We've Moved!

If you're still interested in keeping up with my ramblings, you can keep in touch here: http://iamdiophena.wordpress.com/
Hope to see you there :)

Screw You, Dr. Agarwal.

Telling me I can't have caffeine. Or chocolate. Or mint or soda or alcohol.

And having the audacity to be right. How dare you? I suppose I'll just eat lettuce and steamed kohlrabi until my poop starts coming out green. 

And herbal tea in the morning. Excuse my while I suppress my gag reflex, just real quick.

I Am Not A Fully Functioning Adult.

So many choices to make! So little time!

Is student affairs really what I want to do with the rest of my life? Because I think so. But I also am not sure. And it makes me really nervous. 

What if I want to work in government? Or NGOs? Or research? What if I close all my doors now, when I'm only 19 for god's sake? What if what if what if? 

Also the other thing is that I am very single. I realized this most acutely when my roommate told me she saw one of the guys from next door running shirtless and I practically teared up.

Why is my life so all over the place right now? Help!

I've Been Really Into The Arctic Monkeys Of Late.

They're quite good. Of course, I tend to have a thing for British bands--and Britons in general, quite frankly. I don't know what it is. I don't think it's the accent. I can't explain it.

Devotees will remember that the first guy I ever kissed was British, so maybe that has something to do with it.

Anyway, they have this one song, "Do I Wanna Know?", and it's my latest obsession. It's about a hookup with whom the singer wants to be... Something more, I don't really know. In a relationship, I suppose. Basically, it's kind of my life right now. A hookup who you don't really want to date but still come "crawling back to" when you've "had a few," as the song puts it.

I just wish people would be more honest about their feelings. No bullshit, you know? If you like it, say something. If you don't, just don't act like you do. It's confusing and it's hard and it's not fair.

Whether or not you're having angst similar to my own, though, you should listen to the Arctic Monkeys. They are fantastic. 

Who Needs A Sense Of Humor?

Well, it's good to know that if my brains turn out to be even more pathetic than I thought, I know I look good.

Seriously. I've literally never had a guy come after me just to sleep with me before. 

He told me to give him a call if I ever wanted out of the "honors-student box."

Yeah, that's right. I scored way better than you on my SATs and now I won't sleep with you. Sorry not sorry.

I Think I Am Liz Lemon, And Not In A Cutesy Way.

I'm not like those girls who think they are Zooey Deschanel in New Girl or Rachel McAdams in all her movies ever. I don't pretend to be especially feminine or have abnormally big blue eyes or nice boobs or a weirdly husky singing voice. 

But I'm pretty sure I am Liz Lemon. I have weird poofy brown hair and few emotional ambitions and my voice gets high pitched when I'm tired and I'm weird in ways that often scare people away and I'm not usually the "fun one" and I do well in leadership roles and color coding makes me hot. 

So sue me. Highlighters are sexy, don't try to deny it. There's just something about sticky notes and an organized agenda, I don't know how to explain it but we both know what I'm talking about right now.

I love those sticky things with the different color tabs on the end for marking pages in a binder. 

I love paper clips sorted by size.

Also I love food but I don't think that's a Liz thing, I think that's a people thing. Bitches be eating kale chips all up in here but I know they secretly want this deep-fried pecora. I'm bringing these ethnic truth bombs one at a time.

Oh god, what is happening to me?

My Butt Is Humongous.

It is so big. So big. Sir Mix-a-Lot would have something to say about it, that's for sure.

I'm wearing fleece PJ pants right now and, although they fit well everywhere else, they legitimately don't cover up my whole ass and it is ridiculous. I'm basically just wearing footless thigh-highs to bed.

I refer to my butt as The Biracial Booty, and one time I told my mom that and she just looks at me open-mouthed for like ten seconds and then goes "What a thing to say!" I tell it like it is, sorry not sorry.

Because honestly, as much of a pain in the ass (hahahaha) as it can be at times, I like my butt. I like it when I put on leggings and get to admire the C-shaped outline in the mirror. I like having salespeople blatantly stare when I try on expensive jeans. I like when a cute boy walks up the stairs behind me because for once, I've got it, and I'm going to flaunt it.

I like that people immediately assume I can twerk, even though I can't even sway and clap on rhythm. 

Why does the word rhythm have so many goddamn consonants? Too many. That's capitalism for you. "Jeopardy" is destroying the spelling in this country.

I Like When Countries Insist That Their Nuclear Programs Are Peaceful.

"Nothing but peaceful", to be precise. Oh, Iran. 

When will nations learn that harboring weapons with the capacity to destroy entire populations is not really a peaceful act? I include every nation with nukes in that, not just Iran. We fear nuclear war so much that we arm ourselves in preparation for the unthinkable--in the process doing nothing more than ensuring our own destiny.

It's funny, really. Not "haha" funny but odd. It feels like one of those things that political scientists and anthropologists in a thousand years (when we coexist peacefully with the spider race) will look at and analyze and think "wow, those 20th-21st century humans were fucked up, huh?"

I mean, we are. But they're the ones in integrated suburban neighborhoods with giant spider families so I'm not really sure who wins here.

I Don't Dwell On My Race.

But it's something I think about, nonetheless.

Growing up biracial didn't seem weird to me as a kid. It wasn't something I struggled with. Not until I realized that my friends' parents were all the same race. Irish, Egyptian, Filipino--it didn't matter what it was as much as that it was something. "I'm _________," they'd say when questioned, confident of their answer.

My answer was always a long story. "How did your parents meet?" The shock registers on everyone's face. As if planes were unheard of in the '80s.

I'm embarrassed of my hair and my skin. Too light. Ambiguous. I'm embarrassed of my name. I'm embarrassed of my toe hair and my tan lines in the summer. I'm embarrassed of my claddagh ring and my rakhi bracelet.

