The mask of anonymity

Anonymity does funny things to people.

This is the blessing and the curse of the internet, I suppose. There is a lot of good that has been done by allowing people to explore areas of themselves, with no identifying information or bread crumbs following them. I think of online support groups for individuals with eating disorders, suicidal thoughts, suffering from trauma. I think of gay teens in small towns trying to figure out their sexuality while keeping it undercover.

And then I read the comments on YouTube videos, news sites, Craigslist-- and I swear, I almost lose faith in humanity.

Give someone a screen name and no link to their actual identity, and the stuff they spew out is foul. Misogynistic, racist, homophobic, insulting, and just plain cruel. It is almost as though they are bursting at the seams with this hatred, after having to conceal it in their day-to-day life, such that they are willing to fling it at the first target as soon as they've put their masks on. It is as though the id runs rampant the second they are hidden from view.

The reality is, of course, that the average person doesn't even bother creating this moniker. They check out the video clip or skim through the article without the need to comment. It is all too easy to ignore the thought provoking comments, or even just the plain neutral ones, when there are bolded racial slurs surrounding them.

My main research interest is ethnic discrimination, and you have no idea how many cliched comments I receive about how racism is no longer a problem. While racism is certainly generally regarded as socially unacceptable, these leakages of such hatred online show that these sentiments are still residing in people. Perhaps they know better than to say such things out loud in public locations, but one can hardly argue that having these attitudes simmering below the surface doesn't affect how they interact with minority group members.

(FYI-- Research does say that even the most implicit forms of discrimination, much more implicit than these anonymous comments, do have negative impacts on interpersonal interactions).

In some ways, I am surprised how far these fierce comments extend. This post was brought about by my accidental scrolling through reader's opinions on a local news site's article, in which they berated a woman who had nearly died due to the mislabeling of a Starbucks product (it said there were no nuts in the product when there in fact were)-- the insults were flying about the woman's morality and status as a single mother, as though her anaphylactic shock was a motivated move by a shameless woman.

Then, in other ways, I am surprised where they don't extend to. While I know that a number of my fellow bloggers have received rude and aggressive comments, in my two years of writing, I have never received a comment that I found personally insulting (knock on wood...). Sure, there have been a few that disagreed with my take on things, and one or two that may have stung a little, but nothing ever directly meant to jab at my feelings. In some ways, I think that speaks to bloggers as a whole, that we take our online presence relatively seriously, and try to be genuine in our expressions of it.

Fitting with this, I think of the fact that despite my own cloak of anonymity, it has never occurred to me to abuse it. Sure, now my life is more intertwined with those of you with whom I have started real personal relationships with, but at the beginning, I could have very well been more nefarious. It surprises me sometimes that it has never occurred to me to lie on this blog-- even when to do so would have made for more exciting posts, or a more flattering depiction of me. For some reason, though, presenting myself as genuinely as I can is important. That is why I still appreciate the fact that upon meeting me, I have been told that I match my words well-- despite the fact that I hide these words from those in my day-to-day life. I guess that, despite the opportunity to communicate in a more consequence-free manner (and you know very well that we have all read a post or two that we just want to call people out on), I still find it important to hold the online me to the same ethical standards as the real me. Or maybe it is just that I don't have nearly as much unbridled hatred below the surface...

And they wonder why 12-year olds are on diets

I, just like 98.6% or so of the women I know, have body image issues.

It is nothing profound, really. I don't have a plastic surgery fund. I don't cry when I look in the mirror. I've never been on a formal diet.

It is more along the genre of an occasional cursing out of my jeans, a grabbing at my stomach critically in the mirror when I get out of the stomach, a groaning at the occasional photo, a wishing that I had more time to spend at the gym.

But, really, I eat healthy, I don't get winded going up stairs, my boyfriend thinks I'm sexy and I fit into my Size 6 jeans, so I'm not doing too bad, right?

Apparently not, as again I was reminded today.

Here's a recent photo of Jessica Simpson:

Okay, so maybe not as toned as she has been in the past, but morbidly obese and unhealthy? Hardly.

Explain to me, then, how this is justified? In the New York Post??

Ugh. I have a hard time not just going on some tirade right now. You all know what I would say, anyways, about how she is still skinnier than the average woman, about how this has nothing to do with health despite the claims that our fat aversion is about that, about how we have just made countless other women who may have been proud to be the same size as Jessica Simpson feel worthless and ugly. It's all been said before. We've all heard the arguments about how we need to be media-literate, how we need to base our self-esteem in other areas, how we need to stop taking things so seriously and learn to take a joke-- but, still, I'm not sure how it is possible not to have comparisons like this feel like a slap in the face.

You can find me...

