Copy cat

I've been wondering about how to introduce my new identity as a Wisconsinite to the internets at large. It feels as though moving to this random midwestern state is reason enough to start writing again.

After all, who doesn't want to hear about the escapades of two Canadians in imperial measurement land!

Like me trying to order turkey in grams with the deli counter worker looking quizzically at me when I declare "Two hundred, please."

Or the Duke ordering a half-gallon of beer to go from a pub not realizing how much a half-gallon really was, and thus getting wasted out of a sense of obligation to his already purchased jug of beer.

Also, apparently Americans don't know what a garburator is. And laugh at Canadians who say it.

(BTW, it's a garbage disposal.)

But, amidst my contemplation about how exactly to jump back into the land of anonymous self-disclosure... someone pulled me back in.

Apparently someone still likes me enough to read me... and to plagiarize me.

Not even a real post, mind you. Just my "About Me" section. You know that little thing in the left hand corner babbling about neologisms and staring in people's windows? Yeah, that one.

NOT this one:

Thank you, anonymous commenter, for pointing this one out.

Anyways, it turns out that our friend Katie (she of the surely soon to be defunct Mommy Outnumbered) is quite heavy handed at the copy and pasting. My random googling turned up at least 10+ people she'd ripped off (including the freaking Bloggess- come on, how's that going to go unnoticed?). By the angry comments on her website, it looks like there's a ton more.

I remember these mini-scandals back when I was a little more entrenched in the blogging scene. People were rightfully pretty incensed about others stealing their words, especially in blatant disregard of copyright statements. This woman took it even a step further-- she copied someone's post mourning her dead mother, and another about a woman's child who had recently passed away. You've got to wonder about the motivation to try to almost usurp someone's identity like that. That's no longer about just getting lots of complimentary emails swooning about how witty you are. That's trying to gain unwarranted sympathy from someone else's pain.

But, hey, we apparently both like dogs with cones on our heads. So there's that!

A big ol' glass of Haterade

That's right, I be hatin'.

On what, you ask?

Nachos with not enough cheese. No one pays $12 for a $3 bag of tostitos with a side of never-enough sour cream. Cooks, you need to learn to layer that shit-- a handful of chips, a pile of shredded cheese, repeat, repeat, repeat.

People in McDonald's at 1am. This Saturday night, post friend's birthday party, the Duke and I hit up McD's. (Don't judge. I decided that 6 years was long enough to go without Chicken McNuggets. And it most definitely was.) And, of course, the place was full of drunk d-bags ordering cheeseburgers in a 6-pack, trying to pick up a table full of girls, and verbally abusing the staff. The best part is that they thought they were so goddamn hilarious that the kept on looking over their shoulder expectantly at us, looking confused as to why we were not laughing. Sorry, I don't find screaming "Fries fries fries!" at a 16 year old kid hysterical. I guess my sense of humour is a little more nuanced.

As a side note, where is it that people got the notion that alcohol comes along with a free asshole pass? Sure, alcohol does give a free pass to several things, such as teaching your co-workers how to rap, reminding the entire dance floor why the running man should have never gone out of style, eating your weekly caloric intake in poutine, or hugging the new BFF you met in the bathroom because her shoes were too damn awesome. But, frankly, alcohol has never made me want to unleash a tirade on a random stranger or humiliate a late night cashier. So, while the "I was drunk" excuse might work to how you woke up with a half-eaten bowl of ramen noodles snuggled up in bed beside you or why you are above the age of 18 with a hickey, it ain't gonna fly to explain sheer douchebaggery. That's not because you were drunk. It is because you were-- and are-- an asshole.

People who don't lock the restaurant bathroom door. And then you look like an inconsiderate jerk and have to apologize profusely when you walk in on them mid-pee.

Putting my duvet back in its cover. I'm more likely to end up tangled in there than my blanket is.

Girls who pretend to like hockey. So it's playoff season, and the city is all a-twitter with hockey excitement. Just the perfect time for the pseudo-hockey fans to come out of the woodwork. They are easy to spot at the bar, in their just-purchased team t-shirt, often that awful pink girlie one, to remind you "I like hockey. But I'm still a girl. Tee-hee." They chat throughout the whole game, looking uninterested, until a goal is scored- then they cheer like their lives depended on it, and try to catch the eyes of the guys around them. I have friends like this-- a game is on during the week, and they are clueless. They call me in the middle of overtime to chat. They don't know who won what game, or who scored a hat trick the night before. Yet, on Friday night, they are insistent on finding the best spot in town to watch the game, and they are talking to guys about how much they loooooove our team, spitting out facts that I told them earlier that night.

I know that the playoffs are good in getting new fans into the game, and that people are often eager to learn more about a popular sport-- and that's fine. But I just resent the pseudo-cache that people throw around, as though they are the "original" fans. There's nothing wrong with being a bandwagoner... just don't pretend to be otherwise.

