me and go “you want to get some beers?” Sometimes, the answer, quite frankly, is “oh, no thank you.” And then comes the “What are you pregnant? Rough night last night? How can we possibly survive the next hour without at least a one beer buzz?” Dude(s), I just said I didn’t want a beer. Does that make me an alien? How can you enjoy the drunk if you can’t appreciate the sober?

3) Sometimes I want to be “educated,” Sometimes I want to watch this Big Bang Theory episode for the 4th time this month

Growing up, I was always the “smart girl.” In all honestly, however, I really never had a passion to learn.  That’s what separates the smart kids from the “geniuses.” Smart kids would go home and do the homework quickly and easily and then go do something else more fun; “Geniuses” would relish in the homework, and in the school day itself, and then quickly turn to the internet and learn more on the subject because it was JUST SO FASCINATING. I don’t know what this means about me really, but I’m not really fascinated by much.  I feel so “out of touch” with current events, it’s all like a very boring movie where the words are thrown at me, and only half of the story is even told depending on what news station I’m watching.  Is there anything in the works to make the news more entertaining? For instance, this one day I was (probably hungover and) bored watching the History Channel, and holy f*ck it was Pearl Harbor day. I HATED history in High School; I did not give one shit about one chapter ever.  But, for some reason, this documentary on Pearl Harbor had me ENTHRALLED.  Maybe I would make more of an effort to stay up on politics and other hot topics if there was a more entertaining way to portray them to the media. Where am I going with this? I’m not too sure.  I would like to say that because I a) choose not to watch the news and b) watch ridiculously stupid TV shows instead does not make me any less intelligent, it just makes me less informed. And when I do become interested in something, I just do my own research.  Honestly, after working for 8 hours, going to the gym, taking care of the apartment, all the extra BS that comes with being an adult; my mind just wants to be turned off for a bit (and it’s a week day so I won’t black out 😉 ).  So, don’t give me that look when I don’t know every detail of the Ferguson trial or every claim made by ObamaCare, because I’m not judging you back for actually knowing that crap either.  If you’re nice enough, maybe you can teach me about it. I do like to learn, just not by the news.

4) Sometimes I want to look like a super-model, Sometimes I want to look like I just rolled out of bed

If you know me in real life, you’ve seen me in both of my above-referenced natural habitats.  A Saturday night out calls for super straight hair, loads of make-up (that actually makes me look like I have no make-up on.  The magic!), dresses, skirts, leather jacket, clothing goodness.  On a Saturday morning, you can find me in capri sweats (my favorite pair actually has a bleach stain on it), a wife-beater tank top, and a hoodie. And yes, I go out like this (the horror!).  I definitely feel judged by society when I exit my house in sweats, to the point where people think I’m in college.  B*tch, please. Look at where we are right now? We’re in the middle of Market Basket where people are acting like complete animals and hey, at least I look the part.  Next thing you know some bewildered person is going to knock over the Starbucks coffee you have all over your new white peacoat, and you are going to cry in despair and break a nail in rage.  But I’m not judging you, because I actually have a manicure right now, and it is nice.  People judge me first, and I just don’t get that.  Let’s all just dress how we want to dress and, essentially, we would all be comfortable with our own appearance. Right? Maybe? Probably not.

5) Sometimes I want to be everyone’s best friend, Sometimes people don’t deserve my respect

This is the last item on the list, and honestly the only one that is a struggle for me.  It’s very hard for me to be mean, malicious or nasty to anyone, but sometimes I see this nature come SO EASILY to people at the drop of a hat.  I just don’t understand how people can harbor that much anger as an adult.  I still have this odd necessity to be liked, and I think it is an overall good quality because it makes me a nice person. Just recently, however, I’ve gotten to the point where I don’t want to be liked by everyone.

If you were my friend once, and we stopped being friends, believe me, it affected me.  And, this may be a little TMI, but depending on the friendship, it may still affect me now.  I don’t really understand how people can text or maybe message or “pretend” keep in touch, but as soon as someone mentions hanging out in person, that “friend” drops off the face of the planet until maybe like 6 months when they are bored and want someone to text. I don’t even like to text so it’s like… why are you texting me? Don’t get me wrong, the internet is TOTALLY different.  I have who-the-hell-knows how many FB friends, and Lord knows I like you JUST THE WAY YOU ARE 🙂 on the internet! I think people know the type of people I’m referring too… The local “pen pals,” who you may have hung out with every day for 3 months while they were lonely or single, but then all of a sudden their life got to full for you. Ugh. These actually bother me more than a breakup because, as a well balanced person, it just doesn’t make sense.