They mark me as other. They all remind me that I am nothing--unassigned.

I am a question mark. An unchecked box on a census form.

I have to make a joke of it though. You know? If I was upset about it all the time, my world would be a much grayer place.

My white roommates think it's hilarious that I want to marry an Indian guy. "He's cute," they whisper, nudging me as we walk across campus. "And Indian! You should give him your number." I don't think they realize how scary it is to not know who you are. I don't think they realize how much I worry that, to my children, their heritage will be just a piece of trivia; nothing more than a fun fact to tell people at parties.

"But you look so white," people will say.

"You should see my mother," my children will tell them.

The word "exotic" makes me see red.

RED ALERT RED ALERT

MY CONTACT LENS IS IN BACKWARDS

IT IS VERY PAINFUL

HELP

My Roommate Just Came In To Find Me Crying On The Floor.

It was scary, she said.

In fairness to me though, I think it was probably scarier to be me today.

I am beautiful and loved. I can't forget that because that is the only remaining frayed strand between me and sanity.

I am beautiful and loved.
I am beautiful and loved.

Making Light Of Your Own Crazy Is Just A Coping Mechanism.

What do you do when you're falling apart?
What do you do when you don't even know who you are anymore, when something as simple as taking a deep breath or looking at your hands can turn into shaking uncontrollably and crying over a bottle of pills on the bathroom counter?
What do you do when no one, not even yourself, knows how to help you?
What do you do when you can't have what you need?

You make a joke about it, is what. You call yourself a crazy bitch and you put on extra makeup and you drink to forget. 

I Know Where The Vampire Myth Comes From.

I hooked up with my neighbor last night, and he's adorable and it was lovely but here's thing thing:

He was like super drunk and a bit over-zealous and I have hickeys the size of eggs on my neck. And literally last night he was like latched on and I remember thinking "dear God, he's going to bite me and suck out all my goddamn blood and this is it and I have no way of warning my roommates that we live next door to vampires."

And I mean, obviously that's not what happened because I'm here wearing a puffy scarf and lots of makeup and banging away on my keyboard and fully alive and I have all my blood and stuff.

But like I was genuinely worried for a second. Of course, I was also a little tipsy so that might have been part of it. Whoops. 

That Awkward Moment When...

... you're discussing your waning fertility with your roommates and one of their mothers comes out of the bathroom and looks at you like you're a fucking lunatic.

I Am So Alone.

I am so alone.

I am myself only. I am the myself whom I want to be. I have no one whose everyday is defined by my love for them, nor their love for me. I have no partner.

I was never very good at group work anyway.

I am self-reliant. I am independent. I am proud of myself. I love myself more than I have in a very long time.

But I'm still a little lonely.

I Make It A Point To Use The Bathroom Everywhere I Go.

Well, those are both exaggerations. I don't do it deliberately, I just struggle with incontinence. And it's not literally everywhere I go, just most places.

Basically, the title of this post should just be "I Pee Early and Often." 

I'm writing this post in my friend's apartment bathroom.

No joke.

I have a problem.

I Just Have To Write This Down So That I Don't Forget.

Today I am making an obscene amount of pasta for dinner. I am going to eat some of it with sauce on it.

Tomorrow, I will stir fry some of the leftover pasta with garlic, peppers, olive oil, and spinach (if I can get some). Then I will top it with cheese and eat it.

On the third day, I am going to bake what is left of it in a brownie pan with a shit ton of cheese and sauce and Italian motherfucking spices, and then I will eat that for a few days until it is gone.

If there is pasta left, I will donate it to the cause of Hungry Athletic Roommate, which I support on a regular basis. Don't tell me I'm not charitable.

This Is The Last Night.

I promise, dear Tummy Paunch. This is the last night that I sleep with a bag of chocolate chips within arms reach.

It's just that breakups are hard. They're really hard.

And getting dumped sucks. I've never gotten dumped before. I didn't realize how awful I'd feel. Like, totally alone. Totally worthless. I feel terrible for having ever done this to a guy.

I don't know. I've been, like, left before, but it was so much different to be told straight up that it was over. Kind of a shock, even though I knew it was coming.

And then of course I spent all day scoping out rebounds around campus. Literally every guy I saw, I was like assessing physical traits and potential personality hangups. Even my friends. My poor friends. I was treating them like meat. It was disgusting.

I'm kind of an emotional wreck.

But you know what they say. You know. Three's the magic number. Saturday night we broke up, so I'm allowed to have chocolate. Last night was, if possible, even worse--so I tucked the chocolate into my sheets for easy access and carried on.

Tonight is lucky number three, and I'm alone and sad and I've realized how long it might be before anyone shows any kind of interest in me again. So I'm allowed to have chocolate. It's the last night, though.

I promise.

An Open Letter To My Suddenly-Ex.

I saw that you called, but I don’t think I can really talk to you right now. I need some time to figure myself out.

You need to understand that our relationship meant a lot to me. It was my first real relationship, it was half my life for an entire year. I honestly love you and care about you.

I understand that it wasn’t working because of the distance. I understand why we broke up, and I accept it. However, because of how much it meant to me, I need a little time to grieve and a little time to figure out who I am without you.

I really do want to be your friend, but right now talking to you is too painful for me. I will get in touch with you as soon as I feel ready, but please do not try to call or text me before that.

I hope you understand.

Multiracial People Love Each Other So Goddamn Much.

It's like being part of a really angsty cult.

So this blog I follow on Tumblr is all about feminism and race, and it's super interesting. It's called Women of Color, In Solidarity. Anyway, I decided to submit a question anonymously, just because it's something I always struggle with and always wonder how other people deal with it. Here's my question.

