Make Your Heartbreak Into Tacos

If you live in Houston, which you don't, perhaps you are familiar with Escalante's. It is a "fine Tex-Mex" restaurant. From what I can tell, "fine Tex-Mex" basically means tacos and enchiladas, except with slightly fancier ingredients and presentation. Also, margaritas made with expensive tequila.

If I lived in Houston, which I don't, I would have an entirely unhealthy relationship with Escalante's. As it is, I demand to eat there at least once (I said at least) every time I visit. The worst part is, I have only ever tried one thing on their menu, and it is a salad. But it is the only salad I'll ever need for as long as I live.

Let me tell you about this salad. First, we have a bed of romaine lettuce, tossed in mango chipotle vinaigrette. I can see I've already got your attention. Greens are unimportant, though, they are merely a vehicle for deliciousness delivery. Next, we have avocado. So rich and creamy. Followed by the sweetness of fresh mango. Too sweet, you say? That's where the sliced red pepper comes in, to give it a kick. But where's the meat? Oh, I didn't mention? This thing is covered in shrimp ceviche, baby. It's true. Fresh shrimp, cold-cooked in lime juice until they're little maritime packages of zing, exploding in your mouth with citrus flavor. And finally, the coup de grace - a walnut-encrusted warm goat cheese medallion.

Is my love for this salad making you uncomfortable? Well it doesn't matter, because there is no Escalante's in North Carolina. It's OK, though, because what do we do when we can't have our favorite salad? That's right, scouts, we make it into tacos. Which is why I tried to make shrimp ceviche tacos last week. And now I'm going to tell you about it.

As I mentioned, shrimp ceviche is just shrimp, chilled and marinated in lime juice until the acid from the juice cooks the shrimp. I wasn't sure how many limes it would take to make enough juice to cover shrimp, so I bought several fresh limes, and some prepackaged lime juice (Flavored with extra chemicals!) just in case. I decided to only 'cevich' like 6 shrimp to start with, because I am but one person, and also I didn't want to ruin all of my high-quality frozen Target shrimp at once.


Turns out, though, that even just 6 shrimp require a lot of lime juice in order to cover them completely (which you must), so I decided to go with the fake lime juice. Spoiler alert, this was a mistake.

It's real because it's green!

The ever-overwhelming internet gave me wildly conflicting times regarding the length of time that shrimp must marinate before it is fully cevich-ed. The longest time I saw listed was 24 hours, so I got all responsible and proactive and prepared them the night before I really wanted to eat them. (That is a lie. I wanted to eat them right away.)

Because my shrimp were poorly covered, I had to check on them periodically and flip them over. It was fun, like tending a little garden. A seafood garden. That is ready to harvest within 24 hours. The next night, I excitedly pulled them out of the refrigerator, and removed their tails. (I do not know why I didn't do that sooner. I could have used less juice!)


The outsides looked pink and cooked, but I was suddenly less than confident in my ability to cook shrimp with nothing more than limes and enthusiasm, so I cut a few open. Sadly, they looked a little gray and raw on the inside. (There is no photo of the raw insides, because of lime fingers.) I tasted a piece of one shrimp as an experiment, and briefly considered the benefits of food poisoning, since I was pretty stressed out last week and would also still like to lose those extra pounds.

It was upon tasting them that I realized the fake lime juice was a mistake. Or maybe it was the 24 hours of marination. In any case, fake lime juice is concentrated, so instead of the fresh burst of citrus I expected, I was faced with overwhelming limeade flavor. It tasted like those commercials where the cheese scientists shove a giant wheel of cheese into a single Cheez-it, except in this case someone shoved a whole package of powdered lemon Kool-Aid into a single shrimp.

In any case, I'd come this far, and I wasn't about to walk away now. I decided against attempting to food-poison myself, so I had no choice but to just microwave the damn things for a few seconds. They came out fully cooked, and no less worse for the wear, in spite of being far less classy and French than originally intended. Whatever, limeade-infused hillbilly microwave shrimp, just get in my tacos. And subsequently in my belly.

Garnish!
(Red pepper, onion, and avocado)

Speaking of things that are classy, mangoes! They seem expensive, right? So instead I bought pineapple mango salsa from Whole Foods. It still cost me $95 for a small container, but at least someone did me the favor of cutting it all up, which has got to be worth at least $70.

Mmm... hundred-dollar fruit cubes.

This stuff is tongue magic, by the way, and it has taken quite a bit of self-control not to just eat the whole tub at once with a spoon.


I assembled the shrimp, veggies, and fruit salsa on fresh corn tortillas I made by hand, using corn from my own organic garden. (Heh.) The looked downright delicious, sitting there. You could barely tell by looking at them that the shrimp were radioactive. And yet there still seemed to be something missing...

Ooohhhh yeah.

Once I added some spicy sriracha sauce to my tacos, I was finally able to sit down and enjoy them. They were actually pretty good, and they only tasted a little bit like confusion and desperation.

P.S. I was halfway through eating the tacos before I remembered I had also purchased goat cheese (to replicate the salad, remember? from the top of this post? like, 3 years ago?). I made them again later, but instead of ceviching, I just sauteed the shrimp in butter and squeezed some fresh lime juice over them later. And I remembered to add a dab of goat cheese. It's no Escaviche Salad from Escalante's, but I'd be willing to eat it every day for the next 3 years or so.