People who don't understanding that working from home means that I'm working. I have one friend in particular who can't seem to understand how much self-directed work doing a PhD entails. She is constantly asking me what I'm doing now that I'm finished all my classes, as though I have nothing better to do than catch up on Seinfeld episodes. How ever many times I tell her seeing several clients, writing manuscripts, running participants, completing data analyses, having several meetings a week, non-class lectures, writing a massive dissertation, on top of my job, all she seems to take from this list that I have plenty of spare time since I do this from home a couple of days a week. So, whenever she wants to do something, she calls me at 3pm, when she gets off work. And no matter how many times I tell her that, even on the days I work from home, I am in front of the computer until *at least* 5pm, she gets annoyed that I won't meet up with her on her schedule. I've taken to lying and telling her that I'm in a meeting or a lecture until the evening, just so she takes my work seriously, because even telling her "major deadlines" doesn't seem to stop her from getting snappy when she thinks that I'm just sitting around at home when she is waiting around for me to finish working.

Wow, I'm a little bitter, aren't I? Is it any wonder rants is my #1 tag? Just to be fair, I also love the new Josh Ritter album, all you can eat sushi, cheesy nachos, freshly washed sheets, sunny days, boston terriers, key lime pie, It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, and spending time with my friends after a hard day's work.

Oh, and an update- I also hate whoever the spilt an entire box of bran flakes in my apartment building stairway without cleaning it up.

Spinning around to reach full circle

Call it coming full circle or something.

I opened up my computer, deciding again to write. I then looked at that plane shaped icon on the monitor in front of me, to find I am once again hovering over Lake Michigan, 37,000 feet this time. And Wild World started playing in my ears once again.

And my head is all muddled.

Perhaps I expected these trips to help resolve all this uncertainty, this stomach tightening ambiguity that makes what used to be statements suddenly become punctuated with huge bold question marks. But there was no real epiphany. None of those movie-perfect revelations in it all becomes clear, that this is where I’m supposed to be.

I briefly thought I might have found it in one city, navigating through deliciously pulsating neighbourhoods. As I tend to do when I develop a crush on a city, I began the detailed process of imagining myself living on the 5^th floor of a specific building and deciding where I would shop for groceries. It didn’t hurt that the placement I was interviewing for looked absolutely dreamy on paper. But it wasn’t so swoonworthy in the pain in the ass world we call reality. It felt overly competitive, painfully bureaucratic, yet hypocritically disorganized.

And then the programs that made me especially giddy are in cities without that spark. One is a city I already spent a handful of years in, which, though convenient and reasonably effortless, seems devoid of any sense of adventure. And one is just really damn cold.

So, while there is clearly some indication of the right direction to go, I kind of hoped I wouldn’t have to go through that painful formalized step-by-step decision making process. I wanted to just know.

Really, though, this is such a silly debate this is to be having with myself. I still could end up at any of them, and I could make my own little life there for a year. I would learn immense amounts from any of them, and it would still be a pretty epic success to end up at any of them. And, after all, it is just a year.

I think I need to come to terms that major life choices don't operate like the quintessential lightbulb above the head. They are never so clear and instantaneous. Real life doesn't operate by love-at-first-sight rules.

On keeping on breathing

I always have the best of intentions.

I really don't want to put anyone through the tedium that is complaining about being overwhelmed. Complaining about stress is so brutally cliched, like saying that you aren't good with names, procrastinate sometimes or don't always get enough sleep.

Everyone is stressed and nobody is actually good with names.

I'm fully intending to act as though I am 100% content, to practice what I preach, per se, by not letting the stress determine my actions. I'm acting happy to try to convince my body that I really am happy.

I'm drawing smiley faces on foggy windows. I'm humming made up songs. I secretly tap my toes in my shoes when riding the bus. I randomly buy butternut squashes on sale for extraordinary cooking plans. I'm overusing exclamation points in my text messages.

These things help, in their own little way. Any of these beat moping around. I can't handle being lazy for that long, anyhow. Unproductivity doesn't suit me. Another cliche has proven true- yoga has been a life saver. It turns off my thoughts pretty thoroughly, which, trust me, is a miraculous feat.

It's not even that I'm at all depressed. It's just that my brain can't keep up with everything that is going on. A lot of it, in fact, is kick-up-your-heels good news-- internship interviews, weddings-- there's just so damn much of it. Looking at my summer, I just wanted to hyperventilate. What do you mean I'm a bridesmaid twice and I have to move myself and my boyfriend to separate locations across the continent all in the period of a month and a half? Even my mom, the queen of acceptance, in an email yesterday told me "You are such a busy girl, it is just the way of your life at this time, but I am sure you sometimes want to pull your hair out."

Yes, it may be tempting to grab the roots and yank sometimes, but instead, I will drink tea and watch too much Food Network.

Oh yeah, and breathe.

I love the smell of hypocrisy in the morning

You ever get the feeling that some people just want to know they still have an effect on you?

So. The Ex.

