Day Thirty-Four: Family is Really Pretty Awesome

I was very fortunate growing up to be so close to my family. Before my parents even met each other, my mother and my aunt were best friends, which made for a great foundation when my mom married her brother, both women had children, and my cousins and I got together. My best memories growing up were driving down to Jersey and creating mass havoc with my two female cousins, one four years older than me, and one two years. We would destroy the peace with My Little Pony extravaganzas, put on elaborate and poorly rehersed magic shows, and create entire living environments for our dolls, complete with kitchen and clothesline. And then, of course, there were the times in the swimming pool, which was my mecca, because to have my very own swimming pool I didn't need to share with anyone was my childhood dream.

So because my mom and my aunt were so close, the three of us grew up very close. I didn't have any siblings, so to me, they were like my sisters (that I unfortunately only got to see two or three times a year). When, at Thanksgiving, my cousin Andrea suggested all the females of our generation, she being the oldest, and the youngest being seventee, get together for a weekend to bond and become closer to each other, I was all for the idea. I still love to visit them, and although our adventures are a lot more worldly than building forts and Lego castles, I still make some of my best memories with them. But unfortunately, no one was really into the idea except the three of us, and their brother's wife, who became an instant cousin to me I wish I had around growing up as well. Although my remaining four female cousins really liked the idea, most of them weren't very adamant about strongly planning the idea. And because when we all get together we all complain that we never see each other enough and never get together, my cousin got upset and somewhat offended, but I can understand why, from their sense. While I wish they'd been more responsive, they did try, and it maybe isn't as exciting to them because they didn't have the same awesome cousin-y memories growing up, as I did.

At the risk of sounding almost untolerably cheesy, people only get one family. You get one set of blood relatives, and nothing can replace them. I consider myself extraordinarily lucky that in a world where so many families don't get along, and so many people even hate spending time with their families, I have the greatest family in the world, and a fantastic relationship with them. Family has always been very important to me, whether it's just the relationship I have with my parents, or seeing my extended family and attempting to get to know my really extended family. It always makes me a little upset when I hear about people really disliking their own family, because that notion is so foreign to me. While I am not at all close with my mother's side of the family, it consists only of my grandparents -- no great aunts, no great uncles, and no aunts or uncles or cousins, because my mother was an only child. And I feel unfailingly guilty about not visiting them more, because they're the only set of grandparents I have left, even if we don't have the best relationship.

So next time you have the option to get to know your family a little better, or get closer to them, do it. You only get one!

Day Thirty-Three: Apparently, I'm a Huge Fan of Fences

After having the day from hell yesterday, I sat over a raspberry margarita and mountainous bowl of nine-dollar guacamole across from my boyfriend, rambling on in a long and involved fashion about my life in general. In response, he said something in jest I truly never thought about: "Go ahead, why don't you write some more about being on the fence. You're always on the fence about everything!". So I sat, unblinking, pondering his comment. And he's right -- I am pretty much always on the fence about something. And appropriately enough, that's what I did write about yesterday -- being "on the fence" about my future.

If I went back, I probably would find at least a handful of these thirty-three posts at least slightly touch on the topic of me being unsure about what I want to do with my life, or moving out, or being healthier. Do I ever really commit to anything? It got me thinking about how many situations in life I end up not making true decisions about, but either let fall away and be replaced by another grand idea, or answer themselves. I'm starting to get self-conscious that I have a difficult time making decisions. Okay, so it's probably because I'm afraid of the outcome of my decisions, and it's ten times easier to not make a decision at all so I can't blame myself for misfortune that may fall upon me for making the wrong decision. So essentially, I'm a coward when it comes to figuring out my own life. Great.

Let's take a quick look back at past major life decisions I've made and the reasoning behind them. Number one: I went to college. Why? I went to college because it was the next logical step, and I knew I wouldn't really be able to get anywhere decent in life without some sort of education. Plus, I knew it would be fun. Thirdly, my parents would have killed me if I hadn't. Number two: instead of choosing to study abroad, I moved home and commuted to school for a year. Why? Because I felt like at that time in my life I needed to be closer to my family. I sort of regret that. I missed out on a lot of fun experiences, and it might have been fun to see the world. It was really nice to be in an environment where I could more easily concentrate on school, and I love my family, but if I had to do it over, I'm not sure I would have made the same decision. Number three: I chose to take a job as a proofreader at a company that had no windows, no lights in the parking lot, and night hours, where no one talked and you weren't allowed to receive personal phone calls except through your supervisor. Why? Because I was panicked about being a college graduate without a job. Which brings me to number four: I quit said job after two days and went back to working retail and radio promotions for the next two years. Why? Because it was absolutely horrible, the work conditions were atrocious, and I would have absolutely, no exaggeration, killed myself after a month. That was one of the biggest and best decisions I have ever made.

So what have I learned from this little exercise? The one decision I made that was bold and out of character gave me the greatest gain. I opened myself up to new opportunities, eliminated a life situation that I knew would end up making me absolutely miserable, and made a sacrifice to leave a nice office job to take one job that subjected me to angry rants from immigrants, and another that had terrible hours and unsteady work (although it was pretty damn fun). So, as my boyfriend would agree, it definitely seems time for me to stop being so "on the fence" about things, and start making some actual decisions. I haven't done much of it, but it seemed to turn out okay. Now if I can just stop myself from being on the fence about not being on the fence...

Day Thirty-Two: Sacrifices and Stupid Decisions

After some careful consideration about my life, and a little bit of research, I've given a little bit more thought to this whole pastry chef idea. I've decided that possibly paying $325 for a six-week community introductory pastry course probably wouldn't be an awful idea, but it certainly would be a a significant investment of my money. It's easily half a paycheck, if not more, due to travel costs. Which, now that I mention travel, would be horrific, because of my absolutely refusal to drive in the city and my fear of the subway. So really, it would amount to a train ride to and from, plus about a 20-block walk. Not so much a grand idea. Nor is it a sacrifice I am really willing to make. If I were, I would probably just suck up my whining and creep my automobile through the confusing grid, attempting to avoid people in general.

It's this thought that brings up an interesting point in my mind. If I were to undertake this endeavor, I would absolutely need to make sacrifices of time, money, comfort, and probably several other things I haven't yet factored into my plan. So since this may in fact be a foolhardy effort because the odds of failing are so high, would beginning my path towards sugary goodness include more sacrifices, or more stupid decisions?

Say, for example, that I were to teach myself everything I would need to know about pastry-making or bakery practices, or whatever the hell they are called. And, assuming that I can only learn so much from cookbooks and would need some demonstration, say I take some classes, maybe five to ten. I have now sacrificed spare time, which is perfectly reasonable (since I wouldn't do much else with it anyway aside from read and sleep), and we'll say about $1000. That thousand dollars, while a lot, could very well be a good investment in my future, and if not, at the very least provided me with a good deal of knowledge that I otherwise would not have gained. It's better than wasting it on clothes, vacations, or some other expense that would eventually lose the value I paid for it, either in falling apart, being eaten, or being an experience that would end and leave me only with memories. I would have knowledge that I could potentially use, in various ways, to make back the money I would have spent. So the conclusion would state, that both the time and the money are sacrifices, and not wastes as the result of a stupid decision.

Next, let's assume that ten years after I begin undergoing this process, I want to open a bakery. This is where the sacrifices teeter dangerously on the edge of falling into a pit of horrible filled with lost, stupid decisions. I would need to do several things that would inevitably send my life into a shambles. One, I would need to take out a large loan to rent a space, buy and install equipment, buy supplies, hire and pay at least one employee, and possibly hire an accountant to help me keep my business in order, but that's more of an afterthought. I am now in debt, which is a huge, huge fear of mine. Then, let's say that my business doesn't do so well in the first six months. I am now further in debt, because although the money may not come in steadily, the bills do. And then of course, there's the possibility that I get so far into debt I would need to file for bankruptcy, and it would have all been for nothing. I have now found myself in the Realm of Stupid Decisions. Not to mention that while I ran my small business, I wouldn't have the luxury of days off, moving elsewhere, or vacations, at least not for a long while.

I am not pessimistic in considering this a very real possibility. My business has a real possibility of surviving, as well, but this is a lot more unlikely, given the current state of the economy and the idea that it probably isn't going to get too much better. So what I keep going over and over again in my mind is the sense of failure I could get from spending such time on something and inevitably not gaining anything except a short time of personal career freedom with no boss other than myself, and a lot of headaches over finances. And while there are definitely other routes I could take in making this my profession, I imagine all would require extensive training, apprenticeship or internship, a severe paycut, and a complete and utter waste of the education I already worked so hard to gain. I can't even bear to mention the fact that I would be throwing away any success I've gained, that took me such a long time to find.

What I want, is a hobby that I can turn into a success. But as I'm a strong believer in having a plan or getting nowhere (at least when it comes to my own life and success), I don't know how much of a good idea this is, considering as that is what I would need to do. With great success comes great sacrifice, but what is a sacrifice, and what is a really stupid decision that will probably ruin my life? I guess only time will tell. But in the meantime, I need to open a freakin' cookbook. That's as good a start as any, right? Self-education is about as cheap and stupid-decision free as it gets. Step one: buy a lot of flour.