P.P.S. Just to make sure we all learned something here... If you're going to make shrimp ceviche: 1) cut the shrimp into pieces first, and 2) use fresh lime juice.

I'm Just Going to Dork Out Here for a Moment

Expelliarmus, and whatnot! I've just returned from seeing HP7 Part 2! (Or, the final Harry Potter film, for those of you who aren't into abbreviations.)

Not only did I just experience cinematic history, but I got to do so at the Alamo Drafthouse! Or, at least, the one in Houston. I guess the original is in Austin. If you are unfamiliar with the Alamo Drafthouse, as I was until recently, let me tell you a few things about why it is wonderful. For one, they are very serious about not allowing talking and texting and obnoxiousness during the movie. This is nice, because it heightens your movie enjoyment, and protects you from the kind of people who think they are adding to your movie-going experience by yelling at the screen.

For two, they recently developed this pre-show ad to remind people of their serious silence policy (perhaps you've seen it floating around the internet?):



If you're somehow still not in love with this place, let me tell you this: they will bring you food and alcohol. To your seat. During the movie. It's true! I myself had green chile cheese french fries and 2 pints of cider*, all while enjoying the magic of Harry Potter. I swear, it's almost enough to make you want to move to Texas.

Almost.

Anyway, Harry Potter was everything I hoped it would be, with the exception that I wish a little more had been made of the showdown between Mrs. Weasley and Bellatrix. I was most interested to see if they would include the nineteen-years-later epilogue, so I was really excited to find that they did. It was a little cheesy, particularly because some of the actors 'aged up' a little better than others, but it was still totally worth it. All in all, I'd say it was lovely and definitely worth seeing.

Although really, you were going to see / have seen it anyway, even if everyone had said it was awful, right? I mean, it's practically our civic duty, really.

In conclusion, let's just take a moment to celebrate Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood, the unsung (and unsettlingly sexy) heroes of the Harry Potter series.

Aaaaawwww yeah.

*I feel obligated to let you know that for some reason they forgot to bring Lee his food, so we had to flag the waiter down during the show (very risky given the no talking policy!) to remind him. I think we were probably the exception though because it seemed like everyone else was getting their food promptly, and once we let him know it took care of it post haste. Seriously, go to the Alamo Drafthouse! And take me with you!

Planning for Success

1. Sign up for an independent study.
2. Halfway through the semester, agree on a reading list (over 40 journal articles, a few books to skim) with the professor. Tell her you'll send her your summary "as you make you progress."
3. Over the next few weeks, read some articles here and there. Maybe 5 or 8 in total. No need to strain yourself.
4. Two to three weeks before the end of the semester, realize that you still have 45 articles to read and summarize, along with all of your other final assignments, and also your 25-hour-a-week job.
5. PANIC.
6. Read furiously.
7. Check clock.
8. You've only read one article in two hours?!?
9. Repeat steps 5 through 8 until you are no longer physically capable of further panic.
10. You need a drink.
11. On Saturday afternoon (your assignment is due Sunday), go hang out with friends from 4 to 9 pm. Drink a glass of wine, or four.
12. Arrive home at 9pm. Did I mention your assignment is due tomorrow? Homework is hard when you're intoxicated, you know.
13. Have a nap til 1am.
14. Wake up, mainline soda, work til the wee hours of the morning.
15. Finish assignment in an exhausted haze.
16. Swear you'll never do this again.

SEVEN MONTHS LATER: Begin again at step 3.

I'm Still Hoping to Get a Doctor's Note Validating This as a Legitimate Medical Condition

Although I am now officially 25 years old, I continue to have the sleeping habits of an unsupervised 12-year-old on summer vacation. I routinely stay up past midnight for no apparent reason, and often take hours-long naps as soon as I get home in the evenings. Most of the people close to me are aware of these habits, and they all think it is HAHA HILARIOUS to joke about how I can't get anywhere on time in the morning, which is not even true, thankyouverymuch. If you want me to arrive on time, you just have to plan your event after 10 am. Otherwise, you should be aware that there is about a 75% chance that I'm going to be late.

Anyway, I've been thinking about it, and I've come up with a few potential explanations for why my sleep schedule is so erratic. It could be any one of these things, but I suspect that it's probably a combination of all three of them...

Reason #1: I just like to be up late at night. To me, there's something mystical about being up late at night, and I've liked it ever since I was a little kid. Even though it scared me a little, I used stay up well into the night reading, the only person awake in my house. I liked to imagine that my bed, ensconced in lamplight, was an island adrift in a sea of peace and solitude and darkness. Being awake late at night, when most other people are asleep, makes me feel both completely independent from and inextricably connected to everyone else in the world. Our differences are greatly attenuated when we're unconscious, and unconscious people can't exert their will upon each other. There's freedom and unity in the dead of night.

