Travels with George

Troop, one of my friends in my freshman dorm, had come to college equipped with a life-size cardboard cut-out of then-President George W. Bush. We loved having President Bush among us and would often stop by Troop’s room to good-naturedly accessorize the cut-out with a variety of hats and scarves (obviously, there was not much to do on campus).

My roommate and I decided one Wednesday evening that Mr. President would probably enjoy a little fresh air after being stuck in a boy’s dorm room for weeks. We accordingly donned black jackets and sunglasses, liberated Mr. Bush from Troop’s room while he was elsewhere, and escorted the President to all the sights around campus, bringing along a camera to record the memories.

We thoroughly enjoyed our time with Mr. Bush and returned to our dorm flushed and happy with our travels and pictures. We went to return Mr. Bush to Troop’s room and found it locked. On the door was a note addressed to the “kidnappers,” stating that Troop had left for a long weekend, and would we please return the president to his rightful place on Monday. Thus began our descent into madness.

Our dorm rooms, like most dorm rooms, were tiny. Ours was also incredibly cluttered (the result of two “creative” types living in the same small space). The only place to put President Bush where he wouldn’t get crushed by an errant backpack or load of laundry was at the foot of my roommate’s bed. We set up Mr. Bush lovingly, laughed about being stuck with him all weekend, and went to bed.

I woke up early the next morning to my roommate screaming her lungs out. It seems she’d forgotten about Mr. Bush and, upon waking, mistook the man-figure looming over her as a rapist/murderer. I leapt out of bed, disoriented but ready to either tackle the intruder or flee, ran straight into our mini-fridge, and broke my toe. I started yelling incoherently, which further confused the situation.

I’m sorry to say it took longer than 30 seconds to sort ourselves out, and by that time, we had drawn the attention of the Resident Assistant of our dorm, every other person living within shouting distance, and the campus police.

We were given a warning for “being loud.”

We were also stuck with Mr. Bush, the author of the disaster, for another three days.

By the time we returned him, my toe had swollen to epic proportions, I could barely hobble to my classes, and my roommate had suffered a near psychological breakdown from the President’s stance at the foot of her bed.

She is a staunch democrat to this day.

Holiday Traditions

It's that time of year again.

The Holiday Season.

I enjoy everything about Thanksgiving and Christmas. I love cooking and baking, buying and wrapping gifts, putting up a Christmas tree, and forcing my husband outside in brutal sub-sixty temperatures to put up Christmas lights (shut up, we live in Texas).

I especially love seeing my family. I have the best family in the world. My parents have always been super-awesome, supportive through a variety of self-induced crises, and loving. My brothers are not nearly as annoying now as they were ten years ago and are actually pretty fun to hang out with. I love sitting around with everyone, swapping stories and debating on various religious and political topics (yeah, we do that).

There is only one thing to mar the season.

My mom, bless her heart, firmly believes that neither one of my brothers have the wherewithal to get themselves food. This is despite conclusive evidence to the contrary - namely, that both my brothers have survived for several years on their own and have managed to not starve to death - and my persuasive arguments that they both probably have to find food for themselves at some point every single day.

And yet, every year, as soon as either one of them expresses feeling peckish, my mom will find me, wherever I am, no matter what I am doing, and helpfully suggest that I make them sandwiches.

"Mom," I say, laughing, "I'm right in the middle of this [nap, show, book, drawing, game, mid-afternoon jog], I think they can probably handle it themselves."

"Well, I just don't want them to be hungry," she frets. "Maybe you could just make them a little plate of turkey and dressing?"

"Mom, I'm sure if they are hungry enough, they will pause the football game, get off of the couch, and find something to eat."

"Well, I don't know...."

"Mom, they are both grown-ups. In their twenties. They managed to graduate college. I'm sure they can handle a sandwich."

It goes without saying that I have yet to win this argument and have spent the past several years providing my brothers with snack plates whenever they feel like it. For two weeks out of the year, they live like kings, ordering up whatever strikes their fancy and getting it delivered straight to the couch.