Day Thirty-One: Water, Schmater.

I'll freely admit that I had some difficulty coming up with a topic to write about today. So, if you please, humor me, and realize that like children who get hit with the ugly stick, my posts can't all be winners. So without further hesitation, I allow you into my brain for the kind of shit I waste my time thinking on a regular basis: does anybody ever really drink eight glasses of water a day and enjoy it?

I've started a challenge with myself that I drink eight glasses of water a day, which really amounts to eight glasses of water while I'm at work, because I stop giving a crap once my butt hits the couch at night. So I come into work, drink a glass or two before lunch (because I'm usually running around too insanely to sit at my desk drinking water), drink another at lunch, and then struggle to finish out the remaining five glasses throughout the day. And while I feel healthier and somewhat more energetic, I waste a lot of time getting up to pee. If I added up all the bathroom breaks I need to take throughout the day while I'm downing glass after glass of water, I probably waste a half hour of time in the bathroom. Plus, I start to feel waterlogged and full about halfway through each glass. It's not a pleasant experience.

So as stupid as I feel like the process is, I see people will giant Nalgene bottles refilling them once, or maybe twice a day. That has to be at least eight glasses of water, if not more. But I also see them pass by my desk about twelve times throughout the day, undoubtedly heading to the bathroom. Is it really worth it? Do these waterlings actually enjoy hydrating themselves that often? As refreshing and life-supportive as water is, I can still get awfully sick of it, and I'm sure I'm not the only one. It's...boring. Sometimes, I just want an iced tea, or juice. But alas, the sugar and acids aren't nearly as good for me as plain, boring, filtered tap water. I know drinking a large amount of water steadily will improve skin quality and possibly even figure, but I'm not sure that having to stop whatever I'm doing to pee every fifteen minutes is worth a little bit nicer skin and a few less pounds. But as long as I can, I'll keep drinking water, just so I can feel better about myself.

Day Thirty: How Considerate is Too Considerate?

I think it's safe to say that we all know someone who is really, really nice. These are the people that go out of their way to hold a door for you when you're twenty-five feet away, or let you get in front of them in the grocery line because you have a loaf of bread, and they have twenty-seven items. They're the people who you can't imagine ever getting really, REALLY angry, and they might even be the same people who will get you coffee while they're out because they heard you say you were sleepy. These are the people that are maybe, just possibly, too nice.

I would venture to claim that on occasion, in some ways, I might be one of these people. Although I definitely get angry, and somewhat often. These people aren't even "nice," so much as "considerate." They are extraordinarily considerate in a world of people who talk on cell phones at unacceptable volumes in enclosed public places at inappropriate times, and will be so wrapped up in their own personal messes that they don't think to hold the door for you when you're five feet away, angrily glaring at the back of their head. So even though I consider myself to be extremely considerate of others (it's not a compliment, it's a fact. If you knew me, you'd agree), still, I have met people who are nicer and more considerate than myself. And it's a little unnerving.

Such people are too considerate. People who restrain what is possibly best for themselves at the time because it would inconvenience or irritate someone else is too considerate. I am too considerate. If I find a hair in my food in a restaurant, I don't say anything, I just stop eating. If I need to ask where something is located in a store because I can't find it, I will feel bad bothering the employee lazily stocking shelves, wishing they were elsewhere, who has little to no job satisfaction. I will curse angrily in a flourish of colorful swearwords as cars don't let me merge in on the Expressway, but I won't attempt to move in. I, like other overly considerate people, are losing out on life or hindering my own progress because I think too much of others.

So for myself and others like me, vow to think about the next time you're thinking of someone else. Would you be annoyed if someone asked you for decaf instead of regular? You might not be inconsiderate, but rather forward and direct about what you want. Nobody respects people who let others walk all over them. I promise I'll try, if you try.

Day Twenty-Nine: Let's Take a Moment to Value the Wonder of Bubble Wrap

As I'm writing this, today is Bubble Wrap Appreciation Day, meaning to all of you, it was actually yesterday. But regardless of when the day actually is (or was), it's a day of stopping and appreciating the little things in life, like popping plastic bubbles. Honestly, who hasn't had fun with bubble wrap at some time or another? You can pop it, stomp on it, jump on it, and if you're really ambitious (and have a lot of bubble wrap and a sense of adventure) you can wrap yourself in it and roll down a hill or stairs that would otherwise be dangerous without padding. It's great stress relief, and the simple pleasure of popping it has gained such popularity that there are computerized versions all over the internet and apps for Ipods and Iphones. But to me, it seems like a little more than that.

It's a day of stopping and appreciating the little things in life that bring us joy. So, like bubble wrap, it's a day to appreciate giving your dog a paper towel tube, or fuzzy sweaters, heating pads, misting fans, umbrella hats, and silicone ice cube trays that make little ice stars or letters. So I hope on Bubble Wrap Appreciation Day, I hope you popped some bubbles, and thought about all the uses for the wonders of plastic and air.

Personally, my favorite use of bubble wrap is using it as a form of protection against the elements. People use it to protect themselves from the frigid cold as a sleeping bag when they play homeless and go camping. Similarly, some people use bubble wrap as insulation in place of glass. Break a car window? Don't waste money on expensive auto glass repair, just use bubble wrap! Duct tape some of that shit to your car, and you've got a rainproof, snowproof, and shatterproof barrier between your precious upholstered car interior and the wrath of mother nature. Better yet, when I got a new car, I considered wrapping parts of my car in bubble wrap, so when the assholes and idiots of the world opened their car doors into my black paint, there would be no damage to speak of. Okay, so maybe I didn't seriously consider it (because that would be crazy), but it was a nice idea, and a good use of bubble wrap potential. Happy Popping, Bubble Wrap Enthusiast! May you find more uses for the noisy, obnoxious plastic that we may gawk at in wonder.

Day Twenty-Eight: The Sweet Future

About a handful of times in the past year and a half, I've had great life epiphanies in which I truly felt entirely sure I had finally found my calling. First, I wanted to be a music writer. Then, I wanted to be a food critic. After that, it was dog training, of all things. Now, I want to be...a pastry chef.

Aside from the concept that I absolutely loathe waking up early in the morning, I don't know if there's anything I wouldn't love about owning my own bakery and making food that is both pretty, and will make me enormously fat and happy. It sounds rather fun to wake up at 2 AM every morning, and in the quiet wee hours of the day, coming up with strange, delicious concoctions of pastries and cakes that people will buy only from me. I'd love to own a cute shop with a clever name, make my own hours, count my own dollars, and be my own boss. But the reality is that I know perfectly well it would be incredibly hard work, long hours, years of difficult learning, failing, working in stressful kitchens to gain experience, burning myself more than once, and crying over icing. And while I'm on the topic of icing -- I loathe it, and happen to think it ruins the perfect, moist, light fluffy goodness that is cake. It is a mar on the face of baked goods of all kinds. I'm pretty sure that thought would be slightly unacceptable.

And then there's the idea of funding to consider. Where, after moving out, will I ever find the money or time to go to back to school? And I'll have to take business courses to figure out how to run my own bakery, if that's what I really want to do. And then there are the odds to figure -- how many small businesses, especially in this economy, appear and disappear within only a few years? Going in debt for pastry school, followed by a lovely bout of bankruptcy in losing my failing business are not my idea of a good life plan. I'd need to be good and sure it's something I absolutely love with all my heart to make such sacrifices. Are they worth making cake and pie all day?

So while I sit and ponder the idea of taking a local community course on bread making, I'll probably also lose my gusto and discover that my true path does not lie in butter, sugar, and flour. But at least in the meantime, I'll enjoy the little thrill that comes with yet another chance to think "Is this it? Have I finally discovered what I really want to do with my life?". At the very least, I've entertained myself for a short while with thoughts and delusions of success and happiness that I don't know if I'll ever attain.

Day Twenty-Seven: Everybody Could Use a Little Peace...

My oldest and dearest friend, who is like a sister to me, lives in California. She's always excelled amazingly and easily at everything she's set her mind to: athletics, artwork, friendships, and academics being just some of the few. So when she enrolled in college, I knew she was destined for great things. But she never actually declared a major until it was absolutely necessary, and did so based on the number of classes she had taken that fit into that course of study. She took classes she truly and honestly could learn from, arts classes, cultural classes, and history classes. She took an internship at the Philadelphia Horticultural Society because it fascinated her. And when it came time for her to graduate, she didn't attend her commencement ceremony, and opted rather to take an immediate job creating topigraphical maps of a national park up near University Park, Pennsylvania. Not long after, she took a job teaching 6th graders in California about the ecosystems in their environment at a camp about an hour outside of Napa Valley. She has always had an incredibly free spirit, and I envy that about her almost as much as I miss her.