... in da club, bottle full of bub.
(Or not.)
(Yeah, I'm lame.)

... at Umm... Now What, writing about a certain guilty pleasure.

... in Chicago or San Fran, in the premiere issue of the Printed Blog!!
(or you could click here and print it out for yourself and pretend you got it from a news box-- I'm on page 4)

... lugging around a giant bag of neuropsychological tests in the snow and on smelly public transit.

Never underestimate the power of blanket forts

The contrast to the fact that I feel justified acting younger when I'm back in HomeTown is that I feel compelled to act my age when I am back in the city.

The city is the place where I only hit the snooze button one time.

Where I file my own taxes.

Where I use a clipboard regularly.

Where I eat steamed vegetables by choice.

Where I own too many pairs of plain black socks.

Where I spend my Saturday afternoons buying garbage bags and Swiffer refills.

Where I send important emails on the train to work.

Where I make sure I wear sensible earrings (in certain contexts, at least).

Every once in a while, though, I get a flash of something that makes me feel like a child again.

Today, I was taking my bedding out of the dryer, I noticed that one of my pillow cases had gone missing. I stuck my head into my comforter cover, and saw that the pillow case had become wedged at the bottom, so I crawled in a little further to retrieve it. All the sudden, with the way the light was filtering through the blanket, I felt as though I was hiding out in a blanket fort.

And I smiled.

I realize, now, even though I've done a remarkable job at this whole "adult" thing, there are some things that all the practical pants and day planners in the world can't suppress.

Like the smell of crayons.

Having breakfast for supper.

Giving myself a bubble bath beard.

Jumping onto every chalked game of hopscotch I come across.

Dancing around my apartment to the song on my iPod the second the front door closes behind me.

Eating too much ice cream.

Tickle fights.

And being tucked into bed so tightly that my arms can barely move.

Blanket forts trump steamed vegetables any day.

You can stop that now.

You know what I am getting really damn sick of?

Sexual harassment.

Okay, I dress up pretty and go to the bar, and a sleazy guy offers to buy me a drink or grabs at me as I walk by. I get that. I may not always appreciate it, but I get it.

I'm not a wimp in this regard. My job requires that I occasionally work in a jail. I get the howls, the stares, the comments. It's not because I'm special. It's because I have boobs and I'm not a senior citizen. It's more for the benefit of the other inmates than getting my attention. I was just telling my guy the other day how I barely even notice most of the attention anymore, unless their comments get particularly clever or original, or their grunting is particularly loud.

But, really, it would be nice to be able to go for a coffee downtown, and not have the experience I did last night. It would be lovely not to have some creep start following me to my bus stop after I simply did the polite thing and said hi back to him. It would be super if he noticed that me walking quickly to get ten feet ahead of him, and ignoring his request that we spend time together. It would be bloody great if he didn't stand right beside me, staring unblinkingly, for several minutes at the bus stop, as I texted my boyfriend to call me so I could find a way to forcibly disengage from the situation. It would be fucking wonderful if he didn't start telling me he was coming home with me, and then, after I told him that was not going to happen, he stated that I could come home with him. And it was, at least, a damn relief when he finally got the point, and ran away after multiple refusals, before my bus came and he followed me home like he said he would.

It would be even better if this was a one time only type of thing, rather than a relatively regular source of stress.

I don't want to have to worry about this kind of stuff. My cousin joked about me bringing my new boyfriend home when I returned, and while I understand that he is just trying to diffuse the tension, these stories are no longer feeling very funny. Instead, I start to wonder what would have happened had it been later, darker, less populated. I worry about people's motivations, wondering if they had the nerve to say such things to me in public, what more they would do in private.

I also wonder why. Does this ever work? Does a girl ever simply agree to let this random fellow into her home, or hop in the car with him? Does it make them feel like big men to make me like I am but the sum of my female parts? Yeah, I am probably overthinking the motivations of some random pervert, but when it happens on a number of occasions, you can't help but think about it in a more systematic fashion.

I don't want to let this get to me or make it a big thing, as the truth is, it just a reality of life. It just feels good to rant sometimes, because, damn, being a woman in the city sucks sometimes.

(and now back to my scheduled hiatus...)

Time out

I am trying desperately to be an optimist.

I am also trying desperately to be a morning person.

Neither of these feel especially natural at the moment.

The story is nothing particularly interesting. My cousin is visiting BigCity for the first time, and has taken up residence on our couch for a week now. My spare time is spent playing tour guide on jaunts in and out of town, which is fun in the moment, but means that I have to fit the same amount of work into compressed hours, especially considering that I am trying to get my first dissertation study up and running in a week's time.