And here's the response I got.

UGH THE ETHNICITY GUESSING GAME IS THE WORST and for some reason people just don’t seem to get it. *internet hugs*

This is something I struggle with a lot, especially because people think that an appropriate way to start a conversation when they’ve just met me is with, "Hi! What are you? Where are you from? No, I mean where are youfrom. That’s so cool, I want mixed babies! They are the cutest! Oh, by the way, what’s your name?” I find that most people get offended because they feel like it’s a Constitutional Right or something to do shit like that. 

And to be honest, I haven’t really found a way to tell people to fuck off without using the words “fuck off” or some combination of that. It’s usually easier if I’m in a club or whatever with people I’m never going to see again to just give them a look and walk away, but with people I have to interact with on a usual basis (fellow students, professors, friends of friends, etc.) it’s been harder. Usually I just suffer through the ignorance with a tight smile and snarky comments. 

Maybe this is something we can both try? Just ask, “why does it matter?” and change the topic (or walking away). Or telling them things like, “it’s really none of your business,” “my heritage doesn’t concern you,” “my heritage doesn’t have anything to do with this conversation,” “your questions make me uncomfortable, so stop,” or anything like that. I think the best course of action is just to be blunt and forceful, if you can, and don’t bother responding to their antics. I honestly don’t think you should have to be respectful when asserting your right to be treated like a human and not like the world’s greatest mystery. 

I hope this helps, if anyone else has better suggestions, please let us know! 

- Jennifer

Literally no joke. Internet hugs.

Most of the time being ambiguously ethnic sucks. It's times like these that make it worthwhile.

Literally So Fucking Ironic I Can't Even.

This popped up on my computer a few days ago--I put it on Tumblr but only just got around to posting it here as well.

Current self esteem count:              0

Here Comes A Harry Potter Reference.

Legilimency and Occlumency are, I think, a huge game of cat and mouse which in essence equals psychotherapy in the Muggle world.

What makes me think this is just that I had my first meeting with a new therapist today. (I've had some bad experiences, and so for the first half of the meeting I sat cross-legged on her couch wearing a skirt and a skeptical expression--it wasn't until we began to talk about my relationships with my family that I opened up. I cried about my sister for a while and folded a series of damp tissues into identical white triangles and left her office an hour later clutching them tightly.) And we connected and she helped me a lot already, and I'm looking forward to meeting with her again. But here's where this all reminds me of Legilimency and Occlumency.

Remember in the Order of the Phoenix when Snape gives Harry Occlumency lessons? Basically what it is is them sitting in a room and Snape trying to read Harry's thoughts and Harry being a stubborn, angsty teenage asshole and trying to hide them but also being really shitty at it because he is so goddamn angsty.

And then afterward Harry's defenses are always low, and it's easier for him to have nightmares and dwell on the bad stuff because it's all been dragged to the surface again.

I was going to spell out how this is like therapy but it's pretty obvious. And also I just realized that I am exhausted. Goodnight, Internet.

Saw This on Tumblr, Started Crying, Am Now Posting It Everywhere I Possibly Can.

“Excuse me while I throw this down, I’m old and cranky and tired of hearing the idiocy repeated by people who ought to know better.

Real women do not have curves. Real women do not look like just one thing.

Real women have curves, and not. They are tall, and not. They are brown-skinned, and olive-skinned, and not. They have small breasts, and big ones, and no breasts whatsoever.

Real women start their lives as baby girls. And as baby boys. And as babies of indeterminate biological sex whose bodies terrify their doctors and families into making all kinds of very sudden decisions.

Real women have big hands and small hands and long elegant fingers and short stubby fingers and manicures and broken nails with dirt under them.

Real women have armpit hair and leg hair and pubic hair and facial hair and chest hair and sexy moustaches and full, luxuriant beards. Real women have none of these things, spontaneously or as the result of intentional change. Real women are bald as eggs, by chance and by choice and by chemo. Real women have hair so long they can sit on it. Real women wear wigs and weaves and extensions and kufi and do-rags and hairnets and hijab and headscarves and hats and yarmulkes and textured rubber swim caps with the plastic flowers on the sides.

Real women wear high heels and skirts. Or not.

Real women are feminine and smell good and they are masculine and smell good and they are androgynous and smell good, except when they don’t smell so good, but that can be changed if desired because real women change stuff when they want to.

Real women have ovaries. Unless they don’t, and sometimes they don’t because they were born that way and sometimes they don’t because they had to have their ovaries removed. Real women have uteruses, unless they don’t, see above. Real women have vaginas and clitorises and XX sex chromosomes and high estrogen levels, they ovulate and menstruate and can get pregnant and have babies. Except sometimes not, for a rather spectacular array of reasons both spontaneous and induced.

Real women are fat. And thin. And both, and neither, and otherwise. Doesn’t make them any less real.

There is a phrase I wish I could engrave upon the hearts of every single person, everywhere in the world, and it is this sentence which comes from the genius lips of the grand and eloquent Mr. Glenn Marla: There is no wrong way to have a body.

I’m going to say it again because it’s important: There is no wrong way to have a body.

And if your moral compass points in any way, shape, or form to equality, you need to get this through your thick skull and stop with the “real women are like such-and-so” crap.

You are not the authority on what “real” human beings are, and who qualifies as “real” and on what basis. All human beings are real.

Yes, I know you’re tired of feeling disenfranchised. It is a tiresome and loathsome thing to be and to feel. But the tit-for-tat disenfranchisement of others is not going to solve that problem. Solidarity has to start somewhere and it might as well be with you and me.” 

-- Hanne Blank

I Just Think This GIF Belongs In More Places On The Interwebs.