Reason #2: I simply don't understand the connection between the time I go to bed at night and the time I'll have to get up the next morning. This is related to the fantastical way I have of thinking about the nighttime. While intellectually I understand that one day blends into the next and that getting up early means I should go to bed early, I think that somewhere deep down I really believe that the amount of sleep I get is somehow a constant, and that whatever I do late at night doesn't really count as yesterday or tomorrow. I have been proven wrong on this point repeatedly, most recently last night when I stayed up until 3 am reading, even though I had to get up at 7:30 and go to work. And yet I persist behaving as though the time after the sun goes down is actually time spent in the Twilight Zone, completely unrelated to how I spend daylight hours.

Reason #3: Procrastination. I firmly believe that the best possible way to accomplish anything is to put it off for as long as possible. I think that my poor sleeping habits might be a natural extension of my tendency toward procrastination. It starts with procrastinating homework, then procrastinating running and phone calls and showering, and suddenly you're procrastinating the start of an entire day. Because part of me believes that if I don't sleep, tomorrow won't come, and thus staying up late is a way to prevent tomorrow from ever arriving. If late-night is timeless, I don't have any responsibilities, and if tomorrow doesn't come, I'll NEVER have any responsibilities. It's clearly a win-win.

... At least, it seems like a brilliant strategy while I'm reading and playing video games until 4 am. But 3 hours later when my alarm is going off and I'm forced to trudge to work and write a grant proposal with only the vaguest remaining grasp of the English language, suddenly it doesn't seem so smart. But what can I do? Twelve hours later the sun goes down, and I'm whisked off into responsibility-free solitude, once again.

Staring Blankly at the Screen

Over the weekend I completely blew my all-month posting schedule, because I went and stayed in my hometown so I could go to an engagement party for an old friend from high school. Apparently having my mind blown by the passage of time makes me forget to write on my blog.

Unfortunately, I don't have anything particularly brilliant today to make up for the lapse. I came home this afternoon and took a 4-hour long nap instead of doing anything useful. Things I could have done instead of that nap include: eating dinner, making lunch to take to work tomorrow, reading a book, running 2 miles like I was supposed to, working on revisions to my journal submission, writing something interesting for my blog, answering the phone when my friend called, being a useful human being.

As you can see, I'm feeling a little guilty about the whole thing. I love naps, but sometimes I feel so awful and ashamed when I wake up from them that I wonder if they're worth it. Plus now I have a headache and I'm vaguely confused about life and I'm really hungry but I don't have the focus to cook anything.

I just realized that this is basically just 4 paragraphs of whining, so I think I'm going to go ahead and end it here. Just know that if I had the good sense to say anything interesting right now, you guys would be the first to hear it.

Tapped Out

This evening I'm particularly exhausted and unimaginative, so once again I'm going to fall back on someone else's genius. This post at Hyperbole and a Half is a pretty good description of my own efforts to be responsible. And this one probably explains why sometimes I just HATE EVERYONE ON THE BUS WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE for no particular reason.

But really, it's all good, so I recommend poking around there tonight while I'm being a bum. Tra-la-la!

Blurgh

I am exceptionally out of it today, so here's a series of loosely related thoughts...

I overslept by A LOT this morning due to a combination of a misbehaving alarm clock and a bad case of insomnia. As late as I slept, the only reason I woke up when I did was because the maintenance guys were pounding on my door so they could come in and change my air filter. If they hadn't come by, I might still be asleep now.

We had pizza at work today in honor of my upcoming birthday, and that was lovely. It also nicely counterbalanced the jokes that my officemate kept making about how I was going to be fired due to tardiness.

I bought a new alarm clock that will also play my ipod, so that's cool.

I enjoyed the song "I Kissed a Girl" when it was first released, and that was fun while it lasted, but I think it's about time that Katy Perry be stopped.

Did I mention that the first thing I did when I woke up was send my officemate an email, subject line: "ACK!" ?

According to my former boss / co-author, the response we got back on that paper yesterday is no big deal and should be easy to respond to. Somewhere, in an alternate universe, there is a version of me that accepts criticism with grace and aplomb.

Does anybody have any tips on what kind of face you're supposed to make when people are singing happy birthday to you? Also, what do you do with your hands? Is there a way to prevent people from singing to you altogether? It's too late to avoid it this year, but I'd like to start preparing for next time.

First Draft of a Letter

To the reviewers responsible for rejecting my article:

Thank you for taking the time to carefully review the very first article for which I have been the lead author. I appreciate the care and consideration that you each put into criticizing every element of the paper, down to my choice of words in the third paragraph on page 20. I have to admit that I was apprehensive about the experience of having my article "peer-reviewed." I see now however that I was woefully unprepared. Rest assured that you all have the distinction of being without peer. That is, I can say with certainty that you have no peer in the department where I work. I haven't checked the pre-kindergarten down the road, however; perhaps your peers can be found there.

Nevertheless, your comments have been very useful to me and my co-authors. As I continue my career in academia, it will be useful to keep in mind how a well-written article may be received by readers with only the barest grasp of reading comprehension. For instance, although we state very clearly in our methods section that our sample size is roughly 200 participants, your comments repeatedly refer to a sample of 500. My co-authors and I obviously made a grave error when we assumed that our peers would understand the difference between these two numbers. Perhaps if we had compared the number 200 to something more concrete, like "nearly four times the number of crayons in a big box of Crayolas"? We will consider this approach as we begin work on our next draft.

