so what if i am?

I would like to preface this post by saying that I really don't think I'm bitter, so much as genuinely confused. A different outcome in this circumstance wouldn't really have changed my life any more that probably given me a little more validation for the way in which I allowed myself to waste my college years. Also, I love the idea of buying something handmade from a "craftsman" or whatever they want to be called, rather than a corporation that will barely pay the six year old Asian kid who made it. Regardless of any of this, I think this little iPod thing is adorable.

Now I will move on to the judgment I'm about to make. With all that ass-kissing, it was inevitable. I spent four years in college working tirelessly at a pointless, pretentious art major with an emphasis in sculpture. I was okay at it, I guess. It was pretty typical - I used interesting materials I found at hardware stores and in the basement of my dorm, I ironed and welded and tied vinyl, rope, fabric, burlap, wire, and a various assortment of caustic plastics together to make lumpy shaped, life-like forms that were supposed to represent my feminist isolation. I spent four years doing this and drinking, almost exclusively, in a huge wood shop with only one other dude and my male art professor, who probably thought I was a cute excuse for diversity in the sculpture department, which made me pretty hell-bent on receiving some sort of pat on the back (or at least its equivalent) for all that self-imposed white girl suffering. I set up and put on two solo shows in the tiny gallery student gallery - which consisted of hanging and transporting really heavy stuff mostly by myself up four flights of stairs. I was only one of two art majors at my liberal arts college to put on two shows by myself like that. A lot of people jump on the art major bandwagon toward the end of college. Most of them were girls, and all of them except for me and another girl (who had been an art major all through college) won an art award.

So when it came time to announce senior awards at our joke of a senior show, the girl who won the biggest female art award made some shit that basically looked like that: felted iPod cases. I guess letting her win was representing the significant shift in art toward the end of the decade, and the rise of etsy and crafting and the huge need for people to buy something in which to put their chilly iPods, but there are about fifty etsy sellers who make iPod hats and sell them online, and a lot of them look very professional and like something I would actually buy. I'm not saying I was God's gift to the art department at my university - I certainly wasn't. I also didn't demonstrate a proven commitment to staying active in art - I had an AmeriCorps position way before the awards were announced. I was just looking for something to pay my $500 in unpaid Home Depot Bills, really. I get it, though. Eva Hesse was a big deal a long time ago.

If you want to buy that thing (it's really growing on me), you can do it here.

merry christmas, self

After decorating my apartment for Christmas, I took joke Christmas card pictures. I guess this is what you'd call an outtake (left), if you were wearing clips poked into the sides of your hair and a men's flannel thrift store shirt in all of the other ones, too. The best one has my head positioned right under the ribbon to look like it is also a hanging ornament (right).

I am probably the only one who will find this creative and well-executed. It's easy with an audience of one.

i'll just have to see how it goes

So lately errbody in my life is telling me I should have a blog. My mom is telling me that I should have a blog and upload pictures of myself in the outfits I wear and then write amusing anecdotes about all the dudes I’m not dating, sort of like I did in college, minus the pictures, because all I wore in college was knitwear and leggings. She doesn't realize that if the outfits were really that cute, then maybe the second part of the subject would be unnecessary. She also doesn’t realize that just about every girl in a moderately sized city who’s read Marie Claire magazine and lives within a five mile radius of Urban Outfitters or Forever 21 has a blog like this now, thanks to the internets and iPhone cameras. After a while, it gets to be kind of like, okay whatever I have that same top. But I look way fatter in mine. Cool.

I don’t have an iPhone, I don’t have a tripod, and I certainly don’t have the budget to even think about buying either of those things. I’ve heard you can procure a tripod for about $20 on the internets, but that’s just about the price of a 12 pack. It never stood a chance, to be honest. I do have a digital camera that I recently popped back together after some douche at a bar stepped on it, a repertoire of facial expressions that rivals Stephen Colbert’s, a biting sense of humor that is often mistaken for self-loathing or confusion, and an ever-expanding closet because I’ve been the same size since eighth grade. (Evidently, I had few friends then, and probably fewer now!) Also, I don’t really look cute even twice a week. I hit the nail on the head about once a week, at most, when I wear all my best clothes and put on a belt. Then everyone (the secretary in my building) is all, “oh, what a cute outfit, you look beautiful, you’re so creative, what a great outfit, you look so nice!” and my mom’s all, “you should start a fashion blog because you always look so put together!” I mean I look okay sometimes, but everybody looks okay sometimes. She's also, like, my mom.

My boss suggested that I start a blog about my experiences on the bus, which are unbelievable, but that’s certainly not my doing, and it seems a little opportunistic to take credit for every insane person in the city of Milwaukee. I certainly didn’t put them all here! She also suggested that I include my struggles with my entrée into adulthood. I don’t quite know how I feel about this, as she is my boss, and has been the main observer and instigator of pretty much all of those struggles that don’t directly involve things that don’t work in my apartment or my inability to make men see me as any more than a novelty. But generally I complain about that stuff to her too, because usually she thinks it’s funny. But I’m also the only other person who works in our office consistently. On some days, I laugh at the copy machine voice. I laugh at things I would NEVER LAUGH AT ANYWHERE ELSE.

I was going to use my two great talents - looking okay sometimes and being sardonically humorous - to write a satire of the fashion blogs that are OMG everywhere, but I actually think a lot of those people who write them are well-intentioned and cute, and they are helpful. (They give good sizing advice sometimes. They all wear size 0's all the time, so it's really easy to tell what size I should wear. Not that one.) It's really too bad no one wants to look at a blog of drunk pictures of me making fun of other people in bars with my face while wearing mildly cute outfits, because I have about two blogs' worth of those.

So I haven’t really done it. I mean, what if everybody thinks my outfit sucks? A lot of times I think that. I like outfits with hoods or big necks that you can pull up over your face. In winter, which is most of my life, I wear this, three pairs of leggings or tights, and boots, almost exclusively, and almost always entirely in black, to reflect my frost-bitten soul. Mostly, I really don’t care what anyone else thinks of my outfits, because I’m more concerned about accounting for all my appendages underneath at least three layers and survival, unless you are Joseph Gordon-Levitt and then I really care. What if no one thinks I’m funny? That would be even worse. I have had little success with blogging in the past, Julie/Julia effect aside, and to be honest, I don’t think I’m the kind of person that appeals to a mass audience. I think I mostly appeal to a drunk, 19-25, male flannel-shirt-wearing audience. They couldn’t give a shit about where I bought this wrap cardigan. But I’m going to give it the old college try, mostly because I’m poor, and even the one in one zillion odds that someone will read this and give me my own advice column like they gave to Eliot Spitzer’s twenty-something embarrassment, are good enough for me. I could take a babe shot in that same outfit and ask Meredith in Queens why she’s writing to a call girl to ask for advice about her misbehaving teenage daughter, and wham - instant fame.

there's no such thing as that

i call this one, "Happy Winter, Charlie Brown."

Please enjoy the shot of my "pet" dachshund in the background.

i guess they are winning

I thought my neighbor was having a domestic dispute with her boyfriend, but then I realized she was just cheering for the Packers. Cool. Glad I didn't call the police...

when you're rich, then asparagus is yummy

Whenever I order food for myself (which is OFTEN, or at least WAS often, when I was in college and perpetually drunk and fat) I always pretend that I'm with someone else who is going to assist me with the eating, or that I'm at least ordering for me and someone else who will appear at the time of eating. I've developed many ways to do this, the most trusty of which is simply minimally covering the receiver while pretending to shout to someone else about details of the order, or whether we have enough cash between us for the order. It's pretty easy to do, by using simple phrases like, "Let me check..." ("Do you want extra ranch sauce?" "Let me check... Um, yeah, I guess we do.") "Wait a minute..." ("Will that be cash or credit?" "Wait a minute. Do you guys have any cash? No? I guess not.")

