The Year of the Snake: Roundabouts, U-Turns, and Khaki Sweatpants

“It’s embarrassment, displacement, it’s where I wander…

It’s the fear, the fake

It’s clear it can make

time stop and leave you stranded in the year of the snake.”

-Atmosphere, “Scapegoat” (1997)

My nephew just got his license. Look how happy he is.

A good aunt always distracts new drivers by demanding an impromptu photo shoot.

Ahhh 16. Not as good as 17, but good.

When I was 16, I was so depressed that for 9 months I didn’t utter a word to anyone besides the Taco Bell drive-thru lady. It was 2001, the year of the snake, time stopped, and I was stranded in teenage melancholy.

The only bandage to my wound was aimless driving. I’d skip school and drive to the nearby outlet mall. I learned how to hold a cigarette with my left hand and the wheel with my right. That you could get pretty far on gas fumes alone. The first emergency that I solved with my car was bringing my friend a bag full of overnight maxi pads at her caddy job. She found the tampons hidden at the bottom.

My whip at age 16.

I’d only leave my car to walk the two blocks to the Dairy Queen where I worked. I’d wear khaki-colored sweatpants instead of the required real khakis. I craved the music and movement that radio and car provided, and found safety in turning back when I  had gone too far. I got my sunroof sealed on 9/11. I liked the isolation and sense of detached observer to fleeting life that driving provided. And I never got lost because I never went too far.

A much chicer but equally malaised DQ employee.

If I could go back, I would tell my 16-year-old self that there would be an end to the melancholy. That even when everyone at a funeral is staring at you because you’re wearing sweat pants, time doesn’t stop. I would believe in the wondrousness of cyclicality, knowing that malaise is temporary and happiness is revisitable. I would understand that I liked driving and was saddened upon arrival because I was a dreamer. A dreamer who liked the idea of drifting, of being in-between, of formlessness because it let me fantasize about endless possibilities. A formlessness that characterizes adolescence, that can be both hopeful in its renewal and devastating in its displacement.

One kind of formlessness.

We’re embarking on a 3 week road trip. Greg’s sense of direction is about as good as my ability to tolerate blue hairs in PT Cruisers. We’re going to get lost as f*ck. And maybe arrested. I want to get a DUI in each state. I’m okay with this. Because I know that, eventually, we’ll find our way home. If we want. And considering the state of politics in Wisconsin, we might not.

Imagine my sign after the failed recall.

Next year is the year of the snake. It’s said to bring changes and instability, requiring careful planning. Thank god that that’s next year. We’re leaving Tuesday and haven’t planned anything besides the mode of transportation. But now I know how to navigate my vehicle better and, thanks to Obama’s jobs act, there’s more roundabouts to help me get back to where I started.

Ouroboros, or snake eating its tail, badass symbol of Cancer zodiac, similar to roundabouts, symbol of cyclicality

But I need your advice.

We’re going from Milwaukee to Portland to San Francisco. Thinking of stopping at the Badlands, Spokane, Berkeley. Any suggested sites, spots, events?

Our route. If you zoom in on the map, you can see me flipping off handicap drivers and Greg clutching the dashboard.

Look at Me, All Humanitarian and Employed and Sh*t

Guess who’s entering the world of 40-hour-work-week chumps. This slut right here:

My slut face

That’s right. Get used to that face because it’ll be ridin’ dirty around your suburb in a pimped-out caddie shouting “C.R.E.A.M.” Ya’ heard me, right after graduation, I found myself a FT job. You know how us Capricorns do: straight-edge all hopped up on no other stimulants than productivity, good deeds, and hard work. F**k yes. I can’t wait to drive to work in my ’92 Toyota Camry that my parents bought me with a steaming cup of joe that Greg’s ma made me and feel all self-made and adult. F**k yeah. Running on self-sufficiency. I’m like Bill Gates without the one-inch d**k.

I’m pretty much walking on air right now. My biggest concern is if this job’s going to disturb my shit schedule. For the past 7 years, 8 a.m. has been poop not commute time. Other than that, I’m straighter than Marcus Bachmann. As a FT AmeriCorps VISTA (Volunteer in Service to America), I’ll be making a whopping $900 a month. What’s to worry about?

I’ll be making so much green, I’ll be able to chew it and spit it back out.

Not only will I be employed FT for a year, I’ll be serving my community like I’ve always wanted to, running between The Boys and Girls Club, the Workforce Development Center, and the local college working with other successful peeps to teach youngsters how to get as blinged out as us.