I am feeling that very soon, I will need the luxury of being anti-social. This is a difficult thing to communicate to people, who always have the best of intentions when seeking to drag you out of the house. For instance, this upcoming weekend, several friends are going on a ski trip. Originally, we couldn't make it for a series of practical reasons, though we breathed a sigh of relief, as it was wedged in the midst of my cousin's visit, an out of town girl's weekend, and my week in the U.S. for a conference-- not to forget dissertation induced madness. However, my friends, bless their hearts, are determined, and are being graciously accommodating in their attempts to get us to join them. The idea of packing another overnight bag makes me sick right now, but I'm not sure how to communicate this non-offensively.

Him and I also need to focus on us, rather than everybody else. Part of the charm of grad student romances is intertwined periods of stress. It doesn't help that we are both gritting our teeth through massive family let downs. As tends to happen, we realized, with the aid of too much alcohol on Saturday night, that both of us have the ability to sting the other one more than we realize when we are sucked into these self-indulgent stress whirlwinds. Yesterday morning, when my cousin went to run some errands, we felt finally comfortable enough to speak frankly in tones above whispers without the fear of being overheard. As I laid my head on his chest, he said "We need to do something together to remind ourselves of how madly in love we are."

This is all, in part, why I feel the need to formally excuse myself a little from blogging over the next few weeks. Knowing me, I still will have these words swimming through my head. With my hour commute, staring out the window, you couldn't turn my brain off if you tried. So I will write, when the pressure of the words filling up my head becomes a little too much.

However, more than anything, I feel neurotically compelled to understand why I may be less present on your side of things. Between my visitor and the fact that I am now sharing my work office space, my free time alone in front of a computer is few and far between. When I do open my Reader, I am slapped across the face with some huge triple digit number. When I actually have time to give your words the time they deserve, it becomes more about reducing that number than really reading. This isn't fair to either of us-- to you all, because I am supposed to read your blogs because I enjoy what you have to say, and to me, because the last thing I need is my hobby framed as another quantitative homework project. I don't want this to become another demand on my time-- I want it to be something that gives me a break from these demands instead.

In the meanwhile, feel free to send me some serenity vibes. Or a gift certificate for more caffeine.

365 x 2 +3

There's nothing like the forced reflection brought about by seemingly symbolic days... birthdays, new years, anniversaries, and, of course, blogoversaries!

Yep, 2 years ago (minus, oh, say 3 days... I should start marking this in my day planner), ...and hijinks ensued was born. Apparently, after having just finished the maddest half year in my life, I was overwhelmed by a sudden influx of spare time, and decided to start jotting down my observations about the world in a little more systematic of a fashion.

Honestly, I am a little surprised I didn't think to start blogging earlier. My friend's mother, upon meeting me for the first time, said I was an observer, noticing everything around me to a greater degree than people realized. I was always constructing little anecdotes in my head in far too much detail. Once they were constructed, I didn't know what to do with them.

When I was 10, my literary masterpiece, Dognapped, placed in a city-wide children's writing contest. At 13, I wrote novellas about girl detectives and feisty orphans. At 15, I wrote melodramatic poetry. And at 18, I stopped writing for me, and started writing for grades. At 22, my mother and I went across Canada, and I sent out a number of update emails including my silly observations about our travels. These emails were an unexpected hit, with people printing them out to read them to others, and even my boss telling me how much he'd enjoyed them. I felt a burst of pride, knowing that I still had that writer's spark in me, but also a bit of helplessness. Great, I can still write, but what purpose does a talent for witty emails about teaching Brazilians about hockey and my mother's failed attempts to speak French serve?

At 25, I started blogging. A summer earlier, I had met a blue-eyed fellow at a concert, a fellow who helped me see that focusing on one foot in front of the other so you can ignore everything else tumbling down alongside you is not a good way to live. One night, after I'd found out of the death of a friend, he insisted on coming out to the suburbs to take me for gelato. That night, he told me, in perhaps less direct terms, that I didn't need to live under the weight of someone else's beer bottles. He also told me that he had a blog. That night, I found these words of his, and spend hours reading them. He'd even written about me. Although his writing tapered off soon afterwards, he was the one that told me, with all the thoughts bolting through my mind, I may want to think about blogging.

And, on January 12th 2006, I took his advice.

So, here I am, 2 years later. Strangely enough, despite my fears otherwise, my brain has yet to run dry. I still get sudden burst of inspiration in various locales, jot down descriptions on scrap paper or in my phone, run through lines I don't want to forget over and over again in my head. Blogging is almost a seamless part of my life now.

