Have you ever grudgingly figured something out about yourself as you've gotten older?  Something that has been exactly the same, probably from the day you were born, your entire life?  Something that you have attempted to deny since the day you began to be cognizant of it?  Sometimes I think that one of the most rewarding things about being a parent must be knowing something about your child from day one and watching them come to realize it, after denying it vehemently, once they are older.

Story of my life.  

When I was a baby, I used to get my baths in the sink.  Because I was small.  And small creatures are often overwhelmed by things as big as bathtubs, therefore, I got washed in the kitchen sink, and then patted dry on a towel my parents laid out on the counter.  There was a whole song associated with it, but that's a story for another time.

Once I got a bit bigger, my parents felt that it was time for me to take the next step in development and start having my baths in the bathtub.  I was still a small creature, but not too small.  Unfortunately, for my parents (so many of my stories seem to have that statement built in…), I was not having it.  I happened to like the sink.  I was adjusted to the sink.  It was a known quantity.  And that was a BIG deal for me, because the unknown was terrifying and to be avoided at all costs.

According to my parents, when they tried to put me in the bathtub I screamed blue green murder and stiffened up, splaying my small, chubby limbs outwards, like I thought I might be able to push my surroundings away from me.  I am not sure how many times I did this, for how long I stubbornly adhered to this course of action, but ultimately, I decided that I LOVED the tub.  Loved it.  Didn't want to get out of it.  Hollered when bathtime was over because I preferred pruney fingers and toes to chilly, post warm bathwater air.

My mother actually had to shock me out of taking baths and into taking showers as I got older, because I liked them so much.  She said, "Don't you know that when you take a bath you're sitting in your own dirt?"  I took showers everyday after that.  Recently, she mentioned to me that she felt horrible because she believed that she had single-handedly ruined my devotion to baths and the pure happiness which I derived from taking them.

She didn't.  I would have switched to showers anyway once I realized that no one else my age was still taking baths.  I was very prone to peer pressure in my younger days.

Anyway, I have finally come to realize that I don't know myself nearly as well as I think I do.  I've identified this as being the root of the issue.  I've had a misformed idea as to my identity ever since I realized in elementary school that there was a divide between the cool kids and the kids no one wanted to be friends with.

It's tricky, though, because as I've gotten older, I've figured out that it's something that I need get sorted out or face living a life that isn't actually mine!

The first real crush I had and, subsequently, my first real heartbreak, was on a boy I was convinced I despised.  Not just disliked, despised.   When our summer camp was over, I cried for days and literally stopped eating because I was so upset.  My parents didn't understand what was wrong with me.

I almost didn't even get out of the car to take a tour of Bryn Mawr because I was positive that I would never EVER go to a girls'  (women's…) school.  Later, I was making moves to apply early decision.

When I finished school and was looking for places to live in the Philadelphia area, I was initially certain that I didn't want to live in the city.  I live in the city.  And I wouldn't have it any other way.

It's sort of incredible.

And somewhat worrisome.

I'm learning to listen.

The post is coming! I promise!

My family never puts up a Christmas tree before Christmas Eve day.  When I was little, I used to hate it.  I watched all of my friends and their families go Christmas tree shopping immediately after Thanksgiving, and I often had the sense that life was inherently unfair because it seemed like they all got Christmas for about twice as long as I did.

Whenever I complained, my mom always returned with anti-commercialism sentiment and the importance of sticking to principle, and, in this case, keeping Christmas happening at Christmas was the principle.  I didn't get it.  It irritated me.  It made me pissy and probably more than a handful of unpleasantness for my poor parents to handle.

I think the Christmas that took the cake, though, was the one where we literally picked up somebody else's discarded Christmas tree.  Actually, we wound-up with two.  We had spent Christmas proper in New York City - something else that I'd kicked up an enormous fuss over because it wouldn't be a "real" Christmas since I wouldn't be waking up at HOME on Christmas day - and had arrived home on December 27th.

Let me just tell you, walking into a cold and highly unfestive house was ridiculously depressing.  I was immediately saddened and probably, knowing me, enraged.  I probably stomped around, blazing, "This is the worst Christmas ever.  It doesn't even feel like Christmas!"  I was probably the perfect cross between Ebenezer Scrooge and one of the entitled, stuck-up little girls from "A Little Princess."  So my mom had the brilliant idea for my dad and me to drive around and pick-up a tree off the side of the road, and, once my dad listened to her, he was equally as enthusiastic about the idea.  I, however, was not.  I was mortified.

"You want us to do what?!" Every inch of my small body was trembling with indignation.  Not only had we had Christmas entirely the wrong way, as far as I was concerned, now my parents wanted to make it even more wrong by dumpster diving for ALREADY USED Christmas trees.  I would never get over the shame.  The humiliation.  No one, no one, did things like that.  It was unheard of.  And humiliating.

"Tons of people get rid of their trees the day after Christmas, and they're perfectly fine."

"That is NOT the point.  We can't just…take somebody's tree off the street!!!!"  I'm sure that at this point I was feeling frantic and helpless, which is not the best combination for me, because I get kind of like a cornered dog.

"Why not?"  My mom was infuriatingly calm, and was actually laughing at me a little bit, which was really like poking that cornered dog with a stick.