Lately, I've developed a new technique, which is slightly trickier. I inquire about the order as if I am ordering for someone else, like I do when I order food for my boss at work. I invent a serious of nonsense questions, and then I respond to the answers: "Are there onions? Oh, no, he doesn't like onions." "Okay, my friend wants to know if we can get that with extra cheese." "Let me check, it's not for me, it's for someone else." (This is a combination of TWO methods, and requires extreme commitment, because it's a dead giveaway if mishandled.)

The shame has doubled since my new commitment to not eating like a sixteen year old boy, which means, among other things, avoiding excessive amounts of cheese and fried items.

i'm in the wrong industry

Recently looking up my newest obsession online:

The camilla and marc Cadero jacket/blazer in beautiful sparkly gold.

But wait - oh cool. It is $998. That's just about exactly one hundred dollars more than I will make this month, before I pay my stupid big girl bills.

A "splurge" for me, at this point, is a 500 mL bottle of Fiji water on the way home from the gym - $2.12 with taxes at Whole Foods hollllller.

i'm thinking 26?

There are many things about which adults seem able to consistently extol the virtues, that I fail to find useful in any way. I understand that there are certain non-negotiables that go along with being an adult. One particular aspect of adulthood that I fail to understand, especially as holiday party season approaches, is the enthusiasm directed toward wine glass charms, and the accepted belief that the use of them creates a funky, quirky, generally creative and more fun than normal party atmosphere that is definitely worth upwards of $20 for a set of four. Just…no. I can’t justify the need to “tag” your personal glass of wine with an individualized charm anyway. These seem to come in handy mainly when one is not holding one’s own wine glass, and because I cannot fathom putting the damn thing down long enough to lose track of it, I guess they just seem kind of useless. I also don’t quite own a full set of wine glasses. I had been collecting my mother’s castoffs, until my friends had a champagne party that required the use of my mother’s half broken set, which created a fully broken set by the end of the night. I’ve also managed to steal several mismatched wine goblets and a champagne flute from bars. A classy collection it is not. It would most likely not be drastically improved by affixing some desperate Pottery Barn charms to the stems. Nor would it disguise the fact that over half of the party was still drinking out of stolen pint glasses.

Still, those little guys are pretty cute, and my complete and utter disregard for their usefulness not only makes me feel like a shitty adult, but also a shitty person. Which in turn makes me hate the dumb Rachael Ray wannabes who have already affixed these little reindeer heads to every hostess gift they're going to give this season and are forcing their lack of creativity on the world underneath the guise of marginally cute paper reindeer and felted "snow."

I might be inferior, but I will hide under this imaginary superiority complex for as long as I can.

i guess this rubbish was considered acceptable at a college with a conservatory

In college, some of my favorite pastimes, for which I also received moderate praise from my peers, included making sculptures out of wire and cheesecloth, and drinking. Still, I would have never thought that asking someone to watch me do these things counted as a “date.” It’s possible to argue that most dates revolve around drinking as an activity. I would argue that because there is some standard of conversation, the drinking experienced during these “dates,” cannot count as a pastime. I mean, I get it, you are good at playing guitar, which is an impressive talent, but I’m not one of those girls who is blind to the fact that this is not a symbol of virility or even an indication that you will produce children without any birth defects. It just demonstrates diligence, talent, and quick fingers, which does more for some people than others. And if you’ve invited me to your little guitar concert as a “date,” or even a “hang out,” it also demonstrates an inflated sense of self-worth. Maybe once I’ve been given some reasons to care about you I will be interested in sitting by myself and watching you play an instrument. But until then, unless you want to spend the next night watching me go for a run, let's do something where we're both on equal ground, shall we?

personal jesus?

Every time I send an email with terms such as "reach out" "touch base" or "connect," I pretty much want to gag myself with the closest spoon-shaped implement. I am also pleasantly reminded of Depeche Mode, and then, naturally, Marilyn Manson. That's what I think of when I think of connecting. And reaching out. To touch faith. Et cetera. I'm not cut out for the corporate world.

after using the bathroom hand-dryer as a hair-dryer the day is mainly looking up

Right now, one of my main responsibilities at work is to memorize (familiarize? please is that a word?) myself with the information in a fairly gigantic virtual binder, to better prepare myself for facilitating and running the 6-hour day long interviews that the non-profit I work for basically exists to run. I mean, I don't have to run them, my boss does that, and will probably help me with a lot of my job in the end, but STILL. This binder also includes pages upon pages of information and rubrics and instruction sheets to copy and distribute to all sorts of different people involved in these days, and the myriad messages I'm supposed to be "messaging" to all of them. Like signs - signs for every ind ividual activity. Also a welcome sign. Seven signs total. And they're all stored virtually somewhere. It's not hard t o sort it all into little computer folders, it's pretty rudimentary. I just wish I co uld stack it all into tangible little stacks and make folders and copy them al l. It's just kind of a VI RTUAL PAPER OVERLOAD.

really? not even a little bit?

"Really? Not at all? How about a Margarita…no you’re right that does have alcohol in it. You just want to get to know each other by talking? Sure we can talk…uh huh…totally…you don’t say…nope fuck this shit. I was hoping to make out with you later and maybe even take off each other pants and that’s just not going to happen without alcohol. Dating is super awkward (I can’t even look you in the eye!) and you’re taking away the one thing guaranteed to help it go a little smoother. Drinking has been a social lubricant for thousands of years of human history. Jesus Christ fucking drank wine. But you are a “mature person” so I guess you know better. Whatever. No hard feelings. Maybe you should move to Utah, that might be more your speed."

A Guest Dealbreaker written by Joel Church Cooper.

Because, what are we going to talk about? I don't actually find you that interesting. Sheesh.

but i'm sorry, the new rihanna kills it

My boss is playing all the rap music on her ipod after hearing of my love for Lil Wayne... as a result, I am rediscovering my love for Bone Thugs-n-Harmony, especially that song with the Fleetwood Mac (?) sample. Wind Blow, I believe it is called. The rap coming up is mostly late nineties gems along those lines, including Mo' Money, Mo' Problems, O.P.P., and other such gems.

adjustments

My life is like some sick adult joke lately that more reminds me of a cross between high school, the most boring parts of college, and some weird alternate universe where I am responsible.

My body has started to freak out, too, when I do normal things that I always used to do, like drink 40's. Last night, in what didn’t even seem like a mildly good idea at the time, I drank two steel reserve 40’s because they were so ridiculously cheap at the backdoor liquor store we went to, that had to buy 2 AND a pack of gum to bring my total up to five dollars to allow me to pay with a credit card. I am really glad I didn’t buy three, but I can’t even think about that right now. It is after I do things like this that I realize why I am, and probably always will be, very single. Would you honestly want to date a girl who even considers drinking two steel reserve 40's unless you live in a double-wide? Probably not. Anyway, after drinking what would have been considered a "pre-game" in college (although we never used that term, it was more like drinking and then going somewhere else to do more drinking), I puked in my bed this weekend. Disgusting. Really gross. No excuse for any person who can legally drink to do this. But I did. And then I woke up to the war going on inside my head between the remaining steel reserve trying to exit my system apparently through my temples, and the rest of my head.