Even more shocking, perhaps, is that I have managed (I seriously did just knock on wood... well, pressboard, really) to write anonymously over all this time. Sure, there have been a few close calls, like friends tapping me on the shoulder unexpectedly (resulting in lightening fast window minimization), blogs popping up in search histories when someone uses my computer, and on the spot lies about people I have met or who are on my Facebook. Still, though, my obsessive site meter usage reveals only one or two other readers from my general vicinity, and despite my occasional fears that it is my boss or an ex, it is actually surprising I don't have more random readers from a city of several million.

Does my anonymity really matter all that much? Probably not. My world wouldn't collapse if the link got sent about. Sure, a few people would probably be stung by my keeping this large part of my life secret. There are a few other people who may smart from particular entries. Most would probably giggle about the idea of documenting one's life over the internet. But, really, it is more about the freedom and having this wonderful little side identity than hiding from one person in particular. I've been invested in keeping these words separate from my day-to-day life for two years now-- it just doesn't feel right to let that go. Even if I do get the occasional yearning to send someone a specific entry (though I have no idea how to explain why I am writing about such things), or I wish I could share some of my piece in a more public forum and truly claim them as my own, not the work of some little avatar with a silly name.

Over the years, what has blogging done for me? It has put me back in touch with myself, after years of unknowingly just going through the motions. It has helped me pay better attention-- to my thoughts, to the beauty around me, to people's motivations. It is amazing how much more you watch when the idea to write about it occurs to you. It has made me feel like a writer again, a feeling I thought I had lost years back with the entrance into real life adulthood. And I actually feel good at it. It has brought some amazing people into my life, people who, whether through emails or even a single sentence in a comment, I sometimes feel may know me better than the people who see real-life me on a regular basis.

So, thank you to all of you for making me feel good at this, like my words may be a little important or meaningful. And thank you, little red blog, for helping me feel like me again.

Guilt

It's a damn weighty feeling to know you have let someone down.

I tend to be hypervigilent at the best of times (and downright neurotic at the worst of times) about the way my actions with be perceived by others. So the notion that, despite the noblest of intentions, and theoretically the most precise of attention, I have still slipped up, is like a swift kick to the stomach.

I'm starting to think there is merit to patenting the term "psychologist's guilt". For me, I fall into despair when I unintentionally do something to offend or sting someone. I chastise myself in a heavyhanded manner-- how can I be a professional if I screw up every day interpersonal interactions?

So, yes, I hurt someone I care about.

Nothing irreparable, nothing unforgivable, nothing intentional.

But I still hurt them.

At first, excuses poured out of my mouth like a waterfall, like rapids.

I needed it to be understood that there were miscommunications, misunderstandings, distractions, that malevolence was never a part of the plan.

That, quite simply, I never meant to.

But sometimes you just need to admit that you made a mistake. 

That moment I admitted it, I felt myself crumple, the wall hard against my back.

I guess we all deserve to feel guilty sometimes.

The Facebook status updates that weren't

An aside-- would you like to find out what movies I'm glad I didn't see in 2008 and my thoughts on the great Tom Cruise debate? Come visit me in the land of Brandy!

***

... alternately titled my Saturday night, in hypothetically Facebooked form.

(Background: Annual Christmas party, now held in January, with seven of my besties, mucho wine, cheese, and debauchery)

Princess thinks that an average of nearly two bottles of wine each is a little frightening.

Princess still has not reached her maximum cheese capacity.

Princess is giving Snoop a run for his money.

Princess is doing the limbo beneath a Swiffer.

Princess is now spanking her friend with said Swiffer.

Princess is all about having whip cream sprayed liberally into her mouth.

Princess is sharing a lollipop with a cricket in it. It apparently tastes nutty.

Princess hates it when she falls while enacting sexy dance moves.

Princess is the walrus... koo-koo-ka-choo!

Princess is laughing at S's dogpile related injuries and her resulting washcloth and ribbon bandage.

Princess does not think that picture is a very good idea at all.

Princess is perplexed as to why her friends are singing along to the Chipmunks.

Princess is surprised at the cornucopia of salacious information exchanged in a game of "I've Never".

Princess wonders why her boyfriend doesn't respond when she texts him "Wooooooo!"

Princess thinks it is time for bed when people starts singing Achy-Breaky Heart.

(and today... "Princess' head and tummy wish she would stop pretending she is 19.")

Princesses, squared: My interview by the Princess of the Universe

So, a little ways back, my lovely cohort in royalty, the Princess of the Universe (who also sends me dried fish and chocolate-- true story) made a tempting offer-- to interview her readers in five questions. 

My answers are below, but first, if you would like to play, these are the rules... 

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions. (note-- I can't guarantee original questions for all. Depends how much caffeine I have drank that day. Or how lame of questions you will tolerate- e.g., what's your favourite number?)
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Without further ado, la Princesse asked me....

