“Liberal” is a word that I used to cling to. It pretty much goes without saying that “angry,” “vehement,” and “unwavering” were part of the same picture of my youth. I hope, that as I’ve gotten older (and maybe wiser) I have moved away from tantrum-throwing public episodes of my past. I think I have become more open to conversation.

I am a firm believer that nothing is solved by name-calling, finger-pointing, and placing blame. And while I am whole heartedly opposed to sending the youth of America overseas to die – I do hope that the end of this war comes through conversation.

I worry that both democrats and republicans are so consumed with receiving credit (or taking it away) that nothing is getting done. I’m impressed with Barack, everyday – and I understand that politics gets in the way of governing. I think Rob Lowe taught me that on The West Wing.

Either way. I hope that while we’re remembering our troops today – we remember that the best way to keep them safe is to bring them home.

I incur many an auditable gasp when it comes out that, as a child, I never read Where the Wild Things Are. So, let’s get this out of the way. I’ve never seen E.T. and I didn’t taste my first peace until I was in high school, either. For all intents and purposes – I was a weird kid.

Actually, I can’t remember reading a whole lot of anything as a child. Or being read to, for that matter.  And I distinctly remember hating to read when I got to high school. Coincidence, because I ended up a high school English teacher. Neither here nor there. What I mean to write about is the movie. I’ve been thinking about it since Friday, when I dragged my roommates out to see it.

 Everyone has a wolf suit. And as we grow older our mischievous nature, the tendency to bring a little badness, is pushed aside. Rightly so, I think. It would be incredibly irritating if someone in the office was always hiding your stapler or eating your lunch (which you clearly marked on the paper bag, by the way).

So here we are, all well behaved with our button-up shirts and our brown shoe / belt combos. And I’m bored.  Sometimes I long to sneak up on someone, to rearrange the living room furniture while my roommates are out, to gaze – just a little too long – in the direction of someone who is not expecting it. I’m bored, I say. And I fully plan on taking this opportunity to do something just a little bad.

I know you are all wonderfully talented and smart and creative and fabulous and so I’m putting the following out to you – maybe you can help.

I am in desperate need of some cool writing prompts for my students.  What do you like to write about? What do you like to read? Is there any subject matter from high school you loved? or hated?

Also, I am making a badass mix for my class room. What’s your favorite song?
I know I’m in good hands.

It’s official. As if there were any doubt whatsoever there is now proof – I am not hip enough to hang out in Brooklyn. I’m just not.

A medium sized collection of post-grad indie kids ventured in this weekend for my oldest and dearest friend’s 25th birthday at Brooklyn Brewery. As an aside, it’s awesome and I totally recommend it. Tours leave on the hour (they’re free) and the beer is delish (it’s totally reasonably priced), I also scored a fair amount of not-completely-marked-up-within-an-inch-of-it’s-life schwag for Across the Street and others.

Anyway, here we are in Brooklyn. Getting old, and not being hip enough to hang out there, drinking very delicious seasonal beer when it dawned on me: I am glad as FUCK I never moved to the city.  I just don’t have time to plan all my outfits around what’s in the window at American Apparel or figure out how to work those horrific headbands that are cutting everyone’s forehead in the middle.

No offense, Brooklyn. You were all well and good for Jay Z, but I’ll take New Brunswick any day of the week.

First full week at the new job completed, so I figured I’d give you the run down.I was hired by a medium competitive private high school in central jersey to be the director of their writing center. Essentially, I teach high school kids how to write.

I really don’t know what to say about it – other than I love it. When I first started my totally unemployable degree I was vehement about not becoming a teacher. As time went on, I accepted it as an inevitability. Now? I love it. My teacher friends say, “give it til March, you’ll hate your life.” But I just can’t see how? It’s different every day and I learn something new every day (so corny).  I just love those little buggers. And they love that I make them listen to The Smiths in class. So it’s a win, win. Really.

As soon as all of the following things fell into place I worried, “now that I’m normal, what will I blog about?” Hopefully, I’ll be able to come up with something. Anyway.

I got a job. Not just a punch the time-card, shitty commute, corporate drone kind, either. A good job. A job, dare I say, that I like.  And while many of my recently graduated friends still find themselves un or under employed, without benefits, and living at home (read: me, three weeks ago), I have to say – I’m not feeling at all guilty about loving newly employed Ally.  Just yet, anyway. Give it a few days.

I also moved out of my mother’s house, which is huge. And while we’re still not fully settled in – boxes everywhere, shaky internet at best, and a 300-esque parking scenario (no really, THIS is sparta) to figure out – I’m happy to be as far away from my Swine Flu infected mother (you read that right, karma’s a bitch) as I possibly can be.

So thanks, universe. For cutting me some slack, just this once. Now, if you could secure me a parking spot, we’ll be straight.

After two weeks of moving, finding a job, leaving the pool and loosing my mind, I just found the internet.  VICTORY.

A real post to follow. I promise.