"It's just…stupid.  It's revolting."  I don't know if I actually used the word, "revolting," but if I'd had the presence of mind to have used it, I'm sure that I would have.

"Then I guess we just won't have a tree."  My dad sounded mad and smug all at once.  Clearly my abrasiveness was costing my parents their festive moods.

"WE HAVE TO HAVE A TREE."  I couldn't believe my family.  At this point, I felt that I was the most misunderstood child in the entire world.  My parents didn't understand anything.  They didn't understand me, they didn't understand the holidays, they didn't understand the natural way of things.

In the end I got in the car with my dad and we spent about half an hour driving around the neighborhood, scanning the curbs for trees.  I'm positive I spent most of the ride muttering unpleasant things under my breath.  (In retrospect, I really was not a very nice child when I was unhappy.  The older I get, the more I realize that my parents really must have loved me a lot to put up with me and not lock me in a closet somewhere).

My mood changed drastically when we found what was probably, to date, the nicest tree we've ever had.  It still had a little bit of tinsel on it and one small ornament clinging to an inner branch, as though it wasn't ready for it's time to be over.  It was also perfectly proportioned and enormously tall.  It was kind of like looking for a hobo to offer food and shelter to, and instead finding a hobo, we found a disguised prince, heartbreakingly handsome and willing to come take up residence in our house.  Honestly.  The tree was just that good.  It literally made me reassess my original opinion of the whole endeavor.  For the next couple of Christmases I was only half-joking when I suggested to my parents that we wait until a couple days after Christmas to find a tree.

Our second tree was just a rather small, well-proportioned, sort of sparse kind of tree, and we took pity on it.  So we took it home, with the big one, and it wound-up leaning up against the side of our house in a bucket with popcorn garlands that I made wrapped around it. True to the theme of my life, which is that things I think I hate wind-up being the things I love the most, it was probably one of my most favorite Christmases to date.

I felt poetic at work this morning:

Hold me like I'll break
Two glasses on shifting planes
But do not touch me.

***

My office is hot
Heat rips winter asunder
I want to be naked!

I promise that I'll try to write something more entertaining and in my more usual vein tonight.  Perhaps, in light of the upcoming holidays, some anecdotes about the family dynamics in my house.

I was besieged for about half an hour last night as I sat in a chair in my apartment, reading the Honesty Thread on Bryn Mawr's ACB board.  The worry was clawing its way up my chest and into my throat, like invaders on their overly crowded, top-heavy ladders.  Except my defenses were down, no one was stopping them, and the ladders were staying upright, an open path into me.

I was completely consumed and frozen for that entire 30 minutes.  I sat huddled in my chair, struggling to breathe and feeling like a little ice cube of an island, wondering what the hell was wrong with me because I was sure that it was not normal.

Then I remembered that I am me and that this is normal.  I am one of the biggest closet neurotics I know.  I blame it on thinking.  Actually, I blame it on a series of things:

1) I think a lot.

2) I am imaginative.

3) I like to be in control at all times.

4) I like to know what is going to happen.

Those four things make living life a little tricky:

1) There is always too much to think about.

2) Similarly, imagination is boundless.

3) Life is often not controllable.  It's what makes life, life.

4) Similarly, life is unpredictable.  It is also what makes life, life.

People are my kryptonite.  With people, each of the four areas combines with each of the other four areas and makes the perfect storm.  I start to feel like I'm going to implode.  Or explode.  I'm not exactly sure which it is.  I get internally frantic, and have to work really hard to chill the fuck out.  I breathe into a metaphorical paper bag.

I've gotten marginally better at controlling myself.  Now I just funnel my OCDs and compulsions into making sure my shampoo and conditioner bottles contain exactly the same amount of liquid at any given time.

I need a crash course in being brave in the area of human emotion.

Best Thing Ever: Clicking around on Amazon.com and looking at the "Customers who bought this item also bought…" section of the page.  It's like walking into a closet full of stereotypes, just dangling from the hangers, begging to be picked out and worn.  Amazon practically holds your hand and guides you to everything you need to put on the persona you desire.  For example:

The Longchamp Le Pliage Large Folding Tote. 

Here's what else those buyers bought (I'll let you draw your own conclusions):

It's brilliant.  It's mainstream distilled into a pure essence.  It could be a new game called "How Original Are You?"  Suffice it to say that, Amazon, you have made my evening (I'm not sure what that says about my choice of activities or about how boring a person I am, but stumbling across this revelation was like stumbling across the Christmas presents my mom had stuffed into various corners in order to hide them from me before Christmas.  Just sayin').

The state of this country leaves something to be desired.  I have a hard time writing about political issues because, until very recently, the immediacy of politics did not exist for me.  I lived in a bubble ruled by academics and my social life, my well-being was completely determined by my parents, who I knew would look out for me.  It isn't until very recently that I have begun to learn that my independence over the four years of college was really only "independence," a manufactured sense of autonomy and control.  It was autonomy and control without any real responsibility, which, as anyone who has eventually assumed responsibility knows, is not true autonomy and control.  It is the kind of autonomy and control that a puppet might have within the context of a puppet show.  The puppet's character gets to take action within the context of its play, however, there is a puppet master who is pulling the strings, making sure that the scenery is correct, and ready to do any necessary damage control before the puppets are ever affected.  