The long and short of it- we dated for 6+ years. He was a bit of an alcoholic, and I was a bit of a pushover. We pretended that we were going to stay friends after we split up, but it mostly ended up in his new girlfriend stalking me, apologies (with seemingly ulterior motives), and awkward silences. I last saw him around a year and a half ago, and apparently we both, without saying anything, knew that despite there never being a big angry blowout, it was time for us to both stop pretending. And thus, outside of the occasional text message from him every few months, we stopped talking.

It was actually pretty comfortable to stop pretending we had very much to say.

In February, the first call in months. He asks me to be an apartment reference, for he is moving in with his new girlfriend, the one he met a month and a half earlier, who thankfully is his age and doesn't make a hobby out of sending me passive-aggressive emails. I agree out of some sort of obligation I don't even understand, given the fact that he needs me to serve as a reference because his rent cheques always bounced, leaving me to patch things up with our landlord. I never get a call.

After that, a few weird comments on Facebook, that I can only assume occurred when he was drunk, as they are nonsensical and disappear by the next morning. One is about our dead cat.

And then nothing for close to a year. Last month, I noticed that Facebook suggests that he and I should be friends, revealing that he has deleted me. Sure, I had a little righteous indignation swelling up at first, pretending as though I should have been the one with the right to delete him-- after all, he added me!-- but then, relief. For now I don't need to know anything about him, and he doesn't need to know anything about me. I can be finally be really angry, indifferent, whatever, without him popping up randomly every once in a while-- online or in real life, now that we live in different cities.

I realized several days later that for the first time in nearly 10 years, I didn't wish him happy birthday. I didn't even remember it was his birthday.

And, a week after his birthday, a mysterious text message on my phone from a number I don't know. "Hi Princess, just wanted to say a quick hello, hope you are well."

(yes, foreshadowing sucks on this one, but at the time, I was genuinely clueless)

I rack my brain for the origins of this number, and then, feeling somewhat guilty about not recognizing it, text back: "Hi! I feel like a jerk, but I lost a bunch of my numbers, so I have no clue who you are."

I text the Duke about this mystery message, and how awkward it is to have to figure out someone's identity. Without skipping a beat, he writes back: "I bet it's TheEx."

Two seconds later: "Haha, I'm hurt! It's your favourite ex."

Who, now, apparently wants to catch up.

And has tricked me into responding with his new cell phone number that of course I would have no way of knowing.

And knows that, while I may not had responded to his initial message, had I know, I'm pathologically incapable of being even a justifiable asshole, and have to respond once a conversation has been "officially started".

And, the whole time, I'm thinking that to delete me on Facebook and then to want to catch up weeks later is just the kind of hypocrite he is.

And I just play it cool, because I don't want him to know that I noticed in the first place.

Fuck.

Does anyone want to give me some lessons in justifiable assholishness?

The burden of reality

Reality can be a mighty bitch somedays, what with her regulations, to do lists, and the like.

Her latest trick? Crushing my intentions to scurry over the border to Portland for a year to do my internship. Despite the fact that our internship programs are supposed to be a North American wide system, apparently all the VA hospitals in the U.S. are closed to Canadian students. 

*Princess pouts and stomps her feet*

Granted, there are a few other internships available in the area, but they aren't good fits for me, and I promised myself I would make this experience more about the program than using it as a crutch to live a glamourous life in my city of choice. 

Next thing, they are going to tell me that my pet unicorn has been delayed at customs. Daydream crushing bastards.

What cruel thing has reality thrown at you lately?

These are the aggravations in my neighbourhood

When the Duke and I moved in together last spring, we wanted to live in an area with a little action in it. It could be that three years spent in the suburbs when I first moved to BigCity had spoiled my appetite for pastel houses and strip malls. It could also be that I adored the apartment I was leaving, a little basement suite too small for two just off a main strip where I could wander a block or two for Thai take-out, blackberries, crepes, or a latte. As such, when we finally found a secret hardwood floored roomy top story apartment hidden out in an inconspicuous stucco building just a few blocks away from one of the busiest intersections in the city, we grabbed onto it and didn't let go. It may have helped that it wasn't owned by a racist, had a kitchen bigger than one square foot, and didn't have three colours of mold in the bathroom, like some of our other rental possibilities.

For the most past, I love it here. The apartment itself is wonderful. It is central, with buses to nearly every corner of the city a block or two away. My hair salon is half a block away, and I can browse for shoes in my pyjamas if I wanted to (not saying that I have, of course). I am only a bridge away from downtown, but with the luxury of less noise. Entertaining people hang out in my back alley, like the guy who sings reggae, or the latest wanderer, a woman with a love for showtunes. (Believe me, it is a vast improvement on Angry Guy at my old place!)

However, sometimes this neighbourhood utterly infuriates me. 