Aside from my poop schedule, I have some concerns. One being if Papa Murphy’s still takes food stamps. Because I’ll be eligible for them with my new post-grad-school job. I’ve already started a list of all the things that I will buy with my new job, the first a bus pass and the second, a vaporizer.

This is what I’ll look like with my new vaporizer, walking every day to the bus stop, and living on food stamps.

As for the real concerns, there are several.

I will enjoy my new job, the partial loan repayment that comes with it, its subsequent opportunities, and its limited span. Helping people is rad, but I’m not entirely selfless. This is a major concern. I have an ego. I hope that I will still have time to stroke it via writing and working on my pecs.

Stroking my ego, working on my pecs.

VISTA positions are considered 24/7 jobs– meaning that you have to be available 24/7, like being on call. Since pagers have been disassociated from drug lords, they no longer are cool. Not to mention that being on call should violate some labor rights law.

When I was 14, and more intuitive than I am today, I wanted to live in a tent on a different beach each month. I thought that happiness was being commander of your own dinghy. I knew that people could do the same thing, and the difference was whether they were obligated to or chose to do it. I was certain that behind the value of “responsibility” were unhappy people scared of the realization that they made decisions that enslaved them. In this vow to beach hop, I very buddhistly decided not to be a slave to possessions and desires.

But can I be commander of my own dinghy having a 24/7 job?

Commanding your own dinghy.

No one would ever accuse me of a lack of work ethic. But I’m plagued by this crazy kinda critical thinking and the absurd realizations that I won’t live forever and that I’m only a minuscule part of a magnificent span of time and space. Not being able to deny these things, becoming absorbed in work or humanitarian deeds seems stupid. A hard-working hedonist, I have dedicated the past 8 years of my life to attaining a lifestyle that doesn’t require much time and responsibility. I have worked very hard to be able to work very little.

And so I wonder, being fully aware that there is no time like the present, should I have  held off for a higher paying, a more selfish, or a less time-consuming job to bask in during one of my last years as an ultra-hip twenty-something? Something like an editor of a thriving newspaper or an investigative journalist for one of the many hard-hitting news sources? Perhaps a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model?

Attempt at swimsuit model. I was going for the sandy look.

Realizing the separation between delusions of grandeur and reality is tough. To appease any right-wingers reading this, of course I am enthused just to have a job and don’t expect much pay from a govt. job. 🙂 But to the rest who happen to be critical thinkers (you heathens), really, this is what 8 years of Asperger school-focus gets me?

I’ve never been one for the money. But I have been one for the show. I do like status. And this job comes with status, just not the artsy, Mensa kind that I want and have earned with my Ivy league education and many publications. I do know that seeking jobs that have status, like jobs that are rewarding, is a privilege to those who can afford to be picky about jobs. My parents didn’t have that luxury and they worked hard so that their kids could (cue Bruce Springsteen). If my dad wasn’t laid off without a pension 2 years before retirement, I would almost say that I believe in the American Dream. But it’s a crock pot full of hot shit.

My working-class immigrant dad and entitled me, believing in the American Dream.

Another one of my absurd realizations is that even though I may live forever, others may not. And while a lot of my friends are traveling the world, searching for their true selves (that totally exists, *wink), I’m happy that this new job lets me live near my family. I used to think that I had to live in Nepal for a year to have some wondrous revelation (see Eat Pray Love). Thanks to hallucinogens, I don’t have to leave my parents’ basement to do this.

Another concern, it starts mid-July, my without-a-doubt fave time of the year. Maybe you don’t understand this if you live in a climate that is warm year-round, but being stuck inside during Wisconsin’s two nice months blows chodes. Plus, having to wear underwear when it’s hot makes me all yeasty. Having summers off is part of the reason why I thought I wanted to be a teacher. In addition to, like, helping kids.

Steamy under-carriage in July.

I now semi live by the principles that I had when I was 14. I could afford to live on my own, in a shit hole nonetheless without digital cable, but that’d require not being able to spend freely on food, booze, and hookers. I’d rather tolerate minor discomforts, like watching Greg’s dad eat a whole Kringle in a day and not gain weight, than slave to live in a studio apartment. Obviously, Greg and I are lucky to have parents that let us live with them in our “recessions homes,” but if we didn’t have this option, we’d live with a house-full of crusty losers to save on rent.

