One of my best qualities (not to brag) is the ability to recognize people who are smarter than me. I know this doesn't sound like it would be difficult, but I have a real knack for knowing when I'm in way over my head and need to call in someone who doesn't often get overwhelmed and retreat to her tub for a bubble bath with a side of vodka. Similarly, I know when someone is interesting and talented and I make it my business to cozy up to them and live vicariously through their accomplishments. And I don't just mean in my professional and academic life--I do this in my personal life as well. My closest confidantes are shooting stars.
Katie, one of my few remaining friends from highschool, has a hilarious blog and is currently living the dream at a prestegious PR firm in NYC where she attends parties with Loraine Schwartz. One of my other friends from highschool is a musical prodigy, and I don't mean expert level on Guitar Hero, I mean he composes symphonies in his leisure time. My prom date speaks 4 languages fluently. My main gay, within two years of taking dance classes, landed a role in "Chicago" and a position at a dance company. My roommate in college won a legion of awards from the education school. My other roommate won best female ROTC cadet in two states. And then there's me...
I do not possess any of these talents. But I am really good at surrounding myself with people who do. Which I like to think is an accomplishment in itself. Not everyone has a list of friends this impressive. I like to think of myself as a better looking Gertrude Stein, surrounding herself with the best of the best in art, music, intellectual pursuits, etc. Or a more apt metapohor, the token ugly chick in a sorority full of bouncy blondes who through a combination of pity and the desire to look inclusive, made it through the rush process.
One of the highest compliments I could ever recieve is when my friends look to me for advice of any kind. Katie sometimes asks for input on her blog, and I feel like a total rockstar. Except, I also am selfish, so if I come up with a good idea I want to take it for my less-hilarious blog. Like I suggested she do a "favorite things," podcast--and now I'm kicking myself because I think I could make that really funny if I say my favorite things are "Coffee stains on a white blouse, a blouse which incidentally pops open at inoportune times" or "using vaseline as lipgloss because Cover Girl wants like 8$ for that shit and you can also use the vaseline for when your nose gets raw from blowing it too much." I'm like a whiter, skinnier, less omniscent version of Oprah.
I used to feel really inferior in comparison to my friends, who have gone on to bigger, better things while I stayed in Dayton and got a job. I get panicky when I realize my only Miss America talent is a sub-par dinsoaur impression, that's only funny because I am so committed to making people laugh I put all pride aside. But, I am proud of my friends and only slightly jealous--but hopefully sometime soon I'll do something kind of cool that my friends can brag about and take undue credit for. Just like I do for them.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Friday, September 9, 2011
The Women
I have to be honest. It's taken me a really long time to see the intrinsic value of female companionship. Even though I'm a feminist, my reasoning behind the quest for female equality isn't because I think there is anything particularly special about women. To quote Amy Poehler playing Hillary Clinton in a Saturday Night Live skit, "I didn't want a woman to be president! I wanted to be president and I just happen to be a woman!" This is sort of how I feel about feminism I don't think women in any way are smarter, more empathetic, or more capable than men. But I think I am smart, empathetic, and capable and I happen to be a woman. Thus there must be more of us out there and those smart, empathetic, and capable individuals shouldn't be handicapped because of their gender. In my women studies classes, however, I never "got" the attitude that women are somehow superior to men in terms of any qualitative asset. I heard argument after argument about how "women can solve all the world's problems if men got out of the way," and that all men knew was aggression and destruction. I thought those arguments were pure, unadulterated, bullshit. I've known some pretty stupid women and I find it hard to imagine they could reorganize a closet, let alone solve the world's problems. Similarly, I have known some pretty pacific men. If I had to rephrase, I would say "people could solve all the world's problems if other stupid people got out of the way" and all a lot of people know is aggression and destruction. Such an inordinate amount of faith in women puzzled and enraged me.
 |
| "I just happen to be a woman" |
My attitude probably comes from my earliest experiences with the "fairer sex" (said with quite a bit of sarcasm). In middle school I witnessed girls do things to each other (mainly to me) that were so cruel and manipulative Machiavelli himself would probably have advised them to take it down a few notches. I never have surrounded myself with female company, preferring the no bullshit approach of most of my male friends, not to mention their ability to appreciate a good dick joke. This trend continued into high school and college, where I found my niche as fabulous best friend to still-in-the-closet gay men. It was perfect, we laughed at the bitchy mean girls and were also able to covetously skim the J. Crew catalogue.