But when I do see her (which is usually once or twice a year), she's always happy. She never seems to let anything weigh her down. She never worries about money (which she never really spends on anything but true experiences -- wine tastings, festivals, and camping), and she will happily travel on a whim. I would give anything to feel that free about life, and I often think about how I could do it, but I can't wrap my brain around the possibility without giving up everything in my life that's important to me: my job, my love, and leaving my family. So I've decided to try to embrace the chance to feel free in my everyday life. I need to move more slowly, think more slowly, and breathe more slowly. I need to enjoy the little things in life. Maybe, then, it will get me a little bit closer to California and living a free life, even if I can't be with my sister.

Day Twenty-Six: Mmmm. Sugar.

There are very few things in life that I enjoy more than real, white, shiny refined sugar. I love cake, brownies, pie, candy, and most of all, the perfection and magic that is...the cookie. As weird and juvenile as it may sound, cookies are my absolute favorite food. I will never, ever, EVER turn down a cookie that is offered to me...unless I'm feeling guilty about my health. Which even at twenty-four, is something that I need to be conscious of with the way that I eat.

While I try to eat healthy lunches everyday, and healthy, lighter dinners when I cook for myself (my mom's cooking is too damn good for me to care that it might not be as light as I would make for myself), I make up for it by eating refined sugar in between and after meals. The only exercise I get is running up and down the stairs all and between rooms all day at work (which actually isn't bad. It's considered "light" exercise. I look this shit up.). So it comes as so surprise to me that every once in awhile I feel more than a little guilty and need to back off the refined sugar a bit. And it's pretty damn difficult.

My addiction to refined sugar puts me in a pretty bad mood when I put up a fight against it. For awhile, I tried to limit myself to one serving of refined sugar a day (as opposed to natural sugar in fruit, for example). A cookie after dinner, or a piece of Godiva that I've been hoarding since Christmas. That worked for awhile, but I would find myself looking forward to that one cookie a day, craving it, and finding that once I ate it it was gone entirely too quickly. I would pass up pastries and chocolate chip cookies that weren't deemed worthy enough to become my single treat. Then, I gave up. While I'm currently still highly limiting my refined sugar intake, I don't count the sugar on my Multi-Grain Cheerios, or the couple Tootsie Rolls I'll eat after lunch. And aside from caring about my health, there's a reason for it.

My mom recently told me about a book (forgive me, I don't know the title or author) about a cancer researcher who, while researching causes and facilitators of cancer, got cancer himself. He used himself as a model, and determined what in this diet and lifestyle were causing cancer cells to grow. In doing so, he made a very interesting and startling discovery -- refined sugar actually feeds already existing cancer cells. It helps them grow, and actually makes it more difficult for the immune system to fight them off. I was in shock. So while I'm pretty certain (knock on wood) that I don't have existing cancer cells in my body, it could one day become possible, or researchers may eventually find that sugar can cause cancer...or something. But it's already bad enough, so what's one more, slightly scary reason to limit my sugar intake?

This frightening little fact put me in a position I had never been in before. I began to understand what it must be like to be a smoker, in a way. Smokers know that they're doing something terrible for themselves, but they enjoy it, so they continue to smoke. How is this different from eating sugar? Sure, it's probably a lot less bad for a body than smoking, but eating enough of it can cause diabetes, fat, extreme weight gain, and now feed cancer cells. I'm sure if somebody were to heat up pieces of pie in a plastic container in the microwave enough times in their life, it's bound to be bordering on similar carcinogenic risk as, say, a light smoker. I really enjoy sugar, just as many smokers really enjoy smoking. Even if sugar was known to possibly cause cancer, not just feed it, I'm not sure I would eat less of it. Sure, I want to be healthy and live a long life, but I don't want to cut sugar out of my diet for the rest of my life, either. So I guess for now I'll just limit my sugar intake to the really good things, like homemade brownies and cheesecake. And if I get cancer, then I'll worry about not eating sugar.

Day Twenty-Five: What's That? I'm Bleeding From the Eyeballs? Oh No, I'm Fine, Really...

I woke up this morning at 2 A.M. unable to breathe through a snotty, stuffy film that sealed thousands of germs inside my head. As I laid there staring at the inside of my eyelids and concentrating on my labored nose-wheezing, I tried not to think about getting up for work in four hours. So when my Ipod tinkled happily that 6:15 had arrived, I angrily pulled myself out of bed and contemplated the possibilities: go in, try to get through the day, and leave if I had to. After all, I had to go in early all this week to prepare for guests that arrived before office hours. So I popped a thermometer in my mouth for the hell of it (95.5...so my thermometer is broken. That's definitely bordering hypothermia.), pulled myself through the shower, ate a tasteless bowl of cereal, scraped off my car, and drove drowsily to work. After setting my car's internal temperature to a cozy ninety degrees, I felt just warm enough.

After I arrived at work and completed my early-morning activities, it was just about 8:30 when people began to arrive. When my co-worker saw me, she told me to go home. I didn't put up much of a fight. I called my boss, collected my purse and my box of tissues, and drove home. I pulled on my pink pajama pants and a hoodie and buried myself in bed until 11:30. Now, after being fed and medicated, I'm somewhat energetic, and bored. It's now that I'm pondering the fact that I am either slightly ADD, or becoming a workaholic. And I'm kind of a bad patient.

When I'm sick, I'll be happy to fill my person with as much medication as I can to make myself feel better without endangering my health further. I try with earnest to drink water all day, but I usually forget or can't be bothered about three glasses in and six trips to the bathroom. But worst of all, I get bored, and I get bored quickly. If I lay on the couch in front of the TV, or sleep on and off throughout the day, I feel worse. But the more I lay around, the faster I get better. But I can't sit still without feeling guilty, or like I'm wasting time, unless I'm really upset, or sometimes if I'm with someone else. And honestly, I act similarly on weekends. I hate laying around, and I hate sitting still for too long. So either this is a good thing that I like to seize the day, or it's terrible that I don't know how to shut myself off. My brain goes from the moment I wake up in the morning and doesn't turn off until I'm asleep. I'm always thinking about five different things at once, and I frequently start walking somewhere, think about something else, and either forget why I'm there, or start walking in the complete wrong direction. I clearly need to center myself and do yoga, or something. There's got to be something somewhat wrong with this.

Day Twenty-Four: A Chronicle of Pinching Pennies

After almost a month of writing, I had an epiphany today. In the midst of all this ridiculous apartment-hunting, budgeting, and adding the numbers over and over, I had the thought that approaching my new life and the challenges that come with it might make a decent blog. I could write about starting out; about saving, calling the cable company, cooking for myself, cleaning my bathrooms, and building Ikea furniture. Okay, so it sounds about as exciting as morning church services on TV. But who knows? It might make for some fun and interesting reading at my own expense. Consider the possibilities.

Hopefully, I've been a little persuasive so far. If not, this may change some minds. On Sunday, as I previously mentioned, I was in an absolutely terrible mood. The storms of female times hung over my head and rained on anyone I tried to involve in conversation. Everyone who opened their mouth in my general direction was talking entirely too much. Needless to say, I was about as warm and inviting as a gila monster. I was definitely not in the mood to trudge out in the rain and look at an apartment. And then, my boyfriend called and I become an absolute disgrace. Cue the ominous music.

Bless his soul, he's nothing if not honest with me. After hearing my girlish groaning and childish stomping that I was absolutely not going to burden myself with looking at a potential place to live because I was too stressed out, he said something to the effect of, "...about what? Go. Go see it. You need to go see it, and you're as ready as you're going to be to start looking. Just go look at it." That's all it took. The flood gates opened, and I was a blubbering, incomprehensible mess. He was at a complete loss for words. My mom got annoyed at him for not supporting me, and annoyed at me that I was going out anyway. In ten minutes, I managed to send everyone in my life into a tizzy. Ah, the power of female ways. This was not a good way to start a new leg of my life.

So although I've leveled out since then and I don't feel nearly as stressed out, I'm still on a pretty rocky road with this apartment-hunting mess. I might make this a full-time writing topic if it's interesting enough, or I might not. But it's definitely a possibility.

Day Twenty-Three: I Really Don't Get Artists.

Before I went to college, I contemplated being an artist. I would sit for hours capturing people and animals in graphite, or creating weird, colorful paintings with acrylics. But, my logical side won out and I went to school for writing instead, realizing that I would probably end up hating anything artistic from being forced to create everyday until I was utterly exhausted. And, more importantly, that I would probably have a difficult time eating and would live in my parents house until I was forty. But when I arrived, I discovered another reason I am glad I didn't try to surround my life with art.

I really don't understand artists.

Some artists are just normal (somewhat normal, anyway) people, like me, who just enjoy creating art and playing with color. Other people, the kind of people I was surrounded by in school, are artists. These are the people who wear tophats as a part of their regular everyday wardrobe, and chainsmoke in front of maple trees while their friend named Calliope sits painting her feet for fun. While these people are undoubtedly on some other plane of existence, and their brain functions on a completely different level as the rest of us, I have a difficult time taking them seriously. In fact, I'm pretty sure anyone except people not unlike themselves can take them seriously. As I walked by on my way to my web design class, I would shake my head and wrack my brain trying to understand how these people think from the moment they get up in the morning. What must it be like to be that...weird?

