I Hate Shopping of Any Kind so I Act Like a Jerk to Amuse Myself

I inherited a behavior from my mother. I talk at people at random. and at length. Also, I embarass my sister in public. I mean, I don't go so far as to sing opera (oh yes, my mother SINGS OPERA if you get pissy in the store) but I do use underwear as ammunition and make fun of ugly clothing. I believe there's a picture from my friend's bachelorette party when we're in Foxwoods and I'm making faces at a silicone bra stuffer- but that's another story.

On this particular occassion, my roommate succeeded in getting me out of the house to have a few beers with her and friends at one of my favorite watering holes. It was a lot of fun, the girls are such great people- and as usual, the evening was punctuated by some of my bad decisions. Bad decision (or awesome depends on how you look at it) number 1, having 5 Guinnesses (Guinni?) in 2 hours. Bad decision number 2, but possibly not bad, deciding that the 24 hour Shaws is the next stop. We needed frozen pizza and creamscicles.

Having already prefaced this story by outlining my random talking and inclination towards embarrasing behavior in public spaces, I guess we can get straight into it. The last time I picked up a frozen pizza was a similar occassion with my summer roommate whom I love. She made it clear to me, at the time, that the delux pizza had not only the most crap on it, but was the cheapest and therefore the best bang for your buck. I decided that this wisdom should be shared, not only with my current roommate on our current excursion, but the poor man sharing the frozen food isle with us at 1 o'clock in the morning. He had already made the unfortunate mistake of suggesting his usual pizza. Of course, I had to tell him that thank you for your suggestion, but my decision is made, and also better, and here's why. This was followed by a comparison of price, size, etc, and that, ok, so I usually institute a rule of not eating things that have more than 5 ingredients or things I can't pronounce, but in this case it's acceptable. My roommate went and got some margarine, which I also made a show of berating, because I was in "I hate stores" mode and told her that there was real butter in the freezer, and in droves, and proved my point as to why the margarine was bad by attempting to read off the ingredients that I couldn't pronounce. However, the guy in the isle, who was by now invested in the conversation/ordeal he'd unwittingly sucked himself into, turned out to be a nutrition and something something food healthy whatever grad student, and read the ingredients and said that actually, it was okay to eat this. You may or may not know that I have a really terrible obsession with I Can't Believe it's Not Butter but when I'm in this mood, it doesn't matter if I'm being hypocritical and also inappropriate. I swiped the margarine and told him to stop encouraging this behavior. My roommate eventually realized that this wasn't going to stop by my accord, and encouraged heading for the check out line with "I'm tired and I need to eat this pizza, we're going home." Probably a wise move because I wasn't going to stop being embarrasing unless somebody else said something. I mean, it looked like he had a thing for her, so my reasoning at the time was that if we stuck around, something would happen.

Continued Adventures in Rent-a-Cat Land

Things have lagged a little but it was because I suffered some temporary idiocy and thought I had scurvy but seriously, outside of 18th century pirates, who the hell gets that? Saw a doctor today and funny enough, not scurvy. Fell asleep in the waiting room of UHS but since there aren't backs to the chair, I woke up leaning on some poor guy wearing a flu mask. It was stellar. As always, there are new developments in rent-a-cat land.

1) Cats can poo at will and without limits. On that note, time spent in conversation in the general viscinity of the cat box is directly related to the number of visits a cat will make. The longer you talk, the more use the shovel will get and sooner.

2) The only food that may be consumed processually and directly from the fridgeration unit is ice cream because it can be eaten while standing and the carton may remain out of easily accessible cat reach as the freezer is rather high. It is nolonger acceptable to be lazy and assemble other food products in front of the fridge. Putting the bowl of Cheerios on the floor in front of the fridge to pour milk in it so that you only have to make one trip across the kitchen instead of two will not save you any energy because it will inevitably end up with curious cat face in it and you will need to get a new bowl anyway.

3) You may not think that the toilet is a wading pool, and you may be of the opinion that there aren't fish in it. but if the seat isn't down, nobody with 4 paws and fur believes you.

Pandora's Travel Mug

Somebody once told me that it gets easier. "It" must be the proverbial representation of life. While I'm really not complaining, and I like my life, that somebody definitely lied to me because I'll be damned if ANYTHING is getting easier. Every semester, I hear and then think in kind, this will be easier. Things will let up. Um, that's not true at all. My first year was mostly just figuring out how to acclimate. Then it was preparing for my major exams. Then it was making up for the fact that I just didn't "get it" (it being the transition) and had to make up for it- and what I'm finding is that things don't swap out for me, they just accumulate. So I'm not replacing one part of hell with another, I'm just getting a pile of things that will eventually, inevitably fall over. This semester, I get 4 classes, I get to teach 2, and write my proposal for my dissertation, and prepare for the exams (again). I'm not sure that I'm going to come out alive, but my advisor seems to think I can handle it and I respect him tremendously, so I'll put my faith in that if not in myself.