Moving out on my own and taking more steps in the direction of handling my own affairs brought certain realities into stark relief.  Politics, for instance.  Suddenly I found myself very involved, and concerned about, the political state of affairs in the U.S.  For me, the hook was healthcare, because I am currently dependent on my parents' coverage as my job does not provide insurance.  As a young person, one might imagine that allowing coverage to lapse, being sans insurance for a little while, wouldn't be much of a big deal.  However, due to a kidney condition that I have had since birth, allowing my coverage to lapse would bring with it the risk of never being able to get covered again - because the truth is, insurance companies don't actually want broken people.  They don't want people who might actually need to cash in on their coverage.  For all intents and purposes, I am a broken person.

Anyway, health insurance and the Republicans' almost rabid intent to dismantle Obama's healthcare bill put my feet firmly on the surface of the planet.  It's become crystal clear to me that remaining uninvolved is akin to lying down in the middle of a highway during rush hour and hoping that, by some miracle, every car will swerve to avoid my prone body.  It's a positively absurd expectation.  But, oddly, it seems to be the very expectation that a huge percentage of this country.  The apathy is frightening, and I'm beginning to think that the apathy is less actual apathy and more a lack of realization that cause and effect exists in politics as much as it does in gravity.  Drop a rock off a building, and it will hit the ground.  Every time.  Ignore an election, or vote ignorantly, and the state of the country will suffer.  Every time.  We don't understand.  And, at this point, we're afraid to understand because things have developed into some horrifying mimicry of the twilight zone, and to look too closely into what's going on, is to stare into the face of a nightmare.

When it comes to fear, we are children.  Nobody outgrows the need for reassurance.  Nobody outgrows the desperate wish for comfort, for someone to tell them that everything will be okay and here's why.  Becoming an adult means that most of the time, you learn to exist without that external comfort and that you learn to give it to the younger generations, but no longer needing it?  Pure myth.  You grow up, but you still get scared.  You just get to be exposed to the nasty truth that the world doesn't get less scary, you just have to deal with it on your own.  We are a broken and frightened country right now, and what we have going on is the result of no one being, well, results oriented.  We keep being told what's busted, but no one is doing much to walk us through what's happening and what needs to happen.  It's terribly unhelpful.  And more unhelpful still is the existence of political parties that operate in a vacuum in which reality is suspended.  John Stewart and Stephen Colbert had a rally to restore sanity.  Could we please also have one to restore reality?

I was just looking at the labels that I have used thus far on my blog, and I am really not sure what they say about me…  Take a look - it's a long list.

adulthood

Almost Recess

anger management

appendicitis

art

asphyxiation

attraction

aviators

bandaid

binging

blogging

bosses

boys

budgeting

buttons

candles

cartoons

cell phones

cereal

childhood

cleaning

clumsiness

confusion

contradiction

death

depression

dreams

elevators

emails

embarrassment

emoticons

English

environmentalism

exercise

fire

food

George

Harry Potter

Hermione

hospital

hot men

humor

hurricanes

hypochondria

hypocrisy

Igor

illness

immaturity

infants

internet service

iPods

jeeps

landlords

lawnmowers

maturity

mold

money

monsters

old women

orthodonture

paranoia

parrots

pick-up lines

procrastination

ray bans

retro

Rooney

saloon

shower pans

smoking

social étiquette

solitude

South America

spelling

Starbucks

storm preparation

Superman

teachers

The 1900 Storm

tire swing

toilet paper

Trader Joe's 

trampolines

Twizzlers

weather

wheezing

workplace goofs

My blog is a complete cluster fuck.  However, going through the list, I realized that that makes it a fairly accurate representation my life.  I write about nothing and everything.  And my life is full of daily events that confuse the hell out of me - I'm often not very quick.  It is also painfully obvious that I am completely clueless about the Ways of Things.  The list reads like a frantic collection of possible answers to all of the situations and events that I don't understand - just put a couple of question marks after each word or phrase.  There is also a lot of discomfort and conflict.  I am so glad that at 22 I still don't seem to have a very good handle on things…   

However, at least I am learning how to be flexible.  My mother commented on this today as I was wandering around Philadelphia in flip-flops, in the rain.  Park Towne's internet was failing to work again this morning, so it was impossible for me to give sustenance to my email/facebook addiction, which left me in-need of finding a different location at which to get my fix.  Seems like the universe was pretty set against my getting it, though.  My first stop was the Starbucks right next to the Whole Foods that is a couple of blocks east of where I live.  I could tell from a distance that it wasn't going to be very promising - there were too many visible heads in the windows - but I thought I'd pop my head in anyway in case I wasn't seeing some secret little secluded table in a corner somewhere.

Nope.

It looked like the whole neighborhood was crowded into the place.  The whole neighborhood and its friends and family from out of town.  I left and made a beeline down the parkway, getting completely caught in the Puerto Rican parade that was making its way down the parkway to the sound of drums, reggaeton, and salsa music.  My mom, who was on the other end of the phone, was very excited by all the commotion, and thrilled that she could hear it all in the background.  I was surprised she could hear me at all, since I was also hollering over pretzel vendors and festive parade-goers who were chanting in Spanish.

