Counting the ways

There are many reasons, I tell myself, that I like to be alone. More plainly, reasons why I don’t date. However, upon closer inspection lately it has occurred to me that these reasons all equate to one thing. I’m nuts. 

I am so ready to not be nuts.

I have impossibly high standards. I look for the uncommitable, the emotionally unavailable, the men with mommy issues. Then, after a few months I become resentful – inform said man that this ride only has enough room for my baggage and please don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. That’s just how it goes. And I was sort of okay with that.  In fact, I could not tell you the last time I had an actual “feeling,” if you will.

And that’s probably not normal.

Now, I’m sure the real reasons I don’t date are burried deep in my psyche and are related to at least one, if not all of, the following

my mother is crazy.

my father is crazier. 

and I’ve never seen a real relationship work .

But this is not a therapy session and I’d like to spare you as well as me a deeply probing conversation with my unconscious. For the time being I’m just going to ruminate on why it is, exactly, that I’m crazy.

I have a black belt in Haiku

As I have been doing next to nothing outside of teaching eight year olds how to swim breast stroke (still? or again? your call)  and (re)reading everything in the house, I feel as though I can only really write about one of two things and seeing as how eight year old swimmers are less interesting than Tom Robbins, books it is.

A very wise and well read love of mine, affectionally referred to by her last name only, lives for this book. In fact, the potential that she owns more than one copy is staggering. And I have had brief love affairs with Mr. Robbins in the past, but none such as this.

Now I’m no critic. And my literary street cred was seriously damaged this year (damn you, Robert Pattinson), but any work as concerned with, that most devastating of questions, how to make love stay,  is okay with me.  Outside of the fact that Robbins is a genius and more gifted a writer this side of ww2 I have yet to meet (yeah, Kerouac, I said it) -  a fairy tale for grownups about Camel cigarettes? A contemporary work worth reading with a dictionary near by (my favorite)? Some point commentary on the last half of the twentieth century? Do yourself a favor.

Girl on the wing

Well, here I am. Still gainfully unemployed, hauling ass to the city for an unpaid internship which should have reached it’s conclusion nearly a month ago, living in my mother’s house, and being a total delinquent online presence. Yes, I’d say I’m really succeeding at life.

In fact, my rut was so all encompassing that I did little more this past month outside of re-read Twilight (absolutely no judging, thank you), throw age-appropriately lame dinner parties while my parents were away, and ignore idealist.org. Captivating, really. I have also managed to fall completely ill advisedly head over heels for Across the Street – who, coincidentally, no longer lives across the street. Thanks again, moving home. But I am dragging myself out of this month long, insomnia ridden, vampire reading, train catching rut – I am going to become interesting again.

The first step to reclaiming my panic-ness, if you will, was Ernest Hemingway. It’s a known fact that I prefer, adore, and get a little nervous around anything that has to do with James Joyce. Joyce is my messiah. If James Joyce asked me to run away with him, I’d leave wearing the very sofee shorts and Morristown Baseball tee shirt I am wearing right this second. I’d move to Zurich and drink port and speak bad Italian and be inclined to hang out with a plethora of dead guys I find way more stimulating than the actual people I deal with on a daily basis.

Anyway, Hemingway. Or, rather, my sister. My sister woke up one day two weeks ago and decided a new tattoo was on the menu. A tattoo that I have been on her to get for, like, a year. So, really even though it was she that persuaded me into the chair, I had planted the seed months ago. Anyway, after we were feeling particularly badass, we had some totally over priced Jersey Shore dinner and she handed me a copy of Hem’s Moveable Feast. I scoffed,  no Old Man and the Sea shit for me, I’m a serious reader – who is sseriously into reading crap at this juncture. Nevertheless, it was Moveable Feast that brought me back from the land of tween vampire romance and into the world of functioning, conversating adults. And I needed that, especially now while Across the Street is in Vegas and I am home, not sleeping, commuting, and generally being cranky about not being in Vegas with him.