I'll bet they look forward to the holidays even more than I do.

Hurdles

I went to a very, very small school from third grade through graduation.

One of the advantages was that, if you were at all athletically inclined (or if your parents at all wanted you to be), you could definitely play any sport you wanted to. Even if you really weren’t that good at it. At all. Which is how I ended up on the track team at the end of my junior year.

There were about ten of us on the team, and all of us were forced (sorry, encouraged) to compete in multiple events. We would give up our afternoons to train during the week, then give up Saturdays to go a track meet with all the other sad track kids from the other smalls schools in our area.

Needless to say, I was less than thrilled about it.

First of all, I was not much of a runner. I am not built to run - I have thick legs and wide, child-bearing hips. Also, I didn’t like to sweat much and definitely did not give 110% during practice. I was averaging 40-73%, on a good day. It wasn’t completely my fault: I had broken my ankle during junior high, and, since I neglected to complete my physical therapy, running for more than about ten minutes caused an extravagantly painful stabbing sensation that originated in my ankle and travelled the length of my leg. The only track event I competed in with any degree of skill was carbo-loading on Friday nights.

Nevertheless, for some bizarre reason, my track coach looked at my stumpy little body and bum ankle and thought “hurdler.” I suspect now that he was just as out of his depth as the rest of us were.

I sucked at the hurdles. I could at least make it through the shortest hurdle distance, but not quickly, and not without leaving a trail of downed hurdles behind me. The longer hurdle distance was completely beyond me, and I would frequently end up walking the last bit of it, halfheartedly stepping over the hurdles and trying to ignore the screams of my coach. I also fell down a lot.

Unfortunately, I was still good enough in our little bush league to make it all the way to the semi-finals before the State meet. I was completely fed up with track, and dreaded qualifying for State. I was in luck, however. Another hurdler had joined our team a few weeks before, and she was actually good. She was long, lean, and flowed over the hurdles like a gazelle on crack. I felt confident that she would blow past me and knock me out of the running.

So, I wasn’t too worried as we lined up for our race. I was in the lane closest to the stands. The Gazelle was in the next lane, and there were four other runners in the race. I exploded (read: stumbled) out of my traces at the crack of the gun. The Gazelle was already three strides ahead of me and leaping effortlessly over her first hurdle. I cleared my first hurdle, counted the paces to my second, and made it over that one as well. As I pushed off to jump the third, I heard a horrible noise from the lane next to me. The Gazelle had somehow gotten her feet tangled around her fourth hurdle and gone down, also managing to take out the hurdler next to her, who skidded into the next lane and tripped up a third runner. Of the other two racers, one girl was even worse than me and was well behind the pack. The other was far better than the rest of us, had already finished the race, and was now sipping Gatorade and chatting with her coach, probably laughing at the rest of us.

As I hustled past the struggling, bleeding form of the Gazelle, it occurred to me, Hey, I might get second. Then I would go to State. I felt my legs get a little wobbly. If I made it to State, that was another three weeks of training. Another three weeks of spending every afternoon at the public high school track, missing important social events and TV shows. Another three weeks of wearing our incredibly unattractive and itchy school-supplied track shorts, which made my legs look like bloated white sausages. I could hear the Gazelle behind me, breathing hard, trying to catch up. I’m going to beat her! I thought, horrified. The finish line loomed large and threatening, too close.

So I slowed down. In defiance of everything ever taught to me by my parents or my coaches about organized sports, I let the Gazelle get past me. After I felt she was safely ahead of me, I resumed my racing speed and came across the finish line in acceptable third place. The other two girls that had fallen were still on the ground, tending to their wounds.

As our parents came out of the stands to congratulate us and hand us our sweatshirts, I felt my dad’s eyes upon me. I turned and looked into his face. He knows! I thought. My heart sank. My dad has always been a staunch advocate of doing your best, even if you hate whatever it is you are doing. I knew I had failed and would probably get a thoroughly scathing lecture on the drive home about responsibility and integrity.

