Friday, April 11, 2014

Growing Older

Last night, I was walking to my car after hot yoga and I ended up behind an older couple chatting, arms linked, and shuffling along the sidewalk­­ at a geriatric pace. My gait guaranteed I would catch up with them, but walking interlinked they were taking up the whole sidewalk and no one looks like a bigger prick than someone who pushes passed an adorable elderly couple, so I slowed down while I tried to figure out my maneuver. And then the old man began to fart.

Admittedly, I checked out backside, half expecting to see his trousers flapping like a flag in a hurricane. I was surprised when they weren't because the sounds coming out of there were like the ass blazing grand marshal of the one man toot parade walking down DC streets, feminine mascot in tow. Most surprisingly, he didn’t flinch; neither did she. They just kept on conversing like farting loud and long enough for the morning birds to hear was common and not at all funny. I, on the other hand, didn't have time to giggle as I quickly picked back up my speed and walked on the other side of the telephone pole to end up in front of the couple.

Once in a safe zone, I began to wonder: Is this what getting old is? Farting your way down city streets; or perhaps is the notion that things like that don’t matter - any and all fucks to give have been long lost, used or discarded. I look forward to the day my mouth is like his ass: Anything that comes out of it is fine; excusable and normal: I'll own it, the public can shove off, and my (hypothetical) husband will still hold my hand. 

Being old is going to be awesome.

However, I have some time to wait; happily, at that. I have a long ways to go before flatulence isn't funny or even acknowledged.  So it bothers me that every time I scroll through my facebook feed; a list of peers that houses the ages of 25 to 35, that there’s always someone claiming: "I’m old", their refusal to acknowledge they're turning one year older, or "I feel old". We are in our prime and my friends; family; acquiescence; random-facebook-friend-I-can’t-remember-how-we-met, are all spouting this dumb shit about how old we are. And we aren’t at all "old"

If they're old, then I'm old. I don't need the reminder that I’m getting older; it's like listening to a clock click down to death. Just knock it off. Stop making me feel like it’s not a privilege to turn 31. And stop insinuating that 30-somethings are ancient when you are 26 and lamenting “God, I’m old”. We’re always older; I’m older now than I was the paragraph before this. So what. Our lives are ahead of us and much of it in good health (God willing) and that's fucking exciting. So what if you got a new number to say when people ask your age. Woo-hoo you made it that far without falling into a sidewalk grate! Or kid just started kindergarten. Way to go; you kept an entire human alive for five years! Or that you got excited for a new shower curtain. It's pink! The human condition is weird. I don't understand why we can't just be excited without deprecating age or accidentally telling a feed who might also be excited about something you think makes you "old", that they're "old" too. They're not; you're not: There are some really cool shower curtains out there.

Growing older is a privilege this generation treats like a monster under the bed. Only there are no monsters under the bed; there never were. And we’re not old; we’re older. And that’s something to be celebrated, not chastised. So until we’re propelling ourselves down the street with the air coming out of our asses, let’s ease up on the “old” talk, shall we.  I’m 30 years young. I have years and years to wait before I can say whatever I want and get away with it. And, anyway, age is a frame of mind. 

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Speculate and Chuckle: An Update

I have an update. Is it about my super duper I'm totally ahead of the curve because we officially get kicked out of our house in 59 days because they want to fix it up and sell it so I definitely have to move by then? No, because I'm so far behind the curve that I'm pretty sure I'm the first runner in the next wave. GUYS, WAIT FOR ME! I haven't applied to any but one job; I haven't even picked out a city, let alone coordinated my move, a place to live or anything else. I'm frantically waving my hands in the air behind the last of the pack while I battle tripping over my own feet and nearly falling on my face...

I'M COMING! HOMELESS HERE! GUYS, GUYS! WAIT FOR MEEEEEE!

Speaking of waiting for me, my update is about the girl who left me at the airport. A couple of the girls who also went to Vegas apparently took it upon themselves to ask her what happened. On the one hand, I have to hand it to her, Ginger didn't try to offer any kind of she's innocent, I'm guilty spin. On the other hand, she outright refused to talk about it. What she would say, however, was that she did strand me at the airport at 11:30p when she knew that we carpooled and I was stuck without her (okay, I added that part for effect - albeit true effect), but she "didn't mean to".

Go ahead and just blink silently at that for a little bit and then laugh, because that's exactly what I did. Baffled, we wondered just how on Earth you accidentally leave someone at the airport. And since she refused to talk and we're still not speaking, I was left to speculate and chuckle: Well gee I know when I got here and went to Vegas and slept in a bed that something was with me for the past five days but I just can't seem to put my finger on it now. (Or text the human when I realized that's what I forgot.) Totally viable excuse: I left the human but it's okay, I didn't mean to leave her there.

