relatively low maintenance

This is a short story about my day.

I was scheduled to get off work at 4:00 to get to my boss’ wedding by 5. Well, as it usually goes, I didn’t actually clock out until 4:25. Then, I got a little gas for the car, drove home, took a shower, brushed my hair, fixed a pair of earrings, put on a dress and shoes, changed into fancier shoes when I saw that Graham was wearing his suit, fixed a pair of earrings by tearing a part of another earring, searched for my keys, found my keys, and drove toward Everett (which is 20 minutes from my house). There was a little traffic, so we took a back way. After finding a place to park around the corner, we got into the hall at 5:15, just in time to see my boss’ daughter leave the entryway to walk down the aisle. My boss couldn’t find her bouquet, so another girl and I found it, and then she walked down the aisle.

Which means I looked super fantastic and still wasn’t as late to the ceremony as anyone else who got off work at 4:25 would have been.

blindsided by all the hate

I seriously feel like someone just came up from behind me and whacked me with something heavy and painful.

I’m reading my sociology textbook. (Posted to the discussion board with thirty minutes to spare. I am proud of things like this, but Graham just keeps telling me that perhaps I should have done it days ago so I didn’t have to inhale my dinner and not move from this chair nearly as often as would be comfortable. But this is an entirely different topic!) The current chapter is on discrimination based on age and sexual orientation.

I am aware that my gay friends and the gay friends I haven’t made yet are discriminated against. I know they face challenges in their families, neighborhoods, schools, and workplaces that I literally couldn’t dream of.

I know this.

So I shouldn’t be shocked when I read statistics like two-fifths of the population believes that homosexual “relations” between consenting adults should be illegal. That a homosexual “lifestyle” is simply unacceptable. Or that 1 out of 10 people believes that gays should not have equal access to employment. I shouldn’t be surprised that ignorance and hate are  so widespread.

But I am.

It’s hard for me to wrap my mind around the concept that these hateful people really exist. I am able to understand that there’s some crazies out there who think all kinds of wacky things, but there are real, live, “normal” people who believe that my beautiful gay friends who are full of compassion and kindness are second class citizens who don’t deserve the same rights as everyone else.

The world is a crazy place.

My dear, dear gay friends, I just wanted to say that I am so, so sorry you have to face so much hate and cruelty in the world. I love you!

I heart Planned Parenthood.

If you’ve been paying attention to my facebook lately, you’ve probably noticed that I’ve posted a ton of stuff about Planned Parenthood. I know my friends. I can tell you which of my friends find my involvement with and support of PP seriously alarming. So, I thought I would take a little preemptive explanation action AND fill in everyone about the awesome time I had at the lobby day for Planned Parenthood.

First of all, as a pro-choicer, (and contrary to popular anti-choice belief) I do not think abortion is the best thing ever. I think abortion is an unfortunate consequence of a broken society. I do not think everyone should get an abortion as often as possible. I think people should have access to proper sex education and proper contraception. Humans have been alive for a long time, and they’ve been having sex just as long. Sex is fun AND as humans, our bodies have a crazy biological urge to do it. Pretending that people having sex is going to go away with enough church or moral impositions is pretty… well, stupid. To avoid teaching teenagers how to use a condom does not leave them on prom night saying, “I wish we could do it, but I only learned about abstinence in the tenth grade.” It ends with a BABY nine months later, and the uneducated couple saying, “But I thought pulling out would work.”

Also, I support abortion as a rightfully paranoid American woman. If The Man starts making up laws about what can and can’t be in MY uterus, in MY body, then I sincerely worry that other parts of my health and my life will be taken out of my control. Will I have to attend state-mandated counseling if I decide to smoke a cigarette? What if I want to get a tattoo – how many pastors need to sign my permission slip? What if I want to eat hostess cupcakes and McDonald’s every day for the next ten years? My body is my body, and frankly, if I can’t make choices about my own body, then it doesn’t belong to me anymore. And if my body doesn’t belong to me… then I don’t have anything.

