Another no...

This time as a phone call. To warn me that a letter from HR would be arriving. Prolly this afternoon. Prolly why she called at 8am and apologized for likely waking me. You know, because I don't have a job that gets me out of bed early in the morning to do productive things. Who's to know if I stayed in bed all day?

They claimed "no experience" but I know for a fact that they use AP and hire people who don't know AP. WTF? And also, how can everyone expect an experienced person? First of all, if I had experience it would mean I had a job, and likely it was better than working for you and I would still be there. Secondly, how can I ever get experience if no one is willing to give me a chance in the first place? You see, McDonald's (where I will soon be forced to work) doesn't provide me with relevant experience, so how can I ever get experience? I call bullshit.

And I sort of wish I was clever enough to come up with a work from home idea. Something I can make or write or do. But I can't even finish a thesis or the laundry. I'm tired and I'm frustrated. With every rejection I lose a bit more of what little self-esteem I have.

Ach, laundry's done. Gotta pick up the dog from the groomer.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY EMERSON!

Emerson,
Happy third birthday to the only puppy I've ever owned. I remeber the day the boy and I picked you up. There were two litters, so we had a bunch to choose from. Really, I wanted the girl who pounced around after the boys. Luckily for us, she was taken and we went with our number two choice--the multi-colored one with all the energy. We knew we had made a good decision on the ride home as, wrapped in the blanket that used to be mine but you have claimed as your own, you farted. The boy and I blamed each other and then we looked at our new bundle of joy. I'm pretty sure you were smiling a little.
I remember that first week with you. You peed on EVERYTHING! More than once I told the boy he needed to bring you back or dump you on the side of the road. At that point I didn't care.
But it got better. You'd kiss my cheek and all would be forgiven. And you didn't bark a lot. That's cool. Remember when you ran away and I lost you for about twenty minutes? At that moment I knew the fear that comes along with being a parent. And then I found you and spanked the hell out of you.
The last year has brought a lot of firsts--the first time I took you swimming, the first time you starred in a parade float, and all those others. And hopefully the next year will be full of more firsts, like the first time you become a daddy (that is, if Chloe will let you). So congratulations, buddy, on turning the big 0-3.

Thoughts on turning 24

I woke up yesterday at 5:30am and for the life of me couldn't get back to sleep. (Found out later Mom was up at 5:30 and also could not sleep. Reliving that morning in the womb, perhaps??) Still, though, this was better than the way I was woken the second time. Doorbell rings, the boy and I jump out of a sound sleep. "Who the hell would be here this early (8am)?" shouts the boy. "Oh, crap" I declare as I remember I am to watch the Panklet that morning. I rush to throw on pants and disregard the fact that I am wearing a see-through top because it's just the Panko at the door. I open the door and scream "Oh! IT'S JIM!!" as I try to cover up. Then I remember he's seen my boobs before. It's not like it was a surprise; I did volunteer to watch mini-Panko, but the boy's alarm didn't go off.

So the morning of my 24th birthday was spent watching a very crabby boy. About two hours into it I decided he needed a nap whether he wanted one or not. (He did.) Then I called one of the places I applied at. She said she'd get back to me an in an hour. Two hours later, as I'm heading out the door for the English picnic, she calls. This is noon. "Can you come in this afternoon for an interview?" "Umm...yes?" "It would need to be before two. Can you be here at one?" I do the math in my head: Fifteen minutes to get there, must arrive ten minutes early to fill out application, no time for shower or curling iron. "Yes, I can be there."

The interview was one of the best parts of the day. We laughed, made jokes, and generally had a good time inbetween my answering silly interviewish questions. And they threw in a few that made me pause a little: What is your greatest failure? And some that I should have thought about a little longer: If you could be anywhere right now, where would it be? "Italy. I should be on my honeymoon." Then I told them I just got married and a new house and "all that good stuff, so I don't really want to be anywhere but home right now" which I'm afraid they took the wrong way. But then they agreed with me. And they continued to call my by my married name and declared how "cute" it was and that it was definitely an author's name. I couldn't make up something better if I tried.

No one was left at the picnic by the time I was done. I needed to get groceries. I ate lunch by myself in the corner of Taco John's. This is another reason why I'm disenchanted with birthdays. This is what birthdays are really all about. And the boy didn't get me a present, didn't get me a card, didn't wish me happy birthday until almost noon (when I reminded him of this). I can't say I'm surprised, but it's the first time it has ever been his wife's birthday. He's never had to celebrate HIS WIFE'S birthday before. And while maybe it's my fault because I was never that bothered by it before, I can't say I wasn't a little peeved at the guy who didn't bring me flowers. We remedy that today. He's stuck buying me boots with pointy toes, and he promised not to complain the whole time. Can't ask for much more than that.