Moral of the story: read the classics, get off your ass, take an advil pm and everything will be okay.

Care of Michelle at Electric Ink in Bradley Beach, NJ.

Andrew Jackson

I have been home, or at my mother’s house (either way) for a grand total of five hours. I don’t like the person I am when I’m around her. We’ve already had it out a number of times. And, I’m not talking your usual “mom drives me crazy” bullshit, here. I’m talking throwing (me), screaming (us), crying (her) catastrophe shit that makes the memoir I’m currently reading seem less than enthralling.

I don’t like that I am the kind of person who can fly off the handle. It’s a disgusting quality. It’s what I hate about myself. I hate that I’m angry. But, what is worse, I think, is that everyone – including trained professionals to whom my sister pays exorbitant amounts of money for opinions – thinks I’m fine. Great even. Doesn’t Ally have it together? Aren’t you so impressed with her coping skills?

The only thing I’m particularly good at is acting, it seems. I’ve been here five hours and I know, more surely that I know anything else, I will not make it five days.

Help.

Take only what you need from me

Well, this is going to be random, so I will give you a moment to prepare yourself. It has been a very strange week, and so not knowing where exactly to begin I am going to wing it.

This new, fantastic guy I met? The one who had me forgetting all about whatshisname? The one who reaffirmed my notion in nice guys? Dropped me like a bad habit. Not so nice, after all. Shocking, I’m sure. I attract the absolute worst kinds of human beings, it’s official.

Moving on.

I got into graduate school. Yeah, who saw that coming? I only applied to the one. I’m torn on the whole subject – I am holding out on my internship to offer me a job. I just applied at the Museum, however, with times being the way they are, the job is expecting 200 plus applications. Chances are slim, but I’m holding out. I feel like kind of a jerk for keeping graduate school as a “back up” plan. Plenty of my friends made it their priority and others didn’t even get in. I am putting all of my eggs in one basket and I’m sort of going with it.

Dear Drexel,
Thanks for the invite, we’ll see how it goes.

Love,
AP

Speaking of the Museum – today was the culmination of my semester’s work in the education department (aka FAMILY DAY). Well, what FAMILY day wouldn’t be complete without MY crazy family showing up and causing a scene? Okay, I’m being harsh… the scene was caused before they arrived at said Museum, however, leave it to my mother to make like impossible (for everyone on earth). It’s not even worth going into detail, save to say – I will not be moving back to Briner Lane because she is dellusional and there aren’t enough perscription drugs in Mercer County to keep me from loosing it.

Sweet.

Finally, last night was the long awaited “Stache Bash” (you heard me). I was about to blow it off entirely, stay home and wallow in my own rejected despair (the me show, starring me). But, my dear friend, and his outrageous facial hair, talked me out of it. And now, I leave you with this image.

Cheers.

mustaches were mandatory

Jinxed

Yep. Spoke too soon. They’re all the same.

whoops

I accidentally met someone.

WHY DOES IT ALWAYS HAPPEN LIKE THIS?!

Fate, don’t you know we’re graduating in mere DAYS? Can’t you see that I’m moving out at the end of the month? Why must you torture me so?

He lives across the street. He’s not whathisname, and I adore him. Oh man.

Worst case scenario

My greatest fear, for my Internet life anyway, is that this blog would turn into an endless bitch fest staring me, myself, and my whiny crap.  So let it be written, so let it be done (inappropriate Easter-time obsession with Yul Brenner, check).  Perhaps it’s self fulfilling prophecy… or perhaps I’m just whiny by nature. But, I will no longer subject you to my moaning. I swear.

Moving along.

My sister, Anne, is a brilliant writer. She doesn’t happen to believe this about herself.  But, then again, who does? Who among us can point out our talents and say, unabashedly, “yeah, I’m awesome”? Few and far between, I think. Anyway, Anne is a writer. And not in the “haikus in the bathroom stall” kind of writer (although I’m sure she’s guilty of worse) , the kind with talent. And I know, because I have a phd is reading bad literature (cough Twilight is in my purse as we speak, cough).