For one, some of the people are insufferably snobby. I've never lived in an apartment building where people are so disinterested in knowing their neighbours. When you pass them on their stairs, they will do anything to avoid eye contact, including pretended fixation with the patterns on the art deco style purple rug. I recall one time flinging open the back door at the same time as a fellow was trying to enter, and gasping with surprise. "Oh, I'm sorry! You scared me!" I proclaimed. He merely stared at me with disdain, and slipped on by me with nary a word.

The Duke has even overheard our next door neighbour, the one who we used to only hear when she was yelling at her boyfriend, declare pointedly during one of these blowouts that she was too smart for the people in this building. This amused me for two reasons. One, who even thinks to make those comparisons? I don't think I've ever one thought about the traits of the people one floor down in the northwest apartment and how they relate to my own. Two, we've never even met this woman. Is she aware that she is arguing this point next to what may be the world's nerdiest grad school couple?

But, really, the qualities of my neighbours don't matter that much. I have other friends residing nearby. Not to mention, the last time I made friends with someone in my apartment building, he ended up having a secret cocaine habit, and asked me if he could offer up his mind for me to "practice" my therapeutic psychology skills on. I declined this gracious offer.

What bothers me even more is that, perhaps because so many people come to browse and have dinner here on a sunny day, someone has forgotten the practicalities of actual living in this neighbourhood. The bulk of the nearby streets are filled with low-rise apartments with little to no parking, suggesting that this is an area for those of us with no cars (also, note the fact that it is a major transit centre). When we first moved it, though we were a little disappointed at the lack of fresh fruit and veggie markets, more than one overrated pub or a major grocery store, a half block away from us was a bakery, a butcher shop, and a mini grocery store with all of your staples. 

All three of which they promptly closed down two months after we moved in, despite the businesses being there for 20+ years. And have yet to fill with anything, though the other vacancies in the neighbourhood have been filled not with anything practical, but rather a Calvin Klein underwear store (just underwear. And there are already three lingerie stores on this ten block strip.) and a Pottery Barn Kids (I could go on an entire rant about why this store is even allowed to exist. Kids don't care about design and/or pottery). 

And now, despite the fact that I can get my nails done in ten different places, go see a play, have foie gras and find a prom dress, I can't get any damn groceries. This means that I have to go on an epic voyage to the nearest grocery store, and either break my back hauling food home on the bus, or take a taxi. Did I mention that almost every other neighbour in this city has an overabundance of grocery stores?

Okay, okay. I lied a little. There is a grocery store four blocks up the street-- though I use the term loosely. It is one of those dreaded "gourmet" grocery stores, with an entire aisle dedicated to balsamic vinegars, but no ground chicken and never any green beans. Caviar at the deli counter, but no roast beef. If you are lucky enough to find a standard product, like Miracle Whip or Sunrype juice, you are probably paying two dollars more for the luxury of purchasing it amidst the organic local ginseng infused juices adorning the shelves. I once dashed there to grab a jar of pesto, and found that they all ranged in price from $8 to $30. Thirty dollars for basil and olive oil. I bought the $8 one and it tasted like air. My $4 generic grocery store brand kicked its ass. I can't get a loaf of bread for less than $5 and it always goes moldy in two days. There is something to be said for preservatives.

The aisles are narrow and precariously stacked with exotic teas and grains, and it is always full of oblivious people blocking the aisles with their carts as they make sure that their cous cous is truly lead-free. The customers seem like they come straight from my building, harassing the deli workers that their ahi tuna should be cut just so, and where exactly did that pork loin come from? And did I mention they have paintbrushes beside the cash register? Not gum and chocolate bars, like normal grocery stores, but truffles and special exotic animal paintbrushes?

I never knew I would find shopping for cheese at 7-Eleven so appealing.

Then comes marriage...

I am beginning to wonder how my friends became so cliched.

It certainly couldn't be by simple virtue of the diamond rings displayed on their ring fingers. It is not as though they are the first of my friends to get married, many of whom who have managed the transition from girlfriend to wife with relative ease. 

This week, six of us sat at my kitchen table, empty plates before us from our weekly meet-up. As I began collecting the plates, the regular dose of matrimonial talk began. You see, three of the six are getting married, one this spring, one this summer, one next summer. While I don't mind talk of the larger themes, such as bachelorette plans, dresses, caterers, or of their general excitement about an admittedly huge day in their lives, lately it has progressed to the downright banal. This time, they began chattering about their three's trip to the mall to pick out wedding bands, which began with an anecdote of how the jewelry store worker made a joking remark about the big rings on each of their fingers, and ended with a detailed dissection of which shape of wedding band best complemented their fingers. 

I counted floorboards.

I also wondered when they had all gotten so oblivious. Not just oblivious to the fact that I was counting floorboards, but also to the fact that J is single and not necessarily thrilled about it, or that M has been with her boyfriend for longer than some of them have been with their fiances, and is still barely able to get him to utter the word "commitment". Oblivious to the fact that their constant talk might not just bore some people, but may actually be a tinge hurtful.