Someone crusty who I lived with.

Hesitant but happy, I’m collapsing all categories. I’ve finished my thesis and found a job. From here on out, it’ll just be musings from the dark side that occupies hedonism and humanitarianism, mania and slump. Quips from someone ruled by Saturn and its contradictions, who knows that you can only find peace within and not outside of the chaos. A post-modern in service to America, who, despite better judgement, still believes in an authentic, self-made existence. And rims as fat as my ass.

Shedding Skin and a Fear of the Bubonic Plague

Last week MSNBC did a segment on a new phobia, Nomophobia: the fear of being without your cell phone. I’m no stranger to phobias, especially ones related to viruses and my genitalia. I was in first grade when Magic Johnson went, shall we say, viral regarding his HIV diagnosis. I remember sitting on the floor a foot from the TV, as all chubby couch potato kids with ADHD do, gawking at the news broadcast and then slowly backing away when I realized that I could catch it through the TV. And then I saw a 30-minute HBO special on Ryan White, a young Indiana boy who famously contracted HIV via a blood transfusion. I was royally f**ked.

It was the early days of HIV and my 6-year-old chicken nugget nourished body might as well have been infected with the disease. At school, I sat in front of Dan Laurenzi, who I started to think was unusually thin, perhaps in a sickly way. Two weeks later, I was certain that he had full-blown AIDS. In first grade, we’d pass our workbooks to the person behind us for correcting. Dan “sarcoma” Laurenzi corrected mine. And so began my hand washing obsession. Each day after school, I’d run to the bathroom basement, as to hide my unusual behavior, and slathered on the Dial. And then one school night, I was lying in bed, having not finished my homework (coloring squirrels, I don’t know). And my mom, Jackie Louise, the cutthroat demanding tiger mom that she is, sat down next to me on my bed and, I diarrhea you not, set the workbook right on my blanket-covered belly. I diarrheaed the bed and my glo-worm pajamas. I lied and said that we just had to review some words, as to not have to actually touch the AIDS-infected workbook. After my mom slapped me goodnight, I embarked on a 6-year-old panic attack. I’m pretty sure that I just clenched all my muscles real tight, farting for five whole minutes (well, actually “poofing” as a 6 year old’s farts are rather weak). I couldn’t wash the blanket like I could wash my hands. WTF I said, “Double-you-tee-eff” I shouted. And so, as any rational first grader would do, I got on the floor and did leg lifts. The kind that I saw Kirstie Alley do during her aerobics class in Look Who’s Talking. The kind that you do wearing neon spandex in the ’80s. Maybe I thought that if I moved frantically, I’d stop worrying or that I’d poof or sweat out my new AIDS virus. Maybe I thought that thin people, like boob sweat and chaffed thighs, are immune to AIDS. Rather logical, right? And so began my obsession with Kirstie Alley leg lifts that morphed into a fear of dairy (cow piss) that evolved into a fear of all animal products and then anything that had calories. Four years later I saw Outbreak with Dustin Hoffman, reaffirming my fear of AIDS and Africans. Naturally. I had unsealed the well of phobias and this m**ther f**ker was deep as sh*t. And I’ve been swimming in it for 21 years now, standing at the bottom in what I’m sure is bubonic-filled water, waiting for some f**stick to save me.

I have to climb out. If not to save myself, to save these Outbreak-infected Africans.

The same year that I saw Outbreak, I also saw Seven. Hey, Tiger Moms get busy. Tiger Mom fell asleep and I watched the whole thing standing up in the living room (I don’t know, it seemed too scary sitting down). For anyone who hasn’t seen Seven, 1.) You suck (2.) I’m going to ruin it for you. The “lust” murder went down like this: Kevin Spacey’s bat-shit ass forces by gunpoint some dude to wear a strap-on that is fashioned with a giant knife and to have sex with a prostitute. Yeah, it is especially creepy as the scene occurs in some seedy sex night club that I am sure is only frequented by gays and Europeans. My AIDS-phobia mind had now been raped by celluloid and David Fincher. Not only was I already so afraid that a hand would reach out of the toilet that I avoided pooping (on a toilet anyway), I now had a front butt that needed guarding. I was symbolically f**ked in the genital region before I had actually been f**ked. And so like any normal diva bitch, from that night on, I never fell asleep without my hand guarding my genitalia. This was easy as I already had taught myself to sleep on my back because lying on your side permanently distends your tummy. Duh. I did this for so long that I became unconscious to it until 6th grade when Tarah Scalzo slapped me in the face with my genital-covering hand.