Anytime I've tried to participate in some "sisterhood" endeavor its been an absolute disaster. And I have tried. I was a cheerleader in high school but I failed to adequately grasp how important it was to wear spandex and act superior, and while the other cheerleaders gushed they would be bonded forever because of the experience, I fantasized about my teammates getting hit by a train, bows and pom poms flying. In college for about two minutes I toyed with pledging a sorority, but after nearly choking on my own vomit when one of the sorority presidents opened a rush ceremony with the line, "Some people come to college to find a husband, I came to find my bridesmaids" I decided my gag reflex was just too sensitive.
 |
| Welcome to my own personal and private hell... |
So it was a surprise to everyone, and especially to me, that right out of college I landed a job at an office which is exclusively employed by women. You couldn't imagine the arguments and personality clashes that ensue from the excessive amount of estrogen in the atmosphere. Also, needless to say, every day is a fashion show because someone is wearing a pair of shoes/headband/dress/jacket that is totally adorable. This irritates me and makes me think maybe there is something wise in confining females to the kitchen without drivers licenses. Then I remember, there are smart, empathetic, capable members of my gender out there. Somewhere.
But lately as I've bonded with a select motley crew of my coworkers, I'm beginning to reformulate my stance on intra-female friendships. I thought about this as I was out with two of my coworkers, Sam and Claire, drinking bloody mary's and laughing so hard I thought I'd crack a rib--I love having female friends. I never understood why it was necessary before, because if I wanted to talk fashion or gossip I could always just round up a gay, and I wouldn't have to worry about them being jealous if I started talking to a boy they secretly liked (thank God we fish from a completely different pond.) Recently, however, I am realizing how much fun a "night out with the girls" can be, and that a lot of the competition, insecurity, and bitchiness subsides after schooling ends. Instead, you're left with the things you have to common, which strangely enough, seems to extend well beyond similar genitalia. I guess I'm a convert. I still don't think they're superior, but I've found a pretty cool bunch of smart, empathetic, and capable ladies.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Diary of a Mad, Cashew Woman
I don't mean mad in the charming sense that British people use it-- I mean, literally mad. To properly illustrate my rage, I'll allude to a film. In a pivotal scene in "Never Been Kissed" unlucky in love Josie, nicknamed, "Josie Grossie" in her awkward highschool days screams to the heavens, "I'm not JOSIE GROSSIE anymore!" Got that? Ok, MY rage is not liberting and coming to grips with highschool demons--I'm just screaming, "GOD FUCKING DAMNIT" because the cat knocked over the packet of Good 'n Plenty's and I really wanted some but even I'm above eating it off a cat-hair coated carpet. That's the kind of mad I've been lately.
Luckily, there have been ample outlets for me to display my rage. Yesterday for a work fund-raiser, I was invited to participate in a full-contact game of blindfolded musical chairs. In the game, participants are blindfolded and one less chair than the number of players are scattered randomly around a room. Every player has to grope blindfolded for a chair and then the player left without a chair is eliminated. With my rage and anger and possibily, I don't know, a little testosterone I was primed for action. I kicked off my high heels and did the MC Hammer shuffle all around the room, keeping low, agile like a panther or some similar graceful jungle cat. And then someone got in my way. What was my reaction? Did I try to avoid them? No, I straight up made a blindfolded attempt at close-lining them which thankfully was unsuccessful, because I don't know if I could have played it off as an accident. What is wrong with me?
I also recently have been having very eloquent and angry conversations with myself, directed at people who piss me off. That co-worker who snapped at me today? Well I gave her a twenty minute piece of my mind, except she wasn't there--I was just talking to myself furiously in my car. So furiously, I'm sure that passersby thought I was having a bluetooth conversation with a tax collector or something. Thank God for bluetooths by the way, without them how would I play off the frequent instances during which I talk to myself in public?
