The post about nothing

I’ve been sitting here for five minutes trying to think of something to blog about. Maybe I should talk about an article in the Cleveland Plain Dealer about a Kent State professor who was murdered by her autistic son. It was so powerful that it restored my faith in journalism. Maybe I should talk about my increasing paranoia about guys which is leading me to question my friend’s loyalty. Maybe I should blog about the fact that my first semester of senior year is almost finished, and reality just set in: I have no idea what I’m doing with my life.

But people don’t like to read about your depressing mundane everyday life. I can’t really make any of the above topics funny or meaningful. Which is a bit scary. Surely, there has to be some lesson in at least one of those stories? I’m sure there is but I’m too tired to care. When did I stop caring about writing? Next semester, this blog, this little unknown thing I started on a whim, will be my only outlet. No student media, no freelancing, just this. I’m taking a break so I can tackle my 18 credit hours, fill out job applications and hopefully graduate without killing myself from over exertion. I promise, in the future my blog posts will not be so self-loathing and pointless. (Consider this my freebie.) I just hope a month from now, when this is my only way to express myself, people will still be reading. It won’t be published on a Web site or on the front page of the Daily Kent Stater, but I hope it’s worth reading. It may turn out to be the best thing I’ve ever written.

I’ll have to wait and see…

On growing up

I’ve been bemoaning growing up since well, I started growing up. I’ve had plenty of opportunities to have the “Wow I’m growing up” moment, but I haven’t. I didn’t feel like a grown up when I moved into my first apartment, mainly because my parents were paying for everything. I didn’t feel like a grown up when I lived in New York for the summer. (Again, parents still paid for everything). And I definitely didn’t feel like a grown up on my 21st birthday when I did 15 shots. Grown ups don’t do stupid things like that.

I finally felt like an adult two days ago when I was at the Brian Bonz/ John Nolan/ Person L concert in Cleveland. In the 39 concerts I’ve been to, I’ve never worn ear plugs. I always mean to but I “accidentally” forget them at home every time I go to a show. One time I did bring them, but was too embarrassed to wear them. What twenty something wants to be the old party pooper in the background? However, for my 40th concert I broke out the ear plugs.  I decided I would rather look like the uncool old person then be deaf by age 30. And you know what? Ear plugs are amazing! Music actually sounds better. Not so harsh and painful. Everything just seems softer, no matter how close you stand. So what if I shouted my order at the bartender? Ear plugs rock.

The second sign I’m growing up? I brought a granola bar with me. Groundbreaking I know, but hear me out. After almost every concert I make a mandatory stop at Steak ‘N’ Shake, Wendy’s or some other fine dining establishment. Something about a greasy cheeseburger and chocolate milkshake makes the worn out-sore throat-beaten down-after-show-feeling even better. But this time, not only did I eat dinner beforehand, I brought a granola bar with me to fight off the after show hunger. And it worked.

So let’s recap: ear plugs rock and snacking is economically appropriate. I know this doesn’t sound like the typical growing up moment. But maybe that’s the point. Growing up isn’t this huge, life altering singular moment. It’s a process. And it’s scary. Terrifying really. Maybe the trick is to accept that growing up happens and all you can do is roll with the changes. And pack a pair of ear plugs and a granola bar.

Apparently I’m a realtionship blogger now

I never wanted this to be a blog about relationships, mainly because I don’t have any relationship experience to blog about. But recently, my blog seems to be turning into a blog about why the fuck I seem so inept at forming a relationship. So the latest update in my life…..

Went on a great date with a guy we’ll call Shorty (Thank you, Whitney). It was the perfect first date. We went out for drinks. I bought my first beer, he bought my second. We talked for three hours. About everything. Our goals and hobbies, our creepily similar taste in music. He did all the things a guy is supposed to do (or so I’ve been told). He maintained eye contact, made it a point to touch my arm TWICE. He even winked! Who does that unless you’re flirting (or a creepy old man)? I know, I’m reading too much into this. I blame my friends. I didn’t even call it a date. I preferred to refer to it as “a thing.” But then my friends, roommate and the sales girl at Old Navy were telling me “Oh honey, it’s a date.” So as much as I didn’t want to, I got swept away. Shorty swept me away. It would have been so much easier if he was a jerk. His only downfall was he was more motivated than me. And then there’s the smile …. countries would go to war over this smile. To quote Darla, I melted like a Popsicle on the Fourth of July. So after the first “outing,” I figured we would get together again. Well it’s been more than three weeks and nothing. Cut to me over analyzing everything I did that night. Sure we’ve texted and Facebook chatted a few times, but I keep getting the same message: He loved talking to me, but he’s really busy. I get it. He’s a grad student which makes him twice as busy as me. He works full-time. I get it. But then all those things I’ve heard about boys keep echoing in my head. “If he likes you, he’ll make time.” (So he’s not interested?) “Wait for him to call you.” (And if he doesn’t call?) I know how out dated these are. My women studies professors would take away my feminist card if they read this. But is it so wrong to want a guy to chase you?

Now on to boy 2, AKA Starer. (Again, thank you Whitney). He’s like the epitome of gorgeousness. Totally ripped. I’m not usually a butt person but let’s just say, with his butt and Shorty’s smile, I could rule the world. Moving on though. I saw Starer Friday and Saturday night. Both nights Whitney told me she saw him staring at me several times. Again, cue me over analyzing what it means. Whitney tells me to stop being negative and just be glad a gorgeous guy thinks I’m pretty. But the thing is, it’s not a “You’re hot” kind of stare. I’m not sure what kind of stare it is except intimidating. At one point I smiled at him to make it less awkward, and he just kept staring so I looked away. Maybe, there’s a tiny chance he thinks I’m, dare I say it, pretty. But he’s got a girlfriend. And he does nothing but stare. Still no chasing.