While they may be unaware of how their words may sting, they also are also painfully incognizant of the fact that not everyone is necessarily wanting their lives right now. As it has now become obvious that M and her boyfriend are not getting engaged anytime soon, attention has turned to me as the next on the list. My non-committal or general responses to "do you think he's going to propose soon?" or "do you know what kind of ring you want?" fall over deaf ears. It seems that "I'm sure it will happen, but not anytime soon" is not satisfying enough, so they keep on pressing. 

That same night, as I excitedly tell them that the Duke and I are finally booking our sunshine holiday, S coos "Oh, I bet he has something in store for you there", and winks condescendingly. And even though I know it is only because she wants for me what she thinks I want for myself, I can't help but get annoyed. Why isn't it good enough that we are having our first big holiday together? Why does it need to be that I am providing him with a cliched scenario to ask for my hand in marriage? Why does everyone act like I am just suppressing my frantic need for a wedding, rather than accepting that him and I are just happy in the moments we're in now? 

I guess it is just starting to depress me that these women I know are genuinely ambitious, driven, feisty, independent present themselves like something out of a bad sitcom, when all we talk about are calories and relationships. As I walked home today, I realized that I knew reams more about their theme colours, the necklines of their bridesmaid's dresses and their fiances' idiosyncracies than they did about my dissertation or my job. And it made me feel a little lonely.

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 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.

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.

One more day

My red mittens are too big for me. I feel childlike with them hanging loose around my wrists.

Winter has come to Canada with a bang. In an instant, my skin has been sapped off all moisture. Chilled air is seeping through my single panes windows, needing me to wipe the hazy film from them to be able to see the world outside. I swim in the fog of others breaths waiting for the bus.

A transit worker in a Santa hat sees me frantically hugging myself at the train station. He laughs and tells me to try being outside for ten hours, then hands me a candy cane, ostensibly to get my blood sugar flowing. The crook of the cane fits perfectly around the edge of my tongue.

Last day, I tell myself.
One more day. One more day.

One more day of tacky soft rock seeping into my dreams and unceremoniously shaking me out of them.
One more day of coffee for breakfast.
One more day of one bus to the next.
One more day of chores and shopping squeezed into fifteen minute breaks in my schedule.
One more day of shoulders weighed down a bag filled with the day's necessary odds and ends.
One more day of a steady flow of emails.

Tomorrow I'm in a car, driving through the mountains.

The day after that, I wake up on my birthday to a home warmed by a fireplace. I will be wrapping my neck in a scarf not in preparation for the trek to work, but to walk the dog, cut down a Christmas tree, even to trod to the local bar.

And, so, here I am in my office, drinking lukewarm coffee and huddling next to my little heater, which is only allowed to be on low for fear of blowing a circuit, playing countdown.
Five hours and thirty eight minutes until work is done for the holidays.
Thirteen hours and thirty eight minutes until today is through.

One.
more.
day.

Random things I have a hate on for

Sassy birth control advertisement.

Alesse, I'm looking at you. Secret agents? Bad puns like "I'm flaw-alesse!" and "Science drives me sense-alesse!" (which reminds me far too much of the now infamous "math is tough!" talking Barbie-- girl power!)? 

You know what is the selling point of my birth control pills? The fact that they stop me from becoming pregnant.

Skin on hot chocolate.

Overly obscure crossword clues.

I really shouldn't need to have a degree in Russian literature or physics to complete the crossword puzzle in a free daily paper. And I'm good with random trivia!

Silverfish.

I almost posted a photo, but they are too nasty to look at.

I never seen this quick skittering little insects until I moved to a damp city... let's just say I wasn't missing out.

Plug earrings.

These things just creepy me out, particularly the extremely large ones. I can't help but imagine how nasty and floppy people's ear lobes are when they are taken out.

Plus, I have an exceedingly gross story about these bad boys. One time, my friends and I were having breakfast at a greasy spoon type diner, and, when we got to our table, there was a plain silver ring sitting on it. My friend aimlessly twirled it around her finger... until we realized it was someone's plug earring. Ewwww.

People who bob their heads dramatically while listening to their iPods.

This bugs me about a million more times than people tapping their feet, for some reason. Do you really have to prove how catchy the music only you can hear is?

Shaquille O'Neal.

Forever and for always.

People who invade your personal bubble while waiting in line for a sandwich so much that you can practically feel their breath, and then  laugh into your ear about your order.

I'm not talking about a specific instance or anything....

And there is nothing wrong for asking for only a little bit of lettuce and lots of pickles. There is something wrong with you spying on my sub order, though.

Men in tank tops.

I'm fine if you are working out, playing sports, on the beach, etc. But as general public attire? No dice. Armpit hair bothers me. As does the possibility of nipple spottage.

Adults who use text speak.

There is no reason for anyone above the age of 18 to use "4" instead of "for". Ever.

The two day shelf life of bananas.

Why are bananas only tasty for such a limited time? I can't keep on justifying saving them for the banana bread I will only actually make twice a year.

Hangnails.

Crows cawing from above my head.

This means they are within dive bombing range.

