Cut and Run

It's been many moons since I've written a blog--and for the most part it's because in my grad program all I do is talk about my feelings to a group of people who quite frankly could give a shit less.  Since this is generally what I have done on my blog in the past, I figured it didn't make sense to double-dip.

I do, however, think the time has come for me to write another blog.

Yesterday sucked.  Can I say that again?   Yesterday sucked.  One of the best friends I've ever known died three years ago yesterday.  His death caused me to question and reevaluate my relationship with God, as well as to run away to Europe.  The anniversary of his death is always a hard day for me, although not something I scream to everyone I encounter to remind them to be nice to me because I am fragile. Thus, when some conflict when down in one of my classes yesterday, I was phenomenally ill-equipped to deal at that particular instant.  Like, great, today of all days.   But it got me thinking...

When is it ok to cut and run?   I will make no bones about it, I am currently MISERABLE in grad school.  I know I want to be a school counselor and working with students makes me happy, but does that mean I have to stay in Baltimore where I am lonelier than all fucking hell? When we work with students who are having trouble, one of the first questions we ask is, "who is your support system?"   I have one.   I have a boyfriend who I love and who loves me exactly the way I am (even though that means I break a lot of shit that he has to subsequently fix), I have a group of friends who can drink with me at Tanks or cry with me as I ponder my place in the universe, still more friends scattered all across the globe but with whom I still share an impenetrable bond, and I have a phenomenal family who are on my side no matter what.   What more does one need in life, truly? If all that is waiting for me back home in Ohio--what the fuck am I doing here?!?!?!

Basically I'm wondering, at one point does my own happiness outweigh inconvenience?  I am thinking of transferring to a school back in Ohio, which, will be inconvenient.   I will have to move, re-apply, and ultimately I will become a counselor later than I would if I just decided to stay and tough it out in Baltimore.  On the flip side of the coin, isn't life too short to spend it doing something that you hate?   At the end of the day aren't the people you love and who love you all that matters?   My friend who passed away touched the life of every single person he met and it was a honor to have known him.  He was gone, however, in an instant.  This reminds me life is fleeting.  If I were to die tomorrow what would I do?  Finish my homework?  Make arrangements so that my furniture could go to storage?  No, I'd be on the first plane, train, bus, rental car, or rickshaw home to Ohio.  Does that mean I have my answer?

I don't know.   I don't want to throw away the time and money and effort I've heaped into moving to Baltimore and starting grad school, but I also know, the only time I feel human is when I'm home visiting or when people from home are visiting me.  Do I want my life to be just a prison sentence for the next 9 months?! I've pulled a ninth month stint before though in all fairness, and I can't remember it as being that bad.  I am referring of course, to the time I spent gestating inside my mother.

And of course some people may say the fact that I'm allowing my feelings to be a possible deciding factor makes me over-dramatic or a quitter or a weak person.  I haven't made my decision yet, but I don't see anything weak about removing oneself from a horrible situation that makes one unhappy.   And I also don't see anything weak about staying and getting what you came for.  

Tapes

I've mentioned it before, but it's worth saying again--I believe everyone has tapes that they play over and over again in their heads.   A demonic little elf inside your head repeating your once fleeting thoughts of self-loathing over and over again until they become as unremarkable and familiar as a lamp or a chair.  My tapes tell me I'm fat and clumsy.  My tapes tell me I'm a disaster literally and metaphorically.  My tapes tell me I'm stupid and I always say the wrong thing in any given situation. My tapes tell me everyone in my life secretly hates me and will eventually leave me to die alone and be eaten by my cat. My tapes are the worst.

Now, these tapes are either on low volume or full blast depending on the time of my life.  Certain situations exacerbate the tapes, for instance when I facebook-stalk people who I perceive to be better than myself and find, much to my chagrin, are indeed much better and proving it with pictures for the world to see.  The perfect girl from my AP government class is engaged and has graduated for law school?  The tapes go up to an 11.