Other things that we will keep in mind in for the next draft, per your suggestions: the importance of incorporating variables that have nothing to do with our research questions, the necessity of using entirely different statistical methods, and the need for repeatedly repeating again the many things that we already said once but which somehow escaped your attention. We will submit this revised draft to you as quickly as time allows. If the same group of reviewers is unavailable to provide feedback on the new draft, feel free to send it to a group of untrained monkeys. I feel certain that their response will be consistent with yours.

Regards,
A colleague.

I'm thinking that perhaps I should write a second draft, now that I've got that off my chest. I want to assure you all that there's no need to feel bad for me, though. Most articles don't get published the first time they're submitted. We'll just take their suggestions, revise it, and submit it again, no big deal. Obviously I just need to grow a thicker skin and get more accustomed to the process. But even when this article is finally published, don't think I'll forget the infinite ineptitude of this group of reviewers. Oh no. I'll NEVER FORGET.

Today's Post Sponsored By My Inner 12-Year-Old Schoolgirl

It's been awhile since I updated everyone on the latest embarrassing thing to make me (almost) cry, so here's a new one for you:



(Sorry for the janky video, it was the best embeddable one I could find.)

Today on "What's New In Humiliating Tears" we have a classic by young country artist Taylor Swift. I had all but forgotten about this particular sob-inducer until it came on the radio a couple days ago. Based on past evidence, Miss Swift appears to have a direct line to my Hormonal Cry Center, and I'm just about sick of her shit. I'm 95% sure that all of her sappy, nonsensical love songs are specifically intended to neutralize my powers of skeptical cynicism but I'M NOT FALLING FOR IT. Know this, Taylor Swift: every time one of your cotton candy songs gives me a lump in my throat, I redouble my efforts to block out every weak-ass feminine cliche you represent. SO THERE.

Now then. If anyone needs me, I'll be on the couch, watching Pretty Woman.

Lifestyles of a Young Recluse

I know it's already March 9th, but I have finally settled on a goal for this month, and now I shall share it with you. This week is actually my Spring Break, and I'm celebrating by lots of sleeping and homework. Also, playing The Sims, because I live the kind of glamorous life that most other 20-somethings only dream of. It's all this extra free time and the excessive Sims-playing that has inspired this month's goals, which are as follows:

GOALS!: By the end of the month, I'd like to finish reading at least one book for pleasure and at least one crochet project.

I'm making this goal as a way to push myself to spend my free time a little more constructively. I have all these fun things I'd like to do, like reading books, or crocheting things, or building that biplane I keep talking about, but I always put them off until I have "more free time." But the fact is that I have a fair amount of free time as it is (or, I make free time for myself, even if it's not the best idea), and I usually end up spending it screwing around on the computer or watching TV. And really, if I'm going to waste my valuable paper-writing time, I might as well waste it in a more active way rather than just passively soaking up pop culture. So! Time to get at least one of those unread books off my bedside table!

Make no mistake, these goals are really no more glamorous than what I've been doing with my time, but at least they'll help me build valuable skills which will someday make me a much better housewife, or something. Plus, maybe now if I waste a whole day without doing any homework, I can at least say that I accomplished something other than helping my Sim get a promotion. Not that I've ever considered that a major accomplishment, I mean... that would just be sad.

February! The Month of Love and Black History!

As you may recall, last month I made a few goals for myself in the spirit of... January. But now, January is over! The time for reckoning has come!

So, how did I do on my goals? The answer is: AWESOME. Goal #1 was to exercise 3 times a week. Technically, I did not adhere to this goal perfectly, because last week everything sort of fell apart and I only exercised once. But I think that exercising 3 times a week for 3 weeks and then once on the fourth week is just fine, thankyouverymuch, and also a big improvement over exercising none times per week for like, 25 weeks.

Goal #2 was to do homework for at least 30 minutes every weekday. I didn't keep track of this goal as well as the exercising one, but I'm pretty sure my follow-through was good, because I'm not behind in anything yet. I don't know if I mentioned, but the reason I had to make this goal in the first place is because mid-way through last semester, this became my nightly routine:

Hmmm, do I have anything due tomorrow?

If No, then: Hours upon hours of internet time-wasting!
If Yes, then: Panicpanicpanicpanic, workworkwork, til 4 am!

...I got good grades in all my classes, but I have a feeling it wasn't good for my mental health.

Now that I think about it, that goal started to fall apart sometime last week, too, and I think the reason for last week's total failure at productivity happened because North Carolina got it's once-yearly snow and I was snowed in all weekend watching TV and taking naps instead of exercising or doing homework. So as long as there isn't ever any um... weather, in the future, then I should have no problem eventually taking over the world!

Anyway, now that February is here, it's time to make additional goals. Since January's goals went so well, I'm going to unofficially carry those over for this month. In addition, my official goal for February is... (drum roll please)...

Not to criticize myself or other people. (Unless it's to their face. Or it will somehow accomplish something.)

The impetus behind this goal is that I've noticed that a large percentage of the words that come out of my mouth are devoted to either a) criticizing myself or b) bitching about other people. I have no doubt that both of these things can serve their purpose from time to time, but I don't like the fact that I spend so much time spouting negativity just for its own sake. Surely I have more important things to say, no? It's time to give those other thoughts an opportunity to breathe. Besides, I talk too much anyway.