It has taken a while of “self- convincing,” but I really think I am in the beginning stages of being able to identify who I don’t actually need to be friends with.  Why would you want to be friends with someone who constantly belittles people for doing any of the above things I’ve listed, or for just being a selfish person in general? In retrospect, most people who have left my life have probably made my life better upon their exit, and that’s refreshing.  Maybe I was just too nice for them to wrap their heads around.  Finally, at almost 30, I’m almost at peace with not everyone thinking I’m awesome, because I have enough people that know that I am.

So, that was that. Sorry this was serious but I think NYE calls for a time of reflection and “re-birth.” I also wanted to write this so that maybe some 29 year old who was feeling the same exact way can have someone to relate to. Who the hell knows.  Good luck with those resolutions and, if you don’t end up keeping any of them, that probably just means they weren’t that important to you anyway ❤

Dating in College Pt 2: More Like the Dating that Never Happened

It’s been over a week.  The last time we talked, I remember feeling so confident, so comfortable.  We were laughing, bonding, agreeing with our views on life’s minutiae.  I looked into your eyes at one point, and I could see your excitement looking back.  You gave me a sense of “We can go places together.”  I thought I knew you, and I could read your intentions.  If someone had told me that would be our last meeting, I would have, in the poetic words of P!nk, “punched them out, ’cause they were all wrong.” Now I’m stuck here feeling like an idiot because I was, in fact, the wrong one.

Although I like metaphors, before I completely lose my audience as they shout “OH GOD, SHE GOT DUMPED. THIS ISN’T FUNNY AND I DON’T CARE, LEMME GET BACK TO MY TUMBLR,” this is a complete over-exaggeration of how I am feeling after my last job interview where an institution 1) BEGGED me to come in for a third interview and 2) referred to me as “the ideal candidate” and THEN never called/emailed/texted/smoke signaled me back any sign that the company didn’t burn down in a 5 alarm fire as soon as I had exited the building. Not even the courtesy, computer-generated “Thank you for interviewing, we have filled the position” email.  DEAD. COLD. SILENCE.

I can imagine a lot of people have had these feelings before, most likely about people they have dated/are dating.  When people don’t have the common courtesy, from human to human, to EVEN text someone “I’ve enjoyed your company over the past X amount of time, but I just don’t think you’re right for me” it leaves people hurt, confused, and, quite frankly sad.  Especially when the person that seems to disappear into thin air had sent mixed signals, saying catch-phrases like “You’re great!”, “Boy, am I having fun tonight.”, and hell, even a little hanky-panky to seal the deal of “well, at least they liked me enough to TOUCH me.” And I’d like to relate to the rest of the population with this one, but this has honestly never happened to me, and I’ve actually committed this act of “rudeness” on more than one occasion. Yikes, I’m that asshole. Or was, let’s use the term was. I like to think as I’ve gotten older I’ve gained more and more appreciation for people’s feelings (any person, even people I do not know or particularly like). And college was a mess of a time period for me, as it is a little for everyone. Sometimes, it’s easier to just put your phone on silent a day or two and watch the texts roll in, asking how you are and if you’d like to get some food, knowing full well that, with time, they will stop, and that person will move on with their life just like you have.