Of course, the part about birth control and abortion that people like to forget about is the extraordinarily dangerous measures women pre-Roe v. Wade took to avoid and eliminate pregnancies. The coat hanger is not a joke. Women used to stab themselves, poison themselves, beat themselves, burn themselves (and when I say “themselves,” I mean something real, real specific), and maim their bodies because they couldn’t be responsible for another life, and they did not have access to a safe, legal abortion option. Which leads me to another point. Mother Teresa. She was incredibly outspoken against abortion. But Mother Teresa offered a solution. She actually took women’s babies for them. Mother Teresa gave them food, shelter, and education. I think protesters at Planned Parenthood would be a lot more respectable if they offered solutions rather than scare tactics. Instead of a picture of a fetus, perhaps you could offer coupons for free, reliable daycare, healthcare, parenting classes, free child’s items, job opportunities, and a strong support system. Just a couple of ideas. Abortion is a symptom of a big societal problem, and it seems like greater attention needs to be paid to the roots of the issue. I find the mix-up in priorities especially frustrating when I remember that anti-abortion leaders and voters tend to be the same leaders and voters who get so angry at people who need state assistance. If you want laws to make abortion harder, then you damn well better be fighting to make raising babies easier.

That being said, lobby day was awesome. We started out with a Reproductive Rights rally, which had shouting and clever signs, two of my very favorite things. Some state representatives and senators came to show their support and say a few words about how and why they are fighting for women’s reproductive rights. Then we met with the legislators from our districts. If you live in the 38th district like me, you’ll be happy to know that all three legislators were super nice and very supportive. We even sent a note into the senate chamber to Senator Nick Harper, and he came out to talk to us. Probably my favorite part of the day (besides having two sandwiches from Red Rock Subs) was the social justice panel, where we listened to various lobbyists from NARAL, Planned Parenthood, the ACLU, and a couple others tell us about bills they are currently trying to get passed. It was encouraging to read that at least in my state, most of the laws regarding womens issues have lots and lots of legislative support, including  bills about victims of sexual assault being protected in court and better regulations on the lifting of protection orders.

I’ve been trying to stay a little more in tune with current events in the last couple weeks, (mostly so I don’t have a blank look on my face when one of the PP volunteers asks if I’ve heard about a reproductive issue.) and there is a definite anti-abortion presence in the media. In South Dakota, a woman must now undergo counseling if she is thinking of having an abortion. In Texas, there is a bill that states a woman must have an ultrasound before an abortion, and she must hear a heartbeat, if there is one. Counseling sounds like a wonderful idea… when it is offered with the best interest of the woman in mind. They aren’t mandating counseling for the purpose of helping women through a scary, difficult moment in their lives, they’re doing it to promote a specific agenda. It’s not coming from love, it’s coming from a political power trip. The Texas sonogram situation is coming from the same sentiment. First of all, I don’t think the government should tell me to have any kind of medical procedure of any kind – it’s MY body. And I find it insulting that anti-choice proponents think the typical woman getting an abortion is a sex-crazed sociopath hellbent on destroying femininity, religion, and the world. The average woman who gets an abortion is an AVERAGE WOMAN. She, like me, doesn’t think abortion is super awesome. She sees it as an unfortunate, difficult situation and is more than likely, already torn. Being forced to have a ultrasound WILL traumatize a conflicted, scared woman.

I guess I just think the Jesus that I have read about would be pretty upset if he knew his followers were spending their time and resources on traumatizing pregnant women.

I am going to do well in school.

I registered for a class for spring quarter.

Now, let me explain a little, in case you don’t know.

It’s pretty embarrassing, but truthful.

In the last few years, I have sucked so bad at school, it makes people cringe when they hear about how many classes I have passed compared to the number that I have not passed. Some people cringe… others exclaim. Loudly. It makes my mom close her eyes and take really deep breaths. It makes my brother have heart-to-heart talks with me. It makes Graham use his Older and Wiser voice.

Let me put it this way. I took 13 classes at Everett Community College and I passed two of them. Two.

I am a smart girl. I know this.

I didn’t know I was smart until one day in elementary school, they took me and some other kids that I knew were smart to a room with desks. The desks had dividers, and they gave us booklets. The booklets had pictures of triangles and other shapes and questions about reading and writing. And then I knew I was really smart when my mama explained to me that I had to go to a new school because Fletcher Elementary didn’t have a special program for “gifted” kids.

I also know that I really, truly, honestly love to learn. Yes, yes, I am a huge nerd. I know this too.

At Central, I took a plant biology class. In the lab, we were supposed to be looking at slides under our microscopes. I remember everyone in my group being very unenthusiastic, including me. And then I looked at a slide that contained a single-cell protist that is shaped like a sphere and it propels itself around while spinning on an axis. Which means unlike those mitosis slides that have been frozen for decades… this thing was pretty hard to find. A little drop of water is amazingly wide and deep. So… I found it while spinning the little magnifier thing just to look like I tried to find it. But I saw it. And it. Was. Awesome. I remember it was bright, bright green with little hints of blue and it was spinning just like earth. It moved through the water in every direction, so I had to follow it. I magnified and unmagnified so it stayed in focus. I kept squealing with delight, with my classmates scoffing and likely rolling their eyes. Seeing something so small that was so alive is seriously one of the highlights of my entire life.