Another instance that turns up my tapes, is unfortunately, my current relationship.  Now let me start off by saying I love my boyfriend.  He's wonderful and considerate and funny and smart and by my summation, damn near perfect.   And that's the problem.   He is nearly perfect and I am just the worst.  I spent the last week staying in his house in Dayton and I found terrifying things.   His kitchen cabinet looks like a pottery barn ad.   Despite the opaque wooden door, the glasses are lined up like toy-soldiers and the plates are stacked with alternating colors.  Also noteworthy, he rolls up the bag instead the cereal box, and turns the tightly sealed bag sideways inside the box to prevent staleness.  I sometimes don't close the cardboard tab! The juxtaposition between his "in control" and my "out of control" is enough for a Dharma and Greg-esque sitcom except I'm not laid back enough to be a hippie. And it makes me feel grossly inferior.  

And it's not just physical organization.   My boyfriend doesn't let bills pile up in the corner until he's so stressed out he cries and calls his dad to talk him through it.  I do though.  My boyfriend doesn't use a hair-straightener to iron his clothes sometimes.  And my boyfriend doesn't get hurt feelings about every insult, real or perceived that has ever plagued his entire life.  So, alright, you get the punchline already, "what do I bring to this relationship?"

Very little.  I actually can't seem to come up with anything.  It's these damn tapes.  So it's a little stressful.   It causes most of our fights and all of my worry.  And why?  Why why why can't I just let myself be happy?  Because I am.  Or I would be if I would stop inventing things to be worried about.   First I was stressed about my job, then I was stressed about leaving my job, then I was stressed about grad-school and now that I'm on summer vacation, having received A's in all my classes, respsonsibility-free I'm worried... that my boyfriend who loves me---doesn't?  Weak sauce.

First things first, I'm going to try to write more in this blog ( I know it's been forever) and I'm doing it not because anyone cares (except for you, Mom) but because it helps me exorcise some of my demons. And gives me a chance to take a long, hard look in the mirror and say, "Enough, crazy!  Also "Your bra isn't hooked right" (I say that to myself in the mirror a lot).

Annie-Isms

--Today, one of my professors commented that she was trying to include some of my "Annie-isms" into her vocabulary. She said this after I said I was "jazzed" about something (I'm not sure what, but whatever) and she said, "I get pretty jazzed about X, too."  Now I've always prided myself on my colorful turns of phrase and I'm pretty "jazzed" others are starting to notice the great care and effort I put forth toward sounding fun and sassy.

I thought it would be a fun little exercise to share some of my greatest hit "Annie-isms" with you.  Now, disclaimer, I did NOT make most of these up.  I am not claiming to have done so.  I just thought it might be fun to read these out loud, and pretend its me next to you, whispering into your ear--but really, I can't whisper so the whole room heard whatever I just said.

Ways to Express Excitement:

-I'm jazzed!
-I'm stoked!
-I'm amped!
-I'm geeking out!
-On board!
-Tots McGoats!
-Tits!
-Big fun!

Ways to describe/demean others:

-That girl be cray cray (crazy)
-That guy is a chotch* or he is chotch*-tastic
* Synynom for "bro" a chotch pops his collar, ironically hi-fives, calls his friends "bro," "brah," or "broski," probably was a member of Sigma Chi, and he has a sense of entitlement because he a) grew up in martha's vineyard and/or is very rich b) thinks he's really good-looking c) thinks he's really smart (he probably is none of these things)
-That girl has been plowed more than a corn field/ that girl's legs have been split more than logs  (she has questionable morals said in a fun, folksy way)
-Bitch, nobody hit your buzzer! (Stop talking, no one cares what you think)
-Pump the breaks (slow down, calm down)
-Slow your roll (see above)
-You're grounded (said to another adult when they're being sassy)
-Hottie Patottie or Hottie Body (someone who is sexy)
-Jackwagon! (a more polite form of jackass--"some jackwagon just stole my barking space" )
-Ass clown (Asshole)



Randos (Random)

-Obvi (obviously)
-I'm sweating like a whore in church! (I'm hot)
-Fomo (stands for "fear of missing out")
-I'm going to pop my eardrums with a ballpoint pen (This is soooo boring or painful)
-under-gunders (underwear)
-beautiful strangers (breasts, as in "Oh wow, my beautiful strangers almost popped out")
-Redonc (Ridiculous)
-No prob, Bob (but, of course)
-I don't know about all that (whatchu talking about, Willis?!)
-Ultra-ed (When one, especially a specific one, gets drunk on Michelob Ultra)

Make New Friends

I'm usually a pretty bold lass.  I've been known to strike up conversations with total strangers I find to be attractive (which is how I met my boyfriend, but in my mind I've reconstructed it so he approached me) and to always say exactly on my mind even if that is a jerking off motion in the middle of a meeting.   I don't mind drawing attention to myself and sometimes I mind my manners even less.   So, why is it that this past task was daunting beyond all comprehension?