Being “that asshole” has taught me a lot. Maybe I’m guarded, somewhat cold. But, if anything, I am very well aware when people are “trying too hard.” And when this job said they would contact me on Tuesday afternoon and I found myself staring at my phone on Thursday, wondering if I had possibly fell into a wormhole and missed Tuesday afternoon by some natural phenomenon, the last thing I wanted to do was act pathetic. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted the job, and I’m sure the scenario would have changed if I had felt this was the perfect job for me.  But in this situation, I decided I would not spend one more second conversing with this sociopathic company. So they received no phone call inquiring how they were doing or if they would like to get some food; no, fuck that. They would get no satisfaction out of my emails rolling in, while they mocked me on the other side promptly ignoring my desperate attempts and hitting delete.  I would not be “that guy (or girl)”, who tries to get explanation where there is none (haven’t we all watched “He’s just not that into you” by now?), who pleads for forgiveness or the chance to change.  One aspect of my personality that has developed from being “that asshole” is that I know who I am and I am quite happy with that. A job SHOULD be bending over backwards to try to please me, to try to hire me. And even after so many rejections in the past couple of years, I still have enough ego in tact to give all of them a big faaaaahhckkk youuu, because regardless of how I interview (which hey, could need some work? we all have flaws), I’m actually a really good worker and if a company would stop beating around the bush with the pomp and circumstance questions like “How do you deal with stress?”, maybe I could get somewhere in life.  How do I deal with stress? I blog, I drink, and I also enjoy exercising… but then I eat a lot of fried food and drink some more. Mind your own business and let me show you how I WORK. But alas, I’m showing some emotion, and that is a sign of weakness. I will refrain from any such nonsense from here on out.

Here I am. At my desk, where I’ve been for the last two years.  But I can honestly say, knowing what’s out there kind of makes coming to work every morning just a little bit easier.  One of the biggest fears we have as humanity is of the unknown, and that can be taken at any scale; from death, to walking into a dark room, to changing jobs and ending up with an evil boss instead of just a dumb one. I’ll get to that unknown eventually, and hopefully the change will be cheerful and welcomed.  Regardless, I’m confident I will not work here forever, and that’s what keeps me going most days.

Instead of feeling confused about why the job didn’t contact me, I can take away one important criticism out of all of this.  My boyfriend put it best when all of this was happening, and a couple of days later he said to me, with sincere concern on his face “Jesus, you must have sucked at that interview.” And there’s really no arguing that whatsoever.

Dating in College: the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

My current job search conundrums have been entirely too reminiscent of my dating situation in college.  Yes, I’m thankful that I have a job, but in three years I have nothing to show for it. I have not grown or experienced anything new, and I’m still trying to explain to my institution what, in fact, a Guidance Counselor should be doing.  Not to mention my boss is bat-shit crazy and can fly off the handle for absolutely nothing, and then be kissing my ass the next minute.  And while she thinks I am completely loyal, I’m out there every weekend trying to get attention from any position that will bite.  I’ll spend countless nights trying to attract another position, and while promising things have happened, I am continuously being ignored and rejected, making my current position seem like all I can get. While my fear of being alone is completely irrational, my fear of being without a job is COMPLETELY rational, because, ya know, you need money to survive.

Enter stage left this little job in the city.  I’ll admit, I made the first move, based only on financial rumors that they paid a lot (very reminiscent of my Gold-Digger days), but the institution was so “above” me, I really didn’t think anything would come of it.  We went on a “video date,” which is something I had never experienced before. It was awkward. I was awkward. They were enamored, and quickly asked for a second date.  Figuring this would be the date I would finally get a good look at their salary, I obliged, yet again.  We honestly had a lovely day date and I could tell they were completely into me. It felt good to be wanted. I really hadn’t been wanted in so long.  I was surprised, however, at the end of the day they didn’t simply just say “Well, I’ll call you later” and they immediately asked for a third interview.  A THIRD interview? Now, I will admit, there was some mutual chemistry.  They were just all SO smart, and after working with idiots for three years, I was attracted to their mind. And they loved mine, and it felt rewarding to be wanted for my brain again (which was a feeling I hadn’t experienced since Honors classes in HS). However, looking at the job on a sheet of paper, well, it was ugly. No, let’s say hideous. My commute would double, my hours would double, my workload would double.. and so would my salary, sure, but what about my quality of life?  Could I really wake up next to this ugly job every day?  I used to have the mentality “looks don’t matter,” but after finding someone I’m physically attracted to, I realized that I was an idiot.  Brains get old, abs are forever. Wait, what am I talking about? Jobs, right.  So I did the cowardly thing and waited til I got home and emailed them, declining a second interview.  I’m at this point in my life where I’m really trying to find THE ONE. The institution where I can ride my career into the retirement sunset and have them give me a nice plaque when I perish from the working world. I just didn’t want to string another job along that I wasn’t completely in love with.