Oh also there was someone else in my bed while I was completely relieving my self in it. Yep. Seriously. Why am I still alive? He made up some polite excuse about having to wake up early in the morning, but even if that was true, why are people still nice to me? Not only was I lying in a pool of my own vomit, I am a drunken mess who cannot hold my liquor in an adult way by any stretch of the imagination, I make poor choices almost constantly, I don't shower every day, and I refuse to vacuum the leaves off the floor of my apartment because they blew in through the window and I didn't put them there. Seriously, I don't deserve nice things, and I certainly don't deserve people putting up with my less than acceptable behavior. It would just make things a lot easier for me if people treated me the way parents treated children and not let me have any privileges until my behavior improves.

excuse me, what?

They make fleece-lined leggings now??? EXCUSE ME? This has Appleton written all over it in neon pink. Srrsly, in college, I refused to leave my dorm before I was wearing at least five pairs of these things because there was just too much room for wind to get through while wearing normal pants. When you combine the frozen tundra, ice age flashback that is Appleton with the constantly hungover induced laziness that is college, you get leggings. All the time. Lined in fleece? Please, I would have been unstoppable. Now I'm a real person and wearing leggings as pants is no longer excusable I guess, but I'm getting these anyway and wearing them out of spite while I nostalgically drink whisky out of Starbucks cups in celebration of things I did in college to announce the arrival of winter. Next I bet they'll start making attractive UGG boots. Kids these days have no idea how lucky they have it.

because those are funny and not tragic

went home to help my mom correct papers. watched the hills and the city in an effort to try to connect with people my age, and not slip out of the under 25 age bracket while i'm not paying attention. wondered why people my age watch these shows. then wondered if people my age actually like these shows, or are able to follow the plot without confusing the significant amount of scruffily facial-haired, Ed Hardy-wearing gentlemen who look like they drink girl drinks. seriously, do people watch this, or do they just read the recaps on nymag.com?

when i break i break

Today = worst day of life since I bought a twelve pack on Friday. I usually don’t have stupid days when I wear an outfit that makes me look older than 12 and is 100% brand new, down to the underwear. Waste of a new outfit and 3 ½ inch heels. NOT FAIR. I plan on taking the 30 to Urban Outfitters after work and buying things on credit, and maybe going to the gym and watching the Kardashians after that. I mostly refuse to be thinking or trying past five o’clock today.


(this is me attempting to walk in those damn things)

So here I am, clomping around in these 3 ½ inch heels, which make me all of, WOO-HOO 5’7” exactly, and over-priced black pants that I would be able to wrap around the bottom of my foot twice if I weren’t wearing hooker heels, trying to fix some stupid technology problem on a PC desktop computer. As far as I’m concerned, it isn’t realistic to assume that I would be able to make that do anything other than start up. The way PCs work is so adverse to the way that I assume things work, that when I get hired to perform jobs at companies that refuse to use modern computers, my technological knowledge should be compared to that of a baby boomer, not a normal person my age. What I’m pretty sure I was trying to do was make sound come out of the computer. There’s only so many buttons you can reasonably push in this situation. So I’m punching buttons on this computer, silently wishing that one of them will make it blow up and injure me only enough to require prescription strength Ibuprofen, and coming to the cruel realization that just because you wear a grown up outfit, you will not magically be spared from having what you once naively assumed were college kid problems. Nope, they’re just people problems, turns out, and your cognac, celebrity-toed, imitation expensive shoes aren’t going to help you clomp away from them any faster. They cost $80, which is more than the US government paid me for spending 2 hours solving that problem. Actually, it’s more than the US government is going to pay me for enduring this WHOLE DAY. I’ll see you in hell, Bill Gates. You bring the Windows ’97. I'll bring these shoes.

Celebrity Toe

For a while, since Christian Louboutin came on my radar, I've envied what I think of as the "celebrity toe." All fashion-forward celebrities have it - the elusive, not pointy but not rounded and definitely not the dreaded square toe, perfectly curved almond toe. I don't know why I'm so obsessed with this, but I am, and I've searched tirelessly, even refusing to buy other shoes, for a poor girl's almond toe pump. This weekend, I finally find myself the proud owner of $80 almond-toe heels, courtesy of Aldo, that make my feet look as famous as I've dreamed. It's typical, I know, to imagine that owning a certain item or style of clothing will drastically improve your life, help you make friends, become more respected, generally desired, and loved by everyone, and that's definitely what these shoes have done for me. I imagined my short, stumpy, small-footed self sliding into a pair of celebrity-imitation shoes and automatically turning from a college-student pumpkin into an adult. I'd sort of imagined that once my shoes gave the illusion of my perfect toes, I'd project the natural style and elegance of Marion Cotillard or Rihanna. I guess that might happen, but it's probably important to note that the only reason I was inspired to make this stupid dream a reality was because my boss told me I needed shoes that made me look more grown up, and the shoe salesman told me that these shoes would help me gain respect as a short person in the workplace. Thanks. It is confusing that I have not turned into Marion Cotillard, complete with Frechman on my arm. But I am a little taller, so at least won't get mistaken for an eighth grader. And, you know, our toes look the same.

Here's how I know I spend pathetically more time at work than I do awake at home: Today I thought of bringing my cottage cheese and yogurt to work and putting them in the fridge there, because I only have the desire to eat them while I'm there, never while I'm home, and I'm sure they'll soon go bad.

I'm too young to be living this way.

I've started sleeping on my couch to prevent the desire to sleep in. I'll determine whether this is fully successful after I do it without actually sleeping in. But hopefully, this way, sleeping in my bed is like some kind of weekend reward that I only get to do if I wake up without slamming my hand down on my alarm 10 (yep, seriously) times each morning and waking up an hour after originally intended. I rationalize this by telling myself that the people who live upstairs can hear it, and they deserve it for CLOMPING AROUND LIKE CLYDESDALE HORSES IN A BUDWEISER AD FROM SEVEN TO EIGHT EVERY MORNING AND NINE TO ELEVEN EVERY NIGHT. I don't understand how one, maybe two, people could possibly walk so much in a studio apartment. What are they doing? Where do they need to GO? What are they rolling around that is making that outrageous noise? I hate them. I don't think they can hear my alarm. There is zero justice in this world, and I am always running to work with that stupid nineties song about wishing your bed was already made blaring in my head. Like I even make my bed.

Today I told my boss that it is possible that some people might consider me to "have an embarrassing obsession with Lil' Wayne." She laughed, so I think that went okay.

i'm not making any lemonade from today

These are some things that (seriously) happened today:
8:42 - Got on the bus. Apparently, this was a bus coming straight from the crazy factory, because that's what everyone on this bus was. One woman was using her old-fashioned metal shopping cart to hit people, and she made everyone clear the aisles so she could unfold it and wheel it out. On her way off, she hit the foot of the man next to me, but told the bus driver that the man assaulted her and was evil. As soon as she got off, another crazy lady with a shopping cart (bus total: 3) got on. This lady wanted to go to M & I bank, but was refusing to walk, which was impossible if she wanted to take this bus to get there. So instead, she made the bus driver stop at LITERALLY EVERY STOP and tell her what it was. After each stop, she would announce that he missed her stop and he had no idea what he was doing and now she would never be able to get dropped off right in front of the bank. WHAT A ROUGH DAY FOR HER.
9:28 - Got to work. That bus ride usually takes fifteen minutes.
Then, after work, I went grocery shopping. I haven't done this in over a month, so I had two heaping bags of food as I was getting on my fourth bus of the day. I barely made it on, and had to show the bus driver my pass WITH MY MOUTH, so as soon as I got on I kind of dropped my bags and anticipated kicking them over to one of the close handicapped seats. There are three on each side, but there was an approximately twenty year old dude sitting in the middle of each of the seats, and each asshole refused to get out or scoot over, so I had to stand balancing my bags for the entire ride, during which food fell out and rolled around the bus, and I had to crawl around at their feet to collect it. Not only did they not budge, but they couldn't even be troubled to help me pick it up. THIS REALLY HAPPENED. I don't really understand how I am expected to put up with that kind of bus ride, while some old lady, crazy, old, or not, expects that a bus driver will personally deliver her to her desired destination and that on the way, everyone will clear a complete berth for her to move herself and her SHOPPING CART around the bus. Everyone except me is crazy.