Almost everyone eating at Denny's at 3am except myself.

The fact that you're drunk and craving hashbrowns doesn't make you any better than the person serving you hashbrowns. In fact, you are very likely a worse person, I would wager.

Christmas music in November.

The December 1st rule is rigid, in my eyes.

Unpredicted onions.

Why are onions the one thing restaurants never label in their menu??

I wish...

... that, on a day where the US struck a tremendous blow against racial discrimination, they didn't also strike a tremendous blow for homophobia. I am in awe that people believe they have that any right over the personal lives of others to be able to ban two people in love from getting married. It is not as though voting against Proposition 8 would have forced gay marriage upon anyone. Even worse, however, is the fact that in Arkansas, people have voted against gay and lesbians being able to be adoptive or foster parents. Are we really still at that point where we believe these people are inherently flawed by virtue of their sexuality?

... that virtually every apartment in my city wasn't no pets allowed.

... that part of being a woman wasn't being caught up in an insane swirl of panic every time your period is a day late. I don't need to be re-evaluating my life as it currently stands on a monthly basis, thank you very much.

... that blogging didn't feel like a chore sometimes. Although I'm sure Google Reader was a good idea in principle, it is really just a massive guilt trip. I don't want to read your words because I have to. I want to read them because I want to-- which is what it felt like more when I was just typing the url in because I was thinking of you.

... that candy corn and Reese's Pieces fulfilled my daily recommended intake of anything remotely healthy (Vitamin K represent!).

... that, after nearly two years of blogging, my feelings wouldn't be that little bit hurt that people read but don't comment on a post I worked hard on.

... that buying organic bread didn't mean it would go moldy in three days. I can see the appeal of preservatives!

... that there was more than an hour between when I get home from seeing my last client tonight, and the time at which I need to crawl into bed in order to get a good night's sleep.

... that my world wouldn't collapse if I wasn't relatively organized.

... that I still remembered how to walk in heels.

... that my friend would stop messing around with the douchebag with a girlfriend.

... that there was a better chance a plane will be able to land in HomeTown over the holidays, as I don't ever want to take the damn Greyhound again.

... that I would stop stabbing myself with my umbrella. The rain isn't that depressing!

... that my shoulders had less than 17 knots in each one of them.

... that my professional career wouldn't suffer by virtue of me dying my hair fire engine red.

Clouds on my shoulders

I sometimes wonder if the first few bouts of winter rain have a direct connections to my brain, like an invisible but study fishing line dangling from the sky. I've mistaken this in the past as less my mood being puppeted by the weather, and more of the clouds being able to read my mind a little, as a way to explain the heavyness I feel when the clouds are so low they almost graze my shoulders.

I know I am not depressed, as in the Depression-with-a-capital-D whose symptoms I can list off like counting to ten, as the first set of criteria any budding clinician will memorize. It is more that the sudden shift from red leaves against a blue sky to a permeating damp grey that shocks my system. I will adapt within a matter of weeks, with my umbrella in hand, hopping around puddles. But in the first few days, the fog just emphasizes my natural pessimisms and less desirable quirks. I think too much to begin with, but put me in a chilly bus, my eyes peering out through a hole in the condensation to the world outside, and I start reflecting on the past, present, future, small-scale, large-scale, whatever. I become downright broody. Lyrics that normally fly by on a sunny day are suddenly absorbed and personalized. I'm sensitive on the best of days, but the first week of heavy rain, I find myself wondering about unreturned phone calls and emails, about my ability to pull off the hat I am wearing, about the essay I just handed in, about whether I've lost my ability to connect with people through writing.

If I do have a skill, though, it is to keep my feet moving at the same pace as my brain. I've learned that pausing is the quickest way to start sinking, drowning in these little whirlpools. When I do step in a puddle, I don't stop to contemplate the misery of the wet socks between my toes, but rather keep the rhythm of the next step. I've actually found there to be a lot of truth to that 12-step adage of "Fake it 'til you make it", that by pretending that this gloomy day is just another day, I can slip under the radar of others, and eventually convince myself.

Another aphorism that holds more truth than cliche in moments like this is "This too shall pass." Even if the rain keeps plummeting through to March, the rain in my head will dry up quickly enough.

Scaredy-cat

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

Perhaps my nervous system is just oversensitive, but I find any substantial thrill seeking a little unbearable.  Don't get me wrong-- I'm not a total wimp. I'm open to adventure and going off the beaten path... but you will never find me skydiving, let alone on a particularly treacherous rollercoaster.

I'm also not a huge fan of horror films, as you can imagine. I trace this to the the shift from cheesy teen slasher films, a la Scream and I Know What You Did Last Summer, or plot driven scary flicks, like Stephen King films, to the torture porn trend of Hostel and Saw. Frankly, the notion of watching really gruesome scenes makes me cringe. I've already written about my neurotic need to read about the plots of these hideous films once they come out, for fear of being ambushed by the movie in some situation and being surprised by the unblinking cameras detailing a slow, but creative, murder scene. It somehow makes me feel more at ease, as though I am psychologically preparing myself... just in case. (It makes sense in my head)

With this in mind, it may make sense that I haven't seen a horror film in years-- until the Duke talked me into one this week. 

