Let’s Get A Little Light In Here

Reading through my past blog posts, I’ve realized that I’ve been too damn depressing lately. So consider this my redemption post, where I stop being a morose fuck and start making you all laugh again.

I noticed something else in rereading my old posts. I spend a lot of time writing about men. Like, a lot. (New to the blog? Catch up here, here, and here.) Unfortunately, the time I spend talking about men is grossly disproportionate to the amount of time I spend talking to men.

Now, this doesn’t mean that I fail to attract attention from the menfolk. Actually, it’s quite the contrary—I happen to be a hit with men in construction/landscaping vehicles, men without jobs, and the homeless. Walking through Central Square does amazing things for my self esteem. But I need more than whistles and “Hey Baby’s!”

It has been suggested that I’m picky. I like to think that I just have standards, like any  lady should. Nothing outlandish, nothing unreasonable. Just standards of what kind of guy I would consider granting access to my ladybits.

So, in the interest of introspection,  let’s explore:

#1
To start this list, I want to establish myself as an accepting person, unconcerned with (certain) superficialities. Height is one of these. I appreciate a tall, strapping gentleman just as much as the next gal, but if a guy only meets my eye level (5’7″ ish), it’s not a deal breaker. If  we’re face to face in a prone position, I can’t tell where his feet are anyway. And by that time, I probably am only concerned about where his penis is.

Exceptions: Lightweights at this height, as classified by FISA.

#2

Do you know what your neck tattoo says to me, sir? “I inhale things that impede my judgment of such matters.” Or, ”I was in jail.” Neither of which are traits I look for in a guy. I imagine your employment prospects drop off significantly when the interviewer can see “Chi-Tonw” peeking its misspelled, Gothic script from under your collar. Your prospects with me are similarly correlative.

Exceptions: Musicians in an actively-gigging band.

I suspect this is going to take a while. Men: I hope you’re taking notes.

 

Katie’s 115th Dream

I’m headed to my parents house this weekend. Dad just retired a few weeks ago, and I think his constant presence is starting to irritate Mom. She “just wasn’t prepared for him to be there all the time,” she told me recently. She’s really funny sometimes.

I’ll stay in my old room, the one up the stairs, second door on the left. It’s kind of hard to miss, it being the only room in the house with with Backstreet Boys wallpaper. I like that they never turned it into an office or a soon-forgotten exercise studio. It’s the best feeling to come into this room and regress to a time where life’s biggest stressor was whether some boy thought I was pretty or not.

(Whether or not some boy thinks I’m pretty is still a rather big stressor.)

Lying in my lumpy twin bed, I will listen to the sounds of the house. I always feel safe knowing my mom and dad are somewhere close, doing whatever people of their years and experiences consider important to do with their time.

The weekend could be moderately exciting or utterly normal. We may take the boat out for a spin, or we may simply sit on the porch together and read, pausing now and again to acknowledge each other’s company.

I’m quite excited. The older I become, the more I realize that home is more than a place; home is a feeling. And when I walk in the door, that feeling allows me to put a pin in my “adult life,” and keep it there until I leave the driveway. My parents feed me and clothe me and I am lulled into a sleepy sense of invicibility. I’m a kid again. I’m their kid.

——

My fantasies are heartbreaking.

 

I’ll Let You In, Just a Little Bit

Do you know how Virginia Woolf died? Sensing yet another bout of soul-crushing depression was upon her, she resolved to simply give in. She slipped on her overcoat, filled the pockets with stones, walked into a river and drowned herself.

A few weeks ago, my mother tried to do the same.

I say “my mother” with the loosest of meanings attached. That woman who tried to drown herself was not the woman who took my brother, sister and I apple picking every fall. Nor was it the woman who sang “Danny Boy” to me on the phone every night for the week I was away at camp. Or the one who came bolting down the street when I called from the neighborhood beach and asked, “Exactly how deep does a cut have to be before you need stitches…?”

No, no. My mom didn’t try to commit suicide.

So, really, I shouldn’t be so upset.

Except…I miss my mom.

 

“That last one is from me to you.”

All my relationships have started with a mixed CD. Every single one. It’s a telling experience to type “From” in my iTunes search window and see the ghosts from my past appear, by album, in alphabetical order.

And even despite the painful failures of those ventures, still I got some really good music out of them.

So I wasn’t surprised when I read of a study that says musical taste predicts sexual attraction. Of course this is not a novel concept; musical preference is something that connects all types of people, be it in a sexual manner or not.

It starts young; music is one of the first ways we start to express ourselves as adolescents. The cool kids listened indiscriminately to whatever songs were on the Top 40 charts; they connected to popular artists making popular songs. Kids wearing Chucks and graphic tees had screen names with Brand New or Dashboard shout-outs. Those wanting to appear rebellious and anti-establishment would listen to Insane Clown Posse and braid their hair like Korn frontman Jonathan Davis.

High School: A Time of Regrets.