Also, whenever I say something negative about someone, the next time I see them I am CONVINCED that they know and they hate me, and then I feel really anxious and kind of like I should apologize for something that there's no way they could know about. And I figure that in the long run it'll be easier to just change my behavior than try to untangle that mess of Crazy-Logic.

It's only 3 days into February, and this goal is already a little more difficult than I expected. Who knew I was so devoted to shit-talking? Nevertheless, I shall persevere, and by the end of the month I won't even be capable of thinking negative things!

.... Or at least, I'll learn to say them only in tinfoil-lined rooms, so that the satellites can't hear me and rat me out.

I Don't Even Know Where to Start

I promised my friend MB that I would post a blog today, so that is what I'm doing, even though I don't even know what to tell you guys. There have been a variety of new developments in my life, and I feel like if I tried to fill you in now I'd just get tired and confused and start drooling on myself. HOWEVER, because I love you and you're so BOSSY, I'm going to do my best to bring you up to speed. But I make no guarantees that this post will encompass everything new that has happened since 3 weeks ago when I stopped posting regularly and everyone got really disappointed in me.

Oooook... the first thing I need to tell you is kind of sad, but I just found out about it today so it's fresh on my mind: one of my gerbils has some kind of brain damage. Well, actually, I don't know for sure that it's brain damage, but he's holding his head kind of tilted to one side, and he's walking around like he's drunk or concussed or something. But I googled "gerbil leaning to one side" and wikipedia says that it's probably an inner ear problem and nothing to worry about because he'll... get used to it? They may be right, because he's still eating and digging and gerbiling around like he usually does, so I think this situation is bothering me more than him. I keep standing anxiously over the tank like "Heeey buddy. How ya doin? You wanna start walking in a straight line again, please, because mama finds it unsettling."

This issue is of particular concern to me because in about 30 minutes I'm leaving to go to the airport to fly to Houston for the weekend, and right now my roommate is also out of town, but she'll probably be back before me. So what if my gerbil isn't ok and then he DROPS DEAD while I'm gone and then my roommate comes back and has to cope with a dead gerbil and then she naturally assumes that it's my fault he's dead because I'm neglectful? Or, even if she doesn't assume I'm neglectful, it's still kind of uncool for me to saddle her with the inconvenience of a dead rodent when we've only lived together for a week. What if he's been dead for several days at that point? What if the other gerbil... like... eats him, or something?

... I'm going to stop thinking about this right now, because I don't know whether to cry or throw up.

Also of note is the fact that I moved! I'm still in North Carolina, but in a different city, where Grad School will happen, as I'm sure I've mentioned. My new apartment is pretty sweet, and includes such features as: balcony, roommate, washer/dryer hookups, and more than 2 windows. My last apartment had none of these things, so even though I am taking a serious paycut, I'm still moving up in the world. (For the record, there were windows in my last apartment, but there were only 2. It was on the bottom floor of a building built into a hill. This parenthetical is so boring.) I was really pumped about having a roommate to talk to, but then the day after we moved in, she said, "Oh hey, I'm pretty much going to be gone for the next 3 weeks, see ya!" Which was sad, but also kind of a blessing in disguise, because that means I get 3 more weeks before I have to stop indulging in my treasured pastime of walking/sitting around with no clothes on.

I'm a little embarrassed that my roommate was only here for 2 days before she left again, and all of her stuff is put away neatly, whereas I've had 4-ish days to unpack and there are STILL boxes all over my room. It's no big deal, I just have to keep moving boxes off the bed when it's time to sleep and back onto the bed when it's time to... walk... anywhere. It's alright, though, because at least I put up curtains, so it's not like I'm some kind of savage. Maybe later if I'm feeling generous I'll post some pictures of the new place. Tell me, would you prefer photos with or without boxes? Keep in mind that I lived in my last apartment for 2 years and when I moved last weekend there were 2 boxes in my bedroom that still hadn't been unpacked. So saying you want to see pictures "without boxes" may be equivalent to saying that you want to see pictures "never." Just keep that in mind.

Ok, it's almost time for me to head to the airport, so I need to wrap this up. I promise - I mean, I will try really hard - to update you on my Houston trip as soon as I get back. Also stay tuned for answers to important questions like, "Will grad school turn me into a trembling ghost of the woman I once was?" and "Do you think I should put the clothes hamper in the closet or the bathroom?"

How Can I Live My Life When I Can't Even Properly Tell How Old People Are?

Remember that post about how life was difficult and stupid and uncertain and I have no choice but to suck it up and cross my fingers and breathe through the uncertainty? Naturally, because I posted that, everything has been worked out. So we can go ahead and take the anxiety threat level down from Nonsensical Philosophizing and return it to Everyday Hand-Wringing. For the most part. There are still some questions about what's going to happen in the future, and more than likely I'm going to run up against some really obnoxious obstacles in the next year or two, but I've got to focus on the here and now and just enjoy what I have in front of me.

