... I'm home!
Or, rather, back at one of them - IU. Bloomington. I'd say Indiana, but outside of this little oasis, there's not much inclination to set down my stuff and get comfortable.
However, that doesn't matter! I'm tucked neatly back into town, my stuff is 78% or so unpacked (you best believe I've done the math!), and... the best part...
I'M OUT OF THE DORMS.
Oh dear god, put on the Handel record and let the "Hallelujah's!" resonate around for a while. It's about damn time.
3 years of stuffing all of my worldly belongings into a cubic space the size of a slightly generous jail cell. 3 years of trekking down the hall in fuzzy slippers and a fuzzier towel to shower, multitasking with appeasing the multiple voyeurs that always seemed to be congregating around in the corridor at that exact moment. 3 years of cooking my food in microwaves, washing my dishes in public bathroom sinks, and getting progressively and more desperately creative with the salad bar to stave off insanity. 3 years of waking up at 4 in the morning due to neighbors, roommate, or commotion out in the hallway...
... it's good to know that, while I can still expect commotion to jolt me from bed in the witching hour, I'll know who's responsible.
It means I can hunt them down later and destroy them utterly.
... I mean, ask them nicely to quit it. With my fist.
Not that I'm complaining. Oh, okay, fine, I am. I'm being a whiny little bint, and I know it - It just feels so damn BRILLIANT to be making my own space (1/2 of it, anyway) into my own home. To see my pictures on a room that's not RPS regulated, to have my food in the fridge, to just be able to relax with my roommate without worrying about propriety - or, rather, whether or not the lounge has been reserved... well...
... it's a beautiful thing.
I know people who stayed in the dorm system for all 4 years of their undergrad - I figured that would be me, as well, even though Josh and I talked about moving in together for the past three years. ("Close"?! Ha! Laughable - we are more than close. We are BFFFFFFFF's. ..... and I think I just vomited a bit in my mouth. Yuck) In any case, the moment Josh asked me to move in, the thinly stretched part of me that believed I could make living with underclassmen for *one more year* ripped to shreds. Don't get me wrong, the kids I lived with last year were fun and entertaining, and I hope they found me equally amusing (even if not intended)... but suddenly, that bathroom walk was less than tolerable. The 4 a.m. thing got *really* old, *really* fast. Cooking eggs in the morning - in the microwave (it's an exact science) - was not quite as fascinating.
... Let us just say that, after 2 1/2 years of perusing the thought, I've looked forward to this homecoming for a half year now. As my roommate and I often throw around, we've mentioned that we were excited to live together about, oh, 5000 times or so.
However, I think the quintessential moment - the epitome, the point - of finally being here... last night at dinner. Josh, his friend A., and me, eating a homemade meal, each enjoying a beer, swapping embarassing stories, and then curling up after for a marathon of Scrubs. Senior year is going to be tough. Interesting. Complicated and busy as hell. However... it's nice to know that, not only do I have a room to come back to... but I have a *home* to look forward to returning to each evening.
Thank goodness. It's about time. :)
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
... and what have we learned?
Remember Middle School? Or - more specifically - Middle School "Formals"? The idea of boys and girls playing dress up in their older siblings' hand-me-downs and attempting to keep from laughing and/or blushing furiously for 3 straight hours? All literally scrubbed up and given a dressing down by moms and dads ("you had better behave yourself, mister...") and then dropped off with the mother's dabbing at their eyes, and the dad's barely hiding grins and snickers...
Well, no one would tell you, and I doubt any one would actually admit it, but these things were not designed for our own entertainment. Middle School Formals were the first test in a long string of adult experiments and Darwinian exercises that began, technically, with your co-ed sand-box playmates prior to preschool. The test situation - to see what happens when you are dressed and ordered to act like a regular human being, then sent into a gymnasium full of floating pheromones and awkward, uncomfortable testosterone. The hypothesis:
... slowly, with many a red cheek and giggle, you'd realize (not only during the "dance", but in the weeks prior) that there are people here that you... you... you...
.... that you like.
Dear God Help Us, I know.
Sure, there are crushes. Moments of weakness where/when you admit that you think someone in your class is cute - but I'm talking about the angst, the emotional uproar, the squirming animal within that rears its ugly head whenever that person - the oh-so-enduring "love of your life" - dances with someone else. Dare they even look at another person, and you become, whether you admit it or not, capable of murder..
... though only in the name of love, of course.
This is what our parents are looking for - this all consuming (though temporary) emo-whiner lust that proves we are capable of loving.
... Or, at least, that we're on our way there.
High School dances are different. Although I'd like to believe (for my own piece of mind, and/or my parents - I'd hate for them to be traumatized) that adults don't know what kind of dancing goes on once puberty kicks in and we're allowed to gawk at upperclassmen...