1. Have you ever been to Winnipeg? And seriously, what do other people in Canada say about us? Are we at least cooler than Regina? Or Guelph? C'mon, we HAVE to be cooler than Guelph!

I have in fact been to Winnipeg. When I graduated high school, I won (and I use that term loosely) 30 days free Greyhound travel across Canada for two, and a bunch of nights stay at hostels. So, my sister and I set on a sibling-bonding trip across our very, very vast country to see our father's neglected side of the family.

Spoiler: The Greyhound sucks. And it eats luggage.

Stop one on our way was Winnipeg, only about 36 or so hours in. We stayed for a night. I remember very little except a bridge, a bunk bed, finally getting to shower, and drinking bubble tea for the first time. Honestly, I didn't form much of an impression from what I saw, as I was there for less than 24 hours. 

But my friend from Winnipeg raves about how much fun she had living there. Apparently it is more cultured than people realize, with a much more laid back attitude than some other cities.

Without stepping on anyone's toes, it *was* prettier than Hamilton, at least!

Oh, and one more Winnipeg memory? When we were waiting in the bus depot to leave, I left to buy a bottle of water, and came back to the sleaziest guy in the planet hitting on my 15-year old sister. He was from Winnipeg and inexplicably hanging out at the bus depot. When she told him she had a boyfriend, his response (and I quote) was "Fuck him, I have a bigger dick than him anyhow."

Sorry.

The Winnipeg Jets were awesome, though.

2. I have a little soft spot in my heart for Freud, because I took a Topics course on the guy. What are your thoughts? Genius? Depraved?

My favourite quote of Freud's is "I was pass over all the details which showed how utterly correct I was" (from his famous Dora case study).

So egomaniacal? Yes, to say the least.

Honestly, though, despite the current views that the guy was full of it (and it does tend to be a bit of a knee jerk reaction when you hear about penis envy), he was a genius. So many of his ideas were so phenomenal, considering how far they were from the paradigm of the day-- where would modern psychology be without concepts like defense mechanisms or the unconscious? I think we tend to ignore those, and focus on the more kooky stuff that seems so over the top and misogynistic now.

I recommend that everyone with an interest in psychology read some of his case studies. Whether you believe his conclusions or not, they are hugely fascinating, as he weaves these amazing poetic linkages between dreams, body language and word choices to come up with this amazing picture of a person at their core. He may be completely out of left field, but you almost want to believe him.

3. The Tragically Hip: Best Canadian band ever, or WAY over-rated?

For those of you non-Canucks out there, the Tragically Hip are one of Canada's pride and joys. We like the fact that they haven't really been discovered by the rest of the world, that they sell out stadiums here but barely sell out bars south of the border, that they seem like good humble non-Hollywood Prairie boys.

I'm going to go in the middle for this one. They've certainly got some catchy tunes sprinkled across their musical career, and I don't complain when someone puts their CD on. But I also don't own more than a few of their songs, and find some of their stuff a little underwhelming.

Besides, any true Canadian knows that the best Canadian band ever is Loverboy.

4. Starbucks or Tim's? And if Starbucks- do you understand how to speak their language? Cause I totally have a blog post I keep meaning to write about the humiliating day when I had the nerve to order a "medium" hot chocolate...

Again, a bit of Canadiana-- Tim Horton's is our favourite coffee and donut place, named after a hockey player, and apparently holding 62% of the Canadian coffee market.

There's a time and place for both. Road trips are Timmy's all the way, as is any early morning camping/sporting excursion. But coffee breaks and sit down dates are Starbucks.

I will certainly take a double/double over Starbucks' gut rotting coffee though. That stuff rips the enamel off my teeth. Starbucks is only for multi-word orders, not just plain coffee.

But I have been known to order a non-fat sugar free Vanilla latte. But I swear I don't tell them how I like my foam.

5. Hot vacation or Europe? Discuss.

For just a week or so, I'll go hot vacation. Anything much longer, though, and I'll go Europe all the way.

I am the stir crazy type. I can take about one lazy day of sitting in my PJs, and then I begin to get jumpy. I figure that could be prolonged somewhat if you slapped some sunscreen on me and put a marguarita in hand, but mostly, I like doing things. I love exploring new places with nothing but a vague agenda, and taking time out to people watch. Europe seems like the perfect place for that, as there would be so much to keep me stimulated. I can't even conceive of the notion of so much culture packed into such a small place... 

***

We're venturing into horn-tooting territory, I'm afraid.

The nominations for the 20-something Bootleg Awards have come out, and despite my insistences that I am in no way cool, I have been nominated for a few (most distinct voice, most sincere, best commenter-- ironic considering my Google Reader is still guilt-tripping the crap out of me, and best title). Umm... Now What has also been nominated for best group blog.