While I kept my response short and sweet, I received a response back that I wasn’t expecting.  “WHY?” the pathetic school cried “I THOUGHT WE HAD A CONNECTION. I THOUGHT WE HAD SOMETHING. IS THERE ANYTHING I CAN DO TO HELP YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND?!?”

Geesh, that’s a little needy, don’t you think?  And while other people would be completely turned off, I felt guilty.  Here I was, with a job, a job in my FIELD, unlike so many other Americans. While it wasn’t perfect, I could tell I was really valued, and that made my heart ache. And here I was, playing with another institutions emotions.  What I thought was just a run-of-the-mill interview had obviously meant more to them then it did to me. Ugh, the anxiety.

After pondering the email, I responded with a classic “it’s not you, it’s me.”  I know this never really works, but it was my boyfriend’s idea, and I’m his only serious relationship to date (go figure).  It might have been a smart move, however, because it kept the door open for the future in case I have a change of heart and I’d like to reapply.  I simply stated that I couldn’t get the time off to go on another interview, and I didn’t want to take the risk of my other job finding out and firing me (<-fear of being alone).  I was rewarded with silence, which I was fine with.  The issue had ended…

Until two weeks later.  In the mean time, I had continued doing my thing.  Flirting with hot jobs on weekends, writing them love letters, giving them my phone number, telling them to call me. The silence was deafening.  Just as I had accepted defeat for the school year, I received an email from that ugly job, just checking in to see how I was doing.

“So, we had some candidates who completed the process but honestly, we can’t get you out of our heads.  You are exactly what we are looking for. Your knowledge and passion exceeds everyone else we interviewed, and we would like to have a conversation with you.  Can you meet up this Friday after work? Please? Just one more chance?”

Yikes, a stage 5 clinger.  Hadn’t we only had one real date? How do you even know I’M THE ONE? Again, for some people this would be a complete turn off. However, there’s one thing I love in this world, and that’s myself.  And when I find someone else that loves me too, well, we already have so much in common I can’t easily exclude them from my life.  They got me – ONE MORE DATE. And hopefully I can see their checkbook this time. Seriously, if boys paid me to date them, life would be so much easier.

Discussing the Latest Blockbusters

The following conversation exists completely and only through text:

Me “Hey, let’s see Tusk this weekend”

MK “I don’t even know what that is. Let me see”

** 47mins elapse **

MK “Well, it’s horror. And it’s written by Kevin Smith”

Me “I KNOW! It’s not really horror, it’s more psychological. Watch a trailer.”

MK “OK, hold on.”

** 2hrs, 34 mins elapse **

MK “Wait, did you actually watch this trailer?”

Me “Yes, of course”

MK “This guy is trying to turn this other guy into a walrus”

Me “I KNOW! I don’t think you’re saying it with enough excitement though. THIS GUY IS TRYING TO TURN THIS OTHER GUY INTO A WALRUS”

** 12hrs, 16mins elapse **

Me “!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

MK “It just seems like another Human Centipede thing”

Me “OMG. Why do you just keep typing all of the sentences that are in my head??!?!? But with so much less excitement…”

** A response was never received **

Please watch here and make your own judgement:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BCQJnOn0ru0