I just imagine her slapping her hands together in her defense, pleased with her silence and argument, and thinking to herself "welp, that oughtta do it". Now if you'll excuse me, I'm having a Kevin McCallister moment. 

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Melancholy Maze


It's all fun and games in Janunary...

It stops being fun March 3...

A bit of melancholy takes over. It’s been there for months: It ebbs in flows with the tide of frozen precipitation. It paralyzes me into a state of nothingness. And I can’t help but wonder: Where’s the sun?

And 17th...
It’s hiding again, as it has been for what feels like forever. The cold that’s been biting at our bodies now feels normal, but our pants don’t fit: We’ve acclimated to the cold; the darkness. Now I need the spring to come; change; renewal; motivation; any desire to get out of bed. But the month winds down and we’re five days past spring and it has snowed all day with the dull drone of grey sky looming over our collective heads. We sigh in need of the sun; spring; sociability. Who even wants a window in this mess? Who even wants to meet the challenge of smiling through the pale gray, trapped in the limited visibility of blah?

This looming darkness of a never-ending winter creeps into my mind; stealing laughter and expanding my waistline. “I’m sick of it,” I exclaim yet again. A mental  malaise has plagued this winter, fighting back with hope just to breathe above the water’s blizzard's break: I hope this snow is the last. A winter of challenges and a chosen sort of solitude, personified by Mother Nature, magnified by her wrath; played out like the war in my mind. The clouds win again today, but, I tell myself, the sun is coming. It will be back.
...and twenty fucking fifth!

 This is my version of hope.

At once the green will grow; the sun will shine from sky of a pure and welcoming blue. Flowers will blossom and baby birds will annoy the shit out of us with their morning cries of hunger. Our beds will disinterest and our collective goal will be 72 and happiness. Our Earth will warm. It will. It will. It will. And we’ll be okay again.

Beetlejuice. Beetlejuice. Beetle…

Thursday, March 20, 2014

Vices and the Casualties of War

I have a vice. Okay, I have a few.

1. Shoes. I really like shoes. I'm somewhere around 200 pairs, which, up until last year, I really didn't think was a lot. But honestly, estimate yours, then go to your closet and count them. I'll bet you had more than you thought. Also, growing up, my mom always had a ton of shoes and I never understood why or why women always talked about loving a pair of shoes. 'They're just shoes', thought 10 year old me. But as I am my mother's daughter,I grew up thinking copious amounts of shoes was normal and apparently puberty comes with a set of boobs and a need for more shoes. So there's that.

2. Alcohol. Because alcohol. Although I don't drink when I'm bored or when I'm sad. Or when I'm alone. (Pro tip: If you are texting with someone else who is also drinking then you're not alone.) I’m anxious by a combination of both nature and nurture and alcohol relieves anxiety and pot isn’t legal here yet and the few times I tried it I wasn’t all that impressed anyway. Also, 'real' drugs scare the shit out of me. Plus alcohol tells me to dance - and promises I do it well. So anyway, alcohol is my “drug” of choice and simply by definition counts as a vice. So there’s that one. 
3. Reality television. More specifically, bad reality television; like Bravo TV Real Housewives of Anything Shahs of Sunset bad reality television. (See also: Maury Povich.) I’ve been watching it for years; I will watch it for years to come. I love it; I zone out; it’s my time to space and clear my head and think about nothing but other people’s problems and prospers.

So what’s my point, right?

Well, lately I find myself relating to the problems of the characters on these shows: the villain, the princess, the trouble-maker, the martyr and the interpersonal dynamics and a who said what and who’s fighting with who. Whose side do I want to take and what’s going on behind the scenes; what we the viewer are privy to as the real story. Because, you know, there are always three sides to a story: yours, mine, and the truth. 

For years I’ve said – as I’m sure we all have – my life should be filmed. Anything’s interesting when it’s edited into all the parts where you fall flat on your face or heal a broken heart. These are the universally relate-able things. But lately I can relate to all of the gossip; the mud-slinging; the talking behind backs. Us with the reality vice watch and think: These people are morons, why do they even bother with any of this?

And then we realize: Well duh, they’re being paid

So then I think: Why do I even bother? I'm not being paid. There is no fulfillment in my drama-filled interpersonal dynamics now and I refuse to be cast as the martyr for free just because some guy with a hero complex I mistook as a friend villain-ized me because what he'd heard. I'm not okay with it still; I'm still hurting and there's no fixing it. So I’m walking away. I’m moving away - and with no "going-away" party. (I heard the rumors of a 'should we?' You shouldn't.) That would be like celebrating a war over the grave of casualties. Too many hearts were broken in this battle forged by the sword of one misguided hero's words. Sometimes you just need to keep marching forward, leaving those that have fallen; taking with you only what you've learned (and the few you trust beside you in the next battle).