We were playing doll house, like all 11 year olds do, and I left the room to piss squatting above the toilet. I came back into our play lair and Tarah informed me that she put my doll to bed because she was tired. I kneeled down in front of the pastel plastic tudor and saw my doll, the only one with curly hair, lying on her back in her plastic twin bed, with her little plastic doll hand covering her little plastic doll eunuch genitalia. I had been found out. I quickly explained myself. I thought it was a logical reaction to a serial murder sex scene. Although Tarah remained my friend, I knew that I had to stop guarding my genitals. 16 years later, I do the same thing, more or less. Sorry Tarah, but this is my new best friend:

I use it on everything, including my genitals. With good reason. I was certain that my first yeast infection was a genital wart outbreak. And anti-bacterial soap can kill viruses, duh. My germophobia has peaked. When I volunteered at a homeless shelter that had a bed bugs outbreak, my phobia costed me about an hour after I left. I’d line my car with garbage bags (new ones each time); I’d Lysol my body, clothes, shoes, and keys; I’d never wear a winter jacket into the shelter; and upon arriving at home, I washed everything with antibacterial soap, including my hair. Because bed bugs can be killed with soap, duh.

I’m clearly still in the well. But I’m no longer waiting for someone to save me. My hands crack and bleed. I won’t wear short sleeves despite the weather because I need my sleeve gloves. I don’t touch anything without a paper towel shield except for food. I considered wearing fashion gloves but this would look pretty dumb paired with jeans and t-shirts. The next step is sporting a 17th century hoop-skirt gown just so I don’t look so out of place wearing my gloves. Or ordering one of these:

I did have a brief sabbatical from my phobias during my late teens–early 20s. I thought it was funny to eat food off the floor or off of strangers’ plates in restaurants. My desire for attention and to make bitches laugh superseded my phobias. Well, germophobia and OCD is cliché now–an old punchline. Scrubbing my labe after every dung-dropping sucks.

I know, these fears are displaced. And that’s the scariest part. I’d rather be scared of Streptococcus pneumonia than of death. Because you can’t get a vaccine for death unless you’re a giant pussy. Or Magic Johnson.

I’m graduating this Sunday. And it’s Spring. A perfect time to shed some symbolic skin and also some fears. I have vowed (just like my vow to stop binge eating that has been semi-successful) to stop washing so much. My skin will thank me. The earth will thank me. And so will my genitals. And after all, that is what’s most important to me: a happy genitalia that is not scared of the world–not scared of the light. One that is bursting through its clothes and saying “Hello world, it’s me, Anna’s antibacterialed vadge and I’m no longer scared of you.” And then someone will tell it that mustaches are no longer funny. And it will agree. Because it is Spring. A time for renewal.

A pu$sy with a mustache.

Embracing My Underemployment on May Day

Today is May Day, a.k.a. International Workers’ Day. It’s like Labor Day for the rest of the world– a commemoration of and a fight for workers rights and labor movements. A national holiday in 80 countries, it’s celebrated worldwide with marches, protests, and street festivals.

Specifically, it commemorates the 1886 Haymarket Massacre in Chicago. At this time, there was a general strike in Chicago and some peeps were holding a public assembly. Police dispersed the assembly and some crazy mo fo threw dynamite at the po po. Then the even crazier mo fo po pos opened fire, killing and injuring some peeps, including demonstrators and officers.

The massacre continued after these initial incidents. 7 German-born and one American anarchist were accused of the crime. 4 were hanged, 3 were imprisoned, and 1 killed himself in jail. The beau’s really into this stuff, evidenced by his line of Anarkhos Ale©:

And his tat of one of the martyrs.

In commemoration of May Day, I’m going to embrace my underemployment, my lack of full-time work, and what it has allowed me to do over the past year.

Spend more time with family. With flexible and part-time hours, I have more opportunities to hang out with the fam. I spent the entirety of the other day with my mom for her birthday. And she appreciated it:

Experimenting with recipes. I feel that when one grows and cooks their own food, they develop a more intimate relationship with and respect for it and nature. Because I’m not bound by a 40-hour work week, I have plenty of time to experiment with recipes that I’ve been interested in for years:

Perfecting my resume. As an English major, I tend to use a really convoluted and superfluous writing structure with lots of complex sentences, unnecessary modifiers, jargon and sometimes I use the occasional run-on but not all of the time onlywhenI’mdrunk, hashtag! But with my extra time, I’ve really been able to condense and streamline my writing. And my updated resume really reflects my progress:

Helping local youth. I do love kids. Spending time with them is invaluable both to me, them, and to my community. Every chance that I get, I love to help them with their schoolwork or to just be there as a mentor. And one way that I do this is by exposing them to really healthy and productive adults. And by playing drinking counting games with them.