I made it out of the fracas only to discover that Starbucks #2 was closed due to a planned power outage (wtf?).  This was very depressing because their little white sign directed me to their location on 16th and Arch, which I always forget about even though I pass it EVERY TIME I walk down the Parkway.  I didn't want to go all the way back, so the only thing to do was keep moving forward.  There was only one stop left - the Starbucks on the corner of 16th and Walnut, right next to where I work.

Normally, I do not like sitting close to people when I go to public places.  Maybe it's a function of being American (they say that Americans need about 3 times the amount of personal bubble space than do people in pretty much any other part of the world), or maybe it's just another awkward me thing, but either way, I don't like being squished up next to people I don't know.  However, being at my wits' end, I was all about squashing and squeezing.  Which is good.  Because when I got inside, it turned out that squashing and squeezing was pretty much my only option.

Apparently on rainy days all of Philadelphia turns out to go sit in the closest Starbucks.  Starbucks must love days with crummy weather.

So I am currently sitting at the little bar that runs along the window that faces 16th street, between one girl who, from my surreptitious side-long glances, seems to be working on some kind of lesson plan, and another girl who is trying to eat a fruit and cheese plate while simultaneously reading and highlighting in a  space that is far too small for that activity.  There is a dude on the end in a backwards hat who looks mad annoyed that his space has been so encroached upon.

Sorry, dude, it wasn't my first choice, either.

But anyway, I am proud of myself.  I am sucking up discomfort and tight spaces after a forty minute walk.  Here's to being confused but flexible!

I am getting very worried that I am soon to fall back into my habit of abandoning my blog for months at a time.  I really think it will be far easier when we actually have the internet IN OUR APARTMENT.  Hopefully that will be in the next  couple of weeks or so.  We were supposed to have had it this past Tuesday, but it turns out that there is something wrong with our phone jack, meaning: Park Towne doesn't have active phone lines.  So we can't use the provider we thought we could use.  Back to the drawing board we go.

Recently I was propositioned in the elevator at work, which got me to thinking about elevator etiquette and how elevators present a kind of social difficulty because you're essentially trapped in a small enclosed space with a bunch of strangers.  Sometimes I wonder what elevator rides were like before the invention of cell phones and iPods.  Because if you're ever in an elevator, pretty much everyone around you is completely engrossed in either tapping away on a phone or clicking around on an iPod.  Did people just used to look at each other awkwardly?  Or stare at opposite walls equally as awkwardly?  Or did people actually know how to handle themselves and hold short, polite conversations about the weather for the duration of the ride, at the culmination of which they would wish each other a good day?

(By the way, if I'm any accurate representation of the elevator-riding population, which I may not be because I doubt my ability to accurately represent any sort of normal population, then at least one person in every elevator is actually faking being engrossed in whatever it is they look like they're wholly absorbed by).

But back to my story.  I totally got talked-up in the elevator.  By a rather large, short fellow with a poor sense of style and braces.  He got on on the floor where there is a dentist.  

When the doors opened, I immediately turned my focus to my bag and rummaged around in it purposefully, even though I wasn't actually looking for anything.  This is because I am occasionally flustered in social situations and prefer to play the avoidance card whenever I can.  Braces got on.

Me: *rummage rummage rustle*

Braces: "You're pretty."

Me: *slight pause while I decided how to respond* "Thank you."  I went with politely distant and stared up at the numbers, wondering why, since the elevators in my building usually hurtle their way down the shafts at alarming rates, this particular elevator seemed to be taking its sweet time.

Braces: *still staring determinedly at me*  "Do you have a boyfriend?"  He started grinning at me after this and I started fervently wishing that someone else would just please get onto the elevator thank you.

Me: *another pause because I hate this question and don't know how to answer it* "Yes."  It's not entirely true, but for all intents and purposes it was the correct answer in this particular situation.

Braces: *still grinning* "Do you want another one?"

Me: "Not…really?"  At this point I was almost feeling bad for him, his game was so feeble.

Braces: You sure?

Me: "Yes.  I mean, thanks…I'm flattered…but no thank you."  For some reason when I am confronted with unfamiliar situations I revert into this hyper-polite and formal mode of interaction.  It's weird.  It also happens when I am confused or uncomfortable.

We had to ride down a couple more floors together in silence.  I spent the whole time watching the numbers light up above the doors and thinking "let me get out, let me get out, let me get out."

When I came back with my lunch, he was standing outside the front door to my building talking to the doorman.  I tried to conceal myself behind a woman who was talking loudly on her phone as she entered the building.  I don't know if it worked or not, but I got in and back up to the 17th floor without being hassled further.

I find that elevator interaction is rife with disjointed social interplay.  Think about it:

1) How long do you hold the door?

2) If you hit the "close doors" button, are you an asshole?  What about if you do it not realizing that you shut the doors in someone else's face?

3) When you get on first and hit your floor, are you supposed to ask everyone else which floor they are going to or let them take care of it?

4) Similarly, if someone else gets on before you and hits their floor, are you supposed to awkwardly stick out an arm into their personal space and punch your floor or wait until they ask where you are going?

5) Everyone judges everyone depending on the floor s/he gets out on, also, by what s/he is wearing since there is nothing else to do in an elevator besides scrutinize the company while you pretend to be disinterested and removed.

6) Eye contact.  It happens.  And when it does, you can't walk away.  You just have to stay there.  Next to each other.

Ok.

Ok, ok, ok, OKAY.