Saturday, March 8, 2014

Another Sting of the Bee

Today's edition of "Another Letter I'll Never Send", we revisit the issue stemming from my birthday that has yet to go away. Upon seeing all of our mutual friends RSVP to his Super Bowl party that he held last month, which I was clearly spending my first year uninvited to, I wrote a note. It was only after seeing Ginger (who he only knew because of me) and who had just ditched me at the airport three days prior, say that she too would be attending that I felt the need to say something. So I wrote a note. 

And then I realized the situation was probably hopeless as he was unlikely to hear reason or pain - having previously heard how hurt I was before and giving nary a shit about it. So, I thought, why bother. And then like so many in my Letter Graveyard I thought, maybe if I post it here, I'll feel a little better anyway.
January 22, 2014 
For days I've been watching the invite returns roll in for your superbowl party. Friends that are friends because I introduced everyone - all going. I hide it on my feed, someone responds, it returns again. The latest: a girl who almost ran over friends while drunk because they were trying help keep her safe; that ditched me at the airport for waking her - going. And I'm just like "how could anything I've done possibly be worse than this?! 
I can't say that it doesn't hurt that I'm still exiled, still defriended, for hearsay and a young twenty something not speaking up at a birthday-gone-awry and whatever else there might have been. It's your prerogative, but whatever misdoings you think may have in my past, would certain pale in comparison. And yet, I realize I would still open my heart to forgive her. I know better than anyone that people make mistakes. 
The real crux is that all this misagas is keeping me from people that I love and it's becoming increasingly hard for me to process. I'm a damn good person and an even better friend to those I love, but it feels like I'm being punished for being one. I struggle to make sense of the situation. I used to be at your house to play with [GFN] - I can no longer do that. And it seems us girls involved have moved on, but this remains a lingering scar that we can't make sense of and we can't fix ourselves without changing your opinion. And we can't change your opinion because I"m not sure any of us understand it - myself included. I'm a good girl, but your total dismissal of me as a person and friend speaks to the opposite. Not gonna lie: Still hurts. 
It sucks to learn that someone that meant something to you, that you thought was a friend, can so easily cast you aside as a misfit not worth their time. And even more that I'm losing time with current friends in the process. GFN, yes. But people like [one guy and another guy who he only knows because of me] -my first real relationships in DC - who saved me, going to something I'm not part of because...I don't know. I can't tell you how difficult it is watching this all transpire on facebook - I have to hide each individual response every time stings worseevery effing time. And when they ask if I'm going the only response to why is "honestly, I don't know". 
I hate it. I hate this all. I hate that you decided to hate me and I really don't know why. I hate that I'm not even worth a moment to reach out and move on from this (being forced on a drunken night and a lost phone aside) isn't worth it. Our friendship over the years being scarred by what others have had to say and not your own personal interaction. Miscommunications have resolve; and knowing who I am, I can only imagine that's all this is. 
I'm leaving in four months and this situation is leaving such a black mark on my time here. Can this be fixed? Yea, probably. Should it be? I think five years of friendship is worth it. But at the least, if you're going to invite 50 mutual friends to something and blatantly leave me out of it, please make it a private event. Each one of *our* friends' responses is another sting of the bee. 
Thanks for reading. 

Friday, February 28, 2014

Things That Make You Go Hmmmm...


A list for the gentlemen in the audience; some insight; a few tips. An assortment of immediate turn-off's, if you will.  A  This female's perspective. (In no particular order.)




Things That Make You Go Hmmmm...Nope

1. Chewing with your mouth open

2. Visible ear wax

3. Affliction, Ed Hardy, et al.

4. Pierced ear(s)

5. Manery (male jewelry)

6. Hair patterns that suggest it fell off of your head to take residency on your shoulders and back

7. Smoking

8. Groping

9. Bad dancing when you're actually trying to be good at dancing
(Tip: If you're terrible, just own it; have fun. But never stop dancing. No one likes Sullen Sid.)

10. Casting a wide evening net
(Tip: Trying to take home just any female is really unattractive. We see you. Pick one lady target, it is otherwise insulting and you'll go home alone or wake up with an STD.)

11. Proving strength/worth by binge-till-you-puke drinking or fighting

12. Binge-till-you-puke drinking or fighting

13. Drug addiction

14. Airing recent past relationship woes

15. One-sided conversations

16. Asking for a kiss
(Tip: Stop asking, just go for it. We're big girls. We know how to decline.)

17. Excessive crying (or if I just met you, any crying)

18. Short fuse; anger/yelling

19. Bad tipping

20. Taking longer than a lady to get ready

21. Snapping, clapping, and otherwise patronizing service industry folk
(Tip: You look like a dick. Just wait your turn.)