What My Resume Should Really Look Like

Occupation Location: Your Classic Urban High School 2012-2014

• Avid Candy Crusher
  • Reached Level 677 in the original game setting and Level 383 in Dream World
  • Mastered the art of minimizing the screen when people come in my office
  • Developed a glazed stare that portrays I am doing something really important
  • Rub chin back and forth ferociously to increase intensity in stare
  • Withhold excitement when beating an extremely challenging level
• Bosses Personal Assistant/Best Friend
  • Keep Boss informed of every time I get up, breathe, or blink. Take detailed notes.
  • Quickly respond to the phrase “When you have a minute?” Promptly open the window in my boss’ office.
  • Assist Boss when overcoming obstacles such as opening an email, printing an attachment, and navigating the internet
  • Text boss’ family members when she needs to talk to them
  • Listen as Boss goes into extensive details regarding gas and bowel movements. Smile and nod.
  • Express great concern when Boss states something is “very confidential,” as she continues to tell me something I’ve known for weeks.  If the information is new, I promptly tell someone else without care or concern.
• Social Butterfly
  • Gchat and FB chat friends, acquaintances, weirdos, and possible mass murderers. Have them tell me their deepest, darkest secrets without having to tell them anything at all. Giggle to myself.
  • Write a funny status. Get some likes and comments. Feel good about myself.
  • Text my boyfriend about celebrity deaths and other current events. Complain about the current state of our nation’s opinion on comedy. Commiserate about being surrounded by idiots that like Bojack Horseman.
  • Scroll the Facebook Newsfeed feverishly waiting for something big to happen. Stay completely up to date regarding other people’s business
  • Comment on someone’s status I barely know. Get likes from people I don’t know. Feel like a celebrity.
  • Make fun of everyone’s baby. Roll eyes at five minute baby video that was not funny or cute. Click another video and repeat. Feel disappointed in myself for thinking this one would be different.
  • Communicate with friends to make plans for the night/weekend/month/rest of the year. Record plans in my school calendar so I look busy.
• Leadership Roll in School
  • Hear a student say “N*gga” in the hallway. Ask him to repeat what he said. He says “Ninja.” Smile and walk away.
  • Steal people’s class time to do something fun with the students. Students love me and hate their teacher. Great success.
  • Bring students down to talk about serious academic matters. End up having a half hour conversation about the Walking Dead.
  • Spend at least one block a day with my notebook in the faculty room “working.” Gossip with teachers. Gain hours of entertainment and school popularity.
  • Apply to school districts where I might have a real job. Never hear back from any of them.

One Year, One Confession

It’s pretty much a year since I’ve been living with my boyfriend, and in celebration (!! party balloons !!) I wrote this poem. I don’t usually do poetry, and it DOESN’T rhyme (sorry D. Seuss fans) but I hope you enjoy it all the same.

 

I just wanted to let you know that sometimes,

For no real particular reason,

I use your razor to shave my armpits.

 

The razor just sits there on the bathroom sink,

Every morning,

Every night,

So that anyone could use it, really.

The robber, that you swear is going to come in when I leave the front door open only for a minute.

Your best friend, who crashed on the couch last night after puking in the kitchen sink.

Our families, who might actually visit if we didn’t live in a shit-hole.

It sits there among all of the hair that you just shaved off your face

That you have failed to remove from the bathroom sink.

Yet the razor remains pristine and immaculate,

Always much sharper than mine.

 

I never have to search for it

In one of your three laundry bins.

Excuse me,

Your laundry “system.”

A code Fibonacci couldn’t even crack.

It’s not under the pile of dirty dishes

That matriculated in the course of the last hour

When you used three frying pans and a griddle

Just to make a grilled cheese.

It’s not amongst the half-filled glasses of water

You leave spread about the apartment

Like that little girl from Signs.

I check the news daily for evidence of an Alien encounter.

There’s never any.

So I put the glasses in the sink with all of the frying pans

Knowing a new crop of glasses will appear tomorrow.

 

Maybe I use it because we share things,

What once was mine has become ours.

Like when you had a mini-ipod,

And it stopped charging.

Not to worry though! I had one, too.

Now you use it when you walk to work, go for a bike ride, and sit on the toilet.

This has now become “our” mini-ipod.

I haven’t used it since.

 

Or when you had a laptop,

And it stopped charging.

Not to worry though! I had one, too.

Now you use it to go on Facebook, read hockey articles, and watch porn trailers.

This has now become “our” laptop.

I haven’t used it since.

 

Or when you had a car,

And it stopped running.

Not to worry though! I had one, too.

I graciously offered to add you to the insurance

If you agreed to pay the difference.

“Oh, that’s ok,” you said.

So this is still “my” car

That I use to drive you to the dentist, to your mother’s house, and to your soccer games

Like an oversized child.

As I watch you chase around a ball

With thirteen other oversized children,

I smile,

Not out of pride,

Or amusement,

Or psychosis,

But because your face looks so smooth

And I’d like to think it smells

Just a little bit

Like my armpit ❤

Age is Just a Number that Summarizes your Personality to Society

“Do you want to go help with parking?!?!” exclaimed Ryan, a girl, who was way too excited to be awake and alive on a Saturday morning at 9am.  It was easy to say that I was less enthused that the magical universe had given me yet another day to live, but I mean, I’ll take what I can get.  I grabbed a walkie talkie and headed over to a group of people that were sitting in the shade, desperately seeking relief after such a hot morning.