It's interesting how it's only the hazy mid-range future that really freaks me out. I'm not concerned about what will happen 10 years from now, because there's no way for me to even begin to imagine what it will be. And I'm not troubled by what will happen tomorrow because anything that I'd be able to foresee has already been accounted and planned for. It's that middle distance that makes me feel unsettled: close enough that I can imagine plenty of negative scenarios (a personal hobby of mine), but far enough away that there's very little I can do to prevent or prepare for those negative outcomes. But whatever. I choose to believe that I've been put in this situation so that I can finally finally learn to just live in the moment. Let's sing and enjoy the sunshine while we can. Moving on!

Over the weekend, I had a birthday. I didn't feel particularly older the day of my birthday than I had before, but I suppose that's to be expected when you're turning 24. There's not a lot of significance in the age of 24. I'm thinking it will just be another number I'm going to have trouble remembering. However, over the past year or so, I have noticed that I'm getting really terrible at telling how old people are. My classification system used to look something like this:

Looks about my age = 20s
Looks young, but seems like a grown up = 30s
Definitely a generation above me, but younger than my parents = 40s
Could be my parents = 50s
Could be someone's grandparents = 60+
...And from there you just kind of adjust up based on perceived degree of frailty.

At this point, however, my inner age yardstick is all screwed up and my old decision-making rules are failing me horribly. The main problem is that I keep thinking people at or near 30 are my peers. And I guess they technically are my peers now, in the grown-up world, but they're not peers in the sense that they could have gone to school with me and pressured me to take drugs back in the 90s. For example, there's an intern at work that I thought for sure was about my age, and when I found out he was 29 (30 in October), I felt like I'd been tricked. I was also a little alarmed that perhaps I had not shown him the respect that a man of his age deserves. Had I ever cursed in front of him? Made inappropriate comments? What if I had unknowingly ordered him around? Then I decided that this was totally ridiculous, since he's only 6 years older than me. He couldn't even have babysat me when I was an infant! Who does he think he is, expecting me to show him some kind of respect??

I had a similar feeling of confusion when I found out that Sweetney turned 39. Sweetney is the mother of a young child, and someone who was young and rad during the 80s, from what I can tell. She's attractive and hip (moreso than me, if we're all being honest), and as far as I'm concerned, all of these things place her firmly in her 30s, not at almost-40*.

And don't get me started on my parents. They are clearly not old enough to have two 20-something children. Nevertheless, it hit me the other day as I stood in the break room making coffee: I am my parents' child, and yet I am also a grown-ass woman who lives by herself, pays bills, and goes to work every day. I could buy a car if I wanted! My parents are definitely not old enough to have 2 adult children, and yet here I sit, my mere existence flying boldly in the face of logic and reason. Who the hell do I think I am?? Next you'll be telling me that one day my parents will turn 60.

Wait, what?? I think I need to lie down.

My point is, the whole experience of adulthood has been very strange for me, so far. Does this ever stop? I thought that once I finished school I would reach a point of stability, where I suddenly had a handle on life and was The Boss of things (much like Tony Danza). But I'm beginning to get the feeling that ages 24 thru 70 are going to be one long adjustment period and to be honest, I'm feeling a little deceived. If I'd known I was going to feel just as confused about life now as I did when I was 16 (except now with an extra unsettling self-awareness!), I would have just stayed in college.


*Not that there's anything wrong with being almost-40, or almost-any age, obviously. It's just that I'm SO CONFUSED.

Two Inappropriate Things for Tuesday

I just want to quickly share two very important things with you. First off, you should know that whenever this song comes on the radio, I and embarrassingly enthusiastic little dance in my car...



... and I'm not nearly as ashamed as I ought to be.


Secondly, I think about this scene from Grandma's Boy more often than you'd imagine.



At any given moment the probability is pretty high that in my head, I'm drunkenly singing 'Push It.'

Now, on with your day!

Idea Men (Other Than Me) Can Suck It

Sometimes I like to jokingly suggest something really off the wall, like "Ooh! Instead of a car, let's ride a panda to Wendy's!" And then when someone who has no sense of joy or wonder says something like, "Where are we supposed to get a panda at this hour?" I say, "Hey, I'm just an idea (wo)man. You figure out the details."

But just now I realized that the phrase 'idea man' didn't originally mean people like me who think outside the box and just want to bring some more dazzle to the world. No. It comes from other people, people in power (like Donald Trump), who come up with really off-the-wall demands like, 'design a more eye-catching Pepsi bottle,'* and then force people with much less power (like myself) to figure out how to actually, you know, carry out their stupid - I mean, brilliant and creative and totally necessary! - idea.

Here are some examples of insane assignments that are probably being given to low-level employees, as we speak:
- design a car that dogs can drive
- take a 500-page manuscript and exchange every instance of the word 'because' for 'due to the fact that,' because due to the fact that I think it sounds better
- without knowing the names of the author or the publication, please find a very specific article that I vaguely recall reading 10 years ago
- take the east wall of this house you've already poured the foundation for, and move it 26 inches in, so that the front yard has a better view of the rising sun
- draw a small 3-inch-square full-color illustration that depicts the essence of the theory of evolution in a way that will offend neither biological anthropologists nor born-again fundamental Christians

An Idea Man has the freedom to be an Idea Man because he goes to bed at night secure in the knowledge that when he wakes up, some haggard and underpaid minion will present to him a prototype that he pulled out of his ass over the course of a long, sleepless night. This is either really great for human innovation (because these people can just let their imaginations run wild, dragging us into the future!), or yet another shitty way that The Man is holding us down. Either way, screw the Idea Men.**


*Unless I hallucinated it, I'm pretty sure this was an actual challenge on one of the 3 episodes of The Apprentice that I have watched.
**Until I become one of them, and then: Hey, are these great ideas or what! Aren't you glad I'm giving you an opportunity to challenge yourself, Unpaid Research Assistant?