The thing that fascinates me most about artsy artists are that most of them act as free as they look. They really don't care much about anything but love, art, and thinking. Either that, or they're completely conflicted, angry, and tortured. But what must it be like to create that openly and think that freely and just be consumed by making things all day? I might like to be an artist for a day, but certainly not more than that. I'm pretty sure I'd go legitimately crazy.

Day Twenty-Two: I've Fallen in Love...With an Apartment

After much stress and turmoil of my treacherous week, and a weekend full of terrible moodswings and unnecessary freak-outs, I went to see an apartment. I trudged in the rain down a quiet street towards a triplex, that the property manager had described as "an eyesore" on the outside. It was, actually, in pretty good condition. I already felt a little better. When my boyfriend and I got inside, we walked up an old staircase lined with various construction bits, including tile, wood, plaster, and tools. We arrived at the first landing, unsure of whether or not to approach the door in front if us, in this awkward corner, as my potential home. But no, we were led around a tiny corner to an old wooden door. I felt more than a little apprehensive about this place so far.

But when the door opened, we were greeted by the pungent and formaldehyde-poached smell of new carpet. The walls up the short stairwell were a blinding fresh white, as was everything else when we entered the small space. It was very, very new. The living room was big, but not too big that the minimal furniture I would end up buying wouldn't leave it sparse and vacant-feeling. The bathroom was a narrow little space, with a tiny window above the toilet, and tons of shelf space. The bedroom had a big bright window, and sloped ceilings. It was bright, and warm even without the heat turned on. There's a half-closet that serves as a couple of shelves behind a cabinet at eye-level in the entrance to the bedroom. The kitchen was almost impossible to walk into, as it was filled with pieces of countertop, wood, tools, and probably a sink...somewhere. Needless to say, it wasn't yet functional. It was small, cozy, awkward, would overheat horrendously in the summer (but had capabilities for window air conditioning), and would be extremely difficult to get large items up the stairs. There was a old-style pencil sharpener mounted inside the closet. It knew where it was going, but it wasn't done yet, and it wouldn't be perfect. It's quirky...like me.

Maybe that's why I liked it. We seemed to fit well. I don't want to live in a square apartment in a complex. I want to live somewhere with character that I can make into home despite it's little flaws. I'm going to do the responsible thing and look at a few other places, because it's obviously bad to sign on the first place seen. But it's going to be hard to live up to my first impressions of my first potential home. Maybe this isn't so bad after all.

Day Twenty One: Multiple Personality #1 -- Psychobitch Kristen

As I was riding in the car today through the pooring rain on the way back from a delightful breakfast with my mother, I was thinking about how unhappy I've been lately. I can't really identify what's making me so blue, but I know that I am definitely not feeling like myself. But although I know I'm out of sorts, I'm apparently a lot more unlike myself than I realized. On the phone yesterday, my boyfriend asked me several times in a 30-minute conversation what was wrong. "Are you okay? You're acting really odd. I've never seen you like this." It freaked me out. Sure, I felt a little stressed, but how could I be acting so strange and not even have the slightest idea?

A combination of work stress, moving stress, and emotional stress put me in a funk, but really, how weird am I acting? Although I definitely believe depression is a real condition, I'm 100% sure I'm not afflicted by it. Everybody gets in a weird way every once in awhile. Although I've definitely noticed I've been snapping at people more, my patience has been worn threadbare, and my tolerance for stupidity and inconsideration are virtually non-existent lately, I didn't realize I've been acting to strangely that people around me are noticing. Getting a little moody every once a few months is pretty common for me, so I can't imagine how weird I must be acting for those around me to take notice that I'm acting very much out-of-character.

So I'm going to plow through my annoying times and tolerate as much as possible. I'll try to relish life's little happy circumstances, like the concept that I don't have to appear at court for jury duty this week, or that maybe, just maybe, my week will be a little easier than planned. In the meantime, I'm going to ponder what exactly in my life is making me such a grouch, and what I can do to fix it. Maybe I'm finally starting to lose what's left of my mind.

Day Twenty: Movin' On Up...

I have very recently embarked on a new leg of life -- I'm becoming a real renter. When I graduated college, I arrived home with a tightly packed sedan full of odds, ends, furniture bits, clothes, and shoes. I winced as I pondered the impossible physics that would be necessary to fit my massive accumulation of crap into a small, modest bedroom that was already amply furnished. So, I rented a storage unit. It was, and still is, my only experience with being a renter of any kind. I learned words like "pro-rate" and was given a tour of my where my tiny piece of real estate would be located. For the past year and a half, I've been dutifully paying $45.00 a month to house my random shit and keeping myself, my parents, and my "landlord" happy.

But now, I'm going to be actually renting real, honest property. I'll be paying a substantial amount of money to keep a roof over my head, heat in my person, and food in my stomach. It's a huge weight over my head and I'm frightened. What if I can't afford what I'm paying? So after about a week of deliberating with myself, my bank account, and other people, I've decided that now is as good a time as any. So today, I emailed my first landlord, asking to look at a place. I looked at an apartment once before, with three other girls in college, but we didn't have a clue what we were doing and it didn't feel nearly as serious as it should have been.

So luckily, all will go smoothly and easily, and I will schlep my crap from my trusty storage unit several towns over into a one-bedroom apartment that I can call my own. I'll save $45.00 a month, and a lot of money on gas, but I'll be spending $800 on something so much more important. And I'll have a new place to call home, which is a completely bizarre concept to me. I'm not sure I can fathom truly living somewhere that isn't home, and being able to call it home. But I guess it's something I'll get used to. In the meantime, I'll get some life experience in hunting down apartments, keep saving, and try my hardest to not freak out. And hopefully, I'll have a new place by the end of February. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Day Nineteen: How Hard Do Old Habits Die?

I read somewhere not long ago, that it takes about two weeks for something to become a part of a life routine, something that people get used to doing everyday. Similarly, it takes six months for something to become ingrained in someone as a part of their natural rhythm. Like going to the gym, for example. Sure, it's a burden for awhile, but then it becomes a way of life, and it becomes difficult to remember a time when it didn't happen everyday. But does it really take six months? Wouldn't the adjustment time be less depending on the kind of person is undertaking the change?

As much as I hate to bring up the example again, I read this little gem of information right when I started trying to make writing a habit. Now that I've been doing it for awhile, it's hardly something I have to think about, or make time for anymore. It naturally fits into my schedule, and it's rarely a burden (although it's safe to say I definitely don't always feel like doing it). Although there were some times in the first week of writing that I struggled to make deadlines I set for myself, and came in danger of almost not doing it at all, I did it. And now, after the amount of time I've been doing it, it seems as though I will be completely used to this new part of my life very, very soon. I daresay that I will be used to it in less than six months, even. Okay, so adding new habits is easy, but what about giving old ones up?

Does forcing oneself to break habits take similar time as taking new ones on? I'm thinking not. For example, adding a new element to life's routine is something, at some point, one has to consciously remember and think about. But does anyone ever really think about the habits they take on that they don't want to keep around? Who thinks, "Well damn, I think I'll bite my nails today"? It's doubtful. But if it supposedly takes six months to form a new, good habit (like exercising), I would think it would take longer to fully break a habit that's already ingrained as a part of you that you don't have to think about. So would it take nine months or a year? Maybe I should try to break some habits too, for comparison. I'll ponder that.

Day Eighteen: What's That? My Name is Written on the Ceiling? I Scoff At You!

I think the time has come to tell a little story about myself, that will potentially put me in serious jeopardy with anyone with a sick sense of humor. Unfortunately, I was born with the almost complete inability to sense when someone is screwing with me. I am, and always have been, extremely, painfully gullible.

The story I always tell to exemplify my extremely gullible nature is a story of my childhood (I was about ten), and one that to this day I still consider with a sense of incredulity that I could actually be as gullible as I was. When I was young, my cousins and I decided to play hide and seek in the dark outside on a warm, dry summer night. My aunt and uncle's property is small, but well-lined with trees, bushes, and old stone fireplace, and a garage in the back corner. So although there weren't many hiding places, the suitable ones were excellent. So as I wandered around looking for my cousins, one older than me by about two years, the other older than me by a week, I heard noises that sounded suspiciously like the cracking of twigs under foot, or the rustle of leaves in the bushes. But no matter where I looked, I couldn't find the source of the noise. A little spooked and confused, I wandered away, to find my other cousin.

Not long later, after the game ended and one cousin was found and her brother gave himself up out of boredom, my uncle entertained us by bringing out a small telescope and pointing it at the moon. "Look!," he suddenly shouted, "there are little green men jumping off the moon! Look look!". So, I looked, but I saw nothing. "I don't see anything," I said. "Look again!". So I looked again. And already still a little spooked from the noises in the bushes, I was already on guard. Then, I heard the noises again, as the leaves on a bush rustled to my left. "They're landing! they're landing over there!", my uncle yelled. So fueled by my gullibility and my unfounded terror regarding all things extra-terrestrial, I ran inside crying. Yup, I believed him. Sure, I was a kid, but I was definitely old enough to know better.