Familiarizing myself with technology. What current job doesn’t require some kind of tech or computer skills? So while I apply to every full-time, part-time, and minimum wage job, in the mean time I dedicate a couple of hours each day to really familiarizing myself with current programs and applications, particularly Mac ones, of which I’ve become rather comfortable with:

So in honor of May Day, I challenge you to really embrace your un- or underemployment, as I am. Despite dire situations, I’m looking on the bright side. If my new streamlined resume won’t snatch me a job, this post certainly will.

Sometimes When I Sit Down Too Fast I Get a Whiff of My Crotch

I’ve rushed through a lot of things. I finished school in 3.5 years. At 5 years old, I pretended that my bedroom was an NYC loft fit for an advertising exec. And sometimes I eat a whole box of dry cereal in one sitting. Oops All Berries preferably.

I like to go fast. Stop signs really mean yield, and if you’re just going to cruise, get the f**k off the bike and walk.

But every time I quickly finish something, I become plagued with “now what?” Not having a project, a distractor, a problem can be terrifying. I’m scared of the Dixie Chics’ wide open spaces.

The passage of time is more noticeable when project-less. And time, that MFer, is the only thing that moves faster than me.

When I go too fast, I get whiffs of my mortality, of my body’s eventual demise to rot and smell like tuna, roses, and raw dough. So I’ve become a master manipulator of time, vacillating from one extreme of road runner to tortoise.

I do some things slowly, like eating pasta dishes with pink sauce and finishing this GD’d, I can-no-longer-mutter-the-word, thesis.

I was originally going to submit this paper plague on May 14th to be a Spring graduate. My advisor and advising panel need more time to review it. They want me to submit it by June 22nd to be an August graduate. Well F me in the A.

The best part of a project is the sense of completion. This gratification has been robbed from me several times in the past years. All related to academic endeavors. I don’t like to revise; I don’t like to go back; don’t lose my Teacher Ed observation logs and require me to re-do the hours. I’d rather be done with an F than go back for an A.

Should I enjoy the process more? Maybe. I delay pleasure pretty well. But when the process entails getting all Asbergers and Asian over dangling modifiers, I’ll pass. When the process saves me from “now what,” I’ll stage 7 cling.

So now I walk across the stage in May knowing that I haven’t quite yet submitted my T-word. And what’s the big deal? I’ll just take off my gown and sit down to conjugate. My name will just appear under August and not May. Excuse me for wanting to jive with May, during the season of renewal. Symbolism and metaphor is important to me. August– an impending harvest and greenery decomposition. Ugh.

I’m being forced to take it slow, perhaps to avoid unpleasantries such as split infinitives and “now what.” I’m being robbed of my original plan and vision. Control freak? So? Inflexible? I did gymnastics.

Last night I dreamt that I had two consecutive c-sections. But these c-sections were the kind where they slice you length-wise from sternum to pubis, when you’re conscious, and with a desk fan attached to your ass. You know the kind, right? Some say dreaming of birth means death but I say: baby=thesis (born again, belabored, rushed delivery); consciousness=pain, trials; fan=accelerator/deodorizer/master deluder.

There are two ways to avoid crotch whiffs: 1. Slow down or (2) Don’t sit down. The answer, as most answers are, lies in a Boston song. The long intro (lyrics at 2:45) is metaphorical, of course. As is the song title. In short: I’m going to keep moving, just at a slower pace, relinquishing my false sense of control.

Seeing Red Over Going Green

I’m totally down for the green movement. I think that every street should have a bike lane. That’d make it a lot easier to peg fixie-riders in the head with my empty plastic water bottles from my HEV (high emission vehicle).

I’m really banking on the world ending this December. I have run out of material for this world that’s a stage. Therefore, anyone who fights to prolong life on this planet has become pubic enemy # 1. This is just the short list:

1. Moms: I get that you want the world to be fabulous when your kids grow up. But seriously, when you bust out your reusable grocery bag in front of me at Pick N’ Save, I kind of want to follow you to your Forrester, entrap you, and tell you all about my HPV trials. In detail.