I haven't abandoned the blog.

Even though that is what it might seem like.

At this point.

Really, it is only because we don't have internet.

And I have become so lazy that walking down to the lounge is too much for me.

Pathetic.

BUT!

I have a post. 

It will be posted TONIGHT.

(Because I will walk down to the lounge to post it).

Ok, bye.

I totally have a thing for guys who drive jeeps.

This is hard for me to admit because I also totally have a thing against most SUVs.  They're huge, they waste resources, they pollute, they're impossible to see around, they're slow, etc.  I can't help it, though.  I have a thing for guys who drive jeeps.  My stomach twitches a little whenever I see one being driven by even a passably attractive guy.  The more rugged the jeep, the better.  If the guy is wearing ray bans, he gets extra points and my stomach twitches a little more.

I became consciously aware of this today as I was walking home from work.  Usually when I walk to and from work, I tend to attempt to impart an aloof attitude.  This is as much because I want to look cool as it is because I also don't know what facial expressions to make if I happen to accidentally make eye contact with someone on the street (coming soon: the perils of walking around in public, also, elevator etiquette).  In some ways, I'm just hopelessly awkward. This feigned aloofness is also probably why I trip on curbs, actually.  I put my chin in the air and forget to watch where I'm walking.  Anyway, none of this is the point.

My POINT is that while I normally play aloof and "ignore" the people and things around me, this all sort of goes out the window when I catch sight of a jeep out of the corner of my eye.  The temptation of the possibility of an attractive man behind the wheel proves to be more than my self-control can withstand, and I crack.  My head will actually do the slow motion twist so that I can keep my eyes on the prize.   I once had a really good day where I high-fived a random dude partaking in happy hour at a restaurant that I passed (incidentally, that made me feel really good about myself and like I was taking life by the horns and being spontaneous), and at the same time, a more than passably attractive guy in a jeep happened to be rolling by.  I like to think that he saw me give my random hand slap and thought to himself, "Now that is one cool girl" as he rolled on by.

I do not know what it is.  Supposedly men have physical reactions to hot cars that are on par with their physical reactions to hot women (to a point, anyway.  You all follow).  Despite being female, I think I fit that profile, too.  I see a car I like and I feel pretty much the same way as I do when I see a man that I like.  I kind of want to jump on it, but I control myself.

This is my favorite part about walking to and from work.  That and seeing men in suits on their way to and from their offices.  Men should pretty much always wear suits as far as I am concerned.  Maybe I'll try to write about that some day, too.

….

Oddly enough, though, put an attractive man in a suit behind the wheel of a jeep and I'm not into it.  I just thought of that.  Hmm.

This was a short post.  I am sorry.  I will try to get back into writing longer posts soon.

New post is in the works...I'm being lame and taking too long.  Have this picture for now; I think it's true:

Any time that someone tells me to calm down, I want to hit them.  99% of the time it is totally their fault that I'm pissed.

I recently realized that the bulk of my posts seems to be about relatively unpleasant topics of conversation.  I determined this one day when I happened to be reading over the labels that I assigned to each of my posts.  They say things like: mold, paranoia, hypochondria, cleaning, illness…  I don't know.  Together it all makes for a somewhat odd picture.  Especially when you then include things like: superman, toilet paper, and tire swing.

I'm not sure what it means.

Does it mean I have black humor?  That I'm a miserable person?  That I have problems?  Theoretically speaking, this would make sense if only because I used to be a huge complainer when I was a child.  It was probably the thing that I did best.  Who knows why I got so good at it - I might have been born that way.  I was sort of a pissy infant (understatement of the year).

Anyway, as  a child, when I was bored, I amused myself by complaining.  It was a twisted way to have fun.  I could literally complain about something about everything.  It was quite a talent.  And was probably a real bitch to deal with.  Sunny out?  Too hot to go play.  Cloudy or rainy?  Too wet, too gross.  I was supposed to make my own bed?  Were my parents kidding?  It was MY room, what did they care?  Food was a specialty of mine, which is actually kind of funny, because now I will eat anything and everything, and large quantities of it.  Dinnertime was the equivalent of the climb to the peak of Mount Everest.  First I complained about whatever we were eating.  Loudly.  I also usually shoved the food around on my plate to make a point.  Just in case, you know, my mom wasn't already feeling bad.  Then it took me about 5 times longer than a normal person to actually eat everything.  Eventually, my parents would just abandon me at the table because I was taking such an absurd amount of time.

Looking back now, I am overcome with embarrassment.  I'm impressed by my parents' resilience.  I'm not sure that I could do as well as them were I in their place.

My point with all of this is that as I grew older and marginally more mature, my penchant for complaining seemed to evolve into writing with irony.  Not always particularly good irony, but it was a redirection of my mean edge.  I think that this explains my posting labels.  Of course, the point of labeling posts is to help people to find my blog when they search for certain things on the internet's variety of search engines.  With my labels, the only people I'm likely to get are angry ones, depressed ones (depression is totally going to be a label on this post), and people who are expecting information about serious topics and instead are confronted with the ravings of a girl who's often trying to be funny about things that might not necessarily be funny.

How nice!

Some people are blessed with height, or strength, or beauty.  I'm blessed with klutziness.  Most people have the occasional run-in with the corner of the kitchen cabinet, or misjudgment of where the curb stops.  Every once in a while they might walk into a water fountain that they didn't realize was there.  I, I do those things on a daily basis.