So, I’m smart and I love to learn. So what the hell is my problem, right?

Well, I know a contributing factor – not the only factor, but to not acknowledge it would be pretty dumb – my ADHD.

Now, I know some people think ADHD is a silly concept, that everyone gets distracted. Lots of people get distracted and joke and say, “Ooh, I must have ADD!” And its funny. But seriously, you have no idea. Because it’s not just about wanting to look at something more interesting than homework, its about the fact that I literally shut down when there are too many distractions. Even when I take my medication, I still have to set up ridiculous boundaries and controlled situations to be able to focus for even a minute at a time. For example, I have to have something to drink. Not prefer, have to. If I do not have something to drink, I will sit down and do everything else except what I want and need to do. Restaurants are really good places for me to study, because they bring you limitless things to drink. Sometimes I try to study at home, but I often give up and drive to Denny’s or Don’s. People do not understand this, and sometimes, I don’t think they even believe me. They say things like, “Just sit down and do it.” Or, “Just finish your homework.” It’s not that simple. My brain is literally not capable of that. There’s also the other parts of ADHD, the aspects that are tougher to joke about. I can’t prioritize. If faced with a situation involving prioritization, my response is to do something completely useless and entirely unrelated, like playing tetris, reading old journals, playing plants vs. zombies, or eating.

Now, that being said, I know that it is completely within the realm of possibility to overcome this. Helen Keller got an education and she couldn’t see or hear.

In high school, senior year, I bought a prom dress that was too small, giving myself two months to lose enough weight to squeeze into it. I told everyone about it, and a shocking number of people cared enough to talk about it. At least that’s what I assume the motivation behind people’s moms discussing the situation behind my back… caring Anyway, I completely attribute my success to the sheer amount of peer pressure I experienced. At an ASB meeting, a literal throng of people physically blocked me from reaching for a donut. My family, my friends, my classmates… all continually asked how it was going. A couple of times I wanted to cheat my diet really bad, but I didn’t because I didn’t want to have to look anyone in the eye, including someone’s mom, and tell them that I had to return the world’s most beautiful dress because I couldn’t lay off the frozen pizza.

So! I am going to try to apply the same thinking to school this next quarter. Please, I beg you, ask me how school is going. And don’t let me back out of answering with jokes. Demand to see my online gradebook.

Also, even if no one helps, I am going to do it. I am going to study and finish all assignments and I am going to be grateful that I have the opportunity to be educated! (And one day, not work in retail or fast food.)

It’s still 1873 in some parts of the world.

I work at the outlet mall in my town. I get the impression from other outlet malls I’ve been to that they are where mom and grandma drag their unwilling children to buy clothes that aren’t just out of season, but probably have some terrible functional problem – the factory rejects. But the outlet mall in Marysville is more upscale – now I know the people that shop exclusively at Nordstrom and designer boutiques will scoff at this, but I consider myself to be a very average American, and it’s a little upscale for me. Calvin Klein, Burberry, Coach, Kate Spade… all stores I can’t even walk into for fear of a Pretty Woman type moment… except I wouldn’t be coming back the next day with a stack of money.

That being said, I work in one of the kids stores where almost everything is under five dollars. Which means Ukranian immigrant moms with a pack of children following behind them shop at my store along with the obviously rich moms who arrive in just one of their Mercedes-Benz SUVs pushing well-groomed children in strollers that likely cost more than I made in the last few months.

On Saturday, I rang up a black woman with an adorable daughter that couldn’t have been more than ten years old. The woman being rung up at the next register said to the girl, “You have such beautiful curly hair! That is the exact kind of curly hair you want on your wedding day.” The girl awkwardly smiled and pressed herself against her mother.

Somehow over the course of these two transactions, the woman gave her opinion about a variety of topics. She discussed piercings. She said tongue piercings ruin the enamel on your teeth. Eyebrow piercings give you a big ugly scar. “Do you want to have a big ugly scar on your forehead when you get married?”

She warned the little girl about the dangers of tattoos. She explained in depth that each of her friends who thought they were so hot getting a rose tattooed on their breast all have breast cancer now. She said the youth of America today don’t seem to care that “they took red dye out of our food… because they’re having it injected into their skin with needles!” She looked the little girl in the eye and said “On your wedding day, you want to look like a princess. Do princesses have tattoos all over their bodies and their faces filled with metal? Don’t you want to be a princess when you get married?”