Also this woman is everything that humans should ever strive to be on this earth, the end.

(Acceptable other idols include Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, Hillary Clinton, and Beyonce.)

I Think Werewolves Were Invented As An Explanation for Why Some Ladies PMS So Hard.

And why their husbands and boyfriends also get grumpy during That Time Of The Month. (Your lady keeps slaughtering wild animals by hand and you're not getting any. No one wins here.)

What cracks me up most is in Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince (the movie) when they're all at the Weasleys' and then as Tonks and Lupin are leaving Tonks looks up all mystically and says "the first night of the cycle's always the worst" 

and I'm like

Is This How My Parents Feel When I Dress Up In Tie-Dye and Peace Signs?

When people label clothing from the '90s as vintage, it makes me so uncomfortable.

Like, what the hell. No it's not. Shut up.

I don't care how silly side ponytails and primary colored leggings look in 2013. When '90s fashion-irony has completely lost its luster, we can use the word vintage. Until then it's inaccurate. And scary.

Word Vomit is Like Nine Times Better Than Regular Vomit.

I'm home, I'm home, I'm home I'm home I'm home.

And that means I get to eat spicy vegetarian meatballs and gluten-free spaghetti all I want!

I think that to the gluten-tolerant and carnivorous of you that might sound like a disgusting adulteration of a classic, but I promise you. It's delicious. And I don't have a tummyache and I didn't participate in the mindless torture and slaughter of innocent creatures. Yesssss. Win-win.

Also I have a new friend and I'm obsessed with her. Obsessed. 

Also also, I finally met my boyfriend's entire family--like sixty of them, no joke. It was incredibly difficult to remember all of their names, but apparently I made a good impression, despite the fact that while breaking it down on the dance floor I threw an elbow and took out my boyfriend's ten-year-old cousin. We all have flaws. Mine is too much enthusiasm in the Electric Slide. Whatever. 

Eric called me today, since he went home with his parents, to inform me that his mom liked me--which is really what I was nervous about. And it's weird because I can't figure out whether he wanted me to get along with her or not. But anyway, he said that they all liked me so much that now if we break up, they'd probably all never talk to him again.

My plan is working. Bwahahaha.

Just kidding.

Mostly.

I Want To Get Married. I Don't Want a Wedding.

Which, devotees may remember, is a complete one-eighty from a few months ago. A one-eighty on both counts.

I know I've always been a commitment-phobe, as far as relationships go, which explains the aforementioned aversion to marriage. But I can't really explain why I wanted a wedding so badly before. 

Maybe it was the glitz of it? Or the temptation I found in the idea of being completely in charge of putting an event together? 

But having just come back from the first wedding I have attended as an adult, I find my opinions turned around completely. 

On the one had, I am so inspired by the love and loyalty I witnessed today. So inspired. Beyond words. Not even love and loyalty by the bride and groom--more by the older couples, aunts and uncles and grandparents and neighbors, whom each seemed to privately relive their own wedding days as they danced  back and forth.

Weddings themselves, though. The idea suddenly disgusts me. It seems self-indulgent, silly. Superfluous. 

Love--the real kind, the kind which I didn't believe existed until today--shouldn't be about the party. Weddings shouldn't be stressful or scary, or about anything really except love and the two people getting married. 

I don't often do this, but I'm going to whip out the Bible here to back me up. A passage which is so often used at weddings--1 Corinthians 13:4-7--really strike a chord with me today. "Love is patient, love is kind.... It does not boast, it is not proud."

This passage was read at the wedding today. And then we proceeded out to an incredibly lavish reception wherein the wedding party and close friends proceeded to get Absolutely Wasted.

I don't know. It just felt like there were too many people, too many things--as happy as I am for the bride and groom, it wasn't about them by the end of the night.

I don't know. I think I learned a lot about love tonight. Need more time to process. Stay tuned.

I Have Become Accustomed To Crying Myself To Sleep.

It usually takes only about 45 minutes, and it's exhausting and effective.

I'm not sure why it is. Usually, the feeling of deep despair sets in around 10:00. Then I fiddle around for a while because I know that if I try to go to sleep I'll end up having a panic attack. When I decide that it's bedtime--usually around 11:00--I tuck in with my audiobook and take some deep meditative breaths. I text my boyfriend goodnight, turn over to face the door, and allow the hot drip of tears to make patting sounds on my pillow.

I think it's time to renew the once-abandoned search for a decent therapist.

The Pinterest People Have A Ridiculous Sense of Humor.

Seriously.

This is their graphic for demonstrating what secret boards do.

I kid you not. 

"hawt pics of Gandalf" is their example of a secret board. Here's the evidence, if you don't already believe me.

Trolls.

Mixed-Race Heritage Should Not Be A Big Deal Anymore.

It is not 1953. The fact that two people who are of different ethnicities dare to have sex with each other and produce offspring which--gasp--does not subscribe to one of society's preconceptions of race should not stun anyone.

And yet, mixed-race people are a big deal. Whenever someone finds out that one is mixed-race it's like this fascinating topic of conversation that people (for whatever reason) can't shy away from. I don't get it. As a mixed-race person who knows all of this from personal experience, I'm going to go ahead and say that the main benefit of having to daily be a part of these interactions is getting to watch my white friends navigate this topic. They tread so carefully, but eventually they end up with both feet halfway down their esophagus.

"But you're, like, basically white, right?"

And I could go on for hours about how insulting all of it is. And I could write pages about my personal experiences and my own struggles with being an multiethic* individual in an incredibly categorized world. And I have no doubt that eventually you, reader, are going to be subjected to that.

But today, we're going to talk about something else. Today, we're going to talk about the ignorance involved with emphasizing a person's mixed heritage as their main identifying characteristic--or worse, a piece of trivia.