Proof I'm not cool? I can't play this smooth. I'm tickled pink and I can't tell anyone in my real life (though I may have whispered it into the Duke's ear as he was waking up because I'm lame like that), so I'm telling you guys.

Last year, when I was nominated, I decided that I wouldn't create a big hullabaloo and tell people to vote. Last year I also went 0 for 3. So, you know what? I'm going to be honest, and tell you all that it would be really sweet, if you are a member of 20-something bloggers, you did vote. There's a lot of amazing people up for awards, so show some love!

The worst boyfriend ever

I have a theory that everyone needs a horrible romantic relationship at same point in their life. I'm not talking about abusive here, but rather someone who takes you for granted, is too jealous, is unreliable, even unfaithful. 

The reason for this? To find your boundaries. 

We are all a little clueless when we first start dating. If you were like me, your role models were your "mature" friends who had boyfriends from 13 onwards (when I was still in the awkward caterpillar eyebrow and twelve sizes too big t-shirt phase), sitcoms, or Sweet Valley High. We are told it is supposed to a perfectly smooth ride, with talking on the phone all night every night and slow dances. We have no idea how to react when he doesn't like our friends or he doesn't want to go to the school dance with you. We don't know which of his quirks we think are adorable and idiosyncratic, and which are just plain mean. We have no idea how we are supposed to be treated. 

As harsh as it may seem, being treated like a doormat, for most of us, will show us exactly how we don't want to be treated. 

As such, even though I can say that my first serious boyfriend, Logan, who I dated for 10 months in Grade 10, is still one of the great dirt bags to walk the earth, he taught me a hell of a lot. Logan is the only guy who will ever treat me as miserably as that, because after him, I could see his traits in other guys from a mile away, and would avoid them like the bubonic plague. And if anyone ever started on any of his style trips on me? I have the faith that even my 16 year old self could have walked out the door.

Logan was probably everything a desperately insecure 15 year old girl should not have been kissing. Judgmental, angry, jealous, controlling, though mighty cute, funny, and seemingly dedicated. 

He decided he liked me the way I was, and thus, I was forbidden to change. He would turn around and walk away from me, shaking his head in disgust, if he didn't like the clothes I was wearing. He would grumble angrily if my new CD didn't meet his approval. I even hid my class projects from him for fear of his disapproval, such as the time I did a biography on Drew Barrymore, as I knew he thought she was a "slut".

He was insanely jealous, and would try to fight any guy who was friendly towards me. When I tried to stop him, he would accuse me of wanting to be with them, so I learned to just stare at the ground as he shouted and shook his fists. He would also wildly confront anyone who expressed concern for me. He never hit anyone, but that was more to do with their skills at backing away and negotiating than a flattening of his temper.

I made the mistake of letting him be my first everything, losing my virginity on my bedroom floor. He then believed he had the right to me at anytime, as though sex was solely his decision, and I was merely an accessory to it. I distinctly remember sleeping in the same room as a friend, and him chastising me to tears because I wouldn't have sex with him there. I actually tried to curl up and sleep on the bathroom floor, as though the cold tiles were more peaceful than lying beside him.

My sister was stronger than me in all of this. Despite being all of 12 years old, one time after he had berated me over the phone, I left to walk to his house, she called him, this big 16-year old, and told him to stop being so cruel to me. 

I actually set to my reminiscing about Logan yesterday over dinner, when my friend, after laughing at her distress at her first time being dumped, asked me what my most horrendous "dumped" story was.

I started laughing hysterically at how truly awful it was.

And I told her about how, in French 10, we did a fashion show. My friends asked me to be their model for a pair of shorts and a tank top. I asked them if I could wear a jacket with it. They said yes, but ended up giving away the jacket to another catwalker, so I strutted my stuff anyhow. I didn't tell Logan, but someone else reported back to him.

He asked me to meet him on the street, and proceeded to call me every name on the book. Slut, whore, tramp, you name it. In the midst of these slew of words, I was told he never wanted to see me again. The cherry on top was when I ran away, crying, he threw snowballs at my head.

I fell asleep in my parents bed, clutching my stuffed bunny. 

And I took him back the next day. 

One of the conditions of us getting back together is that I had to ask my french teacher to delete the video of me in the fashion show.

He dumped me four times in total. The fourth time, I didn't accept his pleas to come back. These pleas proceeded to bended knees, to tears, to persuading friends to knock on my door, to 3am drunken visits that began with poetry and ended with him storming off with vows to kill himself.

I still said no.

Perhaps a better victory would have been to say no the first time he broke up with me, or the first time he called me names. 

But I'm still proud the final answer was no.