I waited, scanning items and pulling sensors off, for a pause in the conversation, and when it came, I pointed to my eyebrow and said “I had my eyebrow pierced, and I do have a little scar.” The girl searched my forehead, and she only saw the scar when I leaned over the counter. I whispered, “Don’t worry sweetie, it’s 2010, you can still get married if you have a tattoo.”

Now, let’s point out the obvious point that it is in fact 2011 (I guess it takes me a few months to adjust to a new year, ha!).

But let’s also talk about this whole “wedding day” crap. I know that weddings are very special. I know that a wedding day is a very, very big, memorable day. But I am absolutely positive that it is not the pinnacle of life. It is not an event upon which every decision should be made. I’m just afraid that if you spend your entire life working for your wedding day, it will very likely be a big disappointment.

I am going to be candid. I spent YEARS of my life thinking about getting married. It occupied my thoughts every. Single. Day. I treated every encounter with males as my opportunity to meet my future husband. And I am not exaggerating. For one example, take my dreadlocks. I cut them off because I convinced myself that the reason why I hadn’t found a husband yet was because no one wants to marry a girl who has dreadlocks. Then, when my hair was only an inch long, I cried EVERY day – because despite the fact that I got tons and tons of compliments on the best haircut I’ve ever had, and I no longer had inch-thick ropes hitting me in the face – I was fairly certain that no one wanted to marry a girl had to wear big earrings to not be mistaken for a boy.

Looking back, I’m not even sure why exactly I felt like all of my problems would be solved if I got married. And now I know that it wasn’t logical to be obsessed. I had just been listening to women my whole life standing over me in outlet malls telling me that my wedding day was the only important day of my life.

Here’s the truth. I only met a boy worth keeping around when I calmed myself down. I had an epiphany that I could live a very fufilled, exciting, and wonderful life if I never, ever even kissed a boy again. I realized that I didn’t need a husband, a boyfriend, or even a crush to be happy. That I am a complete person.

I guess my point is, it’s important to remember that it is not 1873 anymore. Your worth as a woman, as a human being, is not about someone else’s perception of beauty and it is NOT about finding a man. And if you do get married, you can still be absolutely breathtakingly gorgeous with a tattoo or a piercing. There is life before AND after your wedding day… and a lot of it.

My Mama

After two months of not working full time, I am both excited and scared to start my new jobs. One job is retail, selling and folding children’s clothes. The second job is “donut fryer.” Apparently, this donut fryer job has tons of turnover because its super hard work. Oh, and the hours are 2 AM to 8:30.

A few years ago, I dropped out of Central and moved home. After a few months of job hopping, I started working at KFC again. Say what you want about fast food employees, but KFC is hard work. At McDonald’s or Jack in the Box, it takes a few minutes to make the most complicated order, from its frozen state into a wrapper into your hand. At KFC, people expect the exact same speed of service but guess what? It takes about twenty minutes to fry chicken. It takes thirty seven minutes to bake mac and cheese. Of course the answer to this would be to always have food ready… but it’s not so easy when you only have a certain amount of fryer space, a certain amount of time to keep product, and a certain corporate influence breathing down your neck to not cook too much food. As the person who typically prepared drive-thru orders, “packing” that’s called in KFC lingo, the responsibilities multiply. Rather than just being in charge of putting the right pieces into the right bucket, you have to do that, plus watch the fryers, communicate with the cooks in the back, watch the oven, monitor levels of food prep, make sandwiches, and of course keep the place “spotless” while working.

When I walked into KFC, I made the conscious decision to make every bit of work for Africa. I would scrub the side of trash cans and chant in my head “Africa Africa Africa!” When customers were rude to me, I would smile because I was going to Africa. I worked harder, moved faster, and cleaned more than every employee. Within six weeks, I got promoted to shift supervisor. My responsibilities and stress increased, but I kept on thinking of Africa. I had a goal, a destination in mind, and I knew the best way to get there was by working really, really hard.

So fast forward a few years, to today. I have goals… sort of. I want to go back to school eventually; I’d like to pay my outstanding bills… but for some reason, this isn’t enough motivation for me. When I sold shoes, I never did very well, because unlike when I sold 200 dozen donuts for a fundraiser in high school, I didn’t really particularly care about what I was working for. As much as I try, the mantra “school, school, school” just doesn’t cut it. I still work, because I know I need to eat, but its a very different level than when I was at KFC for Africa.

But I think I have found my mantra, my picture that I will focus on when I feel like screaming at my boss and kicking over a donut fryer: My Mama!