This whole post was sparked by a Buzzfeed article--this one, to be specific. It is entitled "34 Celebrities You Never Knew Were Of Mixed Heritage".

Let's talk about how the entire attitude of this article was surprise at the heritage of these celebrities. "What? They're not white? But they seemed so normal!" What this entire article does, in fact, is label these people as "other" in any way that it can. By emphasizing the non-white part of these people's background, the article represents entrenched ideals of white being normal, beautiful, and acceptable, while others are at best exotic and at worst repulsive.

And honestly, here's the kicker for me: Why does it matter? The article does not open a dialogue about mixed heritage or talk about the history of the topic; it only points a finger at individuals whose ethnicity is the least of anyone's concern. Let's be honest. These are celebrities. They are incredibly talented (mostly) and rich and famous. We care a lot more about who they're dating than where their ancestors came from.

Which is really the point, isn't it? This is just a piece of trivia. The author of the article probably did it because he had a deadline to meet and a slot to fill. And really, this is sadder: We make a big deal out of it because it's "interesting" for a moment, and then it falls by the wayside because really no one cares about these people's identity as much as they care about their IMDB page.

And there's no way to fix this. There isn't. Because we can't treat mixed-race people with the respect they deserve until we are treating every race with the respect they deserve. And God knows I wish we did. But it won't be until each race is treated equally that we can accept multiethnic people as anything other than oddities and statistics and curious exhibits of human genetics.

And maybe it won't even be then.



________________________________________

*It's 2013. Multiethnic is a word now. Spellcheck, you ignorant slut.

Again? Really? Have Some Goddamn Empathy.

It's not fair for you to treat me like shit.

It's not fair for you to forget that I have friends and a life and then to get angry and jealous when you remember that I do.

It's not fair for you to complain and complain when you're sick but when I'm sick you make fun of me for needing an inhaler and don't bother to make sure I'm okay.

It's not fair. It's not fair. And I'm tired and I miss you. I miss the way you used to look at me. I miss when you wanted to talk to me all day every day. I miss when you respected me and I miss when I used to think that you missed me when we were apart.

And I fully acknowledge that my moods are far too easily swayed by yours, but I wish you weren't so narcissistic that my smile can't help bring you out of a funk.

Oh, and "I forget sometimes" is not an acceptable excuse as to why you didn't call. Not when you call me every stinking day. Not when we live seven hours apart.

Get your shit together or fuck off.

It's 8:09 AM.

Which is weird, because it feels later.

When you wake up at 5:00 AM, wishing people good morning seems wrong by about 7:30. It feels like it shouldn't be morning anymore. The day has begun! Up and at 'em, lazy bones!

So when I found myself on a bridge at 6:15 greeting people who were arriving on campus for our program, it didn't take me long to get totally confused.

I Un-Painted My Nails.

I don't think my nails have been not painted in years. Genuinely years. It's been so long that the flesh under my fingernails is pale and white and looks like it has never seen the sun, ever.

Also there are traces of blue paint in my nail beds because I'm not used to having to clear my nails off entirely--normally I just paint a darker color over it if there are bits left. 

This is a big day for me.

People Are Just Too Nice.

I am in a really terrible mood.

I have been running a low-grade fever for two days and working through it. I am exhausted. I am lonely and this job--my favorite thing in the world right now--is almost over. 

And I confessed all of this to a fried of mine tonight in a moment of weakness, and he was really great and supportive and huggy, which was great and helped a lot. 

And then I came home to this. 

The caption reads: "Helen! Eat, enjoy and be AWESOME".

I don't know for sure who left it, whether it was to friend to whom I had complained earlier or someone else who just happens to know how rough this day has been for me. But regardless, I am just so grateful. I am so lucky to have people in my life who care about me so much. So blessed. I don't even know what else to say. 

Every Time I Get Sick, I Start To Worry About Bedsores.

Genuinely, sometimes I will go to the bathroom and sit on the toilet until my legs fall asleep just so that I'm not laying in bed. 

And like honestly I'm sure this springs from an incredibly lacking and misguided knowledge of said bedsores--I have no idea what they look like or how long it takes to get them or, to be honest, what they really are beyond a vague definition that my mother gave me once.

But inevitably every time I'm sick for more than a day or two I start to worry that my flesh is going to decay around my back and sides. I have nightmares, I wake up in a cold sweat and urgently run my hands everywhere I can reach to make sure my body is still intact. It's scary.

Not to mention the fact that I don't get sick often, so when I'm sick for more than a few days it's really bad and I tend to get really depressed and emotional and hallucinate frequently. And I sleep with a digital thermometer under my pillow. Thank god it is digital, or I'm sure I'd end up with mercury poisoning.

And I slept for like six hours today in addition to about eight hours last night, so I'm probably going to have to take NyQuil again to fall asleep. Which isn't bad, I probably need it anyway, I just get so bored. It's not really fun to only be awake seven hours out of twenty-four.

Here's The Difference Between My Sister And Me.

The way I see myself is kind of a lot like Liz Lemon from 30 Rock. 

The way she sees herself is a lot like That Skinny Chick In Every Beer Commercial Ever.

No wonder we don't get along.

It's Just Kind of Funny.

Something clicked in me, finally, I think. I'm not sure what, or when, but I feel different. A lot of that was this summer and this job. I don't know. This sounds so beyond corny, but I feel like I've sort of blossomed.

It helps that every morning I look in the mirror and find a new appreciation for adulthood. And a new appreciation for being done with puberty. Honestly though. I think I finally know what being an adult feels like. 