I think the only way to really categorize yourself as something (writer, runner, sociopath… whatev) is to be understood within that community as a whole.  For instance, in a former life I studied ceramics. I sat at that damn wheel everyday and threw an endless number of pots, plates, mugs, vases (all of which Anne disliked, consequently), but was never thought of as, actually, an artist by the ceramics community where I worked. And, therefore, it was my conclusion that I am, in fact, not an artist.

Neither here nor there. Anyway, Anne is a writer. And other, even more brilliant (perhaps) writers are out there appreciating her work, pushing her to write better, and (hopefully) working on getting her published.

This all has a point. Anne Lamott, my own person Jesus and her book Bird by Bird (my Bible, if you will) stress the importance of writing everyday. That is, of course, if your words are something you can’t contain inside yourself. She reminds us that writing is not easy, its not even (usually) fun. However, for writers it’s necessary. If you feel like you’re going to explode if you don’t write every day, then you must. Simply. And while my sister is an artist who paints beautiful scenes and crafts characters with love and attention, I write everyday, too. Mostly its crap. In fact, it’s all crap. But, if I don’t, I’ll explode. And Anne Lamott wouldn’t want that

Although, my mother might.

Anyway, I may not be an artist, or a writer, or a swimmer for that matter – but I will keep doing what I love. I hope.

And, in the spirit of haikus, here is a classic by my friend Brendan about our most favorite thing – fifty cent slices at the Olive Branch

Two Roads, diverged

I hear, that at this point in one’s life, I should be standing at a crossroads. I should have offers, and ideas, and plans and I don’t really have any of those things. I thought I’d have so many opportunities and choices I wouldn’t know which to pick. I envisioned racking my brain about where to move, which graduate school to pick, which job to take, how to fit my sofa up the stairs of my fabulous new apartment in Brooklyn, where to spend my last weeks of post-collegiate freedom and perhaps most ridiculously of all – which color those pesky brides maids would be wearing… ugh.

What I do have is a slightly longer, more daunting list. I have a lease that runs out in May. I have impending graduation and no jobs to speak of.  I have loans, lots of ‘em. And I have absolutely not idea what to do about any of it.

My mother, who is less than enthused about my current situation, offers exactly zero help – she can’t be bothered. My sister, eternally optimistic… in a delightfully pessimistic sort of way (you’d have to know her) is sure everything will work out (she’s also worried I’m going to sell out and end up working for the man, I’m sensing) and the rest of my completely insane family either a) thinks I’m “lazy”, because they haven’t attempted a conversation with me since I was sixteen, or b) aren’t convinced I’m actually going to graduate in May.

Thanks guys.

And the most ludicrous thing of all -  I have been building up this celebration in my head for a long time now, all the while thinking it the perfect time to introduce whatshisfuckingname to my extended family, to bring him in, to make him one of us. And now I’ll be going it alone.

Outstanding.

It’s only a matter of time until the real freaking out starts.

Mid Semester Resolution

Slacking doesn’t even begin to sum it up. However, having a case of the “seniors” doesn’t count here. I can’t have senioritis… I’m a fifth year for god’s sake. I’ve only take four classes all YEAR. I’ve been working 2 jobs since September with and have since added my time sucking internship into the mix (which, I love. Don’t get me wrong). But I can not seem to get myself motivated since for.ev.er. I don’t know what it is, but I am making a vow, right here, with you as my witnesses not to suck at life ANYMORE (at least until graduation).

1. I will go to class. I only take two for god’s sake. I will go, I will maybe even take notes and I might even do the reading.

2. I will get my ass to the gym in preparation for no longer being a swim teacher next year. I can’t always spend 3294284 hours in the pool every week (rejoice!) so I better nip getting gross in the bud, right?

4. I will shut the fuck up about Twilight. Must. Control. Yourself.

Okay, baby steps.