On the flipside, Smith can make a fantastic cupcake. Chocolate with chocolate frosting. HOMEMADE chocolate frosting. Even my mom never made me homemade frosting. And some had Smith's attempt at a phallic design...I was impressed even though I stayed away from those particular ones. And while the porn she bought me hasn't arrived yet, I am still grateful she provided me with birthday cake and good lovin. Congrats, Smith--you're better than my husband. Let's say I leave him for you? Plus you make a mean meatloaf.

Oh back to school, back to school, to prove to Dad I'm not a fool..." --Billy Madison

I'm not gonna lie. I got a little sad as I dropped the boy off at work this morning and drove past the line of vans and trucks packed to the max with the essentials of dorm living--blow up furniture and mini-fridges for beer storage. That will never be me again. Granted, I don't mind living in my newly built split level with my own bathroom and kitchen, but there's something really great about living in a place where you get woken up every night at 3am by someone vomiting in the hallways. Then seeing that same vomit for the next three weeks because the maintenance people leave it there to teach us all a lesson.

And I won't be returning as a grad student/teacher-poser either. Unlike the third years and folks with real jobs, I'm not scrambling to put together syllabi and lesson plans. I'm not worried about the twenty-five pairs of eyes that will soon focus squarely on me (really, after discounting those checking their email or just generally not paying attention, there were about three pairs of eyes at any given time). I don't have to pay a small fortune on books I'll only pretend to read and then fabricate a fantastic response paper for. Nuh-uh. I don't get any of that. For the first time since I started kindergarten, I am not going back to school in the fall. You see, I've been trying to trick myself into believing this is not true. I bought new jeans, a couple new tops, and I even picked out a few new notebooks in a variety of colors. I cleaned out my backpack and placed it by the door, packed with newly sharpened pencils and pens in eight colors. Yes, I thought I had myself fooled, but I don't have a class schedule or a stack of overpriced books. I don't have that giddy feeling that comes with knowing I'll be using my brain again soon. I don't have a list of books I should have read this summer so I could have a little headstart.

And I know how this makes me sound. Am I a nerd? Of course. I don't deny that. But it leaves me with a very empty feeling. School was always my thing. I was the smart one (stop laughing!). And now there's just something missing. Maybe I'll take up stamp collecting.

"But Mary--she has no talent, and I don't know what she will do to make a living" --Warren Wilkins

One week of married life and I don't feel all that different. The boy apologizes to me: "Everyone at work asks if I feel different, but really the only difference is that I'm wearing a ring." Yeah, that's kinda it. I mean, we have a bunch of new kitchen gadgets and some matching bed linens, but aside from that what more was I really hoping for? The boy said he'd be sad the day cards and presents stopped showing up on our door. I agree--so much work to be over with so quickly. But I'm not as sad as I thought I might be at the end of all of this. I still have too much to worry about. The wedding was just one stressor to be crossed off on a list. Now I'm returning to the world of thesis writing and over-caffeinated mornings in front of a computer screen and a stack of New England fiction. Then it's finding a job. Or rather, finding a job is sporadically spread out throughout the thesis writing process. It's that whole which came first kind of thing. To get a real job I need to finish my thesis, but to eat I need a real job. Ach.

Yesterday's mail: more rejection letters, wedding card with $50.
Today's mail (hopefully): free porn, wedding card with $50, sample of KY warming lotion

Two days and counting...

So I'm trying to write my vows (yes, YES, I know my wedding is in TWO days!), but I'm really just annoyed at the boy right now. I find myself blogging and writing manifestos instead. How can I describe my love to him when I want to rip his eyeballs out. Notice the time. Yep, it's almost 12:30. I'll know when it's actually 12:30 because that will be the time the boy said he'd wrap up his party time but will really hang out until I become bad cop and have to drag him to bed. This is the game we play. He's noisy and loud and annoying with his friends until I crack the bedroom door open enough for him to know he needs to talk to "the old ball and chain." Then he rolls his eyes, makes sarcastic comments and makes his way into the room. I explain that I'm exhausted, stressed, PMSing, and tired of running a damn hotel just because we have a spare room. He declares I'm ruining his fun times with his friends who came all this way to see him. I resist throwing my computer across the room. He returns to his friends, rolls his eyes, makes sarcastic comments. His friends laugh, say mean things about me, he laughs. This is what he does. Doesn't matter if it's two days before the wedding or two days before my comps.