Growing up is like a roller coaster, right? Except not in the cliche sense, like ups and downs. I mean like in how fast it goes. Click, click, click--sometimes it feels like it's dragging on and all you want is to be at the top and be able to see what lies ahead. And then when you get there the view is only beautiful for a second, because all of a sudden it's rushing by incredibly fast and you barely have time to make sure that you're strapped in let alone enjoy it.

Adulthood, I imagine, is more like a merry-go-round. You're moving along at the same speed, but it looks faster or slower depending on what you're doing, and as you go around and around small things change but mostly everything is the same over and over again and the only way to keep it interesting and fun is to make it so yourself.

I don't know. That's my theory. I'll let you know how it pans out.

Sweet Caroline

As of about a week ago, I realized that Boston is my home. Not just in a "I live there" kind of way--I am a Bostonian. The city and I will be celebrating our first anniversary soon and I could not be happier to call such an incredible place my own.

Love that dirty water.

"I Just Love What A Strong Woman You Are."

I honestly, honestly, honestly have never been more flattered by anything anyone has ever said to me.

One of my friends at work was chatting with me, and somehow we got onto the topic of last names and maiden names and I mentioned how I won't give up mine and he just looks at me and spits this out.

And I could not imagine a better compliment from anyone. Whether it's in context or out of it, he was so genuine about it and I was so grateful. I'd sooner be a strong woman than funny or pretty or stylish, and I don't know how to express to him how flattered I was. All I can hope is that maybe he'll read this. Which he won't, but you know. A strong woman can dream.

This Is My Thing About The Word Feminism.

The term "sexist", much like the term "racist", is neutral in it's etymology. Sex and race in and of themselves are unbiased terms, but their respective "ism"s have come to represent systematic disenfranchisement of a particular subset.

Feminism as a word places the emphasis on revaluing one such subset--namely women in a male-oriented world. However, the way in which this is done is up to interpretation. Historically and somewhat stereotypically, the word feminism indicates female empowerment to the point of disenfranchising men.

In my own interpretation though, feminism values women exactly as much as our society has always valued men. Feminism is a synonym for gender equality because it by definition values women but on it's own does not devalue any other group.

Sometimes I Wish I Was Pregnant, But Not For The Reason You Think.

I get really awful bloating and food babies--like, huge. So if I was pregnant, instead of trying to suck it in and walk around looking like a Victoria's Secret Angel, I could just let it all hang out and pretend to be a good four months further along than I actually was.

Also my food baby and my regular baby could be friends in the womb. 

Insomnia Song

All I ever wanted 

Is a hard boiled egg

All I ever wanted 

Maybe with some pepper and salt

All I ever wanted 

Wanted

Wanted

Wanted

There's a mosquito

Trapped under my sheets

It's biting my legs

Like I'm it's raw meat

If I went bald tomorrow

I'd get a feather wig

I'd rock out really hard

Wig rhymes with pig

I'm writing this song

Because I can't sleep

I hate everything

Fuck this goddamn heat

If I had a snuggle buddy

Here's what I'd do

Punch them in the face

"It's too hot to snuggle with you"

Boston is the worst

Because of the weather

As soon as I'm done with school

I'm moving far away forever

Now I'm getting drowsy

Finally I can rest

Unless it's still too hot

Know what's gross? Incest.

Goodnight moon

Goodnight loon

Goodnight trees

Goodnight knees

Goodnight cars

Goodnight skateboarding hooligans

In Other News:

I have a zit so big that I'm concerned it will soon start talking like that zit on that kid in that cartoon I only watched one episode of. 

Seriously, smiling is painful right now. Partly because I'm crabby, yes, but mostly because this growth on my face is stretching the skin weird. It's only a matter of time before the thing starts developing it's own gravitational pull.*

Thank god I bothered to invest in coverup. Though I'm more worried about the size of this thing than the discoloration. Is this grossing anyone out yet? It got me about two sentences ago. Ick.

__________________________

*Yes, I took high school physics, I know everything has some negligible gravitational pull and whatever. It was a joke, leave me alone. (I will also accept a pie with the words "you are fucking amazing" spelled out in blueberries on top.)

It's 1:00 am. Do You Know Where Your Children Are?

If you're my parents, have no fear; I am lying sideways in my bed for optimal fan coverage and cursing the Puritans for  picking the most temperamental climate on the entire continent as the site of the future Best City in America.

Columbus, you're an asshole. Early Pilgrims, you're all assholes. Why couldn't the Mayflower have landed in Quebec?

I Am So Domestic That Sometimes It Makes Me Want To Barf.

Seriously, guys. If I could cook and clean and sew and knit and look after kids and elderly people all day--well, I wouldn't be totally fulfilled because none of my career ambitions would be met, but I could probably go 50/50 between domestic-y stuff and a high-powered career. I can have it all!

Like honestly, I love doing stuff around my home. Cooking is great, and doing-it-myself is great. And I'm here to help you do it yourself as well. Because it's great.

This post might be totally incoherent. All I've eaten today is smoothies. Three different flavors of smoothie. One for every meal.

I'm having a passionate love affair with my blender.

Today's did-it-ourselves is a quilt. A kick-ass, handmade quilt with colors and funzies and all the things. I followed a basic how-to from another website but, like with the mac-n-cheese from last week, I kept deciding that my idea was better than the one in the tutorial and just kind of ignoring the instructions.

One day that's not going to turn out too well for me, but so far we're okay.

So for this quilt, I followed the basic instructions for a zig-zag quilt from this fabulous DIY blog. However, since a) this was going to be a wedding present and b) I am a woman of grand ambition and little forethought, I just headed to the fabric store with nothing but a general idea and a sticky note listing the material content of calico.

I bought:

• 6 yards red fabric (it ended up being cotton, calico was not on sale)
• 2 yards black fabric
• 2 yards gray fabric
• 2 yards lovely print fabric (I have no idea what material this was, but it was pretty)
• 1 queen sized piece of polyester batting (mostly because it's cheap. If you're not a college student you could probably spring for cotton.)