You see, when I was applying for colleges, my mama begged, literally begged me to go to community college for two years and then transfer to a four year school, because it would be insanely expensive. She tried to explain just how much more expensive a university is than a community college, but I didn’t listen. I screamed and cried that she was denying me the “college experience,” that she would be shackling me to Marysville. I thought I was too good, too smart for community college. So she made me promise that I would pay her back when she had to start paying those loans. My brother promised too, the only difference is… he pays her. As the youngest and by far most spoiled child in my family, I have never seemed to find a way to make good on my promise. Then, you have to add on the time I crashed the car, the time I wanted to buy an impractical car, the time I went to community college and didn’t do any of the work, and all the times she sent me money in Ellensburg because I cried and cried about my own stupid, selfish mistakes. My mama pays a few hundred dollars a month for MY student loans.

The other day, I was helping her put away Christmas decorations and she explained that she might start looking for a second job (again) because it’s just too hard to have 95% of every paycheck going to bills. I got really upset with myself. A second job for my mom would mean (likely) standing up for hours at a time on a very, very bad knee, giving up the time she spends with my nephew and my dad.  Also, my mom is the hardest working person I have ever known – I’ve never seen her do anything half-ass… ever. Seriously. My mom and dad gave us kids everything we wanted our whole lives; I honestly can’t think of a single time that I wanted to do something or go somewhere and they were unable to find a way to make it happen for me. After all their selflessness and sacrifice, I squander all my money on taco bell and crap from the thrift store.

So, it is my new official life goal to make sure that my mama does not have to work two jobs to pay for my immaturity. While I’m frying donuts in the middle of the night and folding and refolding tiny t-shirts, I am going to think of my mama. I will picture her jogging up and down aisles at JoAnns after she has already worked a full day before I buy anything. And when I have to give up a night of sitting on my butt or hanging out with friends, I am going to do it so my mama can sit down on HER butt, not worrying about money.

Hoarders is changing my life.

When my mom started working in the mental health field a few years ago, she talked about these apartments and houses that were filled with stuff. These clients had filled, literally filled their living spaces with piles and piles of useless crap. Newspapers and papers and trinkets and clothes and bags and old dishes and old food… horrifying clutter. She talked about how every inch of these places is just gross and dirty. She said she never knew that hoarding was considered a part of OCD. Then she said that she thinks I might have a little bit of this hoarding disorder.

I rolled my eyes (and secretly felt panicky and anxious) like I always do when people say I need to get rid of stuff. Everyone who has ever seen my room in its true state has commented, with eyes wide like dinner plates, that perhaps I could part with some of my belongings.  I fully, intellectually, and spiritually understand that I do not need any of my crap – that is, I am very aware that life will go on if I throw away my pez dispensers. I will keep breathing, eating, loving, living. I know. I know that no one needs three pairs of white leg warmers or their notes from eighth grade history class.

Today, Graham and I watched the first season of Hoarders on Netflix. The show does a really good job of showing people’s craziness. There are people freaking out about throwing away magazines over 10 years old. Kids crying over crusty stuffed animals. A woman nearly in tears because her son insists on throwing away the contents of a cooler filled with the juices of rotting meat. Now, I don’t think I’m this bad. I don’t have anything growing in my clutter. I’m fairly certain I don’t need to wear a gas mask around my stuff.

But… I totally understand their panic.

In middle school, my friends and I used to buy flowers and pass them out to each other at school. I kept every single one. I kept flowers I got after plays and concerts and before dances. I had them in glass bottles on top of my entertainment center. My friend Allison came over to my house to help me purge my life of unnecessary belongings when I read The Irresistible Revolution by Shane Claiborne. This book made me feel very bad about having so much crap. I mean, if Jesus told me to sell all my stuff and follow him… the story would most likely end with me clutching a dried out markers and Lisa Frank sticker albums. Anyway, Allison insisted that I get rid of all of those flowers and all of  those bottles. I remember my palms sweating and my heart pounding as I begged her to understand that this bottle came from Mexico, and I bought this bottle at the thrift store. These flowers were from Ms. Garrison! How could I throw them away when they meant so much? Allison helped me toss each bottle into the recycling bin and walked with me outside to put the dried flowers in my mom’s compost bin. I told her to go back in the house, and I stood over the compost bin, crying.