Call me when you start carrying the 2-year-old in those bags. Then we can talk. Over Manhattans. About how populating the earth is indeed *wink* saving it.

2. Liberals: When most crunchy liberals have their heads in their hinders getting high on their own self-righteous hybrid fumes, I say drill baby drill. I’m down with this lady:

Yes, that is a Toyota.

3. Vegans: Some say that the livestock sector is environmentally unsound. But going vegan can be anally unsound, resulting in BMs like this:

4. Animal Rights Activists: People say save the animals. Why- when all they want to do is snort lines and hang out in ShopKo:

5. College Students: Remember those commercials with plastic 6-pack rings washing ashore and choking geese. Stop kidding yourself. Birds do not like erotic asphyxiation.

6. Hippies: I’m pretty sure that the 1968 VW van that you’re driving to Portland is solely responsible for acid rain.

In honor of earth day, let’s rape and pillage. After all, we won’t be here in 100 years when the shit hits the solar-powered fans.

Girls and New Leading Ladies: From Jenny McCarthy to Lena Dunham

When I was little, I idolized two people: One, my brother . He was 13 years older than me and had a curly mullet so high that it grazed the descending ceiling fabric of his Buick LeSabre. Two: Jenny McCarthy. Yep. Because she embodied two things that women aren’t supposed to simultaneously embody: humor and hotness. I didn’t know that I was on to something when watching Lip Service and doing whippets on my mom’s sofa.

An angsty memoir that I’m reading for my thesis (impending deadline date: May 12th) talks about the perceived exclusiveness of certain qualities for women. It goes: a woman can be hot, but not smart; a woman can be funny, but not hot; etc. and vice versa. Apparently, being both is too threatening (to men and women). Hey, I didn’t create this world of pussies. I just live in it.

Perhaps we’re getting away from this thinking, but  most of us have, at some point, wishfully envisioned the chic who’s way hotter than us writing backward “R”s in crayon. There has been some mediated women who defy this binarization. Lucy? Goldie Hawn? Sarah Silverman? Tina Fey? What about smart and hot: Sarah Palin? Somewhere on this blog is the disclaimer that it’s for entertainment purposes only.

We see female fictional characters embody seemingly oppositional qualities. Especially with “funny” being subjective. But we don’t really see characters embody all 3: hot, funny, and smart. Would it be combustion on arrival? Would our brains and our loads be blown all over our flat screens the moment she graced celluloid? And I don’t have any damn cats to clean up the mess.

Last night the HBO series Girls premiered. It’s created and produced by and starring 26 year-old Lena Dunham. Bitch. Lena’s character Hannah is a 24 year-old unpaid writing intern, 2 years graduated from a Liberal Arts college, living in Brooklyn. Must I proceed? Yes, she wears skirts and boots. Yes she has dinner parties with opium tea and sleeps with a guy who has fixed gear bikes in his apartment loft.

Her character, and I’m sure her real-life self, is smart and funny (Netflix says witty and cerebral). She isn’t conventionally “hot” but what’s interesting about her character is that she seems to be part of a trend of new leading ladies. They’re witty, subdued expressions, wry, teetering on cynicism, and oh-so-fucking hip in their mild (but not complete) rejection of conventional beauty. Zooey Deschanel. Juno (that’s her real name, right?) Ramona Flowers (Scott Pilgrim), Clementine (Eternal Sunshine). Gag me with a f-n spoon.

Is this a step forward? It’s interesting to see leading ladies deter from stereotypical beauty standards (Zooey arguably doesn’t), but is it more of a side-step? Why can’t a bitch be banging, smart, and have men shooting milk out of their mouths instead of shooting– you know. Like what’s the message– (aside from “hot” not working with fart and smunny smart and funny): that if you aren’t pretty by mainstream standards, it’s okay to wear hideous combinations of attire from different seasons?

The only thing that this breed of obnoxiously eccentric young people is going to get me to spew is regurgitated falafel. And I won’t even get into the class factor of this quirky, subdued, hipster leading lady.

I’m sure the show (what Greg accurately described as MTV I Want My Pants Back meets PBS British comedy) will be a hit. And I actually really like it. It’s good. But give it a rest ladies, writers, and producers. Knowing that boots, a braided belt, and a skirt shouldn’t be paired doesn’t negate a character’s or your badassery.