10 o'clock and I'm in bed

Hate the player, not the game, y'all. I can't help if my life's a party.

all day

I don't know, beer and tiramisu for dinner. I've adopted a strategy of eating all my parents' leftovers for various meals. It's a pretty efficient, cost-effective strategy, but it means I can't be picky about what constitutes the three daily meals. As a notorious breakfast-lover, I've never been too picky about this. Unfortunately, none of the meals that come my way are breakfast. I got some instant oatmeal the other day, but that's not really what I'm talking about. But, as people who have probably actually had to suffer a little have noted, out of adversary comes innovation, which allows me the creativity to toss everything my parents have eaten in the last week into a pot and eat it for three meals a day. I've discovered that chili and spaghetti are pretty much the same thing, plus or minus a beer sauce. I've eaten some version of this meal for every meal except lunch for the past week. I've dipped chips, pita, vegetables, and cheddar bunny crackers in it. I'm not sick of it AT ALL. I'm just glad I can spend my money on important things, like clothes and beer.

Speaking of clothes, I just bought a new blazer, because I'm always looking for new ways to indulge my inner '80's self, and I decided it was time for an upgrade of the little boys' Ralph Lauren one I had in high school. I also bought a Christmas dress, because for some reason, having a new dress for Christmas is a big deal in my family. I've started reading customer reviews on Anthropologie because I've become paranoid about fit as an adult, and all I've learned from doing this is that all women buy things WAY TOO SMALL, and as a result, the provide inadequate advice to other women because they HAVE NO CLUE about how anything is supposed to fit them. I've also learned that the obesity epidemic is clearly made up by the government, because 95% of all women are a size 0, and if they have to size up to a 4, it's because the item is ill-fitting, not because they're huge whales who have been under-sizing themselves their whole lives. I spent weeks obsessing about the sizes of both the dress and the blazer because the customer reviews and blogs could not express enough how small they both ran. After careful consideration of just about everything I will undergo in both of these items, I ordered my regular size. Obviously there is no fit issue, other than the fact that the dress is a little big in the bottom. So, um, women of America, I think you all need to exhale and try a size up. If you aren't willing to do that, keep your body issues to yourself and stop writing damning online reviews. KTHANX.

As a result of this experience, I have been spending a lot of time wondering what these women's jobs are. They seemingly try on clothes and take pictures of themselves in clothes all day long, and when they are not doing this, they are buying more clothes. I mean no disrespect, I'm just curious. Seriously, no hate, I just want to know what they do all day so I can do it too. Some of my most pronounced talents are putting on clothes, having a lot of clothes, and buying new clothes. I might as well get paid for my skillz, no?

i even forgive you for that weezer thing

(image courtesy of the insider.com)


I need Lil' Wayne to know that I'm not going to let him go to prison. I plan to fight for him on the battlefield of love, just like he says he would do for me. Illegal gun possession, psh. That pretty much goes against everything I believe in, but damn, I love Lil' Wayne more than I love my ideals.

I also wouldn't mind if we were both clear on the fact that I forgive him for the monstrosity of "Can't Stop Partying," with Weezer, and I'm not going to hold it against him because of the line, "gotta stop mixing alcohol with pharmaceuticals," because after choosing to collaborate with Weezer after 1999, I'm tending to agree.

As a way to amass quarters for the laundry machines in my basement, I used a vending machine for the first time since I spent summers hanging out a the community pool, where the vending machine dispensed snacks that. at the time, didn't represent empty calories, but only deliciousness. But now, I need some way to take one for the team my smelly heap of a laundry basket and I represent, and literally the only way that has presented itself is using dollar bills to purchase snacks archaically priced in multiples of 25. This way, I can get something instead of just exchanging money for quarters, and I can do it without going somewhere I would never go anyway, like a bank. It also gives me the opportunity to eat a Twix bar for the first time since 1998, which was the last time my mom allowed my grandmother to buy things that made us fat for my brother and me. Exciting day at the office, today is.

so do you come here all the time?

Juuuust walked past this dude I know, sitting inside a bar, probably having a nice time, while I was carrying a 12-pack of extra-soft toilet paper on my way home from Walgreens. At the time of the incident, I was carrying the toilet paper over my head, washer woman-style, because it was so large that it was awkward to hold. The toilet paper was probably the only part of me that was directly visible from the window. I looked like an eight-year-old with diarrhea. The only other item I saw fit to purchase at Walgreen's was a sink-scrubbing sponge, making me look like someone in great need of cleaning up. Or maybe just particularly concerned about cleanliness, especially wiping? I was traumatized even before the incident, because the fifty-five year old man in front of me at Walgreen's on Brady Street at 8:45 p.m. was purchasing T-Gel shampoo and KY Jelly. AHHHH THAT SHOULD BE MAIL ORDER ONLY. I have no desire to know what you're getting up to after you scrub your dandruff out, old man.

Today I had a beer to celebrate being invited to a party. This could be a pathetic commentary on my social life, and the fact that being invited to a party is an occasion so momentous and rare that it warrants a celebration. But instead, it is a commentary on the fact that I need a celebratory excuse to have a beer. And I was also kinda worried that the beer was going bad.

I'm pretty sure the asparagus is, at least. And probably all the other vegetables, too. You win some, you lose some. I lost an entire salad by refusing to make anything other than frozen pizzas after the exhaustion of the previous taco salad/quesadilla over-exertion earlier this week.

It's doubtfully ethical to blog about work from work, but my boss just left the office after instructing me to finish assembling a zillion sheets of questionably organized, uncatagorized, misnamed, similar looking rubrics into binders, and then evaluate and fill out a sample application evaluation according to those 8,000 rubrics in preparation for our training session tomorrow. Simple tasks like this expose all of my childhood OCD tendencies, usually abandoned in favor of simplicity, practicality, efficiency, and fun, and as a result they take about five hours. And when I am done, I have a sense of pride that completely outweighs any kind of reinforcement or appreciation I will receive for the output. It's sort of a letdown. So I'm sitting in silence after making a pot of coffee JUST FOR MYSELF (!) and admiring the assembled binders. I have outrageous OCD repression.

we all have dreams

Day 29
You are looking at the successful completee of nearly 10 hours of database website informational training. And you thought that you learned a lot in college! Sometimes, I wonder why I even bothered to learn how to use the internet before this job, because I was clearly using it so inadequately. I never realized that every day, I was performing a small miracle as I used multiple-tab browsing while researching term papers and shopping online simultaneously. I’m kind of like the Albert Schweitzer of the internet.

The main thing I REALLY DON’T GET about online trainings is that in real life, it’s probably hard to use all the programs I’m learning to use, but the trainings never cover what to do when the search function stops working, but they are quite comprehensive on the myriad ways to search for someone named “Mary.” They don’t tell you what will happen after the website shuts down, but they make damn well sure that you know of about 80 different ways to find the “Home” page.