I make so many crazy excuses about keeping stuff. I insist that I am an artist, and all these eclectic materials are incredibly important to my art. I cite as an example the fact that I broke a mirror in 2006. I put the pieces in a bowl, and I put the bowl in a plastic bag. I got a piece of furniture from a garage sale and glued some of the mirror onto the furniture. I never finished. I moved back into my parents house, and then out of my parents house. They got rid of the furniture. I still had the bowl of broken mirror shards. Last year, I made a piece of art for which I glued down beads and… broken mirror pieces! See, I needed to keep that plastic bowl full of trash for four years because eventually, I used a few pieces of broken mirror for an art project. I need to teach my brain to understand that this is not logical.

I also have my wacky environmental concerns. I have about 40 old batteries. You’re not supposed  to put batteries in the trash. So, my solution is to keep them. I don’t want to waste anything, so I  I have a stack more than a foot high of empty spiral notebooks with fewer than fifteen pages each.I bought a file cabinet a couple years ago to give these spiral notebooks a home.

Also, I have a  thrift store problem. Hoarders followed an Everett resident (holla!) to the thrift store. The woman kept putting useless crap into her cart. She picked up a purse shaped like an armadillo, and she explained she is buying it because it is funny and cute. I told Graham I would absolutely buy that armadillo purse. I would buy that armadillo purse and two more purses and probably a dress and a couple pairs of shoes. Then I would put that purse in my room, on top of plastic hats from the dollar store and broken sunglasses. The thrift store is great – when you NEED something. The prices are low, but that doesn’t justify owning twenty sweatshirts.

The fact is, my life is greatly and negatively effected by all my stuff. Let’s not even talk about the fact that I have nightmares about moving, because the process is so difficult, what with having to explain why my friends need to help me carry a box of bits of string down the stairs to my next house. First of all, it is impossible to keep my stuff organized, because so much of it is pointless. That means my boyfriend, my pets, and my guests have to step over and around all the crap that has never had a place to go. It means that when Graham and I sit down to eat, I have to spend several minutes rearranging so he can sit down. I never finish laundry, because my clothes don’t fit in the two dressers, two closets, and boxes and plastic containers. It’s been proven that a messy house can make people depressed and unfocused. And of course the fact that my mom has to work two jobs to pay my student loan, while I buy bracelets tin boxes at Value Village.

I couldn’t take it anymore, watching Hoarders. I was picturing these psychologists and professional organizers coming into my room asking, “Can you tell me what’s going on with this entire box of shoes that don’t fit/are missing their partner shoe?” I could hear them walking me through the logic of keeping every name-tag I’ve ever worn. So, I started cleaning my desk.

I’m recycling the spiral notebooks. I kept five of them that are full. I threw away all my notes from ministry school, except three papers I was proud of. I threw away an entire grocery bag filled with chewed-on pens and random markers, some of which were from when I was a card-carrying member of the Lisa Frank club. (Although I do believe it is a lifetime membership, so this isn’t a good indicator of time.) Three staplers. A broken licence plate cover. Prescription pill bottles. Old keys. So far I’ve filled two garbage bags and a big box for recycling. I emptied the entire file cabinet.

It might seem silly, but I feel awesome. I have a lot more to look through and get rid of, but I feel like I’m opening the doors to a whole new world of order and sanity.  It feels like someday soon, cleaning my house won’t be a serious exercise in creative use of space, but as simple as picking something up and putting it away.

Ode to the Rabbit.

Sometimes, you love things, and you don’t know why.

Like McDonald’s breakfast. If I have money and I am awake and in public before 10:30 AM, I will fully admit the first thing that comes to my mind is the golden arches. McGriddle. Hashbrown. And a watered down Dr. Pepper. Mmmm… Two hours later, I feel my insides churning in anger. “This is not a vegetable or a whole grain!” they (my insides) whine. They (my insides) protest in ways I’m not going to mention here. Suffice it to say, its bad for me, makes me feel horrible in my mind and my body, but I still salivate at the thought of a warm McGriddle with the cheese melting off onto the waxy wrapper…

I love my stupid, stupid car.

I remember the first time I laid eyes on her, she was dusty and grimy in the Volunteers of America car lot. Her license plate said “VWRABID.” Hilarious. I rushed over and touched the hood. My mom rolled her eyes. I said, very excitedly, “this car is sooooo cute.” My mom said something to the effect of “OH MY GOSH PLEASE DON’T GET ATTACHED TO THIS HUNK OF CRAP.”

But I was in love. The rest of the day, we drove from car lot to car lot, looking at Jettas and Priuses and Cavaliers and Escorts and Accords. Places that offered great financing, warranties, and reliable, trustworthy vehicles. I couldn’t help but imagine myself with a scarf around my head and big sunglasses, the evergreen trees zipping by me in a beautiful blur.