I don't know where all this rage is coming from, but I kind of dig it. While cursing profusely this morning I jumpstarted my car in five inch heels after leaving the lights on all night even after my mother explicitedly reminded me to turn them off. Ok, so it was stupid--but you have to admit there's something sexy about a mad woman in heels doing mechanical work. Oh you don't admit that? Well fuck you, nobody hit your buzzer.
...Let's see how long this lasts.
Luckily, there have been ample outlets for me to display my rage. Yesterday for a work fund-raiser, I was invited to participate in a full-contact game of blindfolded musical chairs. In the game, participants are blindfolded and one less chair than the number of players are scattered randomly around a room. Every player has to grope blindfolded for a chair and then the player left without a chair is eliminated. With my rage and anger and possibily, I don't know, a little testosterone I was primed for action. I kicked off my high heels and did the MC Hammer shuffle all around the room, keeping low, agile like a panther or some similar graceful jungle cat. And then someone got in my way. What was my reaction? Did I try to avoid them? No, I straight up made a blindfolded attempt at close-lining them which thankfully was unsuccessful, because I don't know if I could have played it off as an accident. What is wrong with me?
I also recently have been having very eloquent and angry conversations with myself, directed at people who piss me off. That co-worker who snapped at me today? Well I gave her a twenty minute piece of my mind, except she wasn't there--I was just talking to myself furiously in my car. So furiously, I'm sure that passersby thought I was having a bluetooth conversation with a tax collector or something. Thank God for bluetooths by the way, without them how would I play off the frequent instances during which I talk to myself in public?
I don't know where all this rage is coming from, but I kind of dig it. While cursing profusely this morning I jumpstarted my car in five inch heels after leaving the lights on all night even after my mother explicitedly reminded me to turn them off. Ok, so it was stupid--but you have to admit there's something sexy about a mad woman in heels doing mechanical work. Oh you don't admit that? Well fuck you, nobody hit your buzzer.
...Let's see how long this lasts.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Unsolicited Dating Advice
Recently, well not so recently anymore, I broke up. And like every human mammal, when faced with a taxing situation I rely on previous experience and learned insights to deal with it. And while experience has taught me to laugh at myself, listen to my mom, and always pack extra undies--it has not taught me how to be attractive to the opposite sex.
In middle school I think I was at the pinnacle of my attractiveness (that sentence just made Chris Hanson want to sit me down in the kitchen set of "To Catch a Predator). But I'm serious. By eighth grade I had mastered the art of blue, sparkly eye shadow, laughing at unfunny things boys said just to boost their already inflated egos, and the ability to pretend to be whomever I thought the boy in question would enjoy. He liked sports? Toss me a football! He liked dumb girls? Holding a pencil is hard! He liked conservative girls? Abortion is murder!
Sadly, this period of unstoppable appeal didn't last very long. Sometime around sophomore year of high-school I began questioning this tried and true method of man-snatching. I was exhausted and bad at being desirable anyway. The spark-plug shaped, stocky, loud, little rabble rouser in me just would not be contained under a cloud of giggles and Bath and Body Works perfume. I stopped worrying about intimidating my male classmates and more about being educated, and worst of all, I started becoming confident in voicing my own opinions. Can you say boner shrinker? And this trend has continued. While I am not beyond rocking a push-up bra or a short skirt or even a stiletto heel, these tricks can only camouflage the ball-busting bitch underneath for so long. Anecdote time. A man on a date once told me "football is a metaphor for his life. It's about being mentally tough" I told him a) his life must be preeeeetty homoerotic, what with all the men in tight pants and ass-slapping b) that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard and c) I could tell we had nothing in common, so thanks, but no thanks. Wrong! Middle school Annie would have known better. She would have tried (probably unsuccessfully--but mature Annie didn't even try) to smile and nod and tell him how fascinating she thought he was.