I had (somewhat) volunteered my time to help out a worthwhile organization earn money for a crippling disease.  And while it was a good idea at the time I signed up, a Friday night filled with vodka led me to question my original choice.  But there was free bagels, LOTS of free bagels.  I chugged two bottles of water and a bottle of Gatorade and I came to the conclusion that I would, in fact, survive the day.

The group in the shade that was helping with “parking” seemed very well rounded, as if intricately picked among millions of applicants hoping to be featured on a new hit reality show.  I was the disgruntled person that seemed perpetually uninterested in everyone else.  There was a nice heterosexual couple who had brought their dog.  Maisy the pooch was the only animal I interacted with for at least a good ten minutes before the Gatorade started to kick in.  There was the newly married, half marathon runner, who was also a nurse.  There was this older fellow who kept telling us war stories and talking about his long laundry list of diseases.  And then, there was Jen.

Jen looked 12.  But as I knew from working at a school, 16 year olds do look 12. It’s like I’m never getting any older looking, all of the young people are just getting younger looking. It’s a phenomenon really.  She was wearing capri yoga pants and the same purple Tshirt that we were all wearing, labeled with our prestigious VOLUNTEER title for the day. She seemed simple, youthful, yet mature.  After a short exchange, we bonded right away.

This has happened to me more often than not.  I remember attending an event for my school where my boss received an award.  I sat down with the administration team at a round table, and I wanted to jump out a window.  What the hell do I say to these people?  The girl who was closest to me in age, a 32 year old English teacher, was just someone I could not possibly relate to.  She spent more money on her work outfits than I have in rent.  I was sitting in my Kohl’s originals that were at least three years old, and she was wearing a flippin’ beret. A BERET. I haven’t wore anything on my head since my grandmother would dress me for a snowstorm. Everyone else was 50 plus, talking about their grandchildren and their adult children and their lives, and I was just shoving the complimentary crackers in my face, debating if I should go get a beer. Nobody had a drink at the table, so crackers it was. When the ceremony was over, there was a dreaded reception, where I had to meet people I didn’t know and talk to people I didn’t care about. I panicked, and ran over to the student volunteers. “Hey! How are you guys?” I was instantly greeted with smiles, jokes about the food and the speeches, side comments about the English teachers beret, and fun filled conversations about our plans for after this. The conversation was so light and easy. It was a breath of fresh air in the stuffy, crowded auditorium.

What’s wrong with me?, I thought, when Jen and I both discovered that our favorite animal was a turtle. She was telling me about this magical pet store (that of course, her mother had driven her to) that specialized in reptiles and had huge snakes. I don’t even remember how we got into this conversation, but we were talking about reptiles and REPTILES ARE THE COOLEST. I thought back to the day in the auditorium where I had found conversational solace in a group of 16 year olds that were just as bored and conflicted as I was. Why do I get along so well with teens? And my real concern, does this make me a creep?

I, of course, have plenty of friends my age. I do not spend my weekend nights going to the mall with 15 and 16 year old girls, talking about Justin Bieber and trying on dresses at Forever 21. I go out and do adult activities and have a normal adult life. But when it comes to random conversations with random strangers, I feel more comfortable usually talking to the youngest person in the bunch. Not only that, but I hear about ways people my age “should be acting” or things we “should be doing” and I grimace. I read this horrible buzzfeed article once, with a stupid title like “25 Things you Should Stop Doing Once You’re 25,” and I wanted to jump off a cliff. Sure, I related to some of them. “Stop Being a Flake” was a great one. If I ask you to do something, there are only two answers: “Yes” or “No.”  WTF does “Maybe” mean? When you say “maybe” to me, I picture you waiting around until someone cooler (or, most likely, somebody you want to have sex with) texts you with something better to do. Grow the fuck up, and stop being pathetic. But then, I got about half way down the list and the article told me, and I quote “Stop Eating Bagels.” Um, excuse me? Those words in that order, is that even English? As I read the poorly constructed mini-paragraph below this clearly foreign statement, the writer referred to bagels as “like, at least 7 slices of bread that go right to your a$$.” As I pictured the anorexic women that clearly wrote this article, probably while doing a half hour wall sit, I wanted to, well, I wanted to eat a bagel, and give her one too. With NON nonfat cream cheese. She would instantly combust.