I started my freshman year of high school off by tripping over a bush and face-planting.  As far as face-plants go, it was fairly spectacular.  And my extreme clumsiness waited until 90% of the student body had left before it showed itself, which was kind of considerate, I guess.

I've gotten so used to being clumsy, that I've actually begun to perfect the art of being graceful in my clumsiness.  My sophomore year, I missed a step on the flight of stairs leading to the main building, while wearing a short skirt.  Following the fall, I was congratulated.  Somehow, in the couple of seconds between missing the step and landing on the ground, I had the presence of mind to moderate my tumble.  Funny how once I've DONE something klutzy, the 2% of gracefulness that adds to my makeup, rushes in to make a feeble attempt to salvage the situation.  But, that 2% did allow me to land neatly, with my feet tucked beneath me, and my skirt delicately swirled around me.

When I was younger, I used to think that I was going to outgrow it and I used to dream of a day when I would glide through my days effortlessly and be bruise and embarrassment free.  Thing is, I'm 22 now and my days are not effortless, and I tend to be bruised fairly frequently.  The embarrassment, though, I have gotten under control.  I no longer care when people see me catch my toe on the crack in the sidewalk and launch forward for a few steps.  This is because I now mostly wander around listening to my iPod, so I can pretend that I'm in my own little world.  And in that little world, no one notices when I commit a movement faux pas.  And no, my iPod is not why I trip on sidewalks (aha! I know you were thinking it).

Here are a few things that I can think of that are evidence of my klutziness:

1) When I tripped over a bush stump and face-planted.

2) When I missed a stair and fell down.

3) When I fell UP the stairs and landed on my hands and knees.

4) When I closed my thumb in the door to my dorm room (the nail then turned purple).

5) Every time I get tripped up by sidewalks and misjudge curb height.

6) When I was at John's and walked into the coffee table.

7) When I was at my apartment and almost walked into a bookcase as I was trying to get into our pantry.

8) When John and I were at Starbucks and I tried to put my coffee cup down but missed the table and dropped the cup on my lap.

9) When I was at the gym and my headband flew backwards off my head and landed on the floor and I had to stop the treadmill to go pick it up.

10) A couple of mornings ago when I was trying to eat cereal and illustrate this post at the same time and my hand forgot what it was doing and tilted my bowl and dumped milk and cheerios on my leg and on the floor.

I think that perhaps I just have a very poor kinesthetic sense.

This is just how it is.

I'm worried.

During my second day of work I wrote a hurried email to a guy who's in charge of a tour company.  Up until now, there has only been one email for the entirety of the company: robert@cityfoodtours.com.  This means that when any other employee (namely the Private Events Manager - me) responds to an email, s/he has to sign the email with Robert's name.  Otherwise, it just looks odd.  And would probably lead to the people on the receiving end of the emails getting confused and wondering about the legitimacy of things.  Of course, I put the legitimacy of things into question in my own way.

I totally misspelled Robert's last name.

Turns out that "Weinberg" is NOT spelled "W-E-I-N-B-U-R-G."

I'm not sure what I was thinking.  Or what my fingers were thinking.  I didn't even realize that I'd done it until a couple of days later when I was going back through emails to make sure that I'd sent messages to everyone to whom I needed to send messages.

Now I'm paranoid every time I log into the email because I am concerned that there is going to be an email from the tour company guy being like, "Hi, Robert, I'd like to give you a call to discuss an email I received from your address.  When is a good time for you?"  And then I will be so busted and Robert will probably be all, "Wtf."  And he might actually say, "What the fuck."

I don't actually know how I did it.  I KNOW that "Weinberg" is not spelled with a "u."  Perhaps my brain switches to phonetic mode when it is tired.  If you operate off of that understanding, then the "u" almost makes sense.  It might have also been right around lunchtime.

When it is around lunchtime, I generally get brain dead and make silly mistakes.

P.S. I am on a bad posting run - this one hardly counts and I keep missing days.  I'm trying really hard not to, so I hope to improve SOON.  SORRY!

This is George.  He comes out when there is something to frown about.  In this case, my negligence regarding posting.

I should warn you, this is kind of a nothing post.  I've had a pretty busy weekend and the creative juices haven't been flowing so much.  I'm thinking about maybe taking weekends off from posting, but I haven't decided.  Anyway…this one is sort of a space filler.  Hopefully next week will bring better things!

Recently I backed-up and then edited my blog.  This means that I deleted each and every post that I found to be incriminating in some way or another.  I went from something like 416 posts to 13.  Now, to be fair, those 416 post were from over a period of 7 years, and since I've recently decided that being an attention whore is the way to go, I came to feel that it was marginally inappropriate to include the personal and sometimes overly revealing ramblings of a much younger me.  I wrote things like this post from August 31, 2003:

"SUNDAY, AUGUST 31, 2003

I drew a picture of Rooney today. It came out very well. Of course, I drew it b/c I promised Rachel I'd draw her one, and now I think I'm going to have to make a duplicate for me b/c I like it so much. lol. I love Rooney. They are awesome. Today was a pretty boring day. I did most of my homework, but I still have to write my rough draft for english. Ugh. I'm not looking forward to that, especially b/c Mr. Myer seems to take points off for silly things. Like the last essay for instance, which was a summary, he took points off b/c I didn't use the writer's name at all on the second page. It's a summary!!! Does one normally state the writer's name on every page? I mean, if it's not in what you're summarizing, why would you put it in? Argh. I don't get it, but w/e. I'm so glad that we have tomorrow off. I needed this three day weekend desperately. We should have a three day weekend every other week or something. That would be so awesome! Ok, well I don't think there's anything else to write. So cya laterz!"