... I'm pretty sure that they know they're sending us off to a 3 hour orgy.
If you disagree with me, I have two things to say to you:
1. You are in denial - and -
2. Please tell me what high school *you* went to, and did your parents allow you to leave the house?
Where Middle School allows the awakening of great passion - of realizing that you can become thoroughly miserable over and about another human being, High School just extends the angst and allows clothed sex once every few months or so to keep the raging hormones at bay. By the time you reach sophomore year, you have holed yourself up in your room several dozen times and stared forlornly at the ceiling, wondering why, why, why ____ will never know your name, try as you might to silently (and without alerting them to your presence at all) get them to realize that you truly, deeply, love them.
College, however - that is when they parents truly worry, I believe. They have helped train your instincts to seek out, find, and sustain (or kill) love, and now they can no longer purposefully shove you into situations where you have to come face to face with it. The question becomes, then - are they more worried that you will have unprecedented access to it on a day to day basis, or will you shut yourself away from it, from the world? If you choose the former, you're either a lucky son of a gun or...
.... [cough]. Not that I deal in extremes, or anything.
The latter... is tempting. Your room is small and comforting, like the womb. Your computer gives you all the access to the world that you could ever need - if classes didn't take place across the street, you could snuggle in and "explore" to your heart's content, never worrying or fretting about missing what you didn't want to admit that you were seeking out in 7th and 8th grade in those darkened gyms and cafeterias.
... However... the experimentation taken up by our parents, our guardians, never truly leaves us, I believe. Mice learn to find the cheese with or without the prodding of the lab assistant; we venture out of our comfort zones, out of past issues, out of the dorm room, and often times get hit by love like a brick to the face.
... sounds pleasant, right? Well, actually - it's not too bad. Our parents introduced us to the idea, whether or not we ever became, or become, aware of the strings and the rigging - and it's inescapable after that...
... which is, I'm sure, exactly what they wanted...
... and what, admit it or no, we want, also.
Well, no one would tell you, and I doubt any one would actually admit it, but these things were not designed for our own entertainment. Middle School Formals were the first test in a long string of adult experiments and Darwinian exercises that began, technically, with your co-ed sand-box playmates prior to preschool. The test situation - to see what happens when you are dressed and ordered to act like a regular human being, then sent into a gymnasium full of floating pheromones and awkward, uncomfortable testosterone. The hypothesis:
... slowly, with many a red cheek and giggle, you'd realize (not only during the "dance", but in the weeks prior) that there are people here that you... you... you...
.... that you like.
Dear God Help Us, I know.
Sure, there are crushes. Moments of weakness where/when you admit that you think someone in your class is cute - but I'm talking about the angst, the emotional uproar, the squirming animal within that rears its ugly head whenever that person - the oh-so-enduring "love of your life" - dances with someone else. Dare they even look at another person, and you become, whether you admit it or not, capable of murder..
... though only in the name of love, of course.
This is what our parents are looking for - this all consuming (though temporary) emo-whiner lust that proves we are capable of loving.
... Or, at least, that we're on our way there.
High School dances are different. Although I'd like to believe (for my own piece of mind, and/or my parents - I'd hate for them to be traumatized) that adults don't know what kind of dancing goes on once puberty kicks in and we're allowed to gawk at upperclassmen...
... I'm pretty sure that they know they're sending us off to a 3 hour orgy.
If you disagree with me, I have two things to say to you:
1. You are in denial - and -
2. Please tell me what high school *you* went to, and did your parents allow you to leave the house?
Where Middle School allows the awakening of great passion - of realizing that you can become thoroughly miserable over and about another human being, High School just extends the angst and allows clothed sex once every few months or so to keep the raging hormones at bay. By the time you reach sophomore year, you have holed yourself up in your room several dozen times and stared forlornly at the ceiling, wondering why, why, why ____ will never know your name, try as you might to silently (and without alerting them to your presence at all) get them to realize that you truly, deeply, love them.
College, however - that is when they parents truly worry, I believe. They have helped train your instincts to seek out, find, and sustain (or kill) love, and now they can no longer purposefully shove you into situations where you have to come face to face with it. The question becomes, then - are they more worried that you will have unprecedented access to it on a day to day basis, or will you shut yourself away from it, from the world? If you choose the former, you're either a lucky son of a gun or...
.... [cough]. Not that I deal in extremes, or anything.
The latter... is tempting. Your room is small and comforting, like the womb. Your computer gives you all the access to the world that you could ever need - if classes didn't take place across the street, you could snuggle in and "explore" to your heart's content, never worrying or fretting about missing what you didn't want to admit that you were seeking out in 7th and 8th grade in those darkened gyms and cafeterias.