There was one point that really got me thinking though, and that was “Start Watching the News.” Yuck. I realize that this makes me a bad citizen, a bad American, and, according to this article, a bad person over the age of 25, but I just don’t care. My world is small and simple, and when I go to the gym at noon on a weekday and the only seven stations that the elliptical features are filled with news news news and MTV’s Ridiculousness, Rob Dyrdek wins EVERY TIME. And, I’m sure, if there is another 9-11, the kind people of MTV will break into my regularly scheduled programming and tell me to hide in a bunker.

Jen and I could hear the older man drone on to the poor nurse about Agent Orange, and as I was wondering if he was referring to getting a spray tan, Jen mumbled, “Man, I hate history.” “I do, too” I replied. “That and the news. It’s like right now history, and the only right now history I care about is what I’m doing RIGHT NOW.” Jen agreed.

I don’t know if all of this makes me a bad person, a bad adult, or “selfish,” but I’ve come to the conclusion that I really don’t care. I care about my friends, my family, my students. I care about the homeless women that lives in the alcove of my school. Seeing her every morning pulls my heart strings. I care about the people on the reality show Big Brother, and I enjoy seeing them every week. I DO NOT care about Obama, or Joe Biden, or the multitudes of people that control this country. They are so estranged from my life, I really don’t know how on Earth they can effect my daily decisions, so why should I give up an hour of my life a day to learn about them? I just won’t. And I’ll sit under this pine tree with a 16 year old as we roll our eyes as the Army vet drones on about his psoriasis.

At the end of the day, and after a multitude of bagels, Jen and I went our separate ways. There was this awkward moment where I felt like it might have been appropriate to say something like “Well, what’s your last name? I can find you on Facebook.” Maybe she would enjoy reading my blog.

“Well, hey,” Jen’s voice snapped me from my internal struggles, “Maybe we can both volunteer for this again next year and hang out.” Wow little girl, way to beat me to the maturity punch.

“Totally!” I wasn’t trying to be cool, I always say totally. While I’m eating bagels and NOT watching the news. “We will have to make it happen.” I walked into the parking lot and got in my car and drove away, like an adult, while Jen waited for her mom to pick her up, like a 16 year old without a permit. “Man,” I thought to myself, “I should have stole some of those bagels to take home.”

Art

“What’s your blog about, Donnie Darko?” 

I woke up to the following phrase shouted in a coarse, drawn out Boston accent.  This mocking statement came from my boyfriend, and apparently this was today’s form of “Good Morning.”  

I hadn’t initially told him about the blog, even though he walked in that night while I was typing it. What was there to say? He wasn’t going to read it; he hadn’t read anything with a length of over 20 words since (hopefully) college, except maybe a long winded text message or two.  His favorite form of punctuation is an ellipse, which he uses in lieu of all other forms of punctuation.  His appreciation for the art form entitled “the English language” was zilch, maybe less than, so what was the point.  I didn’t ask him to share his pornography, which was an art form I admittedly didn’t understand, so I saved us both the useless conversation and just went on with my typing.  

His excitement was too much for a 7am wake up call.  It was like he had discovered his Christmas presents hiding in the closet, waiting for Jesus in all of his glory.  There was absolutely nothing to be excited about. I had posted the blog to my Facebook; and he was acting as if he had discovered the key to life, hidden beneath thousands of years of dirt and minerals deep in a small village in Africa.  I could not have made it EASIER to find. But sometimes, it’s the little things that get us excited in the morning.

Half awake, I’ve never been one to keep my mouth shut. “It’s about your penis.”  When my mind is off or barely functioning, I resort to nothing more than “potty humor.”  I love swearing and being inappropriate, and it’s absolutely painful to make it through an 8 hour work day without telling someone to go fuck themselves or eat shit and die.  Like most Bostonians, I just try to get these impulses out on the commute.  The more random travelers I curse, the better my morning will be.

The bedroom door slammed, not out of anger, but just because that’s simply how we close doors in our house. We are loud people. “HELLO, I SAID IT’S ABOUT YOUR PENIS… IT’S A REAL SHORT STORY.”

Feeling awesome, I put the covers over my head and went back to sleep. Sometimes, it’s the little things that get us excited in the morning, both literally and figuratively. Penis humor is an art form just about everyone can appreciate.