Ordering a Graduation Gown Two Sizes Too Small: Impending Ass Tat

I didn’t plan on attending my graduation ceremony. It’s at 9 a.m. on a Sunday. And it’s for a 2-year program that I stretched into 5. But then Greg’s dad (Glenn) convinced me into going.

It wasn’t all the noise about my parents being proud, blah blah. It was when Glenn told me that grad students wear hoods at their ceremony (and yes, we are allowed to eat Skittles as well.) Apparently, grad students get attachable hoods for their gowns. Each different major has a different color hood. The Media Studies one is crimson. Boom. I was sold.

But the hood might be the only thing that fits.

When ordering your gown, you have to submit your weight and height. Before I could think about it, I impulsively entered 120 lbs.– 20 lbs. less than my real weight. Why? Partially because gowns are god-awfully penguin-like and hideously too big. But mainly because, in my jelly bean riddled mind, I thought it would be good motivation to stop binge eating.

I say it with humor, but my name is Anna and I am a binge eater. I’ve had odd relationships with food since I was eight. I’m a binge eater in a binge-purge society. Like a good consumer, I indulge freely. And like any upwardly mobile *sneer*, educated 20-something, I purge with lots of squats and lunges. And my body reflects it. There’s a reason why there’s only head shots of me on this blog. My head is the purge. My body is the binge.

 

I’ve tried lots of things to not use food and exercise for reasons other than nourishment and occasional pleasure (Costanza wanted to incorporate food in the bedroom too. So what?) Like a true soft, non-substance addict, tomorrow is always a better day to start.

I knew the gown wouldn’t be enough motivation. So I had to raise the marbleized, aged steaks. Like any competitive Capricorn, I agreed to a bet– a “fitness pact” if you will– a come hell or high water race to the bottom of the Cracker Barrel.

This is my competition, Denny Lenny Lucifer:

And this is what he wants to convert into muscle:

Neither of us necessarily want to lose weight. Like I said, D.L.L. wants to convert flab to muscle and I just want to stop bingeing. We struggled to come up with a fair assessment and agreed on measuring lost BMI at the end of the next 30 days. But the fun part is the loser’s consequence: a tattoo on his/her ass chosen by the winner.

Because I think portrait tats usually end up looking scary-as-fu*k, my initial thought for Denny’s hinder was a portrait of his ma. He fired back with a portrait of Richard Simmons. Yes, of course I countered with Gene Simmons.

The pact was supposed to start yesterday, on Friday the 13th. I even wrote a contract that eventually was used as a coaster. We have agreed to start this Monday. Denny’s wife (Erin) and Greg agreed to be enforcers and relayers of truth, documented by the following:

Wish me luck.

I’m Down With O(ther) P(eople’s) P(ets): Owls Do It Doggy Style and Other Lessons Learned When Sitting

Because I’ve never had real responsibilities or healthy boundaries, when a friend needs someone to sit their dog, cat, house, or bunny, I’m the man. I’ve dog, house, cat, bunny, and parrot sat. (The parrot gig was more Greg’s than mine.) If “sitting” is in a job title, I can do it. And do it well.

Since I’ve also never had pets or owned a home, I’ve learned some things about houses and animals during my sitting gigs:

1. It is perfectly normal for a dishwasher to make all that noise, to steam, and to call you a “ho.”

2. If a parrot starts shedding and shrieking incredulously, they’re about to embark on one of the freakiest acts of nature. And you thought human vaginas were magical.

3. When a “heterosexual” married couple tells you to not go onto their third floor, it’s because it’s a library full of homosexual literature.

4. When you go onto that third floor (because it’s a peaceful open-minded library) and get a DVD stuck in the player, try not to let it be one that’s pothead humor.

5. That god-awful clicking noise from the water bowl means that it needs to be refilled.

6. Bunnies are the stupidest pets ever. Don’t let them out of their cages.

7. Cats’ butt holes are supposed to look like shot-out targets. Especially this one’s.

8. If an animal becomes perplexed and stares at you when you’re naked and/or breathing heavily (as in working out), it means that their owners are uptight.

9. Unless they were cooking something that left a stain like this:

10. That long, unmoving pale fish is indeed not dead. It’s just malnourished from a steady diet of everybody else’s shit.

11. Those same shitting fish are also humping fish:

12.When I drop off dogs for my dad to walk, he calls every one “Simba” not because he likes The Lion King but because he thinks they’re all my brother’s dog who has been gone for over 5 years.