... However... the experimentation taken up by our parents, our guardians, never truly leaves us, I believe. Mice learn to find the cheese with or without the prodding of the lab assistant; we venture out of our comfort zones, out of past issues, out of the dorm room, and often times get hit by love like a brick to the face.
... sounds pleasant, right? Well, actually - it's not too bad. Our parents introduced us to the idea, whether or not we ever became, or become, aware of the strings and the rigging - and it's inescapable after that...
... which is, I'm sure, exactly what they wanted...
... and what, admit it or no, we want, also.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
I am *quite* open to falling from grace, thanks.
I refuse to write about the obvious.
... [Yeah, I know: "Huh?" Oh well.]
I do, however, want to word vomit on a subject that is less than apparent... if only in my delusional naivety. I won't go so far as to think that I'm as easy to read as the Harry Potter books I'm going through (... again...), but I need a poker face.
Correction: I need sunglasses, a mask, a bandana, a sweet hat, and a few miscellaneous wigs.
There are two extremes of people, with a lot of gray in between: The first, who reveal nothing until threatened with interrogation and/or Chinese Water Torture, and even then, their facial expression doesn't go too far beyond a mild, inconvenienced grimace. On the other hand, you have the second - the "heart-on-sleeve-you'll-never-need-to-wonder-how-I-feel-because-I'm-going-to-tell-you-like-it-or-not". The trailing-puppy of people, they are not only completely aware of their emotions, but everyone else is, also.
... which leads us to the gray - or, it would, if I didn't see myself in a Billy Idol color setting. On one hand, my use of sarcasm, dorky humor, and endless supply of Bach jokes covers up uncertainty. With still or partial unknowns, the rule is that I try to keep the conversation going, and you laughing. Doesn't always work, but ultimately, with people I get friendlier with, this leads to more serious talk... or, at least, attempts at it. On the other hand, my good friends can tell you that they get calls twice a month or so starting with this line:
"________, can I run a hypothetical by you?"
... by now they've all come to the conclusion that my "hypothetical" will segue-way, seamlessly, into a confession that it's not hypothetical at all, but a reality - mine, ta da! - and that, once again, they're going to know a lot more about certain situations than they would under normal - or desired - conditions.
... I'm very lucky to have my friends - even though I'm sure, at points, they get exasperated with my attempts to make life "interesting" with my varying situations, or me trying to balance my emotions and my feeble attempts at covering them up.
You could argue that a poker face is all well and good - in certain situations - but that people who never give a clue as to how they feel, or function, will inevitably distance themselves or put others at a loss. You could also argue that emotions are healthy, that its beautiful to behold someone who isn't afraid to let others see what they feel, or believe.
.... my problem, at the moment, is that I have two conflicting emotional forces... and, to show them both, would be a contortionists' challenge and quite the grotesque facial expression. To hide either one would be wrong - to certain degrees. The first, as more people scope out facebook, is going to be apparent no matter how well I arrange my quizzical eyebrows. The second is healthy to realize but possibly harmful if entirely shown daylight, and while wreaking havoc always makes things more exciting, I've done enough damage for a bit. I don't have the skill - or the desire - to completely cover it up or squash it, but neither do I have the desire to run with it until I know if my hypothetical is a good thing or a foolish one.
Lady Gaga made this whole "poker face" thing seem much simpler.
... [Yeah, I know: "Huh?" Oh well.]
I do, however, want to word vomit on a subject that is less than apparent... if only in my delusional naivety. I won't go so far as to think that I'm as easy to read as the Harry Potter books I'm going through (... again...), but I need a poker face.
Correction: I need sunglasses, a mask, a bandana, a sweet hat, and a few miscellaneous wigs.
There are two extremes of people, with a lot of gray in between: The first, who reveal nothing until threatened with interrogation and/or Chinese Water Torture, and even then, their facial expression doesn't go too far beyond a mild, inconvenienced grimace. On the other hand, you have the second - the "heart-on-sleeve-you'll-never-need-to-wonder-how-I-feel-because-I'm-going-to-tell-you-like-it-or-not". The trailing-puppy of people, they are not only completely aware of their emotions, but everyone else is, also.
... which leads us to the gray - or, it would, if I didn't see myself in a Billy Idol color setting. On one hand, my use of sarcasm, dorky humor, and endless supply of Bach jokes covers up uncertainty. With still or partial unknowns, the rule is that I try to keep the conversation going, and you laughing. Doesn't always work, but ultimately, with people I get friendlier with, this leads to more serious talk... or, at least, attempts at it. On the other hand, my good friends can tell you that they get calls twice a month or so starting with this line:
"________, can I run a hypothetical by you?"