So I'm stuck with this. I have this problem. And worse I keep forgetting it is, in fact, a problem. I think I'm kinda cool. Kinda too cool to put up with bullshit. So dating in today's world is a minefield. I will talk religion and politics on a first date--and I will straight-up tell my first date I disagree with his views on either. Also, I do this Jurassic Park spitting dinosaur impression which usually involves me sending flecks of spit airborne across the table onto my dinner partner's face... Yeah, Emily Post would bust a spleen in anger if she saw me whip out that little gem.
So while some girls are calling their significant other "my handsome" or making him cookies, I'm arguing about gentrification and chewing with my mouth (slightly!) open. My advice? Be like those girls, be like Middle School fembot me, but definitely don't be like the "true me" I am now. Then again, in my own coy little way I can tell you sometimes your mom was right--being yourself works. ::Wink:: (again with my mouth open)
In middle school I think I was at the pinnacle of my attractiveness (that sentence just made Chris Hanson want to sit me down in the kitchen set of "To Catch a Predator). But I'm serious. By eighth grade I had mastered the art of blue, sparkly eye shadow, laughing at unfunny things boys said just to boost their already inflated egos, and the ability to pretend to be whomever I thought the boy in question would enjoy. He liked sports? Toss me a football! He liked dumb girls? Holding a pencil is hard! He liked conservative girls? Abortion is murder!
Sadly, this period of unstoppable appeal didn't last very long. Sometime around sophomore year of high-school I began questioning this tried and true method of man-snatching. I was exhausted and bad at being desirable anyway. The spark-plug shaped, stocky, loud, little rabble rouser in me just would not be contained under a cloud of giggles and Bath and Body Works perfume. I stopped worrying about intimidating my male classmates and more about being educated, and worst of all, I started becoming confident in voicing my own opinions. Can you say boner shrinker? And this trend has continued. While I am not beyond rocking a push-up bra or a short skirt or even a stiletto heel, these tricks can only camouflage the ball-busting bitch underneath for so long. Anecdote time. A man on a date once told me "football is a metaphor for his life. It's about being mentally tough" I told him a) his life must be preeeeetty homoerotic, what with all the men in tight pants and ass-slapping b) that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard and c) I could tell we had nothing in common, so thanks, but no thanks. Wrong! Middle school Annie would have known better. She would have tried (probably unsuccessfully--but mature Annie didn't even try) to smile and nod and tell him how fascinating she thought he was.
So I'm stuck with this. I have this problem. And worse I keep forgetting it is, in fact, a problem. I think I'm kinda cool. Kinda too cool to put up with bullshit. So dating in today's world is a minefield. I will talk religion and politics on a first date--and I will straight-up tell my first date I disagree with his views on either. Also, I do this Jurassic Park spitting dinosaur impression which usually involves me sending flecks of spit airborne across the table onto my dinner partner's face... Yeah, Emily Post would bust a spleen in anger if she saw me whip out that little gem.
So while some girls are calling their significant other "my handsome" or making him cookies, I'm arguing about gentrification and chewing with my mouth (slightly!) open. My advice? Be like those girls, be like Middle School fembot me, but definitely don't be like the "true me" I am now. Then again, in my own coy little way I can tell you sometimes your mom was right--being yourself works. ::Wink:: (again with my mouth open)
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Mindless Birthday Yodeling
Every year, around my birthday, I get very introspective and take inventory on my life and the progress I've made during the year. And when I think about my progress it always helps me to visualize the yodeler game on "The Price is Right" where the little German man slowly makes his way up the mountain. This fits because to me there is no better metaphor for life than a mountain nor for me than a tiny German man. But anway, because my birthday falls around Labor Day, thus around the close of summer, to me it seems to mark a year better than New Year's Eve. Nothing feels like it's starting in January, especially in Ohio where it's balls cold and depressing and bleak as soon as Christmas decorations come down. To me, summer always marked a happy ending and then with the new school year, fall seemed like an optimistic beginning. So, September 3rd seemed like as good a time as any to think about my life and make "resolutions" of sorts.