Everyone says "Oh, you need to get some sleep because you have some busy days ahead." That'd be nice and all if the boy wasn't too busy being social butterfly in my livingroom. Yes, have another beer. There isn't a crabby bride trying to write vows so that she can sleep sitting in the next room. I swear, he gets near his friends and he reverts into a complete dumbass. Is that something I can include in the vows? Didn't think so.

Cheers to the happy couple. This may be shorter than Britney's first marriage.

We were planning on a movie and a trip to the farmer's market, but those plans were lost somewhere between the tornado warnings and glueing raffia on little clay pots (and telling my mom that she could not make jokes about the decorations and my soon-to-be last name). I called seamstresses before I realized I came from the best one. Mom comes to the rescue, whips out Grandma's old machine, and takes a size 12 dress down to a 4 in no time. Hours earlier she shows up at my door, arms full of homemade wreaths and placecards and 12 pounds of nuts and countless bags of M & M's and napkins for the punch table and baskets for the card table. And new labels to put on the pots underneath the glued on raffia. Martha Stewart watch out--my mom could kick your ass.

I've been doing laundry and getting dishes done, scanning pictures and choosing music. I've been harping on the boy to get the sound system figured out and the toilets scrubbed, only to be dominated by his family in the next few days. I must clear out the guest room, make a path from the bed to the door, barely missing desk chairs, bookcases, unused treadmills.

I'm feeling overwhelmed and exhausted, anxious and annoyed. I'm not one to make a lot of important decisions like how much punch to have on hand or who will be in charge of getting the cake on Saturday. I'm not one to enjoy being the center of attention, of having everyone ask if there's anything they can do to help. I step around piles, one bag to the ceremony site, one box with candles, another with fans and bottled water. One pile holds the wedding license and our rings, our CD of ceremony music if we ever get around to making it.

It's a sad time when you'd rather be working on your thesis. I crave a New England short story, a criticism of my grammar usage. I want to type until my fingers ache, until my head is pounding. I want one more part of my life to be finished, not just lounging around in limbo. I must remind myself it is only four days away. Four more days and life can be normal again, only with extra weight on my left hand and an even greater desire to escape. How can anyone blame what's-her-face for running away?

Part Deux

I went through my entire undergrad program and didn't find these friends. Needless to say, graduation was rather sad for me. Maybe I wouldn't ever find these friends.

In the last few months I've come to realize that graduate school has provided me with the friendships I want to last forever. As one pair drove away yesterday, I knew I would do everything in my power to keep them close. Rachel taught me that Banana Republic isn't all that terrible, among so many other things. She's a person who wouldn't have looked twice at me in high school, and I would have tried to stay away from her. She plays a mean game of tennis. Really, Jess did this so much better than my attempt, so I'll move on.

My point in all of this is the last weekend really solidified what I want, what I need in my friends and my friendships. The weekend has taught me what is important to hold onto and what sometimes needs to be let go. I was told I'm immature, that I need to grow up, and maybe letting go of old friends is the most mature thing I can do. I can't rely on wonderful memories or fart jokes to maintain a friendship. I thought there was a strong foundation to keep us up, but I realized the foundation had been crumbling for years; we just chose not to notice.

I hate endings, change. And Saturday will begin a new experience for me, but what will change? I'm days away from my wedding and counting the days until it's over. I've asked around--it's a common feeling. The stress is built up, money has become tight, annoyance takes over. But they say that happy feeling comes back just in time. I can only hope.

Life's Little Lessons

I've learned an incredible amount about living, growing up, growing apart in the last week. People aren't expected to be the same person they were when they were, oh, ten. So why is it so horrible to lose touch with the people who have known you and befriended you since you were ten?
In the last two years I've come to learn what it means to have great friends. My parents and their college friends have always been the role models, what I strived to achieve as an undergrad. The DSH group became friends through a common love of music, and for many of them, teaching. My parents and the five couples and one Carolyn have taught me over the years what true friendship is, what is worth holding onto, what needs to be let go. They have survived alcoholism, drug abuse, death. But through it all they remained as close as any group of people can be. They were the aunts and uncles I always wanted. (Yes, I had real aunts and uncles, but these were so much more fun.)

Eek! low battery. I will return to finish my deep thoughts.

$160 later I have a new phone. No camera, no caller ID. But it is a flip phone--and only $15 more than the CHEAPEST one they had. I remember my top of the line phone being $50 with service. Ach, it's an expensive lesson. Luckily, the boy managed to get my card out and put it in his, enabling me to get all my numbers off. I spent an hour putting them into my new phone. I don't know how he did it, as it must have been the only part not smashed to little pieces.