As it turns out, my cousin was throwing M&Ms into the bushes, and it took me about ten minutes to calm me down. Personally, I'm not bitter about it at all, although my mother wasn't (and still isn't) very happy. I think it's a great story. And if anything, it taught me to be a little more cautious when it comes to believing everything someone says. I'm still extremely gullible, but I've trained myself to be ten times better. I only occasionally embarrass myself now, fourteen years later. I'll still momentarily forget and turn around with a swift motion when someone says "Hey, look at that!," and points behind me, only to turn back around and find that my jellybeans are missing, but for the most part I'm not-so-easily fooled.

So, now I realize that I have definitely made myself victim (to at least one person) to being messed with at an increased rate, all because I wanted to do something nice and share a funny story about myself. But guess what? I'm ready for it. I have learned a lot over the years, and I have trained and worked hard to be able to stare at someone dead in the eye with a look of contempt when they tell me my name is written on the ceiling. Sure, I might glance up after they leave, but I like to trust people and give them the benefit of the doubt, too.

Day Seventeen: Code Red, The Writer's Block Has Begun

This is the first day in seventeen days that I have sat down to write and stared blankly at a blinking cursor on the vast, empty whiteness of a stupid, taunting text box. Seventeen days have gone by and there has always been an idea in my head. They haven't all been very fascinating or interesting ideas, but they were ideas just the same. They gave me the opportunity to put some kind of words together to keep this project going. But today, I tugged and poked at my brain all day, and nothing came to mind. So here I sit, writing about having nothing to write about. But then again, if I'm writing about it, I suppose I do have an idea, and thus I'm doing okay. But still, it's a little frightening that only a little over two weeks into this commitment I'm already pulling out the "writer's block" card. I need to come up with some more inspiration, and fast.

In response, my boyfriend planted an interesting nugget of thought into my head last night. I was complaining that I was finding it difficult to find interesting topics to write about, to which he replied with something to the effect of "You get ideas from life experiences. If you don't go out and have stories to tell, it's no wonder you're having trouble." So maybe, it's possible, that I don't have enough to write about because I sit around wondering what to write about far too often. Perhaps it would be more effective if I lived my life and wrote around it, rather than making this project and my writing the most interesting part of my life. What's to write about if you're only living writing? So, I'm going to do a little experiment to see if I can create some inspiration for myself.

For more reasons than one, I'm going to make more of an effort to go out and immerse myself in groups of people I don't normally surround myself with. I'll do as other twenty-three-year-olds do and go to the redneck dance club on Saturday. I'll stay up past 9:30 AM. Please excuse me if this seems lame; that I appear to be doing this purely for the one reason that it will give me something to write about. I actually want to start going out more, seeing my friends more, and being more social. While I'm not home all that often anymore (I hardly ever see my house on weekends), I really don't see many people.

So while I'm growing a small, green set of wings to become a tiny social butterfly, I'm going to see if it makes this writing thing any easier. Then maybe I'll at the very least have enough material to write about for two or three days, instead of miraculously coming up with something an hour or two before it comes time for me to write. I'm waiting, inspiration. I'm listening.

Day Sixteen: Do We Make Ourselves Miserable?

I think my life is pretty common in that, as the saying goes, "when it rains, it pours." When one thing goes wrong, at least one other major tragedy puts more than a hiccup in my day, thus making the first ripple in the wave of unpleasantry harder to overcome. From what I can tell, most people have the same mark on their own lives. If a car breaks down, the paycheck that would pay for it is lost. If a family member becomes ill, a family heirloom will get lost somewhere in the house, never to be found. And usually, both experiences magnify each other, making the other seem more important and tragic. Since the situation is so difficult, is life trying to tell us something by sending us sometimes an almost overwhelming plethora of horrible?

I'm not entirely sure if I'm a believer in the idea that there are "tests" in life that are meant to make us stronger and help us better understand ourselves and what is most important to us, but I still believe there has got to be something to this strange little phenomenon of life. Do the planets align just right to make our lives fall apart little bits at a time every once in awhile? I don't know of anyone (who hasn't had a real, major tragedy occur in their lives, like a child dying or a house burn down) who has steadily had a regular pattern of bad happening to them over a course of time. It always comes in clusters of multiple annoyances and tragedies that put a real cramp in a day, week, or even month. But the possibility also exists that such things don't happen in multiples, and that people are just more mentally weak when they're emotionally distraught, so other, smaller problems that they would otherwise be able to handle seem mountainous. Excuse me, but I need to get philosophical for a moment.

How much of our tragedy to we create? If there is nothing to fear but fear itself, is there nothing to feel sorrowful about than sorrow itself? If someone close to a person dies, they feel sorrow because they are gone, but they also have the potential to feel happiness because they are no longer suffering, or because they've possibly just left to experience another plane of existence that might be pretty damn cool. So who knows, they might actually be the lucky ones. Although this is a pretty far-fetched reality, it is possible. We are capable of feeling anyway we make ourselves feel. If we choose to embrace tragedy and remind ourselves of the negative aspects of a situation, are we causing our own pain?

Partially, I think my own theory could very well be a load of crap. While it's possible to try to change the way we feel about certain situations, we can't help our subconscious from being truly upset about something that makes us unhappy. But it is an interesting thing to think about. I know more than once, I have been what seemed like unbearably unhappy about something, and then suddenly I physically could not feel sorrow anymore, so I stopped, immediately. I literally woke up, and wasn't sad or angry about my situation anymore. So either that was my body's way of telling my brain to stop going haywire because my sadness would start physically affecting my health soon, or I subconsciously decided I didn't want to deal with waking up sad anymore. I don't think I've lived enough to know whether or not this is true, but it definitely is worth pondering. Do you think you make yourself sad?

Day Fifteen: Today, We Salute the Crazy Jackass.

There is quite an impressive number of groups of people that we honor and revere as being some of the best of our culture. There's time set aside to honor the history and achievements of other races, of women, of mothers, fathers, and grandparents, of scientists, leaders, and of artists and authors. Some people even did so much for us in the span of history that they have specific days dedicated only to themselves. But I think the time has come that we stop overlooking one of the most important groups of people that is almost completely overlooked, those who shape us and define who it is we want to be. We can learn a great deal from their fascinating brains as we would from, say, Mother Theresa. Of course, I'm talking about the crazy jackass.

Before a small angry mob of people comes to stare me down and put gum in my hair as punishment for my stupidity, allow me to assure everyone that I have a perfectly logical explanation for why perhaps our least favorite group of people deserves to be recognized. Think about the crazy jackass for a moment. Everyone knows at least one person who in one regard of their life throws all logic and sanity to the wind and lives in a way people really, really shouldn't. Think about the people who kick in windshields, and those who light trash cans on fire in malicious rage. The people who make horrible, rash decisions, like marrying someone on a whim because it seems like a grand an exciting adventure. Think about the people who devote their entire lives and incomes to collecting Batman merchandise. Aside from providing us with possible entertainment, as long as we're not the focus of their rage and or foolishly dangerous actions, these people make us stop and think for a moment. "Wow," we say to ourselves, "what a crazy asshole." And then it hits us -- we are not as crazy as they. And for a brief moment, no matter how unstable or insecure we feel, we feel absolutely normal. Nay, they allow us to feel like we are at the peak of normality. Isn't that worth something?

Okay, I admit, this is pretty selfish. But I speak not of people who have legitimate psychological problems or mental disabilities. I'm talking about individuals, who despite their unbelievable quirky habits to, say, build giant statues of beer cans in their front yard because it seems like a good idea ("We're recycling AND enhancing our property value!"), are perfectly, 90% normal. They hold down jobs, they likely haven't been arrested, and they have friends. Most of them are perfectly aware that they're crazy jackasses. And if they just happen to boost our self-esteem in the process of living their normal lives on nothing but canned ham and coffee everyday, simply because they like it, what's the harm?

Thus, I unofficially dub this week "Crazy Jackass Appreciation Week." Do you paint on canvas with your bare ass and sell it because you enjoy it? Do you buy outdoor decorations made from cow crap out of catalogues? Do you have a pet iguana you let sleep in your bed? Congratulations, my friends, you are honored this week. And thank you for making me realize that although I might get a little irrational sometimes, I am perfectly sane. You do us a great service.

Day Fourteen: Kristen Potter and the Curse of the Thrifty

I'm pretty ridiculous when it comes to spending money. That is, I really, really don't like it. But I try not to let it get in the way of living a sufficient life. Oh sure, I have absolutely no problem shelling out money for the important things, like gas, food, and occasional fun, but when it comes to buying things for myself, I get start to get nervous and indecisive. I usually end up talking myself out of it whatever purchase I wanted to make, no matter how small. Sure, it's a whole lot better than being outragously lax with my money and ending up in debt, but is hoarding my money bad too? Am I missing out on things in life because I'm extremely protective of my money?