Indicative of a 15-year-old’s desire to fit in, I listened to whatever the popular kids listened to. My individuality showcased itself through my gravitation toward the cover or acoustic versions of those hit songs. This way, I could keep in step with what the majority of my peers liked, but establish my difference in a small, accepted manner. Distinct, but not enough that it would make me a complete outcast.

Eventually, we grow up. We start listening to genres of music that fit our perceived social personality. A related 2008 study found that those believing themselves to be intellectual will be drawn to jazz or classical music, those hanging onto that rebel persona will have rock and metal on heavy rotation. Liberals gravitate toward folk and alt-rock. And this guy?

Franz Ferdinand, à la 2003. You know, before they sold out.

And thus, with our musical taste reflecting our values, we send out a beacon of audio pheromones to potential love interests.

To make things more complicated, the response to these beacons are not uniform across genders. For example, a man’s appreciation for rock makes him more attractive to women, but a woman’s proclivity for the same kind of music has the reverse effect. The opposite is true for classical music: a woman’s preference for Vivaldi makes her more attractive to men, while a man exhibiting the same taste will turn women off.

And country music repels everybody. For both men and women, the penchant for slide guitar and love ballads to your Chevy Silverado will gain you no points in the love department.

Shocking, I know.

Exploring the Psychology of Music journal online (it’s rather fascinating), I found some great articles on music and memory formation, particularly about the recall of events and emotional states through musical associations.

It’s classic Pavlovian conditioning. The music starts, and the ability to critically think about the situation goes out the window.

Sounds like love.

And I guess this makes sense. The greatest part about music is its ability to conjure feeling from seemingly nowhere. Sometimes it works to your benefit, and sometimes it doesn’t. You could be depressed one moment, then, BAM:

and it turns your mood around. You could optimistic about life one minute, and out of nowhere:

Elliott Smith comes on and ruins your day.

Or you could have gotten over him, and iTunes reaches into the recesses of your catalogue and breaks your heart all over again:

(This isn’t a personal heartbreak song. Check out the recent All Songs Considered show, Cry, Baby, Cry: Songs That Make You Weep for anecdote.)

In the lifespan of those mixed-tape relationships, I considered the words of those songs to be written by him, for me. Lying in bed listening to them, I could feel the weight of his body next to mine, and the warmth of his breath as he whispered the lyrics in my ear. I felt loved.

I still look forward to my next mixed-tape, even if, when it’s all over, the lyrics become a mournful eulogy.

I don’t really listen to those “From” albums anymore.

 

An Short Open Letter to Facebook

Dear Facebook,

I know I haven’t put up a relationship status in quite some time, but do not worry. I am doing fine.

I am not as desperate as you think I am.

So stop it.

Love,

Me

 

Impromptu

This is the last place I wanted to end up.

I controlled what I could.

 

 

Adulthood, and Other Nightmares

I’m having a near-quarter-life crisis. In a year, I will be in my mid-twenties, and that freaks me the fuck out. It’s so close to thirty. Which is so close to death.

But most importantly, it means that I will be expected to act in a manner more suited to a person with enough life experience to “know better.” I’m not ready for that.

I’m not ready to grow up.

My looming birthday has prompted a lot of deep—and completely unintentional—introspection. It just sneaks up on me. I dart awake at 3 AM with a brainful of questions. Recent topics include:

“What is my credit score?”
“What is a credit score?
“Is my 5-year-ish plan a joke?”
“What is my ‘number’?”
“At what age is living how I live socially unacceptable?”

I spend the hours before I fall back asleep imagining how “Adult Katie” behaves. She lives a wholly depressing existence as a receptionist at a dental office, where her only reprieve from the day’s mind-numbing, monotonous work is fantasizing about the UPS guy. She is financially stable, and almost out of the debt she accrued in college. She gets off of work at 5, doesn’t work weekends, and can to take vacations. She has stopped rowing, and now sports a FUPA. She picked up knitting, and has established herself as a prolific force in the lucrative world of custom-made cat sweaters. She doesn’t laugh as much anymore. She goes to bed alone, and puts herself to sleep trying to name every Simpsons characters she can think of before passing out.

Adult Katie is my worst nightmare.

My first definition of what an adult was came from my mother, as I assume is the case of most people. It was a naive understanding. An “adult” was simply: one who drinks coffee. My mother would be a shell of a human before her second cup of the morning. It was an addiction, really, albeit benign in comparison to those that presented themselves later in life.

I asked for a sip from her mug one morning. Surprisingly, she obliged. (I received a very different response when asking my father for a sip of his beer.) Thrilled, I dipped her stirring spoon into the turbid liquid and bought it to my lips. Midway through my slurp, I realized my grave, grave error.

It was disgusting. You can have your grown-up’d-ness, I thought, returning to my CocoPuffs.

As I write this, I am sitting in a Starbucks, midway through slurping my second Venti americano of the morning. My pallet has changed, yes. My sentiments have not. I’ll take your coffee, but keep your goddamned adulthood away from me.