As painful and unfair as it was to go through so young, I am infinitely glad I went through it at age 15, rather than at 18, 20, 25, like I see friends going through now. It is almost like one of those diseases, like the chicken pox. At least if you get it when you are young, you are immune to its later, more dangerous adult form.

And, small town that it is, that was not the last I saw of Logan. Later that summer, his poor heart apparently recovered enough to sleep with a visiting friend of mine in my bed. On my 19th birthday, he was coincidentally at the same bar, trying to fight the ex-boyfriend I'd dated after him, still holding a grudge years later. 

And just as I was wondering if I was holding onto my grudge a little too fiercely, I saw him at a friend's birthday party around five years ago in UndergradCity. He began hitting on my friend, but when he heard how we knew each other (she had dated the Ex's friend for a year-- a guy who was a bit of a ladies man in high school), he said to her "Well, if you dated him, I hope you got yourself checked"... as in STDs. He accused a girl he just met, and was trying to seduce, of having STDs.

Some things never change.

Small town bar

An annual tradition in HomeTown is the Boxing Night Extravaganza. The various people home for the holidays all gather at the local pub early in the evening, generally heading down to the local "nightclub" (I use this word loosely) after a sufficient buzz has been accomplished.

This year I again find myself the recipient of multiple phone calls in the days and hours approaching Boxing Night. "What's going on tonight?" "Are we meeting before?" "Is so-and-so coming?" "Can I crash on your parents' floor?"

In high school, I was the resident co-ordinator, playing at being a social butterfly, knowing where the party was at, and offering up a sleeping bag and floor space to anyone without a ride home or too drunk to drive afterwards. It's a role I deliberately eschewed when I moved away, ricocheting into the opposite "going with the flow" orientation, as it gets exhausting serving as everyone's planning middle man. However, going home is like a time machine, where everyone treats you a little like your 18-year old self-- and, well, my 18-year old self was the party go-to girl, so my fate is sealed for the time being.

The first step of Boxing Night, though, is not pre-drinking and planning a meeting place. It is deciding what to wear. This is of the utmost importance, considering you are most likely to run into at least one of each the following: ex-boyfriend, ex-crush, and former stalker. As such, you need to look good. Very good. However, HomeTown is also a place where most people wear winter gear to the bar on a Friday night, which means you can't look too done up-- because then you are "too big city", and thus likely to be shunned. I was once deemed to have turned big city because my earrings were too big. This means that a delicate balance needs to be struck.

Deliberately casual yet coordinated, then the pre-drinking begins, as people arrive and squish into my bedroom, like old time sake. I have not drank on my bed in a long time, considering I have a living room and coasters now. We have taken a bit of a step up, though, drinking store bought wine and fancy mixed drinks, rather than whatever beer comes in an 8-pack or whatever homemade wine we could scam.

A little more nostalgia hits as we drive downtown, too many people in one car. Like old times, I am the one crammed on a friend's lap, my head grazing the roof. We teeter on icy sidewalks, and make our way into the pub around 7:45. There are already no tables, so we claim the corner by the foozball table as our own. My phone buzzes near constantly, as more people announce their upcoming arrivals. We all hug and summarize our lives in response to the countless times we are asked "What have you been up to over the past year?" I don't mind this question quite so much as the "How much more school do you have left?" or the much more direct "Aren't you done school yet?"

I notice this year that I don't know a good third of the bar like I used to. It occurs to me that coming back to HomeTown is no longer everyone's first priority over the holidays. People have their "new" families-- spouses, children, in-laws, or jobs that do not halt because of the significance of a particular day. Perhaps this is another one of the realities that comes along with the fact that it is my (yikes yikes yikes) ten year high school reunion this summer, and I am, in fact, getting old.

I stand by our territory of the foozball table and a guy of about 19 tries to start chatting me up. As he is getting his game on, and I try not to giggle too much, a friend hands me a drink. It is wet on the outside, as he has just carried up an enormous round from the bar, and seems to have spilled a little. Just as it occurs to 19-year old to ask me my name, the drink slides out of my hands and shatters to the floor. He actually backs away slowly. I go over to my friends, and laugh that I have inadvertently found the easiest way to get rid of a guy.

Except he comes back and tries again. Apparently he mistook my clumsiness as intoxication and figured he still had a shot. And tries to impress me by telling me all about the first year psychology course he had taken. Yes, indeed, guys, the way to impress the woman completing her PhD in psychology? Show her how much you know about psychology from your first year. Educate me, baby! Of course, this was after he pretended to run away when he first heard what I studied.

Of course, I run into the checklist of people, including exes, former crushes, and random people I hadn't thought about in years. There is also a guy I went to elementary school inexplicably wearing a polar bear costume. I joke with a friend that I just needed an awkward former drunken make-out partner to make the night complete.