What task you say?   Well, it was only an email.  But this email, involved asking a girl to be my new friend.   It's not my typical M.O. to beg for friendship, but after two weeks and few other promising leads, I'm getting a little desperate.   This particular girl, my parent's and my server at the restaurant we went to just after my parents finished helping me move in to my apartment (so, about two weeks ago).   That night the kitchen ran out of salmon and our order took forever and we were sitting outside and it started raining, just all bad things.  This server apologized and my parents and I after having been dealing with the fucktard movers just laughed and told her that we were having a wonderful, relaxing evening compared to the maelstrom of shit that had been going on the past few weeks.  She started chatting with my mom and dad and I, and when she heard I was new in town (as she herself had been just a few years ago) she gave me her card (she was a lawyer on the side--which shows how bad the economy is) and told me to get in touch with her if I needed anything.   I understood now, and I understood at the time, that this is what one calls an "empty promise."  She was just being nice and polite and she counted on the fact that someone, a grown adult, would never be stupid enough to actually try to cash in the offer.   Well, I wasn't stupid enough.   But I am desperate for companionship and if I can call her bluff and guilt her into hanging out with me even just once--mission accomplished.

Making new friends without current "wing friends" is next to impossible.   Getting dates?  Hell yeah, I could go to Barnes and Noble and walk away with some dude's number and a dinner invitation.  Now, don't misunderstand, I don't think I'm particularly attractive or even particularly adept at flirting--it's just that easy.   Anyone can get dates!   But friends?   It's not weird to ask a stranger on a date, it's super weird to ask a stranger on a friend date.  And it's also much worse to be rejected from a friend date than an actual date.  You can rationalize a real date rejection, "he just wasn't that into me" or, "there is no spark, no chemistry".  How can you rationalize that someone doesn't want to be your friend.   There is only one logical explanation--they don't like you as a human.  It's not that they don't want to bone you, it's that they don't want to occupy the same room, breathe the same air, and drink coffee with you.  Ugh. Talk about a blow to your self-esteem!

Just like money, you need friends to make friends, and damn it, I am a little in the red as of right now.  So, this deficit inspired me to make a bold move. and I kind of hope it doesn't blow up in my face.

My Few Days in Grad School or Why It is Never A Good Idea to Be Yourself

It's been a year since I left school.   So upon starting grad school a week ago, I was feeling a little shaky and nervous about being back in the academic setting.  One of my biggest concerns, as was my biggest concern in first grade, is still, "But what if the other kids don't like me?"  So, always quick to be the social director, last week Wednesday I organized an outing for the following Saturday, with the hope that if all the students in my cohort got together socially, we would all let down our hair and get to know each other a little better.

A group consisting of me and six other people from my program met up in Fells Point (a frequent hot spot of the young professionals) for dinner and, it was my assumption, drinks afterward.  During dinner, I began to get the feeling that these were not necessarily my peeps.  Like, maybe these people weren't going to be my best audience.  Like, "oh shit, I'm so alone."   First, there was very little letting down of hair.   All everyone wanted to talk about seemed to be classes and homework assignments.   And not "fun" talking like, "Do you think our professor is a lesbian?" or "That book is instant Valium" but terrible, soul-crushing, "I am concerned about getting extra credit" minutia of the worst order.   One of my biggest pet peeves is people who flip out on the first day of class; asking for specifics on distant assignments, inquiries about extra credit, concern over material covered on a test, etc.   Everyone knows the first day of class is a run-out-the-clock situation where professors try to intimidate you into thinking their class will be challenging, but in reality, if you calm the fuck down and let things unfold as they will, everyone is fine.   Or, at least I thought everyone knew this.    I was ok (but annoyed) with the mind-numbing questions on the first day of class.  But not on Saturday night.  Not in a bar.  Not when a sister's trying to get her drink on.