I'm actually quite generous when it comes to money involving other people -- I'll almost always put in more money than I think is necessary on a restaurant bill to cover my part, I have no trouble spending a lot of money on a gift for someone, and I will not rest until I get money to someone I owe it to. But for some reason, I just cannot spend money on myself as easily as I feel I should be able to. Why am I constantly living in fear that I won't have enough money to do what I have to do?

I think this stupid reasoning I have is what is creating my fear of moving out of my parents' house. I have a goal in mind with an amount of money I want to have before I leave, and if I don't reach it, I'll be terrified that I won't be able to eat. When I buy things, even if they're very much on sale, I always doubt my purchases and feel insanely guilty afterwards. What gave me this complex? While it will pay off in the end with large purchases I make and my quality of life

down the road, isn't there something just a little bit twisted about not being able to buy a DVD without hating myself for a day or two afterwards? I think I have some issues. I would love to know where this came from and how to better manage it. Is this the kind of thing I need therapy for? Am I just a little sick, or am I just very responsible?

I guess I'll find out once I actually start having real expenses that will take up a huge chunk of my income. Until then, I'll keep staring in disdain and disgust at that $9.00 shirt I bought from Target yesterday, or those three books I bought for 60% off. Curse you money, curse you.

Day Thirteen: Getting to Know You...

After over a year of searching and interviewing, someone finally hired me to do a job that required a college degree, paid me what I'm worth, and gave me several days off a year. I'm happy, I like my job a lot, and I'm finally starting to feel like I'm on my way to living a functional adult life. I'm nearly financially ready to move out and take care of myself on my own, so I'm constantly pondering some of the other things I want to do with my newfound economic stability and independence.

What I"m most excited about regarding this new area of my life is being able to live entirely alone. Sure, it sounds lonely, and I'm certain the novelty will wear off pretty quickly, but I love the idea of being able to worry about keeping no one happy but myself and my landlord. There's something very important to me about living alone. I see it as a time when I will learn things about myself I don't yet know, and when I can truly express myself in whatever way I want. If I want to learn guitar, there won't be anyone around judging me (except maybe some neighbors, but I doubt I'll care what they think). If I want to paint until 2 AM, I know there won't be anyone up wondering what I'm doing. I have always felt slightly hindered when I live with others. Certain creative things in my life I like to do completely and utterly alone, and this is very important to me. It's one of those reasons why I can't at all understand why people want to move straight out of home into a dwelling with a significant other. I think it's very important that everyone live by themselves, at least once, in their lives. Why not now?

I'm also considering taking a trip alone. As I've mentioned before, I'm hardly street savvy. I feel like I would become just a little more worldly if I venture out to an unknown place on my own. I can meet new people, go where I please, and do as I want. But most of all, I'd be forced to survive on my own. No one to help me get my plane on time, and no one to help me navigate streets or train schedules but strangers. Of course, it hardly sounds fun to me, to be honest. What good is a vacation if you can't share it with anyone? But it's more something I feel I need to learn more about myself, rather than something I want. So will I use my new vacation time to travel alone? Probably not. If I do take a vacation, I'll probably visit a friend across the country, or go to Seattle with my boyfriend. But it's a nice thought, and it's definitely in that list of things I want to do before I get married. What's the rush? I want to know as much about myself as I can before I need to share it with someone else.

Day Twelve: I Am All-Accepting, Non-Discriminatory, Easily-Pleased and Undereducated Foodie

Although a lot of things make me pretty happy, like writing, drawing, and reading, my two absolute favorite pastimes probably happen to be the least constructive of all the things I do: eating and sleeping. Actually, the only thing that rivals the feeling of laying snug in bed, drifting lazily in and out of consciousness to the quiet sounds of pipes or footsteps, and awaking drowsily surrounded by a warm mass of soft fabric, is tasting glorious, glorious food. I love sleeping, but I really love eating. 

I am one of those people that will never turn down free food if it looks safe and clean. I love tastes of all kinds: sweet, savory, tangy, spicy, slightly unusual, or rustic and classical. I will try just about anything at least twice, as long as it isn't some strange part of an animal that performed a function other than working with bones to move it around. I was blessed by having a superhero-like metabolism to keep up with my constant eating, as I usually get hungry every three hours anyway, yet I'm still underweight for my height and age. But it isn't just the physical eating that makes my hobby so enthralling. I am constantly, and probably unhealthily, thinking about food. If I'm not watching Food Network, I'm reading recipes and food magazines. And if I had more money, I would likely cook constantly, even though I'm not fantastic at the process (I yield great results, I just burn myself as much as possible and fill the house with smoke). I'm fascinated by the way different tastes blend together and melt to create something wholly different. So why aren't I a chef? 

To be honest, I have no idea. Mostly, it's because I didn't embark upon my food obsession until after I was already out of college, and secondly, I would hate the long hours, and I handle stress about as well as a chihuahua with ADHD. Sure, I could cater or work in a bakery, but I'm not sure I love cooking enough. In fact, I don't particularly love cooking at all. I cook things I really want to eat. It's the eating I love. 

I thought for awhile about being a food writer, but most food writers need to know more than a fair amount about cooking, and I can't even make a proper egg over-easy half the time I try. I'm not a bad cook -- I just lack the practice and the knowledge. Besides, I feel like it would be a little difficult for me to pick apart the subtle nuances of food when I'm easily impressed by some cream cheese on a sesame water cracker. If a well-educated chef served me filet mignon with Roquefort sauce and shrimp ceviche, I wouldn't be able to pick a thing wrong with it if it wasn't burnt or raw. I just love food too much to care. I'm not a purist either, if it's good, it's good. I don't really care if it's at it's peak of perfection or freshness. Sure, it's nice and probably ten times better, and that's great, but I'm not going to get my panties in a twist about it. I would be an awful food writer. 

So I'll be content with eating, and may my metabolism always be lightning fast. Either that, or may a gym with a cheap membership always be nearby. 

Day Eleven: Here a Baby, There a Baby, Everywhere a Baby Baby

I woke up this morning in a sweat, panicked. I was laying in some sort of strange, splayed position, indicating that I had been tossing and turning, and I had weird clothing lines imprinted on my skin where my clothes had twisted. It would appear that I had a nightmare, but it wasn't about dying, or going to class naked -- I had a dream I had a baby.

More specifically, I dreampt I had a baby that I overtly didn't want, but everyone around me tried to convince me I was excited. I remember being exhausted from constantly watching the baby, feeding it, playing with it, dressing it, and changing it. And I more distinctly remember a feeling of dread, because in my dream, I was pregnant, again, a week after my new baby was born. Although I understand this to be pretty impossible (I think, I'm not entirely positive about this), somehow, I was. And even more bizarre was the concept that still, everyone around me was elated. Here I was, with a fatherless (literally -- there was no father to this baby in my dream) baby, a second fatherless child on the way, and a feeling of being trapped that no one understood. No wonder I woke up panicked.

But my cold sweat upon waking wasn't purely a result of this one dream. In the past month, it is the second dream I've had of having a child. In my first dream, I was an overweight woman in a field full of Carnies (the kind who dress as clowns, not the overweight Wilson sister) who went into labor, and was ushered onto a large boat towards a city with buildings that echoed a small town in a quaint European country. There was a doctor with a handlebar moustache wearing a top hat and tails, who insisted that if I stay perfectly still, the baby would not come out.

After that dream, I woke up alone, wondering why my pants were gone. I kid you not. I was perfectly sober.

So it would appear that my panic and confusion after these two dreams is justified. I'm not a huge believer in dreams having some grand "meaning" behind them, that often times has nothing to do with the true subject of the dream. But with such frequency and vivid images in these dreams, I'm starting to wonder if there might be something going on here. I'm positive I'm not pregnant, so what could it be?

According to TheCuriousDreamer.com, dreaming about having a baby might either be bringing up images of a new beginning in one's life, or one's subconscious mind exploring what it might be like to have a baby. Since I'm pretty sure I don't have any desire right now to ponder what it would be like to have a baby, it makes sense that the meaning is the former. I have had new beginnings in my life recently, in many ways. A new job, new changes at said job, a new year, new goals, new activities, and new motivations. So maybe, there is something to this dream theory crap after all. But that brings up a new question: why do I always wake up feeling so anxious after my vivid baby dreams?

Maybe, I'm afraid I'll fail at my new endeavors, or that I won't be able to handle them. And in a sense, I feel that way when I'm awake too, as everyone does. But honestly, they are fleeting thoughts that hardly keep me up at night. I wonder about failing, but at most things I've undertaken recently, I feel confident I can succeed. I spend my time worrying about a huge plethora of things, but for some reason, none of them are the new experiences I've embarked upon in the past month. What am I so afraid of failing at? Am I afraid of failing at having babies? Maybe (and hopefully), the solution to my dreams is a lot simpler than that.

There are a lot of women at my job who are either pregnant, or have very young children. I imagine being surrounded by baby talk all the time would cause me to have dreams about babies, but there is more talk of weddings than babies. Why aren't I having dreams about weddings? I'm certainly not ready to get married, but I feel a lot less apprehension about weddings than I do about babies.