In other news, I’ve eaten a jar of salsa in two days, and I’m pretty sure my sink is clogged, but I’m approaching that in stages by using my bathroom sink to wash dishes. Each of these is a clear indication that the old me is not disappearing completely. I also had a dream about beer, kind of in the way that I used to dream about summer when I was in high school.

This evening, I prepared a Weight Watchers taco salad with black beans, vegetables, salsa, seasonings, and avocado, which I can’t classify on my own, but I do know that it is a serious food that people only use with purpose. This entire venture, which included following a simple recipe, quartering the recipe, chopping an array of vegetables, and opening two cans, took me about forty-five minutes. Now I’m eating the salsa with my fingers. Two steps forward, three steps back.

such a big deal

I just made a turkey burger. For myself. By myself. It wasn't hard! This is a turning point.

grow up

Last night, for a thrilling change of pace, I decided to drink too much, and I woke up hosting a four-ring circus in my body, which made me want to eat a gun, or at least a two-gallon carton of Taco Bell. I keep wondering when this activity will cease to seem like a sufficient way to spend an evening. I kind of mistakenly believed that once you graduated from college, you would magically only need Advil to treat headaches, symptoms of the common cold, and pain from injuries sustained while working on home improvement projects. Unfortunately for my liver, I still drink Advil down by the cupful more often than I count out the standard dosage and wash it down with a teaspoon of Evian. Even though I know exactly what is going to happen in six hours, the only ways in which I’ve learned to amend my behavior consist of shoveling a gallon of water into my stomach before I go to bed and sometimes, even medicating before I have to wake up to feel an angry family of four road-tripping from one side of my head to the other. I kind of believed that you turned in your alcohol tolerance and your taste for beers named after places and followed by descriptive adjectives for “cold,” with the keys to your senior year dorm room, so imagine my shock to learn that they sell Milwaukee’s Best in grocery stores that are nowhere near college towns.
I know that while I’m sniffing the cigarette smoke out of my hair on my couch, clutching an economy sized bag of chips in a flavor only drunk people eat, which can’t seem to make it into my mouth fast enough, other people my age are spending their Saturdays doing things that don’t involve byproducts of salt, like registering for wedding gifts or vacuuming their rugs. But I also know that God would not have invented Topper’s if He didn’t want us to get drunk and eat them. Maybe someday I will care.

my hair is real

The most vocal city I have ever been to was Appleton. In Appleton, people did not understand the separation between your life and their life. They did not understand that not everything that was your business was their business. They thought it was their right, probably actually their duty, to comment on every single thing about you that they could see, like your hair, your clothes, your general appearance, your bike - everything. Generally, they did this by whistling or making other repulsive noises at you. Once a police officer yelled at me to get off my bike, which caused me to fall off of it, so mission accomplished. The good thing about Appleton was that eventually I got to go back to Lawrence, where people didn't say things to me unless they knew me, and even though most of them did, they all understood that I didn't care. In Milwaukee, the there seems to be an endless stream of people who must think that there is some sort of sign taped to my back asking their opinion of me.

Since I have moved to Milwaukee, I have had three people ask me variations of a question about the authenticity of my hair. I mean, they have asked me if my hair is real. Or if it is a weave. Or where I "got it." Or what I am going to "do with all of it." I don't really know what compels people to feel the need to ask this question, or to believe that it is appropriate in any way. I can't really imagine feeling the need to confirm the authenticity of anyone else's body parts, unless our relationship was in stages to become more intimate, and the knowledge could become beneficial or at least useful. I suppose it could be worse - there are a host of body parts they could call in to question, and I guess some that aren't so real at this point. But STILL. My hair is like the nicest part of me; are you saying you don't really believe it's possible for me to have something this nice? Probably not because you are homeless. (To be fair, only one of the people who asked me this was homeless. The other was on his way to the courthouse, and not to work, and the other probably didn't mean it.)

I also have heard a fair number of people loudly refer to me as "Lil Mama" as I bike past, which is something I have very consciously done my best to prevent becoming in recent years, and as a result, I would really appreciate if they refrained from calling me that.

twelve-letter phrase for "tough"

had a minor breakdown. went home for a couple of days. enticed my mother to buy a new blouse for me. as a result, my laundry has started to develop its own fragrance, and i've learned that i can't flush tampons down my apartment's toilet. cool.

it would probably be easier if we did this a different way, but...

I have a migraine. It is possible that this is a side-effect from the chemical on the licking strip of all the envelopes I licked today. Regardless of the cause, it feels like someone is driving an ice pick through the top part of my temple into the area behind my right eye, and then slowly pulling it up and drilling it back in again.

When my family implored me to start writing a blog about my year spent "in service of America," and the transition from college to "real life," I, perhaps ignorantly, assumed that I would have more interesting updates to report other than the toll that envelope-licking has been taking on my body and my sanity and my ability to persevere in the face of yet another Mail Merge disaster. But I am an intrepid office worker, and if these minor setbacks are what's required to spend a year in service of my country, then that is what I will do. Some are solving the financial crisis, others are mentoring low-income students, still others are building houses, practicing sustainable farming, or working in food pantries. I am mastering the art of Microsoft Excel, and paying dearly, I might add.

I have a computer but I still do not have a desk. Really, there is nothing in my apartment that could be classified as a "table" in a furniture store without being misleading. I've never been a fan of the laptop being used in the literal sense - sitting on one's lap. It makes me feel lazy, like a person who can't sit up straight or wear anything other than sweatpants. I take my shoes off at work sometimes and it makes me feel the same way.

post-work snack

Day 16

When I was younger, my dad told my brother and me that he gave us "strong names" that could hold up professionally so that we had a chance of doing that too. Now that I'm older, I realize that this was probably just another way of covering all his parental bases and developing an excuse for giving us some uncool, boring names. Really all that determines your professional success, especially at an entry level, is your standard for rejecting bullshit, and your ability to perform bullshit tasks without questioning your IQ. Turns out, I don't really have this ability.

You'd think people about my age would excel in this area, after spending four years affixing foam hands to their own real hands, dressing up in theme wear, and considering this an excuse to get tanked before eleven in the morning, or taking shots of beer every minute for sixty minutes and considering this a thrilling, effective way of spending an evening. But, nope, apparently I'm lacking the ability to pack boxes, envelopes, and internet databases without once wondering why my college degree made me any more appealing than the next candidate. Until recently, I had been operating under the delusion that I would be helping children almost daily, that my mere presence would turn their lives around. Lots of idealistic college democrats probably share this delusion. Instead, I have to be satisfied with the fact that my ability to Fed-Ex check request forms will some day help some kid get into college. Maybe. Until I see some proof, I plan on enjoying many more post-work snacks.

most of the time i'm not in the mood either

Day 15

Today my internet got turned on. Fifteen days later. If I were a dude I would probably think it was funny to make one of at least fifty awful jokes about that HAHAHA. I am having two or three beers and then I’m going to watch all the episodes of Skins on surfthechannel.net to celebrate this anticipated event. One of the beers I'm going to drink is the same one I opened last night while I was waiting for my dad to finish getting ready so my parents could come pick me up and take me to dinner. Call it a cocktail. When they arrived, I left the beer on my bathroom sink and forgot about it until later this evening. It's six o'clock again so I guess it's still a cocktail.