So anyway, I decided that what I really needed was some coffee. There's a travel mug on my desk. I haven't had coffee in a long time, at least not at the point where I drink it like I should have an IV- and I can't remember the last time I had coffee out of this mug in particular. I'm going to put it this way, if I could go back in time and stop myself from opening the mug, thereby preserving both my dignity and innocence, I would because coffee should, in my mind, never be a solid again after it's been ground and should also never breed critters. If Pandora had a modern day equivalent, that box would've taken the form of this mug. Oh yes, oh yes. it was that bad.

Cat-r-wall

I had an amazing new adventure with my rent-a-cats today. Well, okay, mostly just the one. We're beyond Houdini though, this cat apparates through walls, Harry Potter style. That's right, this cat could probably kick Dumbledore's ass. I wish I was joking, because that would make my life less terrifying. Honestly, the cats are great, but I live in fear of losing them somewhere and then having to explain to the legitimate owners that "Oh hey, about your cat..." My cohabitation is more or less pleasantly cute and fluffy, punctuated by moments of extreme terror.

I decided to do laundry because it's been awhile, and the cat accompanied me down the stairs. Usually, it does no good to try and keep him away from the basement because he'll inevitably end up down there regardless of the measures I take. Why? Because he's Harry-freaking-Potter, that's why. Anyway, we have an arrangement where I let him play downstairs and he lets me know when he's gotten bored of it. I used to try herding him around to get him upstairs but herding a cat in a cluttered basement is less than fun, and certainly not easy. Also, if I stand around and wait for him to get tired of the dust bunnies on his face, this doesn't happen and he finds them SO grossly interesting that they multiply to spangle all of his whiskers.

He never "knocked" so I went for a run. When I returned, he was still not at the door, so I ventured down after him to try and convince him that playtime was over. This didn't happen because he wasn't down there. I tried poking through my neighbor's side of the basement... and tried really hard in a paranoid sort of way not to look sketchy. This was a challenge because there is no way, in hell, that you can avoid looking sketchy when you're going through someone else's stuff and get caught. I didn't get caught, and anyway, my efforts were to no avail. I noticed though, that the door to the neighbor's side of the house was open. I tried constructing a request in my head that was appropriate for 9 am. "Hello, excuse me, did you happen to see a large black cat apparate through your door? I've lost mine. Yes, you see, he walks through solid barriers."

I did not, however, actually have to knock on the door because he wasn't behind it. He was actually over my head. by roughly 6 feet. in the stairwell. Let me just explain that the walls of the stairwell are flat. there are no shelves, hooks, or wires. Apparently, this cat can also fly. About 20 minutes of coaxing and the majority of my dignity later, the cat still wasn't out of the ceiling and I decided taht this must be because he was stuck. I did the next logical thing and got a ladder. I got my camera first, perhaps not the most constructive idea ever. I set the ladder up National Lampoon style in the stairwell, and I'm pretty well convinced that if the neighbors had opened their door at any point during this process, they would have unhesitatingly called the cops.

Upon reaching the apex of this precarious situation, I looked up and discovered that there was, in fact, no cat. He was gone. And there I was, wondering what the hell I was I doing in a Ph.D. program when I couldn't even figure out how the hell a cat got into the ceiling (yes, I am fully aware of how insane that sounds). When I heard a meow. On the other side of the door I had just closed. He was sitting on the other side of it on the floor, looking as though he'd been waiting for hours for me to get everything figured out. I'm pretty sure that this is goign to cost me my sanity.

Well hello, did you get those on sale at Old Navy? Me too!

You've probably noticed by now that I tend to approach everything in life with a certain amount of humor. I read once that you shouldn't laugh at everything because it trivializes things that shouldn't be trivialized. That might be true, but let's think about this... Just because you can find a way to laugh at the situation, it doesn't mean that you're trivializing it. Besides, what's the alternative to laughing? Crying? Anyway, you don't have to laugh "at" things, you can laugh "about" them. There is a difference, believe me. Dating is, however, one of those things you you have to laugh AT, and it's necessary because if I don't find a way of laughing at it, I'm going to abandon the idea of relationships altogether and go become a nun. it's been brought to my attention that I have a few idiosyncrasies that make dating a little odd for me. As mentioned a few posts ago, I have gotten dating out of my system for the most part. This is fortuitous because this crap makes me irritable. No I haven't dropped the idea of a relationship maybe someday being not such an inconvenient thing, but I have dropped the idea of bothering to go and find one now for various reasons.