And I somehow agreed to watch it, in the dark, late at night.

It is funny, knowing the cycle of anxiety disorders at a rote level, to notice how badly I worked myself up. It was probably both my continued emphasis of the fact that I simply don't do scary movies, as well as the rotating thoughts of "I know they're going to die. I just don't know how horrible and nightmare inducing its going to be" that started me off. Midway through the film, I was a ball of nerves, sweaty palmed, with a sick, heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach that weighed me down to the bed. Through clenched teeth, I told the Duke that I had vetoed any sudden taps on the shoulder or rapid movements. The only physical contact was to be my iron tight fingers gripping his arm.

It was only towards the end, when I realized the primary deaths were relatively mundane (how sad is it that I call vicious stabbings mundane?) that my lungs began to feel like they were taking in oxygen again. 

As the credits rolled, and my toes unclenched, we flicked through the channels a little, in an attempt to inject some happier thoughts into my brain before I went to sleep for an early morning of work. One film came on, a truck rolling through a deserted landscape. We only settled for a matter of moments until bold letters announcing "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" stamped themselves to the screen.

Back to flicking. Suddenly, an elephant on the screen, then Robin Williams.

Great, it's Jumanji. I can do this.

Haha, he's melting into the floor! 

Waiting, what's that crawling through the window?

GIANT SPIDERS?!?!?!

(Ahem. Huge arachniphobe here.)

At this point, I pressed the off button with enough force to leave an imprint in my finger, declared the mass media to be conspiring against me, and accepted that the night would probably be rife with dreams of masked intruders and foreboding children singing in the background. 

Not a happy camper

In case the symbolism of my last post was lost on you, I'm really busy.

I find it tedious to write laundry list posts detailing my to-do's and distractions-- needless to say, there feels like a lot of them at the moment, from the overbearing (manuscripts and proposals) to the more banal (taking out the recycling). Besides, when life gets particularly crazy, it ceases to feel like a list, and more like one giant inseparable bundle.

So when I received last minute notice that an assessment I was scheduled to do today was cancelled, I was happy to have some spare hours in my back pocket. While I scammed a few moments to catch up on laundry and to grab lunch under a burst of sunshine, the bulk of my time, several hours in fact, was spent editing a friend's thesis.

My friend is in a bit of a frenzied state. Due to a number of circumstances, both in and out of her realm of control, she has fallen behind her schedule, and is desperate to defend her thesis by the end of the semester. I have become a one-woman support team of sorts, fielding calls regarding statistical analyses and ways of framing results, as well as editing proposals and other such documents. Sometimes I will feel frustratingly bombarded, but she also makes a point of repaying me in other ways, such as inviting me over for home cooked dinners.

Knowing that she has been especially frazzled lately, I slog through her thesis. It is an aggravating process, in that it feels as though she hasn't sent me her best work. When someone asks for my spare time, I kind of expect them to be providing me their first-rate work, so I can focus on bigger issues of structure, rather than correcting grammar and formatting, something they can easily do themselves-- especially when it has supposedly already went through at least two rounds of fierce edits.

I finish in the afternoon, and send it to her, less than 24 hours after her initial request, and move onto to my pile of readings.

A few hours later, my phone rings. Caller ID reveals it to be her, and I expect that she will ask me some clarification questions as she usually does. It turns out she ostensibly looking for advice on an unrelated matter, although it really looks like an excuse to rant. After she has apparently met her catharsis needs, she casually says "Oh, thanks for sending me those edits! I actually already spoke to *post-doc* about my intro, though, so I had already sent it on to *supervisor* by the time you got back to me."

She continues to chatter on in another direction, but I stop her.

"Did you say you had already sent it on before you even got my edits?"

"Yeah..." 

It is only when I tell her that I spent the bulk of my day so far working on it, and clarify that she had sent it to me less than 24 hours prior that a tinge of guilt seeps into her voice.

My short answers elicit more apologizing, claims of stress induced lack of consideration, getting more frantic as the conversation proceeds. When I don't rant or rave, she actually asks me if I will edit her methods section tomorrow.

I am proud to say that Princess Doormat (that being me) said no.

I hang up the phone, and the restlessness I have miraculously managed to avoid so far today returns. I feel both angry and defeated. I actually spent hours editing a paper on the behalf of a friend, who, despite reassuring me yesterday that she understood how crazy things had been for me lately, didn't bother to even sent me a two second email to tell me she didn't need my help anymore-- as though my 18 hour turnover was too long for her to wait. And she had the gall to ask for my help again the next day!

It makes me think that all along she was simply wiping her muddy boots all over me.