In other news:
My neighbors are the loudest people I’ve ever encountered, and I think they’re about forty, which I am trying to view as a hopeful promise that it is possible to have fun when you are old instead of an incredibly annoying way to use a concrete patio. Also sometimes they fight, which is mildly interesting in a banal way. This morning I left my underwear balled up on the bathroom floor and NO ONE SAW IT until I got home from work today so I didn't have to apologize to anyone. My apartment is a mess because I have not been cleaning it to protest my non-functioning internet. After a few more beers, I will probably put some clothes away.

don't stop believing

Day 11
Today, one of the dudes at my job training came up to me to compliment my aggressive lobbying during an earlier presentation, during which we had to defend our imaginary choices to send our theoretical children to public schools, charter schools, or private schools on vouchers. Another girl and I got sort of into arguing in favor of a public school education and against the weaknesses we found in other groups' presentations, I guess because I figured that was what we were supposed to do. The guy actually smiled, which a lot of people don't do when they approach me, so he probably could have told me he thought I was not only tragically out of touch with the current state of education, but destined to be alone forever, and I would have probably considered it a positive interaction.

"You made some good points about charter schools. I just want you to know I"m not sure how I feel about them either. Everyone in our group was kind of questioning if we really believed what we were saying. We were kind of like, 'Is this really right?'"
"Oh, it's okay. I don't expect you to send your real kids to charter schools or anything like that. I just got really into it."
-chuckle, chuckle, chuckle.

It then occurred to me that this probably counted as "flirting," in some weird, AmeriCorps way, and I smiled to myself, because I don't get out much anymore.

getting to know you

Day 9

So first let me get one thing straight: I completely understand the need to accelerate bonding and facilitate superficial connections amongst groups of people who would otherwise awkwardly limp along toward group unity, especially in situations where a strong group dynamic is necessary for support and accomplishment of shared goals. I get it. But I can find nothing more exaggeratedly awful than the teambuilding exercise, or the related, probably even more awful, icebreaking activity, especially in a setting where everyone participating is at least kind of an adult. I don't want to hold onto your sweaty hand for an hour while we figure out different positions into which we could contort ourselves to undo a gigantic human knot, that we entered into under false pretenses anyway, because someone told us to twist ourselves up. No real group of people would ever clasp hands and twist up into a tangled mess under any kind of realistic circumstance, unless they had been told that they were going to need to bond by untangling themselves from each other's knotted grasp. I also really don't need to be tossing a ball back to you while trying to remember whatever adjective starts with the same letter as your first name. There are basically no adjectives that start with the letter E other than really tacky ones, like "excellent" and "exciting" and "energetic," so there's virtually no way I'm going to get out of this game without looking like an asshole. I'll determine for myself if I think you're "adventurous" or "resourceful," but I'm not going to believe it just because you've got to get that ball out of your hands.

Luckily for me, we just did a toned-down version of the ball game - we had to go around the table and say our favorite TV show, or our favorite candy, and then we had to recite back all of the favorites and names of the people before us. I'm not really a huge candy lover, so unfortunately I was stuck having to confess my favorite TV show. I really only watch two faithfully, and neither one is the Colbert Report or the Daily Show or Arrested Development or anything that smart people find acceptable and endearing. So it got to my turn, and I kind of just had to go for it, so I admitted that Gossip Girl is probably my favorite TV show, other than Project Runway, and that I was not ashamed. Everyone else seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and confessed to liking other embarrassing television programs, like Ace of Cakes and Gray's Anatomy, so I guess I was saved. But jeez louise.

white whine

Day 8


Tonight I found out that my internet cannot possibly be turned on because of some problem with my application, and I also found out that I would have never know this if I hadn't called to ask if I was entering my password incorrectly because I couldn't access my internet account. So I went to the internet cafe pretty much across the street from my apartment, and there were some other charming people there, doing the same thing. Except they didn't get the "free internet with purchase" idea. They tried to count hot water as their purchase, because they'd already brought their own delicious tea that was just so good that they couldn't imagine having any other tea that would cost them $2.00. One of the girls asked if the cafe served "hot water with lemon." The barista helped her out by suggesting that they had hot water, and they had lemon. Then she gave it all to them, including the internet code, for free. While she was doing all this generous work, one of the girls kept chatting about how their internet was getting turned on the next day it it was "really exciting, hahaha!" for them.

I have a pretty good idea that these girls, at least combined, have a bigger salary than I do, unless they are both unemployed and have dead parents. I would have made more, in a year, as an hourly employee at Jimmy John's, so clearly they weren't completely suffering for funds, and probably could have splurged on a $2.00 tea to make everyone's internet-using experience more enjoyable.

I felt so bad for the employees that I bought a chai and a cookie that I didn't even want, even though it was delicious. But actually, I kind of like people like that, because they make annoying things that I do, like refuse to decide what kind of cookie I want even though they’re all pretty much the same, exceedingly less annoying.

perpetual single-ness

In that vein, and in a struggle to prove that I am more substantive than my more successful peers who have gone before me, and used their dating and relationship [lack] of prowess as a foray into the blogging world, I will attempt this list, of the life of a perpetually single girl, sans cat. It was posted on Gawker almost three years ago, and Julia Allison quickly rebuttled. In a display of my perpetual three-years-behind status, and in an attempt to prove that I have the least going on of any hot young bachelorette, here's my take on how you can identify that I am in fact, and probably always will be, single:

• Piles of magazines everywhere, comprised of tons of pretentious ones that are clearly untouched and then severely thumbed-through Vogues and Luckys

Um, yup, I've got those everywhere. Mostly because I'm a slob, and I consider "paper mess" to be the kind of mess that won't lead others to believe that you're dirty. I've never read Lucky though, but I did see that it had Vanessa Hugeons on a cover once, which leads me to believe it could be something my low-brow self would enjoy. I've got Vogue, but I'm generally too lazy to read it. I also get Teen Vogue (more my speed), Elle, Nylon (I AM an embarrassment), and I used to get the New Yorker, but you're right I DON'T ANYMORE.

• Overflowing shoe rack and nothing in the fridge

I have that thing that hangs over your door, but I only keep flipflops in it. I keep my shoes in boxes. There is stuff in my fridge though - it's beer. (Okay and salsa and a Britta Filter that always inexplicably freezes. Why? I'm not about to turn up the temp though, because the freezing temperatures make THE FOOD LAST LONGER. Genius.)

• Scented candles

This is only because it disguises the underlying odor. Also, I don't have any in the bathroom, so can I get some points for that? 

• Slovenly heaps of little-used makeups in the bathroom

I interpret the word "slovenly" as a negative word, and I would also like to note that most of my makeup is so "little-used" that it is not even in the bathroom. It's in my closet. I keep more important things in the bathroom, like baby wipes. And beer (this is actually true?). I will concede that there is a small "pile" in my medicine cabinet, but I don't think this makes me single so much as a girl.

• Stuffed animals in the bed

I actually do have those, which is making me feel weird about trying to negatively answer all these questions. Shit. I have three. One is on the couch. It's a dachshound. It looks real, and visitors get fairly creeped out by it. My mom bought it for me as a joke. Yes, this is an indication of being defiantly single.

• Cat hair on the furniture / cat smell

I don't feel the need to respond to the accusation of cat smells, because I am too poor to have a cat, and if I did, I'd train it to go outside. That shit's nasty.

• Cabinets full of mugs featuring the likeness of lady who looks like those hypertrophically-limbed Daily Candy illustrations, bearing the legend "I Love Shopping" or whatnot

I have a lot of pint glasses that I've stolen from bars. One says "Beer is my life." I guess I will count that.