I've ranted about before, I revisited the world of socially-functional-people-who-date a little while back. I may not have said it explicitly, but I'm pretty sure I have implied (strongly), that I make bad decisions. This isn't even just on the dating front, or on the choice of wardrobe- because I make bad decisions all around. When you combine all of these elements, you see me living in a snowglobe of things that should just not happen. I'll lend some insight into why I am a disaster.

About a week ago, my lovely roommate invited me out to dinner with her and a friend. As we were getting dressed she mentioned that she really liked my jeans on me. When her hint apparently sailed completely unnoticed over my head, no more than briefly tripping over my oblivious "why, thank you!", she more pointedly told me that I should probably put them on because maybe, just maybe, it'd be a nice idea for me to wear womens' jeans as opposed to my usual mens' Old Navy shorts because in case it had escaped my notice, I was, in fact, not a man.

Some might argue that it is problematic when you show up to a date, and you realize that you own the same pants as the pair currently sported by the man you've just met- and you are a straight female. For a number of years, I've been informed that my habit of dress, or rather, complete lack of style and inability to adhere to social norms on an even quasi-regular basis, is strange, if not downright weird. I recently attempted, at the encouragement of my roommate and other women who know "what's up", to dress like a woman, at least for dating purposes. Because, honestly, what man wants to show up to a date to find that they're dating a slightly feminine version of himself? I'm sure you remember my discussion on hating clothes shopping? Well, men's clothing is a lot more sturdy, and if it takes longer to destroy it, it lasts in the field, then it's good enough for the office and I can delay shopping for replacements for even longer.

A few weeks ago when I went to see a man I met on a dating website. Just for the record, yes, online dating is weird, but when you live like a small rodent operating in a windowless office that is, minus the large spiders and dampness, a freaking cave, from whatever time you drag yourself out of your house in the morning until after dark at night, everyday (that's right, this includes an inability to recognize weekends or observe most holidays), how/where the hell else are you going to meet somebody? In the cave next door? Oh yeah, that's a brilliant idea just waiting to happen... But to swerve back on track, I wore a skirt. There was compromising involved. My roommate confirmed that I looked both acceptable and like myself as I combined the skirt with my usual button down field shirt. Come on, I wouldn't be me if I was dressed totally like a girl, now would I?

He was a nice guy, I hope he finds what he's looking for, which I believe is a lot- and as "not-right" a fit as we were, I think he deserves someone really wonderful. He found humor in everything, but with what I felt like was a touch of sadness. It was him in his words, but at the same time, it wasn't. I almost said as much, that I imagined he was actually a very serious person and he looked at me without surprise at my observation. "Aren't the most amused people the most serious?" He might not have realized it at the time, but the fact that I agreed with him wasn't because I was trying to be pleasant and affable, but because it resonated true. Consequently, I was being uncomfortably not-myself by attempting to dress passably as a woman for something that I never, in my right mind, would dress up for (oh wait, the norm means I wouldn't be on a date in the first place... what am I thinking?!) and feeling awkward about it. My brief experience with him indirectly set off the subject of this entry. My roommate lent her own insight into my dating situation (overall) and lucky for you and me, thought when we had him over for dinner that his style was as ridiculous as mine.

She was only here for a few months, most of which I was away for, but the only way to describe her is... she's a really unique person with a gift for making other people feel special. I miss her. Funny enough, she was not a fan of this man, and saw what I hadn't bothered to acknowledge, and believe it or not, it wasn't centered on my idiosyncratic style, but rather my inability to correct my behavioral approach to dating: he and I had nothing in common, were in two completely different walks of life, so what the hell was the problem, why was I still keeping up the charade of pleasant dating? She pointed out that yes, he was nice, but this shouldn't mean that I should keep seeing him; was I dating him because I wanted to or because it was there and convenient, was he really a good fit or did it just look good in theory, did I really want to be with somebody who was so concerned about things that were obviously the opposite of my concerns, yes it had only been a few dates but I should probably ask that question about "where's this going" now because he just said he was moving across the country and for pity's sake, couldn't I date somebody who didn't have two earrings? Her mother, who was visiting, asked quite seriously "Did they accidentally pierce the wrong ear and then go back and do the other?" I kind of appreciate a man who can pull off an earring, but I try not to admit that out loud. Anyway, she had a point, we weren't terribly intrigued by one another. I wasn't sure how to end it nicely and directly, so I did it indirectly and hilariously. Want to scare a man? Ask him to figure out how he feels about commitment early on.