But, he merely handed me my sweatshirt, smiled, and said, “You probably shouldn’t go out for track next year. You’re really pretty awful.”

Cockroaches

I hate cockroaches.

I hate cockroaches with a fervent, undying hatred usually reserved for infomercials and people who cut me off in traffic.

I hate everything about them – their shiny, smooth backs, wavy antennae, barbed little legs, and ability to appear out of nowhere when I least expect it, like a tiny, evil, insect Batman.

I can’t even kill them without going through an elaborate “icky dance,” which involves a lot of high-pitched shrieking, shuddering, and spastic waving of hands. I have been known to “quarantine” a cockroach and wait for my husband and/or one of the cats to take care of it rather than trying to smoosh it myself.

I haaaaaaaate them.

I went to college in South Carolina, where they have the mother of all cockroaches, the palmetto bug. These are not like the tame Texas roaches I encountered growing up that scuttle away as soon as a light hits them. No, these are humongous, aggressive, flying cockroaches that are unfazed by flipping on the lights and/or hysterical screaming. They are also virtually indestructible. I once saw one survive multiple direct hits with a Doc Martin, a dousing with Raid, and a trip down the toilet.

My sophomore dorm was infested with these unsavory creatures.

So, one night when I had the room to myself, I was taking a relaxing hot shower after hitting the gym. I was washing my hair, not really thinking about anything, just peaceably enjoying my shower, when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned slowly, hands still in my sudsy hair. There, sitting daintily astride the shower curtain rod, was a palmetto bug the size of a kitten.

I froze. My heart lurched in alarm. The bug rearranged itself slowly, carefully lifting and placing one leg at a time. Adrenaline surged through my system. I developed tunnel vision, laser-focusing on the rotating bug. It stopped turning when it was looking directly at me. We studied each other for enough time for several species to evolve and go extinct. I read malevolent purpose in its beady little eyes. Then, IT FLEW DIRECTLY AT MY FACE.

I totally lost it. I started screaming incoherently, ripping down the shower curtain in my haste to get out of the bathroom. I charged into my room, shuddering and flapping my hands, yelling “KILL IT KILL IT KILL IT KILL IT KILL IT!”

And that’s when I noticed that my roommate had come home and that she had her boyfriend over. Moreover, I had neglected to grab my robe in my speedy exit from the bathroom. I hesitated, my fear of cockroaches vying for supremacy with my fear of being naked in front of others. I compromised by diving into the closet.

My roommate’s boyfriend, being a gentleman, was kind enough to hunt down the roach in the bathroom, kill it, and retrieve my robe, albeit while laughing hysterically.

And that’s how my roommate’s boyfriend saw me naked.

Responsibility

I’ve declared this next year as “The Year I Finally Grow Up and Start Acting Like a Responsible Adult.”

It started after I quit my awful job and suddenly had lots of free time while I looked for other employment. I was tooling around the house one day, eating Cheetos straight out of the bag and playing Oblivion, while waiting to hear something from the thirty companies I’d contacted earlier in the week. I hadn’t bothered to shower or get dressed, and was covered in a combination of cat hair, Cheeto dust, and sleep sweat. The house was an absolute wreck – I hadn’t vacuumed in months, all of our dishes were dirty and complexly stacked in our sink, and there was something growing out of our toilet that had me seriously considering digging a privy pit in the backyard rather than facing it again.

I got up to go rummage in the pantry after I’d finished off the Cheetos. On my way to the pantry, I passed a pile of dry cleaning that I’d picked up in a fit of responsibility rather more than two weeks ago. Why is that still there? I thought as I glared down at it. Why has nobody put that away?

And then it struck me. This is MY house. Nobody is following me around and picking up after me (my husband being off the hook as he has an actual job). This was so revolutionary to me that I immediately called my mother:

“Mom! I get it! Nobody’s picking up after me anymore!”