I had a short list of things I wanted out of my first car: automatic. Four doors. CD player/tape player/music of any kind. Reliable. Great gas mileage (you know, for the earth). Financing (I didn’t have much cash).

The Rabbit had absolutely not one of these things. I didn’t actually drive the rabbit before I bought it, because it was a stick shift. The reverse was weird and it took forever for my mom to get it. (To this day, only a select group of people has been able to get the rabbit into reverse. It takes a special touch.) It sputtered. It was loud. The inside smelled like a mildewed old lady. Instead of a stereo, there was a piece of foam. The seats were dirty and torn, and the engine had an obvious oil leak. There was no financing. And I thought I broke the seat lever when I lowered it, because there was only two doors. I kept this to myself, and giggled and squealed with delight when I saw the teeny plaque by the steering wheel – “this car made especially for Ruth Patterson.”

The 95 Jetta with a warranty simply couldn’t compare.

I called every car person I knew, and they all begged me to not buy a car from 1981, especially a German one. They all offered sound advice like, “keep shopping around” and “seriously, buy a Honda.”

So the next day, I obviously called the VOA guy and told him he better not sell that rabbit.

That day, my nana took me to the Cedarcrest parking lot and taught me how to drive a stick. One week later, the clutch cable went out, and thus began the epic journey of my love/hate relationship with the rabbit.

My dad fixed the clutch cable. Then the car died when I stopped to get gas. We jumped her, and two weeks later, she died again… on the freeway. My parents came and jumped me, and the rabbit died again. And again. (This is on the way home.) And then my dad drove it, and it died again. My dad is a superhero, because he has jumped my car not only in parking lots and on the side of the freeway, but on the 88th st. off ramp. And at the intersection of 88th and State. And again around 51st st. Dad replaced the alternator.

Then, while driving to Everett, the clutch went out. I had to get a ride into Everett every day to move it so it wouldn’t get towed. The Subway employees wished me luck. After finally getting someone to understand that the clutch was out, it went to get fixed at my mom’s friends’ sons’ friends’ house….

for nearly two months.

When I got it back, I hugged random people at the bar because I was so excited. The next day, I drove it, and sensed something was wrong. Sure enough, I got stuck, unable to move the stick from gear to gear, right across from the taco truck.

I went on a date once, and we had to push start the rabbit out of my house, out of the gas station, out of the movie theater, because bolts from the starter were missing.

The oil leak was ridiculous, even after the gasket was replaced by Graham. The car got 20 miles per gallon, on a good day. The fuel gauge was shaky and sometimes went down quickly without warning; we (the rabbit and I) ran out of gas twice. The dashboard lights worked about one out of twenty times, so I learned how to tell how fast I’m going by praying. She always had a rough idle, as in, it died if you weren’t pushing the gas pedal until it was fully warmed up, which took about fifteen minutes. So I just drove it and restarted it a few times every morning.

But still. I love that stupid car.

I felt so awesome riding around town, stalling, making loud sputtery noises, sometimes jerking forward too fast… singing loudly with no radio to the only songs I know by heart – a fabulous rotation of kelly clarkson, taylor swift, jay-z, and kayne west.

I was driving back from Mt. Vernon, and I heard a sound that sounded like a rock tumbling underneath the car. I smelled burning. I couldn’t shift. So, in an all-too-familiar fashion, I pulled over and opened the hood. Everything appeared to be fine, except for some light smoking near the alternator. I tried starting it, but the battery died. My parents, on their way out of town to go on vacation, tried to jump it. It wouldn’t start. My parents dropped me off at work, and a very nice lady called her husband who called his uncle who has a trailer. They met me and my brother on the side of the road at 9:30, in the dark and in the rain, and helped me push it on the trailer and get it home. (In return, my co-worker asked for a crocheted elephant for her daughter, due by Christmas.)

Graham went outside the next day to examine the old girl. My heart sunk – but not too far, because I was expecting it – when he said she was done. She blew a rod, and there is a three inch hole in the engine.

I’ve already bought another old, cheap car, but Rabbit, you will always be my first love. Rest in peace, or hopefully, in pieces, profitable ones, you know – cause I’m gonna hopefully sell some of you to people on Craigslist. And the rest of you to one of those people with the “cash for junk cars” signs. I will miss your quirks and your charm forever.

Better Than You

When one of my friends has a crush on someone, I think several things, quickly. One of the things I immediately ask myself, is my friend so much better than this yahoo that this relationship will never work, or is she better than them in an amount that could turn impossibility into a very, very big stroke of luck for this boy?