Maybe I won't ever figure it out, or maybe my next baby dream will give me some more insight to their cause when it comes along (although I honestly hope it won't). Until then, I'll just keep popping my birth control pills and being utterly content that I do not have a baby.

Day Ten: The Concept of a "First Date"

Being as I am a woman, and what I consider to be at least a decent friend, I have sat with my girlfriends as they sniffled, gloomed, and bemoaned recently failed relationships. I’ve seen relationships end due to poor communication, infidelity, and just plain lack of luster. But as I am seeing new relationships form, old relationships end, and just about half of the people I work with getting married, I have been wondering what the success stories have in common. I also wonder about the success of my own relationship, which is now going on two years. Although a relationship is never a true success story until “death do you part,” I would consider being with someone longer than a year a successful mastery of the basics. While I’m definitely not a believer in love at first sight or fairy-tale endings, I wonder, if there is one specific thing that most (I’m sure not all) successful relationships have in common: the existence, or lack thereof, of the monumental First Date.

What first needs to be established to answer this question is what exactly constitutes a true “First Date.” I define it as being in a neutral location with no one else of common acquaintance to distract the couple from getting to know each other. For example, while I think group dates are a witty and fun idea, they’re not at all a suitable way to really pick someone's brain. Also, finding a soon-to-be companion at a party and ferociously making out for a length of time is not a first date. Sure, chemical attraction has been established, but what information about a person is really gleaned from that? Okay, maybe quite a bit, but certainly not enough to base a relationship upon. While there has to be a technical first date eventually, at what point in most relationships (established as formally a couple, ambiguous, or still unknown) does it occur? I have been in relationships before where we have established ourselves as dating, but didn’t actually go on a first “date” until we were already a couple. They all failed miserably.

But similarly, my current boyfriend and I did not have a first date until after we were already quite familiar with each other. We had a very fast week of talking over various electronic devices constantly, followed by a day of flirting with each other within a large group of people, and finally wrapping up our courtship with some TV over my apartment with my roommates. Our first actual date was lunch, long into our courtship of each other, but not when we were "officially" dating. This is similar to the way I think it should work. I’ve always gotten the impression that the “First Date” is supposed to be uncomfortable, and more like a job interview, quickly determining the assets and weaknesses of each other before deciding whether the courtship should continue. How could anyone connect in such a cold and uncomfortable manner?

But really, does anyone do that anymore? Unless a couple meets each other on a dating website, I really don’t think it’s necessary. So why, I wonder, do so many dating magazines, websites, and articles describe ways to navigate around this stupid, dated ritual? And why are women still believing it? I might conduct some kind of experiment on this, because I’m pretty sure this sterile, to-the-point courtship staple is completely out-of-date. If this is really the way we're supposed to meet people, why hasn't the idea of it developed into something more workable? As a species, we can create an mp3 player that's the size of a stick of Trident, but we can't change the way we think about the "First Date?" I demand a change.

Day Nine: I Hate Them Fancy Railroad Cars and Subway Trains...

When most people in my location think of the city, they think of great nightlife and a wealth of history and culture. But when I think of the city, I’m not quite so optimistic. I think of smog, crazy people, angry, impossible driving, and lots of pigeons. After about twenty visits, I’ve determined that I really rather despise the city. Unfortunately, I love everything the city has to offer. Every concert I go to is in the city, and there’s a cornucopia of amazing restaurants and markets with every kind of taste I could ever want to enjoy. I can educate myself with hundreds of museums and educational centers, and there are countless quirky events I wouldn’t be able to find anywhere else. But I still hate the city. I’m the kind of person who enjoys her space. I hate walking, I hate driving in a gigantic, crowded, multi-directional grid of angry people, and I hate coming home feeling like I rolled around in farts and car exhaust. “So take the train!”, you might suggest. Oh no -- I hate public transportation, and I have a terrible fear that I’m always going to miss my stop and end up getting off in a dangerous and creepy area. And along with all the goodness in the city that draws me there every once and again, they are gems amongst a plethora of dirty, neglected, and frightening areas engulfed by crime and poverty. I feel immense sympathy for anyone who lives there, but I still want to be as far away from such places as physically possible. I grew up in the grassy suburbs, where every house had a lamp post and there was a cornfield down the block. Although I love my town and I loved my childhood, I’m not going to call it cultured in any regard. So it’s perfectly natural that I would feel slightly uncomfortable in an area quite opposite from what I’m used to. And the fun little magic that comes with the city is that one wrong turn and you can easily end up in one of these areas before you’ve even realized you’re on the wrong street. Since I’m twenty-four, 100 pounds, and about as street savvy as Little Bo-Peep, I think it’s understandable why the city and I don’t get along. I have a close friend who lived and thrived in the city for four years while she went to college in one of the most dangerous parts of the area. She walked everywhere, spontaneously took mural tours, and took the subway to anywhere it would go to anything from the Italian Market to an Indian Pride Festival. She even lived in a house with drug dealers at twenty-two (having never touched drugs or alcohol of any kind) and lived a happy existence in her room upstairs. What I realized she had that I did not was a sense of fearlessness. She could live and love the city because she wasn’t even the least bit afraid of anything about it. Sure, it has a ridiculously high crime rate, but she didn’t let it get in her way. So maybe one day I can learn to love the city if I become a little fearless, but that isn’t going to help me ignore the smog or the pigeons.

Day Eight: Lucky Me, I Found a New Emotion Today...

I think throughout this whole happy experiment, I've been pretty honest about my likes and dislikes on a wide range of topics. And with my efforts put forth, I'm relatively confident that I've been able to keep my mouth shut on strong social topics. Sure, I'm a big fan of analyzing and criticizing the behavior of other people, but when it comes to the truly controversial things, I like to stay far, far away. Mostly, this is because I'm too lazy to put up a fight.


But alas, I think I'm going to break that rule today, and I hope this will be the one and only time. So bear with me, this might be interesting.


It bears noting that I am not particularly easily offended when it comes to social jokes and commentary. Like many people, I enjoy a good tasteless joke. And I understand that people with disabilities, maladies, and psychological issues have challenges in their lives that are difficult to overcome, and sometimes more difficult to convey to others. But for the first time in the short years I've lived today, I was on the other side of the joke and I actually had a taste of how it feels.


This morning I was listening to a talk show, and the guest being interviewed was discussing the nature of his specific job, and how he gives others advice on dealing with social situations. Then, he brought up an example: a woman had written to him seeking advice on dealing with a specific malady and when and how she should explain it to others she encountered. The guest, who (like most people) was unfamiliar with her problem, did some research on it, didn't understand how it was a big deal, and actually saw it as an asset. I was momentarily stunned for a variety of reasons.


First of all, I was in shock that someone else who shared my problem was actually a topic of conversation. The problem we share (which is not an STD, thank you very much. I feel the need to make that clear so there's no doubt.) is quite rare and understudied, and as a result, hearing about anyone else who has it in a public forum like that is a little shocking. Secondly, I was a little hurt, that this guest, who claimed to be an expert on such things, could not sufficiently do research. It's not a difficult problem to understand, given five minutes of honest reading, yet somehow this genius managed to miss the entire point of why the problem is actually a problem and not just a condition with a name. Thank you, Asshole.


For the first time in my life, I knew how it felt for people to completely and totally not understand. But at the same time, I wasn't in the slightest bit angry. How could I get angry at people who were very simply just misinformed? Granted, I was a little miffed that the guy whose job was to sufficiently answer this woman's question who reached out to him for advice was clearly too busy and do five minutes of honest research so he might actually help someone, but I got over that pretty quickly.


It was just a very interesting experience. Those brief two minutes that made me feel emotions I hadn't ever felt before gave me a whole new view into a world I'd never seen. I had a flash of cognizance that made me understand why people fight for awareness for stupid diseases that no one has heard of, and why people put stupid magnetic ribbons on their cars. They don't always want people to donate money, or go on charity walks, or go to stupid rallies (though they often do, very much so). Sometimes, they don't even need people to try to understand, because if they don't directly have the problem or are affected by it, such an understanding really isn't possible. They just want people not to misunderstand. They want to hear "wow, that must be terrible," and know that their sympathizer actually means it.
 
Honestly, I would rather stab myself in the eye with a plastic fork than preach about the rights of others. Sometimes, life just makes you think differently about things than you would have been able to think before.

Day Seven: Resolve to Be Better

I've actually been rethinking this whole New Year's Resolution business. Having unknowingly and unintentionally made some myself, I can't help but think about the motivation that surrounds them. People choose to do the things they need help doing, things they usually hold themselves back from doing otherwise.  Even if they don't realize it, New Year's Resolvers need that push that comes with a clean slate. For some It wipes away the failure of breaking the same resolution last year. For others, it might just be a chance to learn something new about themselves, to push themselves to the limit and see how far they can go. So many people have no idea what they're capable of, mostly because they're too lazy or cowardly to try. I'm extremely guilty of that. While it might just appear that people make New Year's Resolutions because they like the fresh start of a new year, or why else would people resolve so strongly, and work so hard to change something about themselves? It makes it seem like we're a little more permitted to forget the bad things about the past, but keep them in the distance to motivate us for the next year.