Whatever it is.

It’s a definition I’m struggling with more and more. I’m certain it has nothing to do with age. I know plenty of thirty-somethings who still carry themselves like middle-schoolers, and a few middle-schoolers I could picture myself having a cocktail with.

I’m inclined to think it’s the small differences that literally separate the men from the boys. Small, unconscious changes in the way you go about life, done for necessity, not because of any calculated decision to be more mature.

It may be is as simple as dropping off dry cleaning. The realization that Febreeze may not be the solution to dirty laundry can only come from living a life where a merely passable appearance is no longer acceptable.

Maybe it’s shovelling your own driveway.

It could be going to a museum because you want to, not because someone said you had to go.

Perhaps it’s ordering from the reserve tap, and not PBR because it’s dirt cheap.

Maybe it’s buying staples like milk and sugar. Maybe it’s buying something exotic like garam masala for an Indian recipe.

Possibly, it’s being aware enough of yourself to know when you have to let personal relationships go, and recognizing that the pain of saying goodbye will be ten-fold
if you remain attached.

Maybe it’s packing up and moving out. Or just getting over the fear of leaving the familiar and braving the unknown.

It may be putting up curtains. Or buying a decent mattress.
Or having the expendable income to do both.

Maybe it’s paying rent on time.
Maybe it’s not paying rent on time and having to face the consequences.

It could be sucking it up and buying life insurance. Maybe it’s having others whose welfare could be put in jeopardy after your gone.

Maybe it’s establishing a 401k. Or knowing what the hell a 401k is.

Perhaps it’s hiring a broker, real estate, or travel agent. Or enlisting the paid help of anyone for a job you could do yourself with a little bit more effort.

It may be finally seeing your parents as people, not as flawless, mythical creatures of omnipotent power.

Maybe it’s seeing your parents as people you would despise if not for the given circumstances.

In truth, I should stop wondering. Who cares what “adulthood” means? Well, except for my older relations when I am exuding behavior that does not fit the constraints of their meticulously cultivated definition. My parents may see some merit in ascribing definitions to their children, perhaps as a mental pat-on-the-back for a job well done. But I am not my parents.

I am not my parents.

There is a wonderful XKCD cartoon that has stuck with me for years:

And I think this is what my definition of adulthood will be based on.

a·dult·hood: [/ə-ˈdəlt-ˌh u̇ d/]
noun
1.) TBD

Yeah. I like that.

 

Next Stage, Please

Apparently, I am going through the Stages of Grief.

At first, there was shock and denial.

Then, pain. Absolute heartache.

Then, as many of you saw, anger.

I currently find myself at depression. Listening to morose songs, watching torturous romantic movies, and just simply being a melancholic wretch.

This sort of makes sense, though. While technically still breathing, the friend I knew is dead; he has ceased to exist. And in his place stands an abhorrent, morally defective stranger, to whom I have no emotional attachment.

And, like death, this is permanent.

It hurts.

Luckily, it’s the last negative stage. Next comes the “upward turn,” then “reconstruction,” and, finally, acceptance.

In the meantime I’ve reverted  to childlike behavior, probably as a coping mechanism. I believe psychologists call it regression. Anyway, here’s a new cartoon.

 

A Toast

To the year in music: the good, the bad, and whatever the fuck Ke$ha does.

To NPR, making us all feel like we reside in Cambridge.

To bursts of creativity, regardless of where they derive from.

To discovering novel uses for boat straps. Thanks, Vespoli.

To the mistakes we knew we were making, and the scars we carry into the new year because of them.

To home, but also to knowing when it’s time to leave.

To making big life decisions and being brave enough to stick to them.

To living your own definition of maturity, like paying bills in the morning, and trying on footie pajamas at night.

To understanding that money is fluid, and, save for big things like rent and food and boathouse fees, you can survive happily with very little.

To alcohol, the cause of—and solution to—all of life’s problems.

To the $14 large pizza/PBR pitcher at Newtowne Grille, letting us cause and solve all our problems at a student rate.

To January being the furthest possible point from having to listen to Christmas music again. August will come all too soon.

To regrets, being unashamed of them, and to living the kind of existence that could possibly beget them.

To leaving trash in the gutter, and the friends who coin such phrases.

To roommates, a guaranteed bastion of support, both emotional, and when stumbling back from Porter Square.

To new friends, and the world of potential experiences that come with each of them.

To far-away friends, and to putting in the effort to remain as close to them as you were when you parted.

To like-minded, debaucherous individuals. You know who you are.

To finding humor in everything, inappropriate or not…but usually inappropriate.

To any of you who have ever offered me kind words in regard to this blog. Your encouragement is invaluable.

To these, and those I’ve forgotten, we raise our glass.

 

 

Dealing With It

I dated a boy. He cheated, then lied about it.

This is how I am choosing to handle it.

It’s fictional. Promise.

 

Special thanks to xkcd.com for teaching me to draw stick figures.