... by now they've all come to the conclusion that my "hypothetical" will segue-way, seamlessly, into a confession that it's not hypothetical at all, but a reality - mine, ta da! - and that, once again, they're going to know a lot more about certain situations than they would under normal - or desired - conditions.
... I'm very lucky to have my friends - even though I'm sure, at points, they get exasperated with my attempts to make life "interesting" with my varying situations, or me trying to balance my emotions and my feeble attempts at covering them up.
You could argue that a poker face is all well and good - in certain situations - but that people who never give a clue as to how they feel, or function, will inevitably distance themselves or put others at a loss. You could also argue that emotions are healthy, that its beautiful to behold someone who isn't afraid to let others see what they feel, or believe.
.... my problem, at the moment, is that I have two conflicting emotional forces... and, to show them both, would be a contortionists' challenge and quite the grotesque facial expression. To hide either one would be wrong - to certain degrees. The first, as more people scope out facebook, is going to be apparent no matter how well I arrange my quizzical eyebrows. The second is healthy to realize but possibly harmful if entirely shown daylight, and while wreaking havoc always makes things more exciting, I've done enough damage for a bit. I don't have the skill - or the desire - to completely cover it up or squash it, but neither do I have the desire to run with it until I know if my hypothetical is a good thing or a foolish one.
Lady Gaga made this whole "poker face" thing seem much simpler.
Monday, June 8, 2009
What? Lies!! Treachery! False symphonic temptations!
... a few weeks ago, I found love.
I'm writing about it now because I can't seem to completely shake the feelings of withdrawal and strange loneliness that have cropped up, and also -
- because angst can be fun.
(Just by writing that, it becomes obvious that I don't understand "the point" of angst, but based off of my calculations, it seems to amount to, roughly, sounding like a whiny bi...nt.)
In any case - love. Angst. Harry Potter with Emo Facial Expressions = Mahler. All of these things are important because, together, they turn three fragmented sentences into a partial reason for my lustful cravings.
... I miss Cincinnati like a crazy person.
("Ah", you sigh - "here she goes. Buggering off as if she's some swooning teeny-bopper who doesn't know the difference between a viola section and a band of rusty musical saws.")
Well - I *do* know the difference. The viola section sounds better (they practiced), and, quite frankly, violas aren't the problem here.
I am *not* a teeny-bopper.
... I am a little swoony, though.
Situations like Cincinnati - where you aren't sure how people will treat you, how the music will come together, how you'll fit (if you dare assume as much) with the rest of the section... its kinda sorta quasi what I live for. My version of jumping out of planes - will the parachute open? Don't know, but it's too late to ask that now! Same idea. Will I mesh and feel comfortable, or will I get beaten to death with the score of Mahler 8?
(See? Even the mortality question is there.)
Combine that life/death parachute/score idea with the fact that I am, yes, a 21-year-old, swooning, awe-struck, green/naive small person, and it's a crack of sorts.
... Wide eyes, yes, jittery jaw, no.
IU Phil was brilliant but I let nerves overtake the first half of the year. My mistake. Things worked out, but it took a pint of Guinness (or two) to really, truly clean things up at the end of everything... Hindsight (and Guinness) is fantastic, but there was no way in all of my teeny-bopper themed hell that I was going to destroy Cincinnati.
... so I worked my tush off, survived my van's attempts to kill me (via heartattack and/or nervous breakdown), and now I'm slowly starting to ween it out of my system.
I miss the bass section: thus, goal for the day: try not to surf facebook more than 3 dozen times looking for new reasons to go back to Cincy.
I miss Mahler: blast other music until either, Mahler loosens his tentacle-like grip upon my mental juke-box, or lose hearing entirely.
I'm craving banter: go talk to the dog. She doesn't mind awful jokes - humanity generally does.
... I just want one last rehearsal, if only to hear Wayne Anderson start another diatribe post-coffee consumption.
... where's my sardonic yet lovable little sister when I need her at her crankiest?
It hasn't been easy, but so far it's gotten better. Anberlin - Alternative Christian Rock - has replaced... somewhat... Mahler (Alternative Christian Post-Romantic.) Georgia, packing, and cleaning around Grandmom's house has distracted me from facebook; the dog has hidden herself, which means either I banter with myself (not that far-fetched) or not at all... and Mary Frances returns tomorrow.
... Hoorah!
Things might just be okay, afterall.
I'm writing about it now because I can't seem to completely shake the feelings of withdrawal and strange loneliness that have cropped up, and also -
- because angst can be fun.
(Just by writing that, it becomes obvious that I don't understand "the point" of angst, but based off of my calculations, it seems to amount to, roughly, sounding like a whiny bi...nt.)