Fact: Significant Other Not a Replacement For Inner Calm

Everybody and their mother (figuratively speaking) is currently on Spring Break. They're all out traveling and having a great time and I (poor, pitiful me!) had to keep coming to work all this time.

Although I sort of made up for it by not coming in before 10, staying up late, and eating out all week, and drinking on a Wednesday night.

Lee was here Monday night through Thursday morning, and the combined effort of carrying on with my life while trying to squeeze in as much Boyfriend Time as possible reduced me to just flying by the seat of my pants for 4 days. We would have dinner late, stay up even later watching TV or a movie, and finally go to bed around 1. Then I'd oversleep, come in to work around 10, and work for a little while. Then I'd leave work and meet Lee for lunch. Then work some more. Then come home and pick up all the junk in my apartment, because my apartment is big enough to contain either a) two people or b) one person and their clutter, but not both. Rinse, repeat.

I had a lot of fun while he was here, but I wasn't getting a whole lot done at work, and I didn't meditate for 4 days because I was spending so little time doing actual work that I didn't feel like I had the 15 minutes to spare. (I usually meditate sometime in the morning once I get to work. ...On the days that I actually do it.) I kind of convinced myself that I didn't actually need to meditate, because I was feeling pretty good about life, as long as you don't count the anxiety of not really being 'prepared' for work every day. I was even ready to come on the internet and tell you all about it. Who needs meditation?!? I'd say. When you can make out with someone every day, your chi is naturally balanced! Your mind is clear and calm! Your panties are unbunched!

Except for that yesterday, when Lee left, I found myself a little... relieved? Sad, of course, but also a lot more relaxed, knowing I wouldn't be responsible that night for feeding and entertaining someone, and if I wanted to sit brain-dead in front of the television and then go to bed early, I could. (I did watch TV all night, but I did not go to bed early, and I still came in to work today later than I'd like. Oh well, can't win 'em all.)

I'm not entirely sure how to interpret this revelation. I'm pretty sure this is what it's like for anyone who's hosting a guest while they still have to go to work and all. And I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that I usually only see Lee once a week, so I felt compelled to focus all my attention on spending time with him. But it also makes me wonder if maybe I should be glad that we don't have any plans to live together any time soon. Perhaps I still need more time to figure out how to take care of myself and put myself first, before I complicate my life any further. But what I know I've learned for sure is that just because I'm having a great time doesn't mean I should totally neglect my inner stability and forget to slow down once in awhile. When I put my health and sanity first, my other relationships just kind of fall into place on their own. Consider that a free piece of wisdom, from me to you.

Brushing Past the Tumbleweeds, Ignoring the Sounds of Crickets

Oh, dear readers. I have wanted for DAYS to write something, but there is nothing interesting going on in my life. Well, that's not entirely true. I've been really busy at work, busy enough that I feel guilty trying to write a blog post, but now I'm doing it anyway because I LOVE YOU. (All 3 of you.) (You know, it occurs to me that my blog will never have the worldwide following it deserves if I only post once a month. Perhaps I'll think about that some more later.)

Part of what's keeping me so busy at work is trying to write a paper for a journal, and a proposal to talk about said paper at a conference in the fall. If I get accepted to go to the conference (it's the same one I went to in November), then I get a free trip to San Francisco! So, cross your fingers. I have to submit this proposal by the end of the day on Friday, which, if you're keeping track, is tomorrow. This suddenly occurred to me around 4pm yesterday when I realized that I had just wasted half my day... um, looking up apartments near my new grad school. (I could argue that this was important business, but since I'm not moving for another 5 months and I've already read every rental property listing for the area 9 separate times, I have no justification for my behavior.) So then I resolved to get at least a rough draft of the thing done before I left last night, which ended up being at 8pm. Behold, the power of procrastination!

This episode raises some interesting issues, I feel. On the one hand, once I finally made myself work on it, I felt pretty exhilerated. I actually enjoy the process of writing and all that nonsense, which I think bodes well for my grad school experience. On the other hand, my senseless time-wasting turned a normal day at work into a 10-HOUR DAY. So, I dunno. Either I'm perfectly suited for grad school, or I'm DOOOOOOOOMED.

This is a good segue into something else I've been thinking about over the past couple of days. It should surprise no one that it only took about 4 hours for the excitement of being accepted into grad school to wear off and for panic to set in. (Lee refers to this as my very special ability to turn all good things - compliments, good news, candy, ponies - into bad things.) (What the hell does he know, anyway?) The point is: What if this was a terrible mistake? What if I do not have what it takes to be a PhD student? These people are obviously unaware of my Olympic-level procrastination skills. What if I get there and everyone is way smarter and more grown-up than me and I'm in statistics class and they ask me a question and I'm like, "Um... ketchup??" I checked the list of current PhD students, and there are several Asian* names, and I'm pretty sure you know what that means: no one is going to want to copy my homework anymore.