I think now I might understand a little more about New Year's Resolutions and what they mean. They aren't neccessarily things we aren't motivated enough to do the rest of the year, but things we truly need courage to accomplish. Maybe they aren't so bad after all. After all, it seems as though no one choose to accomplish small tasks at the start of a new year -- those are everyday things. Instead, we take this opportunity and the unexplained courage that comes with it, and set out to complete certain tasks in our lives by trying harder, being better, and taking more chances. I won't personally say what I plan to work on this year, but I've already stumbled. But I am determined not to fail. For some people, like myself, there is much more at stake that just another failure -- there's the possibility to lose things we don't want to live without.

So make your New Year's Resolutions with optimism and hope, and may you work as hard as you can for as long as your courage holds out. Happy New Year.

Day 6: The Inconsiderate Asshole

If I were to ever completely lose all that's left of my sanity and go
on a rampage where I end up throwing my own poo at people on a city sidewalk, my primary target would probably be the general inconsiderate person. Yes, if someone decides to bitch at a store clerk because they don't have the color shoes they want, I will be there, ready to strike. And if an angry diner feels like yelling at a waitress, who behind the scenes is yelling to the kitchen, because their food hasn't arrived yet, I will be hiding under

their table, seething. But thankfully for the assholes of the world (and myself), I'm not going to go insane. But seriously--assholes really piss me off. 


Logically, anyone could claim they feel this way, but I think most people get ticked when they are personally being attacked by the Mighty Asshole. I take offense when I see anyone being a victim of poor social ettiquette. What good does it do to take frustration out on the first person available? It's extremely selfish behavior. Essentially, by yelling to whomever can hear about their problems, the inconsiderate asshats of he world are ensuring that their misery and irritation will be spread to all those within earshot. If they aren't happy, no one is happy, and it's my understanding that's exactly how they want the situation to work out. They feel the need to pollute the air around them with a smog of ugly impatience and, occasionally, dour disposition.


Unfortunately, not all inconsiderate people are always angry. If they were, they'd be a lot easier to spot and avoid. Haven't we all been victim to the "Businessman Asshole" who walks up and down the cereal aisle of the grocery store negotiating with likely another businessman asshole as loudly as possible on his Bluetooth? Or what about the inconsiderate asshole driver who tails you when you're going 50 in a 35? Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I think I'm beginning to make my point. 


At one moment in time or another, everyone laments those little 5- minute pockets of happiness they lose in their lives that are snatched away from inconsiderate people. So while I admit I might get a little worked up, I can't help but feel some extra compassion for anyone victim to the inconsiderate. So to all the inconsiderate assholes out there, just think next time you get on your phone or let your dog pee on my lamp post. Make the right decision and choose against being an asshole.

Day Five: Let Us Observe the Fascinating and Elusive Drama-Queen...

Like most teen, acne-riddled girls, my life was plagued with female drama every waking second of my day when I was fourteen. Half the friends I surrounded myself with didn't like someone else in the group, but tolerated them anyway. We all gossiped, made fun of, and got angry at and about eachother constantly. Frankly, it was exhausting, and I spent the better part of my early teenage years crying.


But as we grew older, went to high school, and stopped listening to boy bands and starting listening to alternative rock, the drama gradually decreased. Many of us went our separate ways after realizing we didn't much like each other, and never really spoke again. And now, thank God, my life is in a relative state of peace, rather than constantly on the verge of an emotional nuclear war.


And for most women, I think the story goes the same way. We stop having the time and we start having the tact to realize that drama is more trouble than the minute closeness we got with another young female that came from bitching about someone else. We become more emotionally stable and confident, and thus we're able to carry on conversations and relationships not based on a mutual dislike of others.

Though some of these habits still remain (because we're women, and that's what we do despite our greatest efforts), there are women that I am encountering in my life that still feed off that dramatic tension. They make angry eyes at another woman across the room, or they whisper quietly, putting on fake smiles when someone they have issue with walks by. And it isn't about a few people in particular, they will talk shit on almost anyone. I can't help but wonder how insecure a woman would need to feel in order to live her life this way, or how many friends she'll have later in life.

However, I've also learned that fortunately these women all gravitate towards each other like some sort of unsettling colony, so they are easy to spot and ignore. But if I could, I would love to study these women, tag them, and release them back into the wild. Do they still listen to the Backstreet Boys and watch Spice World? Do they have girls' nights with red wine and Tupperware parties, secretly all lamenting that Sandy showed up, even though she was courteously and warmly invited by all? I can't help but think they can ever truly know who they can count on and who will be there for them in the end. It's really a sick way to live.

Day Four: If Someone Drew Out Your Thought Pattern, Would it Look Like a Jackson Pollock Painting?

If I were to ever commence a brilliant acting career and seem like an interesting enough person, I would probably be asked to appear on Inside the Actor's Studio. While I don't particularly want my future to enfold in this manner, I have often pondered what my answers to that oh-so-famous and posh questionnaire would be. While thoughts regarding my favorite curse word are still stewing, my answer to one question has always been unmistakably clear. "What profession would you not like to try?" James Lipton would ask. And I, in my tasteful and witty glory, would confidently with "teaching".


Although I cannot fathom why people would want to do such a thing, thank God some people find it a fascinating life's endeavor, because otherwise we would all remain stupid from birth. I have a profound respect for anyone who even considers taking it on as a career choice. Why anyone would wish to stand in front of a room full of highly impressionable, easily distracted youngsters who are forced against their will to appear before you for forty-five minutes a day (or more) and attempt to impart any knowledge into their brains is completely beyond my comprehension. Plus, it's my understanding that before kids will learn anything, they have to respect whoever is trying to teach them or they won't be open to anything being said to them, so add that important point to the job, and it's already hard enough. Now consider the cornucopia of free hassles that come along with it, such as angry parents, troublemakers, kids who won't try, and kids who are just as annoying as crap, and that sounds like nine months in hell.


From what I hear, people choose to become teachers because actually making a good impression on students is such a rewarding experience, and I have to believe it must be. But how many bad teachers are there? I have encountered so many more terrible, harsh, or just plain incompetent teachers in my childhood and adolescence than good ones. Based on the idea that all the really good teachers I had were in college, I've concluded that all the horrible teachers I've had were terrible at their jobs not because they couldn't impart knowledge, but because they couldn't handle all the other crap that comes with teaching successfully enough to be able to impart knowledge. College professors have it a lot easier because literally all they have to do is teach.


That is, assuming they can teach.


When I was in college, I worked pretty damn hard. In fact, I worked hard enough to get decent grades. And because I got a B in Pre-Calculus and lots of other people got C's, D's, and F's, my name showed up on the tutoring center's recruitment list. So stupid me, excited to be in a position to help other students and actually have a skilled job for the first time in my life, I signed right up. Let me note, however, that I was also on their list to tutor Freshman and Sophomore English, literature classes, Global Justice, and just about anything else I'd taken that I had gotten a good grade in. After several training sessions and some free Chinese food, I was deemed worthy of imparting my knowledge upon others. I was taught learning styles, procedure, and collaborative learning. I felt ready, but I really, really wasn't.


It is probably worth mentioning that I am absolutely terrible at math. I still count on my fingers, and the only reason I made it through with B's in math in school was because I have a brilliant father who is excellent at grasping abstract concepts like algebra. I was also lucky enough to do just poorly enough on my college entrance exam to place into Pre-Calculus, although I had already taken it my junior year of high school and saved my very excellent notes from class. So this shining B that showed up on my college transcript was not terribly accurate of my algebraic abilities. So, naturally, I was assigned a student who needed tutoring in Pre-Calculus.
 We met the first day outside the library, and she was all smiles, very quiet, and wore extremely bright colors. Unfortunately, she was a very sweet girl, which made me feel even worse about flushing her time down the toilet. We fumbled through our first session easily enough, where I managed to remember fairly simple concepts and gave her problems to do that had the answers in the back of the book. When she got something incorrect, between the two of us we'd manage to figure out how to correct it. It wasn't terrible. But shortly after that things went very steadily downhill. Upon reading a problem that she had for homework one day, I stared at it for a good minute before I looked at her, put down my pencil, and said "listen, I'm going to be honest with you. I am really pretty terrible at math, and I don't remember any of this, so I think the best thing for you to do is to request a different tutor or go to the math lab. I'm really sorry I can't help you.". But the girl only smiled, and we arranged to meet the following week. Gradually, we stopped meeting altogether, and I'm pretty sure she failed math. I also quit tutoring, and went to work in the Writing Center where I actually helped a lot of people. But to be honest, I never felt fully comfortable doing it, and I never felt like I was actually teaching anyone anything.

I would make a really terrible teacher. I have no patience, no eloquence for logic, and most of all, I do not ever think in straight lines. I know enough to realize that there is a sequence to teaching that I will never, ever grasp. So teachers of the world, you're a rare breed. Congratulations on thinking in a way others can understand, and being able to explain it to them. That in itself is pretty admirable to me.