In any case - love. Angst. Harry Potter with Emo Facial Expressions = Mahler. All of these things are important because, together, they turn three fragmented sentences into a partial reason for my lustful cravings.
... I miss Cincinnati like a crazy person.
("Ah", you sigh - "here she goes. Buggering off as if she's some swooning teeny-bopper who doesn't know the difference between a viola section and a band of rusty musical saws.")
Well - I *do* know the difference. The viola section sounds better (they practiced), and, quite frankly, violas aren't the problem here.
I am *not* a teeny-bopper.
... I am a little swoony, though.
Situations like Cincinnati - where you aren't sure how people will treat you, how the music will come together, how you'll fit (if you dare assume as much) with the rest of the section... its kinda sorta quasi what I live for. My version of jumping out of planes - will the parachute open? Don't know, but it's too late to ask that now! Same idea. Will I mesh and feel comfortable, or will I get beaten to death with the score of Mahler 8?
(See? Even the mortality question is there.)
Combine that life/death parachute/score idea with the fact that I am, yes, a 21-year-old, swooning, awe-struck, green/naive small person, and it's a crack of sorts.
... Wide eyes, yes, jittery jaw, no.
IU Phil was brilliant but I let nerves overtake the first half of the year. My mistake. Things worked out, but it took a pint of Guinness (or two) to really, truly clean things up at the end of everything... Hindsight (and Guinness) is fantastic, but there was no way in all of my teeny-bopper themed hell that I was going to destroy Cincinnati.
... so I worked my tush off, survived my van's attempts to kill me (via heartattack and/or nervous breakdown), and now I'm slowly starting to ween it out of my system.
I miss the bass section: thus, goal for the day: try not to surf facebook more than 3 dozen times looking for new reasons to go back to Cincy.
I miss Mahler: blast other music until either, Mahler loosens his tentacle-like grip upon my mental juke-box, or lose hearing entirely.
I'm craving banter: go talk to the dog. She doesn't mind awful jokes - humanity generally does.
... I just want one last rehearsal, if only to hear Wayne Anderson start another diatribe post-coffee consumption.
... where's my sardonic yet lovable little sister when I need her at her crankiest?
It hasn't been easy, but so far it's gotten better. Anberlin - Alternative Christian Rock - has replaced... somewhat... Mahler (Alternative Christian Post-Romantic.) Georgia, packing, and cleaning around Grandmom's house has distracted me from facebook; the dog has hidden herself, which means either I banter with myself (not that far-fetched) or not at all... and Mary Frances returns tomorrow.
... Hoorah!
Things might just be okay, afterall.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Pardon Me, but I'm Morally Opposed to Leaving the Driveway.
I tried to take my friend's dog for a walk today.
... I figured it would be more successful than my attempt *yesterday* - mind, yesterday I tried to take her for a "run", not a walk, which may explain the following:
1 step out of the door, the dog (Roxy) and I are both excited. I've never gone for a run with a puppy before, and if she zipped around outside like she spasmodically zipped *inside*... this could be fun.
2 steps out of the door - the leash jerks out of my hand.
... and Roxy can zip, let me tell you.
What followed was a half-block sprint chase, involving teasing, coy looks, and sudden spurts of energy (the dog) and pleading, shouting, and last, determined, desperate reaches for the leash (me).
... long story short - I caught the dog... who, upon being caught, sat down immediately in the middle of the street and refused to go a step further.
... I carried her back to the house.
Today, however, I was mentally resolved to make things turn out differently. Zippy could take a calm, long walk with me, and we could get to know each other a bit as I led her - securely fastened - around the neighborhood. With the air of Santa Claus giving out a particularly big gift, I knelt down in front of the dog and introduced the idea of a walk.
"Walk???????" I said, extra perky. "Do you want to go for a walk????????"
Roxy looked skeptical, but let me hook up the leash. She even let me walk her out to the driveway.
... but... on the driveway... she suddenly refused to go further. Apparently, she wants no part of venturing out into the street. Nerves? Maybe. But so staunch was her resolve that it seemed more like moral opposition. She'd been against that sort of activity from the start, she would *certainly* not change NOW.
... I picked her up and began to carry her down the street.
Perhaps, like my friend's puppy back home, she just needed to be shown that it was okay to venture down the block before heading back home. At the end of the block, I set her down, hoping that she would be energized to explore, now that she was away from the house.
... nope. Sat and watched me stoically.
... so I picked her back up, walked another block. We were now on a new street, though connected via curve to her own.
I set her down.
... and there she sat.
I picked her up again.
"Roxy," I said, "We are going for a walk whether you like it or not. I will carry you the entire darn way if I have to, but you and I are going to make it around the neighborhood." She regarded me, again, stoically, big dark eyes focused on my eyes, then my arms, as if to ask how silly I was to think that I was strong enough to carry her for 45 minutes or so.