The silver lining to all this is that later, when I was googling "grad school success tips please don't let me fail oh god" I ran across an article about 'imposter syndrome', or the feeling that you're "fooling the world" about your abilities. This is apparently a condition that affects all graduate students and academics at some point or another. The way I see it, this is great news, because if my imposter syndrome is setting in so early on, then I must be way ahead of my peers. At this rate, I'll be writing books and coming up with new ground-breaking theories of social work by my second year of grad school. Take that, Asians!**

*I'm sorry, Asians, I mean no harm. I know that plenty of Asians don't know shit about math.
**But I'm sure the ones at this particular grad school are much, much smarter than me.

Oh, by the way, I started a twitter account, because it seemed like a fun thing to do at the time. If you like, you can check it out here.

FINE, Here's Some Miscellany

EVEN THOUGH no one attempted to help me answer the burning questions I posed last week, I still feel guilty for not posting anything here this week. So, to help you through the dry spell, here's some things...

Senior year of undergrad, I knew I had achieved maximum burn-out because at least once a day I would look up and declare, often to an empty room, "I'm going to drop out of school." Understandably, today I was alarmed to find myself thinking, "I'm quitting my job." What's really sad is that my job isn't all that difficult... I'm just a crybaby.

On a vaguely related note, I learned the other day that even though I've never been the Pep Rally/School Spirit/Rah Rah type, I will still question our friendship if you insult my alma mater, dammit. It's that deeply-ingrained loyalty of mine.

Finally, here's a pretty sweet comic (found at xkcd.com) that I wanted to share with you. I'd like for it to serve as my belated New Year's Resolution:
Til next time!

Whistle While You Work

I'll confess: I can be a bit hedonistic sometimes. I have some alcoholics in my family, and I like to think that they're to blame. I'm pretty sure that the same gene that causes an "addictive personality" is probably also linked to a general "more is more" approach to life. This is one of the reasons that I often find myself thinking things like, "If watching an episode of House while playing on the internet is fun, I bet watching an entire SEASON of House will be even better!" Or, "Why sleep for 8 hours when you can get away with 12?" Or, "I could eat a few mini Reese's cups each day, but why do that when I can eat the whole bag now nomnomnom?" I don't mean to give you the wrong impression - I have self control, I deny myself sometimes, but I'm trying to explain why, after 2 weeks of vacation (give or take) I found myself thinking, "Just another three days, that's all I need. I cannot possibly go back to work when I could be spending an additional three days sleeping and eating all day and watching TV and playing video games all night."

Of course, the problem with this approach to life is that there is often also pleasure to be found in hard work. It's taken me an unusually long time to truly accept this fact, but it helps a lot when it comes time rein in my inner three-toed Sloth. Nevertheless, I was pleasantly surprised to find that once I returned to work this week, I kind of... actually enjoyed it? Which is doubly awesome considering I expected to be miserable having to come back from a great time with family and friends and presents and food. So, here's to productivity! And responsibility! And hard work!

... On the other hand, I wasn't thinking about the joys of hard work last night when I skipped the gym and watched 4 episodes of House.

Ow, It Hurts

Saturday I drove from Winston-Salem to Greensboro (this means nothing to you if you don't live in NC, but the two cities are about 45 minutes apart), and while I was in Greensboro I discovered that the clutch on my car, it was no more. So, I drove the last three blocks to my destination at the mellow speed of 25 mph, parked, and went about the business of handling things. "Handling things," in case you're wondering, involves some or all of the following: calling your boyfriend, snapping at him for no reason, calling your parents, crying to your dad, getting passed off to your mom, sucking it up and calling AAA, finding out your clutch needs to be replaced and that this will cost $1,000.00. Let me just repeat that last part: ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS. One G. One zero zero zero. TOO MUCH MONEY. Which I paid this morning when I went to pick up my car (actually $1,034.66, but who's counting?).

Luckily, I had the money in the bank, but that is hardly the point here. As a money-hating dirty hippie I should probably be glad to have it out of my life, to have $1000 less hanging over my head, pressuring me into selling out and being all commercial and forgetting what's really important in life. (Although to be fair, I think I already sold out last month when I went to Target on three separate occasions and spent... well... too much money.) But you know what I like even more than I like preaching about how materialism is not the answer? I like security. And safety. And having a bunch of money in my savings account. And I am feeling $1000 less secure today, by golly.

But what can you do? I think part of the reason it hurts me so much (right here, in my heart) is because it makes me think about all the people who have recently lost their jobs, or who can't/won't save money for occasions like these, who would be totally screwed if this had happened to them. Because honestly, I don't make a huge amount of money, and if I weren't so compulsive about saving, and if I just lived paycheck to paycheck like so many people do, I would kind of be in serious trouble right now. It's like when you're driving down the road and your attention kind of wanders and then all of a sudden you realize your drifting toward oncoming traffic, or a mailbox, and you turn the wheel at the last possible moment and even though you're completely fine, your heart is still kind of pounding, and all you can think is, there but for the grace of God go I.

Or maybe this is just the neurotic voices talking. Your call.