I've had some bad birthdays. Milestone birthdays epecially tend to be bleak for me. I broke up with my first love a few days after my 18th birthday. He bought me an ice cream scoop when I had hinted (and come on, I'm not a subtle hinter, he knew) for jewelry. Which to me, sends the message, "I don't think you deserve something pretty, but hey Fatass, I know you like icecream..." He also left my party to go buy a new car and then disapeared to go show it off to people, leaving me feeling like an afterthought.
On my 21st birthday I got the stomach flu a few days prior and could barely eat. The idea of a blow-out party with alcohol seemed impossible, but I tried to rally anyway, and my flu-ravaged body couldn't handle even a normal amount of alcohol so I ended up blacking out at 11pm. And even though most people black out on their 21st, it wasn't a vegas-y, "The Hangover," fun-party, kind of blackout, it was more like what happens after squeemish people donate blood.
And then there's this year. It isn't a milestone or anything, but it is the first year I've felt like an adult. And when I take inventory, I feel pretty optimistic about the coming-year. I seem to keep yodeling up that moutain... And looking back, I really don't have regrets. 22 wasn't that bad, but 23 feels like it's going to be amazing. Even though according to the Lily Allen song, "22," everything goes downhill from here.
There have been a lot of changes for me this year. While some of my peers have gotten married, bought houses, or had babies, I instead, ended my first adult relationship, leased an apartment, and adopted a kitten. I also bought my first car with my first ever adult pay check from my first ever adult job. Since I'm not great with change, the culmination of all these things within the last three months should have sent me into a drug-laden tailspin or a homicidal rage--but instead I think I've handled it pretty well. There was definitely a period where I was bored and lonely. I saw my whole life in front of me; stuck in a monotonous job, seeing the same people everyday, following the same tired routine, falling asleep at 10pm and then starting all over again. But I don't think that's going to be the case anymore.
I think I'm gong to figure out how to not suck at my job. I think I'm going to stop trying to acquire Mad Men-esque Betty Draper cooking skills because honestly, who the fuck cares if the cake is homemade or Betty Crocker as long as it tastes good? I think I'm going to try new things, like karoke singing or using Finish dishwasing packs instead of Cascade gel because even though it's a little more expensive, I deserve my dishes to be spakling clean. I am also going to stop worrying if I have food on my face and just assume I do. And mostly, I think I'm going to keep just being myself. A tiny little German yodeler, pluggin' his way up the mountain.
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| Very similar to me. |
I've had some bad birthdays. Milestone birthdays epecially tend to be bleak for me. I broke up with my first love a few days after my 18th birthday. He bought me an ice cream scoop when I had hinted (and come on, I'm not a subtle hinter, he knew) for jewelry. Which to me, sends the message, "I don't think you deserve something pretty, but hey Fatass, I know you like icecream..." He also left my party to go buy a new car and then disapeared to go show it off to people, leaving me feeling like an afterthought.
On my 21st birthday I got the stomach flu a few days prior and could barely eat. The idea of a blow-out party with alcohol seemed impossible, but I tried to rally anyway, and my flu-ravaged body couldn't handle even a normal amount of alcohol so I ended up blacking out at 11pm. And even though most people black out on their 21st, it wasn't a vegas-y, "The Hangover," fun-party, kind of blackout, it was more like what happens after squeemish people donate blood.
And then there's this year. It isn't a milestone or anything, but it is the first year I've felt like an adult. And when I take inventory, I feel pretty optimistic about the coming-year. I seem to keep yodeling up that moutain... And looking back, I really don't have regrets. 22 wasn't that bad, but 23 feels like it's going to be amazing. Even though according to the Lily Allen song, "22," everything goes downhill from here.
There have been a lot of changes for me this year. While some of my peers have gotten married, bought houses, or had babies, I instead, ended my first adult relationship, leased an apartment, and adopted a kitten. I also bought my first car with my first ever adult pay check from my first ever adult job. Since I'm not great with change, the culmination of all these things within the last three months should have sent me into a drug-laden tailspin or a homicidal rage--but instead I think I've handled it pretty well. There was definitely a period where I was bored and lonely. I saw my whole life in front of me; stuck in a monotonous job, seeing the same people everyday, following the same tired routine, falling asleep at 10pm and then starting all over again. But I don't think that's going to be the case anymore.