It just goes to show you how far I've come.  I went from worrying about English teachers with petty issues to fighting management offices about mold and holes in my walls.  I was also still attempting to affect what I clearly thought was the "cool" way to talk.  I also wrote this a few days prior:

"Anyway, I am totally in love with an a cappella group called Almost Recess. They are AMAZING!! I never thought I'd be into a cappella, but it's great. They performed in one of the showcases and I was sitting there in awe with this really big, stupid grin on my face. lol. AND I got a free CD of theirs. hehe. It only has 5 songs, but it's the only one they have out, so I'm cool with that. lol. I know you're probably sitting there reading this and thinking, what a dork, but it seriously is REALLY cool. REALLY REALLY cool. No joke. God they are so talented. And they're pretty young too. WOW. That's it, just WOW. I also saw some other performances. One South American group named Solazo performed and they were really good too. And then there was one guy who did really cool stuff with hand shadows and another really cool thing with folded paper. Quite quite nifty. heehee."

…You see why I've taken the liberty of removing some of this from the public sphere?  I am STILL sitting here and thinking "what a dork."  I think I had just discovered "lol" at this point in my newly begun high school career.  I also think that I wasn't completely sure how I was supposed to use it, and so employed it as a way of trying to diffuse my self-consciousness at saying what I was saying, while also looking hip.  "They performed in one of the showcases and I was sitting there in awe with this really big, stupid grin on my face. lol."  I was overly-enthusiastic and was smiling until my cheeks were about to fall off and probably looked silly but, haha, it's ok, you can laugh.  "It only has 5 songs, but it's the only one they have out, so I'm cool with that. lol."  I'm trying to act like I'm discerning, but I'm really not and I know it and you probably know it, so haha.  I think I was kind of into enthusiastic caps locking as well… 

Anyway, when I started writing again, I went through a learning period where I wasn't really sure how much to say.  I felt sort of like a little kid learning social etiquette.  You do not tell a stranger that you just picked a wedgie.  You may, however, tell a stranger that your favorite color is green.  I got my friend to read the early stages of the blog and he was like "I was kind of surprised by how personal you get…"  That's when I started editing and reading what I'd written from a third-party perspective.  He was right.  Now I am fairly certain that I have removed any wedgie-announcement equivalents from these pages.  If you see one, though, and it makes you uncomfortable, let me know.  Also, bear with me.  I'm still learning!

So what is the deal with hurricane names?  With Earl bearing down on the east coast, I started thinking about what we name these ofttimes deadly and destructive storms, and realized that we pick some really lame ones.  In fact, the deadliest hurricane in U.S. history, which hit Galveston, TX in 1900 and killed over 8,000 people, didn't even have a name.

After thinking about this, I've decided that state governments would have an easier time evacuating people if the names of the storms were actually fear-inspiring.  Who's going to run away from 'that storm that's coming our way but that we can't clearly identify?"  To be fair, they hadn't started naming hurricanes yet. But THEN the 6th deadliest hurricane in U.S. history rolled up in 1957….and its name was…Audrey.  That is not frightening.  Not remotely.  It sounds like a parrot.

Then there was Agnes (to be fair, this was Agatha Trunchbull's nickname, but if that's what they were going for, they should just have called it "Trunchbull." Far more intimidating).  Hilda wins points for alliteration, but that's about it.  And, um, Floyd?  And let me tell you, Floyd knocked some trees down - who'd have thunk it?  Fran, which sounded like someone's grandmother, in fact behaved like some kind of frightening freight train, rebellious teenager, and angry lumberjack hybrid.  No one expected it.

I checked the list for 2010 names and it has some SUPER winners.  Like Otto. And Hermine which is, like, Hermione's gimpy sister?  Spellcheck doesn't even acknowledge its validity.  Then, THEN, there is Igor.  Hurricane Igor??  Why, WHY, why would someone choose to name a hurricane after the stock, hunchback side-kick to literary villains??  That's basically saying that hurricanes don't warrant center stage because they are the equivalent of some other natural disaster's bitch.  And that is such a misnomer.  

A part of me wonders whether these names are society's nerds' way of sticking it to the populace.  Small, socially awkward, brilliant children in grade school, now responsible for sicking the likes of Humberto and Olga on defenseless citizens.  Names that would only belong to similarly small, socially awkward children if they were personified.  Or to a large, slow-moving troll.  It's a huge problem!  

Because NO ONE is going to take anything named "Wilfred" seriously!  Wilfred sounds like the name of your harmless elderly neighbor whose grass you cut every weekend, not at all like a furious storm with some serious potential for wreckage.  "Everyone EVACUATE!  Wilfred's coming in!"

…

No.