It is soon after that I notice the Ex's best friend, who I have previously deemed ABF (Alcoholic Best Friend) at the bar. The vodka perhaps artificially enhancing my nostalgia, I go over to say hi. He is drunk and ecstatic. The first thing out of his mouth is the comment I've already recounted below about the Ex needing me more than ever. He then tells me he is buying me a drink, despite my claims that I am not in the mood for double fisting, as I have a fresh drink in hand. He buys me one anyways, and then proceeds to pour out his heart about his girl troubles, disregarding the fact that we haven't seen each other in two and a half years. He doesn't ask me a thing about myself, rather begging me for detailed plans of action about what he should say to his ex-girlfriend and current crush. As my friends come to extricate me from the situation, he slurs "Please just give me a few minutes with her. I promise I'm not trying to molest her. She's been my counselor for years."

A few minutes to closing time, we exit the bar. There is no hope of getting a taxi any time in the next hour, given you can count the number of taxis in the town on one hand. Two of us walk to the front door of another bar, where people have chosen to go instead of paying the unheard of $10 cover charge at the "nightclub". Seven of us set to walking up the enormous hill home.

Snow is tumbling from the sky, as we walk down the middle of the empty street. Despite the drunken cries around, it is strangely peaceful, as though the snow muffles it from our ears. We walk a half block backwards, so we can watch the snow sprinkling on the view below. As we make it to one person's destination, someone grabs a six-pack of beer, and someone else two inner tubes. We spin and slide down the steep street on the inflated rubber, a lone car beeping its horn at us as we skim by, our hair frosted in snow. I decide at this moment, despite my instincts earlier in the night, that I refuse to be too old for this.

So this is the new year

Yep, it's that time again-- the obligatory welcome to 2009 post!

As I did last year, I'm going to kick this post off with a meme, with a twist. The standard rules say that you are supposed to post the first line of the first post of every month of the past year. I choose to do the last line, as it seems like we are celebrating the passing of the last year and the beginning of a new one, not vice versa.

January: It's time to bust out the hideous tacky metaphors and hop on the train back to Princess-land!

February: Arghblephiz.

March: Part of growing up with hippie parents is summers spent in the great outdoors.

April: ... and I go a little crazy.

May: It came to mind yesterday, while at a event scattered with random faces from my past, that my ten year high school reunion is due to rear up next summer.

June: I adore Chicago.

July: Two Yale law students, fed up with threats and lies being printed alongside their full names at the law school admission forum, AutoAdmit.com, filed a lawsuit against multiple anonymous trolls.

August: There are reasons one doesn't skinny dip in a lake in the middle of the day.

September: Last week, an exterminator came by to discuss our furry apartment visitor.

October: I don't entirely understand those who enjoy being scared.

November: A little housekeeping out of the way first...

December: I usually have a post more or less lined up in my head before I start writing, a few choice lines on repeat in my head.

***

Other than these choice words, what has 2008 been for me?

I kept plugging away at the good old PhD, and actually just finished my last course, meaning I may be able to pretentiously call myself Dr. Princess sometime in the future. 

(Don't get too excited... I still have those pesky things called a dissertation and an internship to get through)

I left behind my apartment and moved into our apartment.

February brought me to Albuquerque for a conference and a hot air balloon ride.

May was a visit to Seattle (including very personal questions by customs).

In June, Chicago spited me, but I continued to have full on unrequited love for her.

In July, I hid out on an island and went camping.

I also celebrated nuptials and poutine with my girlfriends for an epic stagette.

In August, the Duke and I celebrated awkwardness in a hijinks ridden wedding trip.

September had a far more mellow wedding weekend away.

September also had our celebration of two years, and another wonderful escape to an island to frolic with marine life.

I also made it back to HomeTown two times.

While last year, I had one bloggie meet-up, this year, I had something like five separate meet-ups-- which were shockingly consistent in their ease and awesomeness.

These included a a multicited visit with Distracted Spunk, three separate meet-ups with a veritable Chicago blogger explosion, and a bad luck filled reunion with Surfergrrl and first meeting with Ultra Toast.

I also started on a very exciting group blog endeavour!

(oh, and FYI, I didn't end up having to go to court... a nice extra Christmas present)

The year finished off with a quieter, but still equally wine-soaked, night than most-- and the first one that I was able to ring in the next 365 with a kiss from my guy, which I figure has to be a good omen.

It is funny... while thinking about this post, I managed to convince myself that since I hadn't met any of the major milestones I'd passed in years passed, I'd actually had a sadly uneventful year. Perhaps that is one of the bonuses of having a blog-- being able to have a documentation of those little excursions and moments as a reminder of what the past year has been for you. It doesn't look so boring, now, after all.