Also I'm an idiot and didn't take many pictures of my process, so my instructions will have to be quite detailed. I'll try, at least. Here were my first steps:

• Cut the gray, black and print fabric each in half lengthwise.
• Set aside one half of the black fabric; keep the rest.
• Order the remaining halves however you like, and set them next to each other height-wise so that they make bulky stripes. 
• Sew the bulky stripes together, then set aside the sheet you've just made.
• Divide the red fabric into three sheets of two yards each. 
• Cut one of the red sheets in half lengthwise. 
• Set aside one of the halves.
• Sew the long sides of the remaining red fabric sheets together to create a sheet the same size and shape as the striped sheet.
• Baste the quilt. I'd recommend using Katie's instructions from the blog I linked to above. Since I didn't take any pictures of my process (and this is my first quilt) I probably shouldn't be trying to teach you this.

At this point, you probably need a water break. You've most likely been working now for several hours. Maybe relieve yourself, too. Call your loved ones, make sure they're not looking for you. Quilting can be consuming.

Let's go round two!

• Sew around the edge of the basted quilt, just so that it's all together. 
• Sew along the edges of the stripes all the way through the quilt to hold everything in place.
• Take the remaining piece of black fabric and cut it in half.
• Use the halves to make borders for the short ends. Make them nice. 
• Cut the remaining piece of red fabric and cut it into thirds. 
• Sew the thirds together, then cut the entire strip in half.
• Use the halves to make borders for the long ends. Nice again, please.

Break time! Maybe make yourself some candy bars. You're probably burning calories, right? Whatever.

And on the third day, it was time to actually quilt the damn thing.

• Sew the all-over quilting pattern into the blanket! 
• I used this pattern that I saw somewhere online, but now I can't find it--I don't want to take credit for something that's not mine, but I can't think where I got it from. Regardless, there's a picture above. 
• Quilt at least five vines per wide stripe; the more the better, but if you're strapped for time five or six should do the trick.
• You're almost done! Pick off the leftover strings and snip long tails.

Hooray! You now have a lovely lovely lovely quit! Congratulations. If you're anything like me, you probably finished the thing, sat down, and proclaimed loudly that you would never make another quilt in your life. This may or may not be true, but guess what? It doesn't matter! You did it! You badass, you.

Everything Is Better With A Little Hot Pepper.

Damn straight.

So I made this mac-n-cheese today. And it is pretty damn good. 

I used a recipe, more or less--as in I tried to follow it, but then I kept laughing at the silly thing and making adjustments on my own. I've never been great at coloring inside the lines.

You can find the original recipe here, or scroll down for my own version. Adjustments include replacing a half teaspoon of nutmeg with liberal amounts of crushed chili pepper, as well as deciding that gruyere is a snobby cheese and replacing it with six month old half-frozen mozzarella. Take that, Ina Garten.

The damn casserole wasn't even an hour out of the oven when my sister took a spoon to it. Oh, the joys of being home.
______________________________________________________

Ingredients

• Kosher salt
• 1 pound whatever kind of pasta you want. No spaghetti though. Something small and chunky.
• 1 quart milk
• 6 tablespoons unsalted butter
• 1/2 cup all-purpose flour (I used gluten-free multipurpose and it worked fine)
• 3 cups shredded mozzarella cheese
• 3 cups shredded cheddar cheese
• 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
• 3/4 teaspoon crushed dried chili pepper
• 1/4 cup parmesan cheese

Directions

• Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.
• Cook the pasta. You can follow the directions on the box, but if you don't already know how to cook pasta I'm not sure mac-n-cheese should be your first project.
• Meanwhile, heat the milk in a small saucepan, but don't boil it--microwaving works too. Melt 6 tablespoons of butter in a large (4-quart) pot and add the flour. Cook over low heat for 2 minutes, stirring with a whisk. While whisking, add the hot milk and cook for a minute or two more, until thickened and smooth. Off the heat, add the cheese, 1 tablespoon salt, pepper, and chili pepper. Add the cooked pasta and stir well. Pour into a 3-quart baking dish.
• Top with parmesan cheese and perhaps some more chili pepper to taste. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes, or until the sauce is bubbly and the pasta is browned on the top.
• Notes: If I were to make it again, I'd probably reduce the butter by at least a tablespoon--just for the sake of my arteries. If you want it spicier, too, you can play around with fresh diced jalapeños or maybe chili powder. You do you.

Let's Just Set The Record Straight.

I like my body. Honestly, I do. We have our squabbles, but for the most part I am happy with it.

If I get to a point where that is not the case, I will go on a diet. I will increase my exercise regimen. I will lose weight. But that is my decision.

I don't care if you like my body. I don't care if my friends or my boyfriend or my mother or his mother like my body. As long as I am happy, I don't care.

The only two people in the world who have any right to tell me to go on a diet are myself and my doctor. Period.

I don't think I can be any clearer on that.

I Am A Pinterest Machiiiiiiiine.

Seriously, you guys, I think I have a problem. Pinterest makes me want to give up on my career aspirations and just stay home and paint things forever. And then I remember that I am smart and strong and want so much more out of my life.

But still. Pinterest.

And don't even get me started on my wedding board. Holy god. I'm already a bit of a perfectionist (which is to say I am a psychotic control freak), but imagine how that would amplify in a marriage scenario.

I feel bad for anybody I'm ever engaged to. Honestly, the poor guy barely factors into any of my plans. Maybe I'll send him to Cancun or something for the last month leading up to our hypothetical wedding day. That's what would be best, I think. For everyone involved.