... my eyes dared her to believe I wouldn't do it.
Finally - we reached a new part of the neighborhood, one not connected nor remotely related to her home street. With a small, small, hesitant pause, I set her down.
She scanned the street.
She looked at me.
She turned back to the street...
... the leash jerked out of my hand.
I love dogs.
... I figured it would be more successful than my attempt *yesterday* - mind, yesterday I tried to take her for a "run", not a walk, which may explain the following:
1 step out of the door, the dog (Roxy) and I are both excited. I've never gone for a run with a puppy before, and if she zipped around outside like she spasmodically zipped *inside*... this could be fun.
2 steps out of the door - the leash jerks out of my hand.
... and Roxy can zip, let me tell you.
What followed was a half-block sprint chase, involving teasing, coy looks, and sudden spurts of energy (the dog) and pleading, shouting, and last, determined, desperate reaches for the leash (me).
... long story short - I caught the dog... who, upon being caught, sat down immediately in the middle of the street and refused to go a step further.
... I carried her back to the house.
Today, however, I was mentally resolved to make things turn out differently. Zippy could take a calm, long walk with me, and we could get to know each other a bit as I led her - securely fastened - around the neighborhood. With the air of Santa Claus giving out a particularly big gift, I knelt down in front of the dog and introduced the idea of a walk.
"Walk???????" I said, extra perky. "Do you want to go for a walk????????"
Roxy looked skeptical, but let me hook up the leash. She even let me walk her out to the driveway.
... but... on the driveway... she suddenly refused to go further. Apparently, she wants no part of venturing out into the street. Nerves? Maybe. But so staunch was her resolve that it seemed more like moral opposition. She'd been against that sort of activity from the start, she would *certainly* not change NOW.
... I picked her up and began to carry her down the street.
Perhaps, like my friend's puppy back home, she just needed to be shown that it was okay to venture down the block before heading back home. At the end of the block, I set her down, hoping that she would be energized to explore, now that she was away from the house.
... nope. Sat and watched me stoically.
... so I picked her back up, walked another block. We were now on a new street, though connected via curve to her own.
I set her down.
... and there she sat.
I picked her up again.
"Roxy," I said, "We are going for a walk whether you like it or not. I will carry you the entire darn way if I have to, but you and I are going to make it around the neighborhood." She regarded me, again, stoically, big dark eyes focused on my eyes, then my arms, as if to ask how silly I was to think that I was strong enough to carry her for 45 minutes or so.
... my eyes dared her to believe I wouldn't do it.
Finally - we reached a new part of the neighborhood, one not connected nor remotely related to her home street. With a small, small, hesitant pause, I set her down.
She scanned the street.
She looked at me.
She turned back to the street...
... the leash jerked out of my hand.
I love dogs.
Monday, April 27, 2009
... wait.... wait, don't hand me that Martini! You have to check my I.D, first!
I have been 21 for over 3 months now. Just long enough to start feeling comfortable walking into places without being paranoid that someone's going to kick me out for "looking like a teeny bopper", and not *quite* long enough for me to register that I'm supposed to be an adult.
Okay, I might be way off of the mark here, but tonight was my buddy's 21st birthday; a celebration of a coming-into-true-manhood and a just present of attempting to drown him in booze... and it occurred to me that the reason why I still felt awkward ordering a Martini is because I ... I, well...
... damnit, I don't want to.
Before 21, people called me a wuss - or similar sounding synonyms - for not drinking illegally. What, I didn't bong those cans of yellow water you call beer over at the frat house during Little 5 weekend? Blasphemy! Egad - I didn't do shots to celebrate everything from my 19th birthday to surviving my 19th day of college? Sacrilege! Bloody Hell - I've plumb forgotten to ask random upperclassmen to buy me bottles of strange liquid that'll make me choke and splutter and lose my grip on things!
... NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
Now, post the epic birthday, I still have the tolerance of most grandmothers who are not Irish, German, Polish, or Russian (despite my own Polish/German heritage), and here is why:
I DON'T CARE.
Sorry, folks. Do I enjoy a good beer now and then? God knows that's the truth. I won't turn down the offer for a Guinness, and if given the opportunity, will definitely order myself something hoppy. That being said... tonight, I called my friend, the birthday boy, before the festivities. Funds were running a little low, and alcohol is expensive... the two combined don't really mix well. Would he mind, I asked, if I came but didn't drink? I wanted to be there but I didn't want to go into the red, either.
My friend's an easy going guy who knows me pretty damn well - and he didn't mind a bit. Thus, my slightly more relieved mood as I went over to my boyfriend's place to make dinner. Small talk led to figuring out plans for meeting up with the birthday boy and his traveling fiesta, and I brought up the small, seemingly insignificant fact that I would, "surprise", not be drinking to save a little bit of money.