 And likewise, I am frequently told by my friends when I have a crush on a boy that I am so out of this person’s league. It’s obvious who is settling. You were too good for him; he’s not good enough for you, etc. As if life were made up of a foolproof ranking system.

 In writing, it seems meaner. But these are the things we tell each other. These are things I shout about to my friends.

 Being on the superior side of this Better Than You business, I have never seen a problem with it. So far, I have yet to encounter a guy who my friends would solemnly agree was TOO good for me, out of MY league. But I did recently come into a situation where I really thought about what it must be like to be on the other side, you know, that place below the pedestal.

 It came to mind because someone was talking down to me. Talking to ME like THEY were the one benevolently reaching their hand into my meager existence and offering companionship. This led to a lot of scoffing on my part, but I was alone, so no one saw the depths of snobbery I can apparently reach.

 And then suddenly it hit me.

 Everyone tells themselves they are the Better One.

 But honestly, the idea of a person being better than another is just strange. I think we just say these things to protect us from the fact that not every one is capable of connecting to us on deep levels, and that can be disappointing.

 We can pretend that what makes a relationship work is quantifiable. We can make charts and lists of compatibility necessities. Intelligence. Charisma. Kindness. Attractiveness. Life experience. Values. Sense of Humor. Religion. Politics. But the more people I meet, the more I’m beginning to think it’s much, much more random.

 Think about it musical terms. If I asked you, or someone just like you, what makes a good musician, you would probably have an opinion (just like if I were to ask you what makes a good boyfriend or girlfriend). You might mention rhythm. Harmony. Melody. Originality. Technical proficiency. Use or misuse of music theory. Stage presence. Tone. Timbre. Pitch. Soul. But when you listen to Mozart or Tupac or Taylor Swift, none of this crap matters. We could argue till we are blue in the face about who is a better guitarist, lyricist, singer, etc. But in the end, it simply comes down to that little voice in your head that says, “I like this.”

 So in relationships, we say we are better. I said it, after that person talked down to me. I made a list. Or rather, I tried to make a list. It looked something like this:

 He probably thinks he’s smarter, but who is smarter– Is it the person who can calculate and assemble numbers and understand tiny, detailed problems? Or is the person who sees big pictures and can write and understand words and feelings the smart one? Is it a balance?

 I wondered and wondered and wondered, until I suddenly thought, WHY DOES THIS MATTER?

 When I make a friend, I don’t sit down and make a checklist. In fact, on paper, several of my friends and I don’t get along. Some of them like heavy metal, the Disney channel, matching furniture, and trashy clothes. More than that, some of them are republicans. What it comes down to, despite obvious incompatibility is this: I like them. Something in them and something in me connect in an epic high-five.

 When I hear a song I like, I don’t make haste to look up something from my music theory textbook. I don’t analyze rhythms and inverted chords. I just listen. Because I like it.

 When I eat a cheese bagel, I don’t lick my lips and make a list of salt content and consistency of dough to decide if this is a good enough bagel. I just eat the bagel and make yummy noises.

 So why, when it comes to the opposite sex, do I find myself constantly checking things off and making lists? Why do I find myself asking if they are good enough?

 It’s about experience, not definition.

 If I keep quantifying and qualifying someone’s personality traits and interests and words, I’m going to miss out on experiencing who they are. Because a person is not a conglomerate of traits and interests and words. A friend is not just experiences and proximity. Music is not just pitches and rhythms. There is something deeper, something unexplainable and beautiful. And that part – that soul or random chemical arrangement or frequency or whatever you’d like to call it – can’t be called better or worse.

***

 So, as the one who realized this, I’m a little further out of his league, right?

There’s thug in my veins.

Due to the wild success of my livejournal, facebook, myspace, and twitter, I have decided to also grace the universe with the presence of a BLOG. Maybe I have lots of wise, interesting, heartfelt, beautiful, hilarious, and passionate words to share with the world, and a blog is a convenient place to do that. Or maybe I just got jealous of seeing people tweet about their blogs, and I thought to myself, I want to tweet about my blog.

It’s possible we’ll never know.

But you know, isn’t it more important that we have Romeo and Juliet rather than an accurate record of it’s authorship? So true with my blog. We could spend days discussing the psychological needs a person must have to so desperately want the world to hear their random thoughts and musings. We could talk about why a person should probably be doing homework, sleeping, cleaning something, budgeting, learning, or building relationships with the real, live human beings around them instead of typing in front of a monitor. But instead, let us all just enjoy the inevitably delicious fruit that will grow from your new favorite blog, written by your very, very favorite thug.