Anyway, she and I had a talk about the previously mentioned man and his and my conversation plays into it a bit. I'm frequently fairly private about things, but she taught me that sometimes you have to be open. She noticed that I have a habit of letting things go, and therefore, while I'm pretty introspective, continue to make the same mistakes in relationships even though I recognize that I'm making them. I date people who are really not a fit, and I know that, and they're nice people (sometimes) but it's not going to work. I'll throw this out there as I frequently do, the definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result.

I have a few people to thank for their impacts on my mental processes, including that guy who I haven't spoken to and probably never will again (sorry about making that last conversation a freak show, I doubt you thought it was funny, but I sure as hell did). My roommate, of course. And somebody else who didn't seem to mind that I go everywhere in men's shorts and 3-sizes-too-big button downs. I'm undoubtedly going to stick with my current habits of dressing lackadaisically but maybe with special appearances in my womens' H&M jeans. I won't give away the ending just yet. I actually have no idea what it will be.

Cheers!

Living with Cats as a Non Cat Person

I am currently the renter of two lovely cats. Let me set this up: My sister is the cat person. She had one named Carmel that she'd carry in a backpack and would play fetch with her. I am allergic to cats (along with everything that has a pulse or pollen) and am more of a big ugly dog kinda gal. But these cats are nice. They belong to a colleague of mine and his wife who are away in the field for the next year. They had been prepared to bring the cats with them for part of the trip to leave them with a family member- preparations including installing chicken wire in the back of their car for a UFC style cage. It was amazing. So I offered and was happy to have them.

What I have learned in my first days as a temporary cat owner...

1) the girl cat and I cannot sleep in the same room. The status of this decision will be reassessed at a later date once she has settled in and become more acquainted with the new environment. Right now, she doesn't recognized that my face is different from the mattress and tends to stand on it at inopportune times, such as 3 AM when I am trying to sleep.

2) the boy cat is Houdini reincarnated. He can open cabinets without opposable thumbs, and compress his body to fit through 3 inch spaces. This is quite a feat, because he is quite a substantial cat. I discovered this last night after I tore my house apart looking for him. I opened the back door to find him, much to my horror, sitting expectantly on the other side of it. Windows are now opened exclusively from the top. Actually, my roommate and I had held a powwow over the bathroom window a few days before, in the bathroom, which is about on par with a 2 by 3 janitorial closet. We figured it was too high and too thin a space for him to get through. WRONG.

3) both cats appreciate singing.

4) both cats are apparently tone deaf, because I know I sure am, but they seem to enjoy it all the same.

I decided to send the cat owners weekly status reports. This first report included essentially what I have written above. Hopefully, my office does not discover that I might be eccentric as a result.

Cheers!

Using "nigh" in a sentence.

For the last several weeks now, I've appeared on a radio show. I channel the persona: George. George is a Maya shaman who helps people find their balance with the earth and cosmos through pilgrimage and new age-y hocus pocus once they've had balance tipping experiences like liposuction. Because, really, once you've had the fat removed from your keister and injected into your face, how can you be anything but out of sync with the universe at large? ...of course my name isn't really George. That'd be ridiculous. It's Jorge.

It's occurred to me that most of the things I make up and spout out over the air waves in that one hour a week are totally socially unacceptable and the least PC ideas to promote ever. Essentially, if anybody at my office actually listened to this at some point, I'm pretty sure that I'd be in deep crap.

Last week I believe we got into the subject of male lactation. This most recent show was pretty firmly centered on how man feels like an island despite all of the social connection crap like twitter and facebook. I am proud to say that I do not twitter or tweet or whatever that's called. Okay, so I facebook, but I'm working on that. It's going to take a 12 step program, I know it.

Anyway, what this leads to is that the last month or so has been an incredible learning experience. I moved into my new house with new roommates and they're the most amazing individuals I've ever met. I'm typically a little socially withdrawn, a hermit if you will. Sure, I gave a speech in college about how my comfort zone is not having one and that likewise you should challenge yourself to go and seek out new places, people, experiences... Why yes, I do love traveling. I thoroughly enjoy going someplace new with no language skills (up until I need to find a public restroom, then it's like the most uncomfortable game of charades ever). I like meeting new people... as a part of my JOB. On my own time, I usually stay in, and savor the solitude. While that's good me time, it doesn't make for a terribly socially functional person. My roommates have challenged me to go out, to get to know people, and all the while, to be myself. Extravagantly.

In all seriousness though, I'm pretty lucky. I thought I was past that stage of making lifelong friends but I was clearly and happily mistaken. I'm also in denial because one of them is leaving to go back home- home that's across the continent. It's safe to say that I'm about to be devastated.

Now for your viewing amusement... hopefully the link works.... I've been fiddling with the damn thing for nigh an hour.

http://www.ted.com/talks/elaine_morgan_says_we_evolved_from_aquatic_apes.html