... This, apparently, was a negative surprise. J. looked confused.
"But... but, it's Josh's birthday."
"Right, but if I need funds for the rest of this week, I don't want to spend them on beer."
"Well, that's fine, but this is one of those times where you kind of need to drink."
..... mind you, I didn't record the conversation. I don't have the exact quotations, but the gist of the whole thing was that there are certain occasions where alcohol is not only necessary, but necessary.
... that makes sense.
In other words - situations where its unavoidable. One must drink, or fail at fulfilling one's part / destiny.
... okay... yes... weddings. Toasts. Supremely awful moments, but that's advocating using alcohol to solve one's problems, and that's not what I actually believe.
I understand that, on the occasion of someone's 21st birthday - that momentous occasion of making it to legal drinking age - one typically celebrates by knocking back a few pints and a dozen or so shots with one's friends. At the same time... Josh knows me. He understands that, given my light-weight stature, my typical sparse drinking habits, and my general lack of income (Hi, College), beer is less important than me actually being there to celebrate with him. He would have made fun of me for just chugging water all night, but he would have thought it amusing, not insulting.
... thus, when J offered to buy me a drink that night in order to spare my wallet, I was pleasantly surprised... but that wasn't the point. Yes, I was saving a few dollars, but I have a freakin' fantastic time hanging out with friends, with or without the addition of booze, and that was ultimately what I was going for. It's not in my nature to go out drinking for drinking's sake, and it's not in my nature to understand why I *have* to do that.
[shrug]
... and that might explain why a six-pack lasts over a month in my fridge.
Okay, I might be way off of the mark here, but tonight was my buddy's 21st birthday; a celebration of a coming-into-true-manhood and a just present of attempting to drown him in booze... and it occurred to me that the reason why I still felt awkward ordering a Martini is because I ... I, well...
... damnit, I don't want to.
Before 21, people called me a wuss - or similar sounding synonyms - for not drinking illegally. What, I didn't bong those cans of yellow water you call beer over at the frat house during Little 5 weekend? Blasphemy! Egad - I didn't do shots to celebrate everything from my 19th birthday to surviving my 19th day of college? Sacrilege! Bloody Hell - I've plumb forgotten to ask random upperclassmen to buy me bottles of strange liquid that'll make me choke and splutter and lose my grip on things!
... NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
Now, post the epic birthday, I still have the tolerance of most grandmothers who are not Irish, German, Polish, or Russian (despite my own Polish/German heritage), and here is why:
I DON'T CARE.
Sorry, folks. Do I enjoy a good beer now and then? God knows that's the truth. I won't turn down the offer for a Guinness, and if given the opportunity, will definitely order myself something hoppy. That being said... tonight, I called my friend, the birthday boy, before the festivities. Funds were running a little low, and alcohol is expensive... the two combined don't really mix well. Would he mind, I asked, if I came but didn't drink? I wanted to be there but I didn't want to go into the red, either.
My friend's an easy going guy who knows me pretty damn well - and he didn't mind a bit. Thus, my slightly more relieved mood as I went over to my boyfriend's place to make dinner. Small talk led to figuring out plans for meeting up with the birthday boy and his traveling fiesta, and I brought up the small, seemingly insignificant fact that I would, "surprise", not be drinking to save a little bit of money.
... This, apparently, was a negative surprise. J. looked confused.
"But... but, it's Josh's birthday."
"Right, but if I need funds for the rest of this week, I don't want to spend them on beer."
"Well, that's fine, but this is one of those times where you kind of need to drink."
..... mind you, I didn't record the conversation. I don't have the exact quotations, but the gist of the whole thing was that there are certain occasions where alcohol is not only necessary, but necessary.
... that makes sense.
In other words - situations where its unavoidable. One must drink, or fail at fulfilling one's part / destiny.
... okay... yes... weddings. Toasts. Supremely awful moments, but that's advocating using alcohol to solve one's problems, and that's not what I actually believe.
I understand that, on the occasion of someone's 21st birthday - that momentous occasion of making it to legal drinking age - one typically celebrates by knocking back a few pints and a dozen or so shots with one's friends. At the same time... Josh knows me. He understands that, given my light-weight stature, my typical sparse drinking habits, and my general lack of income (Hi, College), beer is less important than me actually being there to celebrate with him. He would have made fun of me for just chugging water all night, but he would have thought it amusing, not insulting.
... thus, when J offered to buy me a drink that night in order to spare my wallet, I was pleasantly surprised... but that wasn't the point. Yes, I was saving a few dollars, but I have a freakin' fantastic time hanging out with friends, with or without the addition of booze, and that was ultimately what I was going for. It's not in my nature to go out drinking for drinking's sake, and it's not in my nature to understand why I *have* to do that.