I think I'm gong to figure out how to not suck at my job. I think I'm going to stop trying to acquire Mad Men-esque Betty Draper cooking skills because honestly, who the fuck cares if the cake is homemade or Betty Crocker as long as it tastes good? I think I'm going to try new things, like karoke singing or using Finish dishwasing packs instead of Cascade gel because even though it's a little more expensive, I deserve my dishes to be spakling clean. I am also going to stop worrying if I have food on my face and just assume I do. And mostly, I think I'm going to keep just being myself. A tiny little German yodeler, pluggin' his way up the mountain.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Weekend Update
Since I know all of you are absolutely riveted by the goings on in my life, I thought I'd provide you with a brief catch-up on my weekend.
Things that happened Friday:
1. I was cranky because of lack of sleep/guilty conscience due to fire (see previous blog entry)
2. My stress ball deflated (see saddest, most ridiculous thing in all the universe)
3. I consumed two watery bloody marys and then bemoaned the lack of necessary amounts of vodka to help me deal with items 1 and 2.
Things that happened Saturday:
1. I got a massage! It was devine, except that the masseuse said he couldn't believe the amount of knots I had in my back and shoulders and asked if I had an "inordinate amount of stress." I think that was a tactful way of asking if I was a neurosurgeon, stripper, or a similarily taxing profession. No, sir, I'm just as neurotic as a character in a Woody Allen movie and this translates into muscle-clenching.
2. I got to see my mom and dad in Columbus for coffee. They are the best people in the world, and I'm always instantly comforted by the way my mom smells and my dad's "weekend casual" untucked shirts and the way he cannot figure out the difference between my mom's "skinny vanilla tall latte" and my "grande latte with skim".
3. I went to a comedy club and was called up on stage and by called up, I mean I said, "I have something really cool I think people should see," and then I proceded to do my Jurassic Park spitting dinosaur impression under the spotlight. I was told, "it would be really great to your swallowing dinosaur" to which I said, "I bet it would." Apparently older drunk men love me--after the show I got a lot of, "hey Annie, you were hilarious" and even creepier, "Annie, you have hot legs." Thanks, nasty drunk man, I'll put that in my pocket for a rainy day.
Things that happened yesterday:
1. A longer than maybe is ok spooning session with my cat in bed.
2. Reading in a lounge chair by the pool and realizing that as summer closes, my usual shade of white is only half a shade darker but significantly more freckled (so, I'm counting it as a win).
3. 2 hours of work at which I was so mentally furious that I think my negative cosmic energy jinxed something because it ended up being unecessary and unproductive.
4. An attack of fall allergies which left me wheezing and red-eyed and puffy. After locating Zyrtec things improved significantly while I
5. watched netflix in bed and fell asleep at like 10pm.
That's my recap, how was your weekends, ya'll?
Things that happened Friday:
1. I was cranky because of lack of sleep/guilty conscience due to fire (see previous blog entry)
2. My stress ball deflated (see saddest, most ridiculous thing in all the universe)
3. I consumed two watery bloody marys and then bemoaned the lack of necessary amounts of vodka to help me deal with items 1 and 2.
Things that happened Saturday:
1. I got a massage! It was devine, except that the masseuse said he couldn't believe the amount of knots I had in my back and shoulders and asked if I had an "inordinate amount of stress." I think that was a tactful way of asking if I was a neurosurgeon, stripper, or a similarily taxing profession. No, sir, I'm just as neurotic as a character in a Woody Allen movie and this translates into muscle-clenching.
2. I got to see my mom and dad in Columbus for coffee. They are the best people in the world, and I'm always instantly comforted by the way my mom smells and my dad's "weekend casual" untucked shirts and the way he cannot figure out the difference between my mom's "skinny vanilla tall latte" and my "grande latte with skim".