I have the great distinction of being able to say I have moved, at least once, every year for the past five years.  Sometimes twice.  Is it because I can’t sit still? Is it because I have horrific taste in roommates? Is it because I’m bad at making decisions in general? Yep.

Here we are, on the eve of yet another move. Back to New Brunswick and away from my family. I was worried that I’d be harboring a feeling of desperation by moving back to my college town. Am I trying to hold on to my youth? Probably. But, frankly, I think it’s just more convenient to be up there and as far away from the nothing that is going on down here in the south jerz. No work. No friends. No life. But one hell of a commute to the pool, I must say.

My family has made this move particularly difficult by reminding me at every turn that they “don’t think I can do this.” Well, thanks guys. The vote of confidence is really refreshing.  Basically, I suck at making any kind of life decision. I waffle, I worry, I obsess, I get nervous, lose sleep. Generally, I’m so afraid to make a bad choice, I don’t make one at all. Which, unfortunately, led me to this very place – ready to throw myself in front of a bus at my mother’s house.

Coincidentally, Whatshisname made sure to pop out of no where yesterday and throw in his two cents about how bad of an idea this move is. What’s the problem, people? It’s not like I’m going across the country, here.  I’m (pretty) sure I can handle this.

So, here we go. And, on the off chance this doesn’t work out? I’m selling everything I own and moving to Florence.

Cross your fingers.

I’ve been home now, at my parent’s house, since the beginning of June.  I am a reluctant part of that “post graduate, back to the nest, under employed” phenomenon you keep hearing about. I have given up on feeling bad about it, because I am in excellent company – mostly everyone I know is in the same boat.

While I’ve come to terms with teaching swimming with a BA and looking forward to Graduate School, I still struggle daily with living at home. To say that it’s a volatile place is probably the understatement of the century.  Just the other day in a laundry-basket-throwing-rampage my mother told me to “move the fuck out, already.” So, I am. That day I went and found an apartment, put a down payment on it and proceeded to get my finances on order. Now, she’s not speaking to me. No one is surprised. But, frankly, Mom. If you’re trying to persuade me to stay? You’re sucking at it.

Anyway. House warming party in New Brunswick. Be there.

It’s four pm on a Monday. I couldn’t tell you the last time I was home at four pm on a Monday. I’m usually knee deep in breaststroke swimming eight year olds. I’ve been laid up for four plus days with this nagging godknowswhat because I have no insurance and couldn’t afford to nip this shit in the bud.

Not important.

In fact, if I had more energy I’d probably go off on some tangent about the evils of western medicine and swear I could kick this thing with orange juice and yoga. But, my head hurts and I’m stuffy, so I will not.

Today I received an actual letter. A piece of mail explaining to me why I was not hired at the School of Visual Arts in New York City. Really? You had to break out the good stationary to inform me that “Sorry, someone else is more qualified, and they already live in the city so we can pay them less than someone who has to commute / move.” Great! Next time, send a candy gram – cause I used to be a fat kid and I could really go for some twix.

Moving along.

I find that at least six times a day I say to myself, or who ever is around me on the train/subway/pool deck “uhhhhh totally blogging about that later.” And then POOF – nothing. I get here and the only thing I can think to say is how I’m not as upset about eating the last ice cream sandwich as my sister wishes I were. Am I going to become one of those people incessantly scribbling in notebooks in public? Am I going to have to start outlining my life? Are you those ? Does it work? Maybe I need some St. John’s Wort.

I’m pretty confident when I say that I’m not one to be emotional. Ever.  And I would definitely consider this blog a waste if it were all moaning and whining all the time.  Especially about dudes. So it’s a topic that I try to avoid, and if unavoidable, be as brief as possible. ( I also struggle with whether or not it’s my place to put someone else’s business all over the Internet…. neither here nor there.)

However. This this whole undertaking is an experiment in understanding AP. In actually having a feeling and, dare I even suggest it, sharing it.  Sharing it with you guys, who (a pleasant and unexpected surprise) have really had an impact on me. You’re all so brilliant and understanding and talented, I would be amiss if I didn’t share.

So here we go.

I, notoriously, pick the wrong men. I have a gift. And so, I have learned how to not get my feelings hurt. The key? Not have any feelings. Surprisingly easy. And surprisingly awful. I managed this for a while – I’d say since that first south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-line-boyfriend went all to hell and I didn’t know how to go on (ah, the mellow drama of being nineteen). Anyway I spent the better part of four years mastering the art of closing off.

My brilliant plan to hang with the big boys was dashed this spring. He was beautiful and smart and interesting. And the best part? He had absolutely no red flags and he thought I was wonderful (maybe that was the flag?) And he managed, over the course of several months, to make me ease up. To,  god forbid, depend on someone else. To let my guard down. To go against my better judgement. And I did.

And I got burned.

So now, here I am, and I can’t help but think that it’s my own damn fault for breaking with the plan. For getting involved. Where are the one’s that reaffirm my notion that not all the good one’s are gone? Why must I always watch out?