[shrug]
... and that might explain why a six-pack lasts over a month in my fridge.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
brief brief brief brief brief... briefing
First: I might just be on here more often.
"might" is the key word in that sentence, but hey - I'm here right now!
..... [smiles?]
Second: it's Easter.
..... I should be at Church.
The Roman Catholic in me is balking at the fact that I'm still in my boxers and faded Indiana t-shirt, and not moving towards going to Mass. However... sometimes I want to bind, gag, and shove that Roman Catholic into the corner and just pepper her with rhetoric for a while.
... yeah, I have a few issues.
The point is not the joy in masochism, or self-torment / deprecation, nor is it a battle against the Church itself. I don't agree with all of its views, but I was raised to respect and appreciate the majority of the morals and virtues that it extols, such as loving thy neighbor, or honoring thy father and mother. My reluctance to go to Mass today is not a boycott, is not a gesture of defiance, is not me sticking *anything* to the man.
.... I just don't want to go without my family.
God and I get along pretty well, and I can't deny that I'm incredibly blessed to be as fortunate as I am. However... sitting in a pew by myself, without my family, without my cousins, without the laughing and joking and celebrating afterward, without the light-hearted, care-free nature that marked all of my childhood Easters... can't do it. I know that's not what religion is all about, but nothing is wrong with my faith, or my morality. Easter for me is not just about Jesus, it's about some of the best childhood memories that I have, and all of them involve family. I don't need the Easter basket: the chocolate, jelly beans, peeps, and adorable spring cards...
... what I need is to laugh so hard at myself or with the rest of family that I practically choke on my food. I need to hold hands with my little sister and big brother in Church and pretend that we're not all thinking: "ewwww...., I have to hold hands?! I'm not five anymore!" I need my mother to send me upstairs a half a dozen times to change my outfit, and my Dad to exasperatedly herd us all into the car. I need joy, laughter, and well... comfort with the rest of the Meiers / Skibickis.
Yes, Easter is Christ's Rise from the Grave, his ascension from the human to the Divine. The entire Christian and Catholic world rejoices, because He, and this Day, symbolizes our redemption, our freedom from sin and earthly constraints.
.... but it's also one of those days that I can't celebrate truly without my family. [shrug] Instead, I'll enjoy the sun and the slow, glorious day... and give thanks in my own way.
Happy Easter, everyone. :)
"might" is the key word in that sentence, but hey - I'm here right now!
..... [smiles?]
Second: it's Easter.
..... I should be at Church.
The Roman Catholic in me is balking at the fact that I'm still in my boxers and faded Indiana t-shirt, and not moving towards going to Mass. However... sometimes I want to bind, gag, and shove that Roman Catholic into the corner and just pepper her with rhetoric for a while.
... yeah, I have a few issues.
The point is not the joy in masochism, or self-torment / deprecation, nor is it a battle against the Church itself. I don't agree with all of its views, but I was raised to respect and appreciate the majority of the morals and virtues that it extols, such as loving thy neighbor, or honoring thy father and mother. My reluctance to go to Mass today is not a boycott, is not a gesture of defiance, is not me sticking *anything* to the man.
.... I just don't want to go without my family.
God and I get along pretty well, and I can't deny that I'm incredibly blessed to be as fortunate as I am. However... sitting in a pew by myself, without my family, without my cousins, without the laughing and joking and celebrating afterward, without the light-hearted, care-free nature that marked all of my childhood Easters... can't do it. I know that's not what religion is all about, but nothing is wrong with my faith, or my morality. Easter for me is not just about Jesus, it's about some of the best childhood memories that I have, and all of them involve family. I don't need the Easter basket: the chocolate, jelly beans, peeps, and adorable spring cards...
... what I need is to laugh so hard at myself or with the rest of family that I practically choke on my food. I need to hold hands with my little sister and big brother in Church and pretend that we're not all thinking: "ewwww...., I have to hold hands?! I'm not five anymore!" I need my mother to send me upstairs a half a dozen times to change my outfit, and my Dad to exasperatedly herd us all into the car. I need joy, laughter, and well... comfort with the rest of the Meiers / Skibickis.
Yes, Easter is Christ's Rise from the Grave, his ascension from the human to the Divine. The entire Christian and Catholic world rejoices, because He, and this Day, symbolizes our redemption, our freedom from sin and earthly constraints.
.... but it's also one of those days that I can't celebrate truly without my family. [shrug] Instead, I'll enjoy the sun and the slow, glorious day... and give thanks in my own way.
Happy Easter, everyone. :)
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