I Don't Know That I've Ever Been So Frustrated By A So-Called Friend.

So I was out to dinner tonight with most of my roommates and a few of our friends when I overheard this conversation between two of my roommates.

Roomie 1: I love bacon.

Roomie 2: Me too. I could be a vegetarian if it wasn't for bacon.

Roomie 1: Same! It's just so good. 

Roomie 2: I don't get vegetarianism--like, nothing is as good as meat.

Roomie 1: It's just not as satisfying. And vegetarian food is, like, gross.

Roomie 2: I couldn't give up meat. No way.

At this point they finally both shut up long enough for me to get a word in edgewise, and I do lose my temper a little bit. "Well, you know, I care about the planet and animals and stuff, so it's really not that hard," I interject. The table goes quiet.

Roomie 1: [entirely seriously] Yeah, well, I don't.

She laughs to break the tension, and then abruptly changes the subject. 

Correct me if I'm wrong, but was it not incredibly rude of them to sit there bad-mouthing a belief system by which I set a great deal of store while I munched quietly on grilled peppers in the corner? 

And I may have overreacted. I don't expect them to convert to vegetarianism, or even to enjoy the food that I enjoy. I understand that that is an unreasonable standard. But I do expect them, as my roommates and my friends, to proffer some kind of basic respect towards me and to behave with some semblance of maturity and decency. l've met their parents, I know that they weren't raised by wolves; why do they insist on acting as if they were?

I don't know. Overall, it was an incredibly disappointing dinner. This is just the most concrete annoyance for me to latch onto.

I'm a little worried, honestly. I do not think I want to live with these girls anymore.

The Word of the Day is Hamartia.

"Hamartia: the character flaw or error of a tragic hero that leads to his downfall."

I wonder what mine will be.

My stubbornness?

My inability to say or hear the word no?

My refusal to apologize?

My difficulty expressing emotion honestly?

My fear of not being good enough?

I obsessively fear my inevitable downfall. I search for the fatal flaw within me, and in doing so tear myself apart. Perhaps that itself is the flaw: a pursuit of unattainable perfection.

Maybe I Am Five. Get At Me.

I don't know. I just don't want to be here. I don't want to hang out with them. 

Maybe it's best. Maybe I shouldn't be living with my closest friends.

Or maybe things will be better when I don't feel like I could be having the time of my life somewhere else.

Poop. This makes me sound five but I honestly just want to go home.

Is that really so much to ask?

Fireworks Remind Me of Love.

They are exciting. And sometimes there's music and lots of people and flags waving, and hours and hours of buildup. And then the sky lights up and a split second later comes a thundering noise loud enough to absolutely stop someone's heart, and cheers and whistles from the audience. And they're sort of romantic, I suppose. People like watching them and cuddling.

But the thing about fireworks is the buildup, really. They start big and beautiful and sparkly and shocking, and they continue on and the display gets bigger and sparklier. Meanwhile the audience turns to one another and says "just wait, it's going to get even better." And another explosion fills the sky and there's applause. And they say it again. "It's going to get even better." 

And eventually, it doesn't. Eventually it stops. And you're left with this feeling, expectation and anticipation that remain unfulfilled. And all that's left is smoke in the air and squiggly lines fade into a gray mass and slowly integrate into the city smog that we were, for a moment at least, able to ignore. 

All of a sudden red and white and blue don't match anymore. All of a sudden the spectacle is over and you're left feeling empty, and all you can do is walk away and act as if what you've been so excited about all this time didn't turn out to be an utter disappointment. 

There Is A Thing On My Ass.

And yesterday it itched and today it hurts, and I am fully lost as to what I should be making of this.

And I can't even inspect it because it is on my ass.

God damn. 

"Stories That Happen to Other People. That’s What Girls Are Supposed to Be."

Sometimes, it feels like I could just keep crying forever. That's how I feel now, after reading an article in the New Statesman about the Manic Pixie Dream Girl archetype and her prevalence in both the media and, to some extent, the real world.

Because reading this article--realizing that your own very life choices are defined by trying to become an archetype that you didn't even know existed is terrifying. 

The real danger is that the MPDG seems, on the surface, to the untrained eye, to be feminist in her very character. The idea that she is very much herself, speaks her mind, and has quirks and flaws make her a non-conformist and thus in theory a feminist-leaning character. But she's not, and I'm not going to explain it because honestly I can't really be any more eloquent than Laurie Penny is in her description.

I see the MPDG very much in myself. The part that gets me, though, is that this is deliberate on my part. After an awkward, solitary, and tomboyish childhood, my fifteenth year brought drastic change to my personality and an attempt to distance myself from who I had been in middle school. I began to wear skirts and paint my nails, exchanged almost my entire wardrobe for a new collection in frilly pastel fabrics. I've always been quirky, but characters like Amy Pond and every character Zooey Deschanel has ever played suddenly held a new attraction for me. I emulated them as much as I could manage. It wasn't hard, of course: like the author of the piece, "I remain a small, friendly, excitable person who wears witchy colors and has a tendency towards the twee." In many ways, this is who I am and I have no desire to change that.

But I know that I am going through another change, and sitting here reading the article I could feel more of my fascination with this archetype draining away. Because it is true: I am not MPDG. I am myself--I have real flaws that are not just adorable quirks. I have real thoughts and feelings. I am an adult woman in a lot of ways.

Of course, I am also still a child. And I don't have to grow up yet--I know that. But I am in an awkward in-between place. A place where frilly skirts and silly quirks are still very much how I define myself, but a place where suddenly twee is a word I disassociate with. I know that the time is coming when I will have to be an adult, be my own story. And I am motivated by the fear that remaining stationary will cause my story to end up being about someone else. 

I have decisions to make.