• Anything pink

Are girls who like pink more likely to be single than girls who don't? My entire existence leads me to assume it's the opposite, since I only like it in neon form, on leggings, and the only thing pink in my apartment is a bottle of nailpolish. 

• Ornamental pillows

Pretty sure those cost money. 

• Unedited bookshelves, esp. if they include He's Just Not That Into You or anything along those lines

Julia provided a fairly pithy response to this, and I can't, because I was an English major. My bookshelf is edited. I have stacks of books that extend past the shelf, too. I'd tend to think this is more of a contributing factor to my single-ness rather than a result of it, however. Who wants to date a smart girl? Psssh. 

• Nair

I hide this in my windowsill, which I guess is kind of weird now that I think about it. This is really only a holdover from being a swimmer for 14 years - hair removal has become a habit to the point that I feel weird without it. It's not really an indication that I'm aspirational about my sex life. It also took me about a half hour to figure out that was the implied indication, so there you go. 

• Lite cottage cheese in the fridge

I've started buying the full-fat because I really only eat one meal a day and it keeps me full. Then I moved this to my work fridge, because I really only eat at work. So no, the answer to this question is no. 

• Anything lite or diet around. Cases of Diet Coke. Weight Watchers 'Just 2 Points' bars

Why would I buy diet coke when I could just buy beer? This question is confusing. 

• Inspirational or thinspirational things on the fridge

So is this one. I was going to put a picture of someone skinny on my fridge, but I don't have any magnets, so the only thing that's on there is a penguin calendar and a bumper sticker from a New Glarus six pack that I bought this summer. If you are noticing a theme, it's not just you.

i don't take good pictures

via gawker, obvi

I have been tardy for the blogging party because I continually remind myself what a slippery slope it is. Although I haven't actually read any of Julia Allison's collegiate columns (they're not, like, above me - please, I'd just rather watch Jersey Shore), I am aware that she did indeed start off as a Love and Relationships columnist at her own college newspaper. Yes, the Georgetown student newspaper is quite a bit more illustrious than the good old Lawrentian, but keeping in mind that I'm in obnoxious company is always wise. Hence my risk to overly self-promote. Or really to self-promote at all.

Interesting note: I have also worn a costume made of condoms. (To a not-exactly-naked party - it was also made of maxi pads - but still, our similarities are alarming). I also fancy myself to have a slightly better sense of humor, and more of a non-lapdog approach toward relationships, but really, potato-potato. If somebody offered me a nonsociety blog, I wouldn't say no.

choosing sides

The most confusing part about becoming an adult, for me, is realizing that all of the things about myself that I thought would just disappear quietly once I was holding a college diploma didn’t actually do that. Confusingly, the inner turmoil caused by having to choose between lining your eyes with cheap black eyeliner and getting into an older boy’s car to smoke cigarettes instead of wearing your khaki skirt to the children’s hospital to volunteer for the National Honor Society does not disappear with puberty, or even with college. The same dilemma – the conflict between becoming the kind of adult you always saw in movies about families with houses that looked clean, and the kind of adult you are just learning exists, the fun kind – is very much alive and real. It was easy for me to assume that adults like Dennis Quaid played in movies were just born that way, with briefcases and matching suits and wives in housedresses who didn’t seem to have to learn to bake pies. Adults like Meg Ryan, with cute apartments and kind of fun jobs that allowed them to have contact with children without being the teacher who had to wipe their snotty noses, were that way because they had chosen to stay single and unloved. And now, even though I have a job and an apartment and three (!) outfits that I bought at Ann Taylor, which my mother says makes me a “real person” who can no longer use plastic silverware, the internal conflict between the adult versions of the people I was in high school has not silently become a non-issue like I anticipated. In fact, it is even more crushing than it felt while I stared down the popular hockey player in a polo shirt who wanted to take me to Homecoming and play mixed doubles with me and the greasy guitar player in tight jeans who may or may not have actually been old enough to buy me a PBR but was able to get me into his show for free. I thought that I would gently float into one of these personas, and my decision to love either money or fun would seem evident and inevitable.

The problem is that both these lifestyles are still slightly appealing. Unfortunately in the adult world, it takes money to have fun, which makes it hard to pick which goal to focus on. I am still equal parts tortured Bohemian who does not brush her hair, sticks metal through her body parts, and enjoys drinking warm beer out of a can while sitting on an amp during a school night and pretending that smoking doesn’t cause cancer, and the aspirational trust fund chaser who swoons at the sight of a jaunty boat shoe and a yacht club membership and dreams of turning in early after putting four brats to sleep in Lily Pulitzer pajamas and looks forward only to the weekend, when it is acceptable to down more than one martini at the club. I seriously cannot decide if I want to make a life out of working at a non-profit in artistically assembled outfits while drinking free trade coffee and dreaming of the day when I will have saved enough of my paltry salary to shop at Whole Foods, or if I would rather pick out color-coordinated linens and volunteer at the children’s hospital and watch as someone else delivers organic wheat germ from Whole Foods to my door.

Eventually I know you have to pick a team. My rants about the ills of consumer society and my desire to distinguish myself through body art and the rejection of hair straightening will shortly stop being endearing, interesting, or excusable. Eventually my parents are going to start looking for the payout that comes after funding my irresponsible young adult years. And I am going to have to decide whether that payout will come in the form of really, really committing myself to the non-profit, or sending in a graduate school application after all, or biting the bullet, straightening my hair, and finding a goddamn husband. I feel like I’m still a child, and I should be able to go on a date at a dive bar and talk about the importance of pretentious artistic expression on Friday, and then clean up to go on a date at the club on Saturday while showing off my ability to sort and categorize cocktail napkins and Christmas card address lists.

I’d like to think that I can make a go of it on the moral high ground, and that I’ll never vote Republican, but it still isn’t that simple. The thing is, even from the moral high ground, a vacation home on Martha’s Vineyard still looks like an awfully fun way to spend the month of August. Even as I renew my bus card, part of me dreams of resting my freshly lipo-ed ass on the soft leather seat of a late model Volvo with state of the art heating and cooling systems as I drive the next generation of WASPs to their various socially acceptable suburban activities. As I consider the logistics of keeping a fish alive in my apartment and decide whether or not it is morally reprehensible to apply for food stamps with my Americorps stipend so I have more money to buy beer, the other half of my brain is envisioning a flock of dogs in various forms of poodle mix romping across my electrically fenced acre as I toss an organic salad for my husband, who is parking his Mercedes in our three car garage.