3. I went to a comedy club and was called up on stage and by called up, I mean I said, "I have something really cool I think people should see," and then I proceded to do my Jurassic Park spitting dinosaur impression under the spotlight. I was told, "it would be really great to your swallowing dinosaur" to which I said, "I bet it would." Apparently older drunk men love me--after the show I got a lot of, "hey Annie, you were hilarious" and even creepier, "Annie, you have hot legs." Thanks, nasty drunk man, I'll put that in my pocket for a rainy day.
Things that happened yesterday:
1. A longer than maybe is ok spooning session with my cat in bed.
2. Reading in a lounge chair by the pool and realizing that as summer closes, my usual shade of white is only half a shade darker but significantly more freckled (so, I'm counting it as a win).
3. 2 hours of work at which I was so mentally furious that I think my negative cosmic energy jinxed something because it ended up being unecessary and unproductive.
4. An attack of fall allergies which left me wheezing and red-eyed and puffy. After locating Zyrtec things improved significantly while I
5. watched netflix in bed and fell asleep at like 10pm.
That's my recap, how was your weekends, ya'll?
Saturday, August 27, 2011
The Fire
Last night I was unceremoniously woken from my usual work-induced stress dream by a high frequency buzzing. My first thought was that my cat had clawed at my ear and punctured my eardrum--which believe me, wouldn't be beyond the realm of possibility. It took me a few groggy seconds to realize the noise was coming from the hallway and was in fact, my buildings fire alarm.
My experience with fire alarms going off in the middle of the night is not unimpressive. In college, our dorm room had a hair-trigger fire alarm that was often activated by illegal hot-pocket microwaving or more likely, bathroom pot-smoking. It went off three or four times that year in the middle of the night, and I, with my Bear Grylls-esque survival instincts would all but stop-drop-and-roll out the door, grabbing nothing, sometimes even forgetting important things like shoes or keys. I blame all those years of elementary school lecturing about "taking nothing" if there was a fire. "Nothing?" I would ask. "Nothing, " it was confirmed. So thanks to the Ohio public school systems, I once hopped from one bare foot to the other in the parking lot of my college dorm, in 40 degree weather because shoes would have counted as "something."
This time, however, I had a little more presence of mind. I put on pants. I grabbed my cellphone and wallet. But then I saw my cat. Should I take her? I figured it was a false alarm, and since Gracie is an illegal squatter in my apartment, I didn't want management knowing there was, in fact, a cat residing with me. Also, I didn't have a kitty carrier, and I figured she would die literally if she ran away, causing me to die emotionally, because like me, she's a bolter, but also like me, she is an "indoor" girl with no survival instincts of any kind. I imagined her running away only to be raped by a tomcat and then eaten by a raccoon (I often also am afraid of this scenario when I'm outside). I decided to let her stay in the apartment.
When I got into the stairwell, however, I knew this wasn't a drill. It reeked of smoke, and as soon as I got downstairs I saw firemen running in, full gear on, axes in hand. A lady franticly grabbed a fireman and said, "Would you go get my son? He's still inside!" I was extremely tempted to swat the woman aside and say, "Fuck your son, my cat's in there!" I resisted this urge. The fireman explained to the woman that all floors but the fourth were fine--and that we would be allowed back in shortly. I relaxed a little. Ok, so no big deal. But then time passed. A good amount of time. And we weren't being allowed back in. Smoke was pouring out of the building. I started to worry even more about Gracie. Would she die of smoke inhalation? Why was I the worst pet owner in the world? Should I send someone after her? Would they laugh at me for being concerned about a cat? This was too much for me to take in the middle of the night. I tried to lay down in my car and maybe snooze a little, but I couldn't because it sucks balls to try and sleep in a car and also because a lot was weighing on my mind.