13. When a friend tells you that it’s okay to dump kitty litter down the toilet, it’s not.

14. Owls do it doggy-style. Well, these Urban Outfitters ones do anyway.

Easter and 4 Other Things That Make Me Want to Marry and Have Kids

When I first saw this pic of me and the beau, I thought of only one thing that it’d be good for:

Engagement announcement photo.

Just like most modern women, I think that the institution of marriage is just that. Must I proceed if I refer to it as an “institution?” You know the forthcoming adjectives: archaic, outdated, a shot-in-the-foot.

Spending the rest of my life with one person is something I can get down with, but what’s with the need for the whole charade? I don’t need the state of Wisco to recognize my love for the beau. Sleeping in the same bed every night with a guy whose farts reek of mustard gas is enough proof of love.

And having kids, even stupider. Has anyone seen Idiocracy– watch it if you still don’t think overpopulation is reason enough to not procreate. I’ve considered adopting, but I just like my personal freedom a little too much.

However, there are moments, like when I’m supremely drunk on alcohol or romantic comedies, that I slur something about wanting to have kids and get married. I can see how both can be romantic. And then sometimes I think that romance is for people with shiny, pink smooth brains. Besides alcohol and the Showtime Women channel, other things make me want to marry and get knocked up:

1. Easter: It has nothing to do with the family gatherings,warm feelings, and the forgiveness sh*t. It has everything to do with the pastels, the eggs, and the horny bunnies. And a little bit to do with hearing “erection” in “resurrection.”

2. Pinterest: I’d only get married for two reasons: the party and my partner’s insurance. Pinterest is loaded with pics of cute shit, especially wedding stuff. Instead of binge eating, I go on Pinterest and drool over everything, even people’s obnoxious wedding boards. Bouquets, wedding party photos, invitation cards, honeymoons– Pinterest has become J.Lo in Wedding Planner.

I like the idea of throwing a “celebration of love” that’s really an excuse for just one big party. And I’d like to do it before the wish lantern thing gets too old.

3. Fermented Yeast: After Greg bottled all his beer, he said that he kind of missed having something brewing in the basement. He thought it was exciting to watch, smell, and listen to the ale fermenting. And I did too. It was cool to watch the gases bubble into the stopper.

I think that I’m a nurturing person. I’ve never had pets or a garden, but I think I’d do good with them. My Chia plant in 9th grade only died when it hit the floor and it wasn’t even my fault. And I considered getting house plants, but only for their ability to neutralize harmful inside chemicals.

I absolutely adore kids, but I’m not sure if feeling good because they need me is healthy. Watching shit grow is cool. But we’ll start with a garden.

4. “The Cupid Shuffle” and Stevie Wonder’s “Reggae Woman”: I can do the Cupid Shuffle like it’s nobody’s business. I work my hip so well during the kick-ball-chain part that, from a distance, I could pass for a black guy. And I would love for a large group of people to not only be in awe of my rhythm, but I would also like to see my dad’s foreign side of the fam bumping and grinding to this jam.

And Stevie Wonder’s “Reggae Woman.” I  imagine myself twirling in a green wedding dress, surrounded by  the rainbow themed wedding party that has cleared the floor just for me. Is it weird that I find this song romantic? No, it’s Stevie Wonder.

5. My track pant FUPAs and moo moos. Whenever I do anything mildly offensive or unattractive, a friend likes to sarcastically retort, “How has no one locked you down yet? I don’t get it.” To which I respond with the hypothesis that my wit and looks must intimidate suitors.

When I was little, I would see women with unshaved legs, in moo moos, with no make up and greasy hair, burping, and what not. Noticing the distaste on surrounding men’s faces, I vowed to never become careless or unkempt. Now I send a giant figurative F.U. to that idea.

I enjoy looking nice, but sometimes I get really into whatever I’m doing and forget that  my sundress is actually a moo moo and that blonde leg hair is detectable in sunlight.

I don’t want to lock down a guy so I can carelessly parade around with curlers and face cream within the security of marital bliss, but the fact that this wouldn’t bother the beau makes me want to hang on to him. That’s as sentimental as I’m going to get.

I get what people see in marriage and having biological kids. Sometimes. But for me, the only reasons that I’d do either seem egotistical and narcissistic. So it’s back to the old, fail-safe method of birth control: pulling out. Watch the mail for engagement announcements, we’ll make sure to get magnetic ones.