22. Bad breath

23. Stupid sexually suggestive jokes out of nowhere
(Tip: If this kind of humor was previously established, it's totally fine, but, chances are, if you're randomly playing this card just to gauge her reaction, you're not getting in. And especially not now.)

24. Talking about yourself incessantly

25. Bad teeth

26. Excessive nose/ear/eyebrow and neck hair
(Tip: Trim that shit.)

27. Obvious and prolonged boob ogling

28. A neck the size of your head

29. Cue balls
(Tip: I shouldn't be able to see my reflection in your head.)

30. 'Showing off' your money
(Tip: If you have it, spend it, but don't make a point to talk about that $300 bottle of olive oil you got your sister-in-law for Christmas that was "no big deal".)

31. Always taking forever to text back

32. Being shorter than me

33. Tribal/barbed wire tattoos

34. Chicken legs

35. 'Dad' jeans or carpenter jeans
(Tip: Always have at least one pair of dark wash denim; don't buy any jeans that your dad might have in his closet or wear them the way he might either; if your pants can hold a hammer and you don't need a hammer, throw them out and buy ones made after 1995.)

36. Profuse video gaming

37. Smelling bad

38. Smelling like her father/grandfather
(Tip: Give up the Old Spice.)

39. Kissing against her pattern

40. Things that make you go 'hmmmm'
(Tip: Don't be a skevve.


Alternatively...




Things That Make You Go Hmmmm....Oh Yeah

1. Walking between the lady and the traffic on the sidewalk

2. Opening doors

3. Offering to pick her up/meet her at her house

4. Patience

5. Compliments on something other than appearance

6. Good conversation

7. On-par sense of humor
(Tip: Make her laugh; win her heart.)

8. A well-planned date

9. Dressing well with good shoes
(Tip: Don't refer to yourself as 'metro'.)

10. Smelling good
(Why have men stopped wearing cologne?! Tip: PUT IT BACK ON.)

11. Kissing in compliment to hers

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

Ninety-Three Days

My children simply MUST have blue eyes.

This should not be at the top of my goal list. But sometimes when you’re as indecisive as I am, there are only certain things you know you want and from then on, they are unflinching. Blue-eyed men only need apply; exceptions can be made for green.

the only sunny day was just before my flight.
The past five days I have spent in Seattle. I’m now recovering from what seems to have been a never-ending fun-fest of sleep deprivation, locally-made 'bourbon' and rain. Oh, and a private Ethiopian driver, care of my friend’s dude. So that’s how the other half lives...

This dude was a character. You definitely have to take him with a grain of salt and also pay attention. He’s soft, as someone who sees beyond the surface would notice immediately, but difficult in a stubborn kind of way. He’s kind, but careful. He’s a Libra and, like me, our kind is both completely open and absolutely closed: You have to prove you’re worth what we fear might break us. Or sometimes we just love you immediately and know you’re worth the risk. Either way, he was amusing as much as he was a difficult softie. At one point we went to a fancy pizza place he frequents just before close and after we ordered, he left to go to Whole Foods. Thirty minutes later, just after the Ethiopian driver went to go look for him, my fellow Libra came back into the restaurant gleefully pushing a grocery cart containing two bags to the back of the restaurant, which contained, in part, some “gifts”. For my girlfriend, a shirt still on the hanger; for the driver, a bag of green grapes; and for me, a container of fresh berries, as I had requested them for my champs at the bar the night before.

It was at once the strangest and most hilarious part of the weekend - drag brunch and taking a cab to the car (after riding in an elevator with a man taking his sliced up print to canvas art of him and his (ex?)wife to the garbage ("i had a lot of rage to get out")) at 4am only to find it locked in the parking garage aside. If this is how my interactions with people come across, then I’m totally okay with that. If he’s gets along well in Seattle, then maybe I can too.

This leaves me still, in some sort of weird cross-continental limbo, as I am shopping for a new city. I'm finished with DC; it was fun for what it was, but as I have moved forward in my life, these are no longer my people; my place. That move I always talked about, it's finally happening. Because when you are as indecisive as I am, once you finally pull the trigger, there’s no pushing it back out.

It began some months ago again and I designed a list: Charleston, SC; Denver, CO; Savannah, GA; Nashville, TN; Seattle, WA and back home to Pittsburgh, PA was my list of potentials. For one reason or another, cities were eliminated as time went on, leaving just Nashville and Seattle, hence the reason for my visit: I had never been to Seattle. It was nice, but there’s no clear winner. I have 93 days until my lease is up.

Ninety-three days to develop a new life for myself and the where; this should be interesting for someone who can only choose one of three colors in hypothetical children and nothing else. Welp, here we go. Input is welcomed.