Of course, since I am a well adjusted human being, the way I tried to combat this terribleness and inject a little fun into the situation was by encouraging frivolous talk and drinking.  This may have backfired.  I'm not only one of the youngest in my program, but now I'm pretty sure everyone thinks I'm the booziest.  And the ditziest.  Which sucks, because I promise I'm actually really smart!  And I mean, one can only talk about being passionately committed toward education for youths (youths: how ridiculous is that word?!  It was used so many times in orientation by my peers) so much.   Sometimes you need to make a dick jokes.   And I'm sorry, I refuse to participate in a one-upmanship conversation about who cares the most about suffering children.   Especially when there is a street full of bars in the near vicinity!

So basically the night was a bust.   I got drunk and flirted with the waiter (who brought the table free shots--you're welcome, guys) while comments directed at me ranged from merely boring to almost hostile.   I have been around enough mean girls to know that an insult followed by a "just kidding" is still an insult. Most bitchy comments disguised as jokes concerned my youth, inexperience, and proposed shallowness...but whatever.  It hurt my feelings, I won't say it didn't.  But at least now I don't have to pretend to like people for the sake of civility.   Ya'll opened that Pandora's box, and now...It's on, bitch.

  Everyone ended up leaving around 10 pm after dinner and one bar which was deemed too loud (it was a quiet dive bar with acoustic music).  I convinced one of my other cohorts to stay until midnight, but I was drunk and disappointed and frustrated that no one seemed to like me, so I'm sure I wasn't as "fun" a brand of tipsy as I'd have hoped.

So now, in class I roll my eyes and think, "Who are these people?!" to myself at various intervals, mostly when I hear the word, "youths". Everyone else is shocked and appalled by how insensitive I am, and also is probably questioning my ability to work effectively with children.   So that's fun.  Luckily I have some other avenues of friendship to pursue, but I'm telling you, when meeting new people--if you're me--"be yourself" is the worst advice possible.

Moving and Monkey Business

Moving across the country is always a stressful endeavor.   Especially when the moving company you hired for the very purpose of making your stress dissipate has fucked things up at every turn.  Seriously.   They signed a contract specifying pickup of my stuff from Dayton between the 22nd and 23rd and drop off in Baltimore no later than the 24th.   I still do not have my stuff.   And it was PICKED UP in Dayton on the 24th at 10pm (when they specifically stated they would come between 3pm and 5pm) by ONE GUY whom was responsible for the entire move.   The man my mother spoke with initially when she was deciding whether or not to hire this company assured my mother a team of experts would assemble and disassemble everything, and all we would have to do is point.   No lifting required.  Well... since ONE GUY can't do everything by himself, and they only sent ONE GUY, guess what happened?  Yep.   My dad disassembled everything and then me, my dad, and one recruited volunteer (to whom I will always be eternally grateful) hauled everything out to the truck while the guy sort of "supervised" us and loaded stuff into the truck.   He was pissy and not helpful because he had been called away from vacation when the original drivers had a lover's quarrel and refused to work together anymore (which the moving company neglected to tell us at 3pm when we called, 5pm when we called, 5:30 when we called, and 9pm when we called--each time we were assured everything was fine).  But we all rolled with it.   Accepting that maybe this was a lesson in patience and the driver assured us that he would deliver to Baltimore last Saturday evening at 8pm.

 Well, of course he didn't--and he wouldn't answer his cell and the moving company of course was on vacation for Memorial Day, so we didn't hear from anyone until yesterday morning.   The representative said our driver had been called away on a "family emergency," which is odd because I think he just ended up going vacation like he originally intended.  I don't begrudge a vacation, but he looked in our faces and lied, and then didn't have the cojones to call us and let us know of his change in plan. He returns tonight, so the absolute earliest he could come is tomorrow night.  But I kind of doubt he's coming tomorrow night. And no one at the company has any idea why my family might be upset.  Or what we expect them to do.  Here's what I think we're going to do 1) Call the Better Business Bureau 2) Call the Attorney General's office and report consumer fraud 3) Sue them for breach of contract 4) Let everyone of you know ALL STAR MOVERS is an evil company.  They're liars and incompetent idiots.  Tell your friends.   A pox, I say, a pox!