Reason #4527 to avoid McDonald's

The fastest way for me to get to my morning bus is to exit from the back of my apartment and cut a block and a half through a back alley to a main road.
Unfortunately, that path takes me directly past the back door of a McDonald's.

Let me tell you, there is nothing more effective to keep you away from the Big Mac as the back of a McDonald's. Not only does the smell of deep fryer permeate the alley, but there are regularly random vats of grease leaking onto the side of the building. Not to mention there seem to be a disproportionately high number of public urinators who mark their territory alongside these grease barrels.

However, nothing is quite so foul as the McHaze.

One time, as the Duke and I were strolling by, we suddenly found ourselves enveloped in an oily haze. Not only was the odor overwhelming, but as we emerged from the cloud, there was actually a slippery residue on both of our faces.

Now our strolls down the alley are accompanied by a much more substantial level of hypervigilence, as we discovered you can actually see the McHaze approaching-- an ominous, shimmering, oily fog.

To catch a mouse

A side note... if you are looking for more Princess today, you can find me here (on the topic of friend break-ups) and here (as a part of Lauren's testament series).

***

Last week, an exterminator came by to discuss our furry apartment visitor. He moved our dishwasher and shone around with his flashlight. Based on our reports of only two sightings in the kitchen and the lack of droppings, he stated that he believed Mr. Mouse to have been merely passing through on a food hunt. He left a little poison and said we would likely not see the fellow again. In fact, all seemed clear on the rodent front when we left for the weekend.

However, apparently the lack of cat slippers lulled Mr. Mouse into a sense of comfort, because when he returned, he had gained run of our entire apartment (although it seems he was not dining here).

The first day back, he emerged beneath the coffee table at the Duke's feet.

The second day back, he did a full scale dash across the living room as three of us sat on the couch chatting.

The third day back, he had abandoned all sense of fear, popping up by my feet as I sat on the couch, scampering by the Duke as he chatted on the phone in the dining room. Even worse-- he made his way to the bedroom somehow, where the Duke busted him chowing down on one of my massage bars at the bottom of my night stand.

The invasion of our bedroom send me into a bit of a tizzy, as I pictured myself waking up with a mouse ominously peering over me on the headboard. The Duke, armed by the power of Google, set up a makeshift trap, constructed of a garbage can, a ramp made out of boardgames and books, and a toilet paper tube filled with peanut butter. Mr Mouse had shown interest, and had knocked over the ramp once, but had not yet fully set off the trap and tumbled into the waste bucket.

We were trying to relax, watching television in the bedroom and waiting for the trap to work its magic, when we heard squeaking and rustling behind us. I froze, while the Duke jumped up, and seized a flashlight. "He's behind the bookshelf! I think we can trap him!"

And thus began a frantic game of cat and mouse. We blocked one side of the bookshelf with a massive painting, and started wedging books beneath it and to the side. Only once we have built a wall surrounding the bookshelf does a cursory flashlighted look reveal that Mr. Mouse is now cowering behind the dresser.

Books were now piled around the dresser. The Duke, for some undisclosed reason, sent me off to get garbage bags. Mr. Mouse fled back to the corner behind the bookshelf. In the frantic hubbub, the Duke pullled the dresser forward rapidly, and a piece of claywork that my aunt made for me as a child toppled to the ground and cracked into two.

I shouted "I told you to be careful with that!" and started to fight back tears at the sheer aggravation of my bedtime being in the destruction of cherished mementos and the rearrangement of our furniture due to a damn mouse-- especially since I didn't have a single clue what do with said mouse once he was cornered.
As my frustration grew, however, The Duke, became even more determined.

The bookshelf became an impenetrable fortress, with books of varying sizes shoved in every possible gap. The Duke peered over the top of the bookshelf again.

"I think he might be dead. Maybe the poison and the shock did him in. He's just curled up in the corner, motionless."

I fetched a long handled mop. A quick jab revealed that Mr. Mouse was only faking it. I squealed and jumped away as Mr. Mouse came back to life.

In a stroke of genius, the Duke grabbed a long poster tube he had been using for the ramp on the latest version of the garbage can trap. We slowly edged the bookshelf away from the wall, and replaced one wall of books with the tube.

I then set to frightening the mouse from his corner. First, I gently knocked on the painting, gradually increasing my force. He wiggled a little.

I then fished into my old piggy bank, and bring out handfuls of pennies, which I dropped behind the bookshelf, first one, then several in succession.

It worked. Mr. Mouse dashed straight into the poster tube, the Duke rapidly stood it up, and clamped a book to the top. Mr. Mouse scratched frantically at the circular walls at first, but gradually grew silent.

We grabbed our house keys, and slipped out into the rainy night, taking turns delicately balancing the tube and book as we marched through puddles. Five or six blocks away, in a back alley, we set the tube on the ground. A light tap on the end sent Mr. Mouse dashing out ike a cannonballs, disappearing into the dark night in a matter of seconds, as we turned back to return to our torn apart, but mouse-free bedroom.

Rodent harnessing skillz? We has 'em.