Now, if they named hurricanes after big, scary villains, then we might be getting somewhere.  Megatron, for instance.  The Joker.  Godzilla.  Of course, we'd probably have to lose the prefix "hurricane," because saying "Hurricane the Joker" just sounds retarded.  But, for instance, imagine if weather people had to say "Megatron is closing in on the Virginia coast and is currently a category 4 storm.  People are being encouraged to evacuate as quickly as possible."  That sounds SERIOUS.  Who wants to stick around to see what Megatron is going to do?  No one!  The freeways would be jammed within a minute.  People might not even board- up windows.

But that's not what happens.  Noo.  What happens is that some storm like "Bertha" is whirling about in the Atlantic and everyone thinks, "Bertha?  Meh.  I'll buy my loaf of bread, milk, some bottled water, and toilet paper, and just wait out the storm in my barricaded house.  After all, its name is Bertha, what could it possibly do to us?"  Enough.  It could do enough, is the answer.

For some reason, we name all of our storms names that are associated with less than threatening images and ideas.  They inspire no sense of urgency among the potentially affected populations.  But, when we have a storm barreling in called "Green Goblin," I BET we wouldn't have to worry about stragglers and hold-outs.  This just won't do it: 

(Also, to juxtapose the images of of Igor that I found online, here are some of my proposed hurricane names.  See what you think:

Green Goblin

Megatron

See the difference?)

What I Will Buy When I Have Money Again

Shoes to run in.  Not necessarily 'running shoes' because I will still be poor, just less so, and real 'running shoes' are expensive.

I'm dying without p90x…  Because of this, today I walked up 15 flights to my apartment just to get some extra exercise.  I regretted it by the 5th floor.

Text messaging.  This one is sort of nonnegotiable.  It has become increasingly apparent over the past couple of years that not having text messaging is something of a handicap.  I have discovered that not having texting causes one of two things to happen (or, you know, both): 

1) I miss things.  Like parties.  And going to get ice cream.  And other fun events in which I would have been able to participate had I gotten the line, "R u busy 2nite?" on my phone.

2) People begin to think that I am jerk because they do not realize that I am, in fact, living a text-free lifestyle.  They instead come to believe that I A) hate them, B) think their ideas are bad and therefore don't trouble them with a response, or C) I am hopelessly and unalterably inept in the art of communication and fail to understand that the appropriate thing to do when I receive a text is to write back.

I've had the occasional blow-up with my parents where I hollered about how "This isn't fair!" and how they are "CRIPPLING ME," and how they "must simply NOT comprehend the ways in which the world works."  Honestly, though, I've mostly been pretty okay with taking my hits and not having texting.  Until now.  The idea that texting is important has been slowly taking root in my deprived mind and growing, but it is now a full-fledged, crackling FIRE in its urgency and importance.  (Yes, I mixed my metaphors, but what was I supposed to say?  That the idea has become a HUGE MOTHEREFFing TREE ABOUT TO DROP LARGE, HEAVY PIECES OF FRUIT ALL OVER THE PLACE?  It just doesn't have the same feel as an out-of-control wildfire).  Now that I am working, I am realizing that texting is actually pretty crucial in the workplace.  My bosses text the employees regularly, and are usually texting about important things (but not always. Sometimes someone gets something about an attractive delivery person).  But normally they are regarding proposal deadlines.  Or the change in location for an event.  Or whether we are going out for lunch.  You know, messages that, if continuously missed, could sort of fuck up my job.  Or lose me some serious money on food (and this is a double whammy because I can really use the free food. As a related side note, this is why I'm thrilled at the prospect of visiting friends at Bryn Mawr.  Four words: Free, Food, Dining, Halls).

Borders.  Okay, not really Borders.  Books.  But I would absolutely buy a Borders if I could afford one.  And I would live in it. 

Crest White Strips.  I have a complex about my teeth.  I don't think that there is actually anything wrong with them, but I don't care.  If I were worse at managing my money, or I had large amounts of it sitting around and gathering dust, I would probably spend an embarrassing amount of it on whitening products.  I think that this is probably the unfortunate result of combining my OCD when it comes to perfectionism, with personal hygiene.  Particularly dental hygiene.  For some reason, I don't have the same attitude towards, say, my hair.  I am totally fine not brushing it very well and yanking it up into a bun that is lopsided and falls down when I walk.  Teeth, though…  I was out of dental floss for the entirety of last week (because I was too lazy to walk all the way out to Rite Aid), and every morning when I woke up I poked my teeth with my index finger because I was scared that not flossing for a week was going to make them fall out.

Booze.  I was going to qualify this, but then decided that "booze" was enough.  Oddly enough, the times when booze would be nicest to have are also the times when, due to extenuating circumstances like POVERTY, it is hardest to come by.

Steak.  Seriously.  I am going to go to the grocery store and I am going to buy steak.  Then I am going to cook it.  Actually…I don't know how since we don't have a grill.  But I will figure it out.  With my superior cooking skills that have so far resulted in a burned hand and a loaf of Irish Soda Bread that could have passed for a pan-sized corn muffin.  Except it didn't actually contain any corn.

I don't know what else.  There is probably more, but those are the things that I can think of right now.  The important things.  Together they form an interesting picture.  That might make me an…interesting person.

UPDATE: Also, I need a new travel mug.  I left mine in the leasing office and it disappeared.


UPDATE 2: I also want a pet.  Except I don't want vet bills.