Part of me knows I can’t be Jack Kerouac forever, that I’ve got to get off the road, that the only reason kids read this book when they’re eighteen is because that’s the only time this book seems reasonable and not like an incredible waste of money and gas. But this part of me almost certainly conflicts with my plans to avoid dating men who can defend a free market society in fifty words or less while whipping out their Daddy’s Platinum cards to pay for our drinks.

i don't want to know what you do all day

So yesterday, I wore a bike helmet while bicycling for the first time in about twelve years. I don’t refrain from wearing a bicycle helmet because I think I’m too cool for head protection, or because I’m an idiot, two reasons which were probably responsible for my carelessness in the past, but simply because I’m (really) lazy and because I think it makes my hair look stupid. Most people would probably classify the last reason as another way to say “I’m an idiot,” but I say tomato/tomato.
So the other day, I bit the bullet and wore the helmet, because I recently made a list of things that responsible adults do that make them look like they are not just masquerading foolishly on the threshold of adulthood. I decided to start practicing these things, because I feel like an imposter, and I need all the legitimacy I can get so I can start buying arugula and wine with two digit prices at Whole Foods without feeling like a shoplifter. One of the things on the list has to do with wearing a bike helmet. Most of the others have to do with not drinking on weeknights, so I decided it was in my best interest to start wearing the stupid helmet. I felt really good about myself in the helmet, like I was taking a ton of vitamins at once or something. Speaking of which, I've been having trouble knocking these items off one at a time:

Things Real Adults Do:
-Understand that cigarettes cause lung cancer, pretty much directly
-Not drink to excess on weeknights (work nights?)
-Wear helmets while bicycling
-Read books because they are on best-seller lists
-Make their beds in the morning and always remember to brush their teeth at night
-Laugh at office-related humor
-Believe that neither tights nor leggings are pants, and dress accordingly.
-Look forward to spending money on "housewares," which include, but are not limited to, scented candles and whicker products. Saving up for these things becomes more exciting than blowing one's paycheck on drugs, pink champagne with cutesy labels, or aspirational clothing.
-Moisturize more than "as needed." Probably because this is proven to prevent wrinkles. Psssh.

I know real adults do way more than that all day, I mean, on an intuitive level, but on a purely superficial level, do they, really? This alone seems like quite enough of a struggle.

Also included: picture of me looking like a cracked-out teenager, if only to demonstrate that we've got an uphill battle ahead of us.

reasons to join a gym:

-I will probably get out of shape if I can't work out after work
-Maybe I will meet friends at the gym?

Reasons that are neither here nor there:
-You need cute work out clothes to work out at a gym, right?
-It is kind of close to the apartment of this guy I know and it could look like I am stalking him? It is something he would assume.

I mean, I am going to join the gym.

i'm just....not

I saw an acquaintance from high school today who told me he was getting married.
I said, "Cool."

i'm not your last girlfriend

Movies about men who have never loved until the met Penelope Cruz make me want to eat a gun. The reason serial daters are continually single is not because they have never met Penelope Cruz, and the reason they're about to run out on you after your second date, before they learn your middle name, is not because you are not her. It's because they suck.

I don't want a long-term relationship either; I have to watch two TV shows at once. I don't want you to call me all the time and tell me what you're eating for lunch and what color socks you're wearing; my phone will probably be lost between the couch cushions anyway, and I'd rather not bother to look for it when you call. I just want you to call me occasionally and ask me to have a beer with you or go on a bike ride with you or something. I want you to think of something really stupid and ridiculous and then do that with me. I'll even hang out with your friends. I get bored too. Maybe we'll kiss, maybe we won't. I don't care. I've seen Sex and the City, but I'm not looking for anyone to buy my Manolos right now. I just want you to let me know what's up.

Call me and lie to me. Tell me you had an okay time last night, but you're probably not going to call me again. Let me know you'll call me from month to month, when you're bored too. Call me and tell me straight up that you just want to be my friend and do friend things with me, which I find wildly more entertaining anyway. I don't care if you're a serial dater. I just want to hang out. Maybe the thing you're running from all the time is exactly what you keep jumping from girl to girl to find, every time. Maybe you are running away from girls who just want to have fun with you because you're too scared they're picturing the ring you're not going to stick on their fingers.

I'm not going to try to change you and I"m not going to try to fall in love with you. Maybe I will, but I probably won't. I am not crazy enough to think that i have the ability to do anything that dozens of other women before me have been unable to do. I'm not like your last girlfriend. I already know you're an asshole.

To the delight of many I’m sure, this is my last column for the Lawrentian. It is probably my last column ever, because honestly would you hire me? In attempting to reflect positively on these past four years, which were of course the zenith of my entire life, I feel that it is only fair to look forward somewhat hopefully to the rest of my life. I will doubtfully ever be able to look this good or have this much fun in a town with only one real main drag, but then again, I will never have to live in a town with only one main drag. There are many things from which I am looking forward to taking a short break. The world of the expensive, Midwestern liberal arts college is a small one, and certain annoyances have plagued my college career, and made me wonder how any one of us will ever succeed at anything.

Soon, I will never have to listen to people pontificate over things that most people who are working to feed their families couldn’t give a damn about, like author’s intent and the presence of anti-feminist themes written into everything ever written ever. Maybe I’m being overly judgmental, and I am just all to eager to leave all of my failures behind. The last quarter of my academic career has proven to be just as unsuccessful as the first half, leaving only a brief, blissful ignorance in the middle, during which time I believed I was smart and good at the things I’d attempted to pursue here. Recently, though, I came to the realization that I am indeed going to have to live with the grades I earned on the two finals I showed up to while drunk. Clearly, in the past four years, I’ve learned a lot – no one thinks you’re the cool quirky kid when you take your finals drunk, even if they are egregiously at 6:30. Many of you will probably come to this same realization soon. You’re not really all that good at your major, and even if you are, does anyone really care that you know a lot about gender studies? If they do then I hate them.

Hopefully, if I befriend some poor kids from state schools, I will never again have to hear about your study abroad experience. Put politely, I don’t care. I’m not impressed that everything about your time in Europe was just so much better than anything could ever possibly be here. Guess what? I’ve been to Europe too. There are a lot of pigeons. Gross. Spending four months in a foreign country just did not give you enough cultural insight to feel as if you truly belong there, or as if you have been bestowed with some God-given talent for universal understanding. You studied in a third-world country, which helped you see poverty in a whole new light, because we sure as hell don’t have any of that here? Good for you. Don’t misunderstand – studying abroad was great. I’m just sick of hearing about it.

Never again will I have to hear about how no one at Lawrence likes you, no one at Lawrence understands you, you could never stand to date any of the boring, awkward, ugly, nerdy [insert mildly damning adjective here] people you’ve met here – not any of the 1400 of us! I will never have to roll my eyes as I hear people extol the charms, among them, infinite understanding, ability to perceive inner beauty, interest in independent rappers, and “fresh” dressing, of the people “in the real world.” These next several years will serve as a test to the theory that Lawrentians neither have, nor can understand, beauty. It’s go time. If people in your “real world,” don’t find you desirable, you’re just going to have to buck up and take a shower.
The bad part about this is that in the real world, I’m probably going to meet people who are pretty and funny and smart and nice. At Lawrence, it is generally fairly easy to find a combination of those two things – usually the last two. I don’t know for sure, but I’ve heard that people with all those qualities exist. I’m sure a couple of them do, and I’m sure I will hate them when I meet them, but hopefully I’ll be able to fake it long enough to make sure one will even accidentally mate with me so I can get at some of those genes for my kids.

I will, also, I’m sure, have to stand in line at discount grocery stores, wondering if it will be possible to microwave my entire dinner, while concurrently wondering if the man behind me with his hand in his sweatpants just looks like a sex offender, or actually is. I will have to deal with real bar rats, and not just Aneesh. It will not be like in Appleton, where going downtown is kind of like making a brief pilgrimage to Disney world to look at all the funny characters, and escaping back to your safe haven, the VR, when you’ve had enough. In the real world, I’m actually going to have no other choice but to stay and drink with the other unemployed people who are interested in dollar beers and free popcorn, instead of retreating back to the VR to hang out with Aneesh.

And I leave you with that, Lawrence University – the opportunity to retreat back to the VR to hang out with Aneesh. Enjoy it while you can, because it is wonderful. As promising as the real world is, don’t ever pass up the opportunity for a little unique Lawrence charm, because as it’s slipping away, you’re going to grab at it as fast as you can, unless you are even more heartless than I have encouraged you to be for the past year and a half.