“Sweetie, I feel like I failed a little bit as a mother if you just realized this today. We worked on that for fifteen years while you lived at home.”

“But I GET it now!”

“How are those job applications coming?”

Spurred my new understanding of how the domestic world works, I immediately tackled the dishes in the sink. After that, I dragged the vacuum out. It nearly gave two of my cats heart attacks, as, though we adopted them months ago, they had not been with us long enough to have witnessed a vacuuming. Finally, armed with a scrub brush and a homemade hazmat suit, I attacked both bathrooms. It was a vicious battle, but I emerged victorious and without contracting cholera.

When I was done, I was filthy, tired, and sneezing uncontrollably from all the dust I kicked up, but the house sparkled. I then turned my attention to myself. I showered, taking the time to both wash my hair and shave my legs. After my shower, I plucked my eyebrows and put on makeup. Full makeup. Even though I wasn’t going anywhere. Then, instead of my fleece penguin pajama pants, I opted for jeans and a tasteful t-shirt.

I emerged from my bedroom. I felt my animals looking up to me with a newfound respect. I spent the rest of the afternoon doing adult things like menu planning, paying bills, and organizing closets. I imagined my husband coming home, gasping in shock, and immediately sweeping me off my feet to either a romantic dinner or an evening of shoe shopping, all while weeping tears of gratitude that we no longer had to live in our own filth and that his wife actually owns real pants.

And then a week later, we were back to square one. Wait, I thought, the full horror of the situation slowly dawning on me, I have to keep doing this? Every single week? Every single day?

It turns out that being a responsible adult is not something that can be accomplished in one cleaning and personal hygiene session, however epic. But, I will not lay down my burden, as I am entirely too old to go back to living like a freshman dude in his first apartment. I am determined to conquer domesticity and dressing like an adult.

Just as soon as I finish these Cheetos and hit level 10.

Unfunny

I desperately want to be funny. Like make people spray milk outta their nose funny, like that one time in fifth grade when Kevin decided to start calling my (really skinny) friend Laurie "Lard" instead, and she got so enraged she upended a picnic table and launched a barrage of cold, half-congealed pizza at anyone even remotely connected to the scene. She was glorious, mighty in her outrage, long brownish-blond hair whipping dramatically in the wind, skirt riding up a little too high as she struck down her tormentors like an avenging angel sponsored by Pizza Hut, all while spewing out every obscenity she knew in powerful tones. This is funnier if you know that I went to a tiny, super-conservative Christian school.

To return to my point, I really, really want to be funny.

This is not a new development. I was the unfortunate kid in school that, once it became clear that I wasn't going to be the "pretty" one (due to a powerful convergence of genetics and a sugar addiction, I was chubby, bespectacled, and had some impressive orthodontia), I swept past the "smart" one (not cool enough) and set my sights on the "funny" one.

My early attempts at humor were cringe inducing. I drew (terrible) cartoons lampooning school policy, and then was too afraid to show anyone because I might've gotten in trouble. I practiced jokes in the mirror and forgot punchlines around my friends. I tried the usual preteen snarky sarcasm, but my mom made me do extra chores whenever she caught me sharpening my skills on my brothers.

I was trying so hard. Desperation sat on me like an oil slick. And the other kids at school could sense it. The pack turned on me and I was cut out. I was the "weird" one. It affected me in dark ways.

First off, I decided that I was completely misunderstood and unloved. To reflect this fact and ensure its veracity, I developed the most rotten, anti-social attitude ever seen in my small town. Next, I decided I was a rebel and bought a huge trench coat to wear everywhere. Even in summer. In Texas. Where it can be 100+ degrees for many, many days in a row. I'm not sure why I thought the coat would make my nonconformist position clear - I'm pretty sure people just thought I was mentally handicapped and needed the coat to feel secure in my poor addled brain. The grace note was a black newsboy hat that I covered in buttons featuring clever sayings like "meh" and super-rebellious pictures of Invader Zim.