Finally, they told us we could go back inside--everyone but those living on the fourth floor. Because I live on the fifth floor, however, when I went up the stairwell I could smell the smoke and the chemicals of the fire extinguisher...or the chemicals of the meth lab that started the fire in the first place. Nothing would surprise me. When I got into my apartment, the smell was still in the air, but I couldn't tell if it was just burned into my nose memory or it actually got into my apartment. And then there was Gracie. Now, you can say I'm crazy, but I swear to God she looked at me like Michael Corleone looked at Fredo. "I know what you did," she seemed to say. "That's right, bitch, I know. And it breaks my heart. And also, I'm going to pee in your mouth while your asleep to punish you." I picked her up and cuddled with her and told her I was so sorry and I would have sent someone if I really thought I needed to. But her eyes pretty much said, "Bitch, don't even start."
So to summarize: no sleep, possibly homicidal cat, and the crippling fear that my neighbors downstairs are meth addicts who will one day finish us all in a lab explosion. Sadly, it's not even the worst night I've ever had. Not even my worst night this month. Yeah, think about that.
My experience with fire alarms going off in the middle of the night is not unimpressive. In college, our dorm room had a hair-trigger fire alarm that was often activated by illegal hot-pocket microwaving or more likely, bathroom pot-smoking. It went off three or four times that year in the middle of the night, and I, with my Bear Grylls-esque survival instincts would all but stop-drop-and-roll out the door, grabbing nothing, sometimes even forgetting important things like shoes or keys. I blame all those years of elementary school lecturing about "taking nothing" if there was a fire. "Nothing?" I would ask. "Nothing, " it was confirmed. So thanks to the Ohio public school systems, I once hopped from one bare foot to the other in the parking lot of my college dorm, in 40 degree weather because shoes would have counted as "something."
This time, however, I had a little more presence of mind. I put on pants. I grabbed my cellphone and wallet. But then I saw my cat. Should I take her? I figured it was a false alarm, and since Gracie is an illegal squatter in my apartment, I didn't want management knowing there was, in fact, a cat residing with me. Also, I didn't have a kitty carrier, and I figured she would die literally if she ran away, causing me to die emotionally, because like me, she's a bolter, but also like me, she is an "indoor" girl with no survival instincts of any kind. I imagined her running away only to be raped by a tomcat and then eaten by a raccoon (I often also am afraid of this scenario when I'm outside). I decided to let her stay in the apartment.
When I got into the stairwell, however, I knew this wasn't a drill. It reeked of smoke, and as soon as I got downstairs I saw firemen running in, full gear on, axes in hand. A lady franticly grabbed a fireman and said, "Would you go get my son? He's still inside!" I was extremely tempted to swat the woman aside and say, "Fuck your son, my cat's in there!" I resisted this urge. The fireman explained to the woman that all floors but the fourth were fine--and that we would be allowed back in shortly. I relaxed a little. Ok, so no big deal. But then time passed. A good amount of time. And we weren't being allowed back in. Smoke was pouring out of the building. I started to worry even more about Gracie. Would she die of smoke inhalation? Why was I the worst pet owner in the world? Should I send someone after her? Would they laugh at me for being concerned about a cat? This was too much for me to take in the middle of the night. I tried to lay down in my car and maybe snooze a little, but I couldn't because it sucks balls to try and sleep in a car and also because a lot was weighing on my mind.
Finally, they told us we could go back inside--everyone but those living on the fourth floor. Because I live on the fifth floor, however, when I went up the stairwell I could smell the smoke and the chemicals of the fire extinguisher...or the chemicals of the meth lab that started the fire in the first place. Nothing would surprise me. When I got into my apartment, the smell was still in the air, but I couldn't tell if it was just burned into my nose memory or it actually got into my apartment. And then there was Gracie. Now, you can say I'm crazy, but I swear to God she looked at me like Michael Corleone looked at Fredo. "I know what you did," she seemed to say. "That's right, bitch, I know. And it breaks my heart. And also, I'm going to pee in your mouth while your asleep to punish you." I picked her up and cuddled with her and told her I was so sorry and I would have sent someone if I really thought I needed to. But her eyes pretty much said, "Bitch, don't even start."
So to summarize: no sleep, possibly homicidal cat, and the crippling fear that my neighbors downstairs are meth addicts who will one day finish us all in a lab explosion. Sadly, it's not even the worst night I've ever had. Not even my worst night this month. Yeah, think about that.
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