I've ranted about the moving company, but that's not the only thing that's been making this adjustment so difficult and scary.   As a kid I used to think it would be fun and exciting to jump off the top of the monkey bars, then I would climb up on top of them, look at the grass maybe 6 feet below, and think "what the fuck was I thinking?!".   I would stand up there frozen for a while, not knowing whether to bite the bullet and jump to earn my sister's respect (she was always watching and encouraging me to do things that would culminate in me breaking all my appendages) or whether to seek an escape route.   That's what Baltimore feels like.  I'm at the top of the monkey bars; I've quit my job, moved to a new city, started a new career path, left all my friends, and now I'm in an unfurnished apartment lonely and scared in an unfamiliar town.  Do I jump?   Is it even possible at this point to tell the movers to get my stuff back to Dayton and beg for my old job and apartment?  I've seen Carrie do it in the "Sex and the City Movie" so I'm pretty sure it can be done.  Is there anyone to tell that this was just a horrible mistake?

In my right mind, I don't think this is a mistake.  I am excited.  Orientation was horrible and boring and overwhelming yesterday but I don't know of any orientations that aren't horrible and boring and overwhelming.   I cried every day on the first day of school grades kindergarten through senior year in college (and ok, also when I started my job) so the fact that yesterday was my breaking point and I cried in the corner of my empty apartment and felt sorry for myself for a full 5 minutes doesn't actually mean anything unusual.  I am bad with change, but I obviously felt like the time was right to make one, so really, can I complain?  And I'm sooo scared about making new friends yet a senile old woman came up to me at a coffee shop and chatted with me for like 20 minutes about her daughter's experience at Cambridge in medieval studies, so obviously, even when I don't want to (I had a pretty clear "I'm not interested" look on my face as she approached me) I make friends left and right.  Also I had a beer and played trivia last night with my friend from UD's older brother.

I'm scared and feeling vaguely homeless, but I remain undeterred.  I will make friends.  Everything will work out.  I will jump off the monkey bars.

Labels

My mom used to say to me, "Just because someone says it, doesn't make it so." Not, as one would think in response to conspiracy theorist denying the moon landing, but instead usually in response to mean names kids would call me.  There have been some doozies.  I have been labeled with a lot of bad titles over the course of my life and I remember almost every single one (being called a cunt by an eight year old girl this year has to be a highlight).   I also, assumably, have received an almost equal amount of compliments--I have a much harder time recalling any of the those.  Although the manicurist the other day told me I had "weak nails but great nail beds," and I'll always cherish that.  I know people have told me many lovely things about myself in cards or at birthdays or in the form of whispered sweet nothings while cuddling on the couch, but they allude me.  Whereas every time I was called "fat," or "stupid," or "selfish," or "spoiled," is so vivid in my mind it's practically time and date stamped.

Isn't it odd the self-perceptions we form?  I associate myself more closely with the combination of the insults than, try as I might, I ever will be able to associate myself with the compliments.   I've said before that I think we think of ourselves as we were in high school.  This is why there are 45 year old women dancing on tables at nightclubs because they still think of themselves as the hottie patotties, and likewise, there are beautiful, intelligent, well-rounded women that refer to themselves as "ugly ducklings".  And who hasn't seen an old man with a pot belly trying to pick up a twenty-somehting in the bar, and maybe, even referencing his illustrious football career which coincidentally ended before the object of his advances was even born.    Years of being unexceptional has caused my self-perception to be skewed apparently,  because I'll say things like "I'm actually very shy" or "I am terrible at meeting new people," which are outlandish enough to illicit groans of protest from anyone in attendance.

One of the best things about moving to a new city is the ability to start over.   The labels and connotations people have hoisted upon you become null and void, and with the help of a "Clueless"-esque makeover montage, you can reinvent yourself into something new.   As I contemplate my move to Baltimore, I'm excited about the prospect of taking some of the newfound confidence that comes from living on my own and excelling at a job with me.  The question that keeps popping into my head, however, is what if I take the other stuff too?   What if I take all the labels and baggage from eighteen years of being the missing puzzle piece stuck under the couch that doesn't really belong anywhere?  

I'm slapping labels on all my boxes with bright pink duck tape, "Kitchen," "Living Room," and the catchall "?!,"  but while some of my bedding might accidentally end up in my kitchen (I really am an appalling packer), the mislabeling that concerns me most of all is the mislabeling I've been known to put upon myself.