I thought I was so dark and brooding. I pictured myself as a tortured artist, trapped in an early ennui contracted through a bourgeois small town existence. I wrote terrible poetry that I illustrated with heavy charcoal sketches (I would show, but I burned them all in a fit of retroactive shame shortly before getting married - I am sure my husband would have had second thoughts if he'd seen the fruits of my dark labors). I also sighed deeply a lot and perfected my sneer.

God bless my parents for not murdering me. When, years later, I asked my dad if they'd been worried or anything about me, he told me no, not really. He said he knew that I wouldn't have done anything really stupid out of my inordinate fear of getting caught, I liked myself too much to ever hurt myself intentionally, and that he and my mom thought it was best to get any rebellion out of my system while I still lived at home and where they could keep a close eye on me.

Plus, he said, grinning evilly, that was the funniest you've ever been.

Waiting

I am not a patient person.

There's a really dumb Time Warner commercial where the dude is talking about how much he hates waiting. At one point he's staring at a microwave menacingly with a baseball bat, as waiting for his popcorn to pop has become too much for him.

I identified with that man.

So, about a month ago, I applied for a job at a company I was very excited about possibly being a part of. I interviewed three times with five different people, all very lovely and positive experiences. And then I began what I am now calling "The Ordeal."

The first week of the Ordeal was pretty normal. I felt good about all my interviews and knew that the company would take a few days to get back to me. Their HR lady was kind enough to send me an update two days after my last interview letting me know that I could expect closure early the next week. The very next day, she sent me an apologetic email, letting me know that, due to some unexpected staff changes, the position I applied for no longer existed. There was, however, an opening for a slightly less glamourous job, and, was I interested?

After thinking about it for roughly sixteen seconds (I realllllllyyyyyyyyy wanted out of my current job at Horrible Company, Inc.) I said, why yes, I was interested. Great! she replied promptly, we can set up an interview for next Wednesday.

Ok, I thought, another interview. No big deal, it's probably just a formality, and I'm sure they can make up their minds pretty quickly. I was wrong.

The interview had to be pushed back a week because somebody selfishly went on vacation. Then the job description changed slightly and they wanted to know if I was still ok with it.

Then I finally did interview, and it was a lovely and positive experience. The interviewers assured me that I would hear from the nice HR lady soon, probably in the next couple of days.

And then, nothing. I waited a week in nervous anticipation, checking my phone and my email constantly in blatant disregard for my company's policies and procedures. It's a wonder I wasn't caught and fired immediately (I would have been ok with that). I turned into a nervous shell of a person, nibbling at my fingernails and cuticles like a rabid gerbil and slowly driving my husband insane with my nightly wonderings of what the hell was taking them so long.

Finally, I got an email. It was the HR lady! Glancing nervously over my shoulder to ensure my boss wasn't looking, I opened it. The HR lady wanted to know if I was still interested in the job and how I felt the last interview went.

Really? I thought huffily. Seriously?

I sent a (possibly too) brief reply restating that yes, yes I was still very interested and that the interview had been a lovely and positive experience.

Great! She replied. We should have some more information for you in the next couple of days.

I had a mild breakdown.

The next three days were sheer torture for me. The stress of working somewhere I didn't want to be anymore while still trying to do the best job possible, plus the infuriating and seemingly endless wait I was enduring turned me into a raving psycho bitch. My coworkers avoided me. My pets slinked away when they heard my step. The plants in our house wilted when my shadow fell on them. My husband put on his headphones and played Warcraft for hours at a time. He told me he was playing with his online buddies and had to concentrate and listen, but I know better, and do not blame him.

Finally, I got a sort-of answer. It was positive and amounted to an unofficial offer of employment. It was enough to go ahead and give my resignation letter (drawn up six months ago) to Horrible Company, Inc.

I still don't have an official offer, but the HR lady assures me I will get it early next week.

She also thanked me for my patience.

My new office will have a wall-mounted baseball bat, just in case.