Maybe it’s me. I know, it sounds so self-pitying, but girls–myself included–always blame the guy. We do nothing wrong. They’re all jerks, right? After almost four years of college, I’m finally ready to admit that guys aren’t always the bad ones. Maybe Shorty is just too busy. Maybe Starer just has a staring problem. I just want to know, when does it get easier? When does it change? When do guys stop staring, stop talking, and start chasing?

For Whitney: Donnie Darko is a stupid jerk. Do not text him. If anything, steal Thumper.

The Millennial Haze

Last night my roommate Adam and I were discussing my bad luck with dating. Actually luck implies that I’ve attempted dating. So to rephrase, we were talking about my lack of dating experience. I started in on the usual, “Why are guys so dumb?” and “Why do they only want one kind of girl?” I find it’s always best to blame men for your dating problems. Hey it may be shallow and unfounded, but at least I feel a smidge better. After going on for a good five minutes, Adam started convulsing with glee on my bed. “Millennial Haze!” is all he said. Okay that’s a lie. Adam never just says one thing. He went on to say some people in our generation are bad at dating and having relationships because we’re stuck in a “Millennial Haze.” I’m still not sure what Adam meant by it, but I’ll do my best to explain.

There are so many ways to communicate with people now besides face-to-face interaction. Some people will always be good at meeting people because they’re fueled by alcohol and sex, especially in college. (Adam’s words not mine, but I totally agree.) People will always use these two things to meet people, and no new technology can stop it. But what about the rest of us? What about those of us who don’t want to use sex and alcohol to meet people? Those of us who aren’t hip enough to meet people online (and for that matter, who aren’t even sure we want to). The ones that don’t have much luck meeting people in social situations like bars and parties. What do we do? You can become best friends with someone in China thanks to Myspace and Facebook. You can follow Ashton Kutcher’s every thought and move through Twitter. But when it comes down to it, is finding someone any easier now than it was 50 years ago?

Maybe I’m doing it all wrong. But can you blame me when the relationship gurus in my life all tell me conflicting advice? Adam tells me to put myself out there and fight for who I want. But how do I do that without coming across as the naggy girl who won’t leave some poor guy alone? Trust me, I’ve been there. NOT a good look on anyone. My girlfriends tell me to relax and wait for them to come to me. I find SO many things wrong with this bit of advice. 1) I’m so tired of the idea that women have to “wait” for men to make the first move. This is 2009 ladies. 2) I’ve been waiting. I’ve been waiting for the one, my prince charming, or really just any guy who isn’t a creep, since I was in high school. I’m 21. Where is he? And it isn’t even about finding the one at this point. I know I’m young and have tons of time, as my mother likes to remind me. But I just want Mr. Right Now. Just someone to reassure me that I’m capable of being in a good relationship and that I’m not a total freak who should give up and buy a cat and a Danielle Steel novel. Maybe my friends and Adam and my mother (god forbid) are all right. Maybe I need to put myself out there but without looking like a pathetic girl who just wants a boyfriend (even if I feel like it.) I guess confidence is key. Maybe I need to relax and realize I can’t control everything. I’m not sure I believe in fate, but maybe in this case it isn’t such a crazy idea. And maybe, as my mother says, I should realize I have time. Every haze has to left eventually, right?

Shut up and kiss me

I should have known when he told me he had “done stuff with guys,” he may not have been the best candidate for my first kiss.

But in my drunken haze fueled by cheap liquor and rainbow jello shots, I didn’t care. Looking back, I could give some intellectual excuse for my poor choice in a make out partner: “I’m a feminist! Things like that don’t matter!” But let’s be real. I was an eager 17-year-old who was willing to do whatever to get that pesky first kiss out of the way.

Fast forward to two days ago. My roommate Adam–who happens to be the real life version of Brian Kinney–and I started reminiscing about that fateful night. We were both at a party held by the gay fraternity, or as we like to call it, the gay-not-gay party. It was only our second college party. My first kiss–who will go unnamed–was allegedly the only straight guy at the party. I set my eyes on him immediately. He was cute, but not intimidatingly good looking, smart, laid back and most importantly, single. What started as harmless flirting ended with not one but two make out sessions in the hallway. (I like to keep it classy.) In the middle of it all, he stopped to compliment my kissing, something straight guys never do. After the party ended, he drove me home and kissed me good night. I was drunk and it wasn’t just the alcohol. Finally! I had my first kiss. I didn’t feel like such a freak anymore. And best of all, kissing was amazing! Why had no one told me?

As I’m recounting this to Adam, I tell him about my kissing partner’s past with boys. I joke that knowing my luck, he’s probably out now. Even though He told me he’d kissed boys before, I honestly didn’t think much of it at the time. It seems so silly to let it bother you, especially today. When girls kiss each other, guys act like six year olds on Christmas. Why should I care if He kissed guys? At least one of us had. So the real question was, was He officially batting for the other team now, or was He still, in the words of Miley Cyrus, getting the best of both worlds? Adam, being the first-class creeper that he is, decided to find out.

After friending Him, he begins texting his “source” at John Carroll, where He goes to school. His source revealed that he’s pretty sure He is either gay or definitely bisexual . In the meantime, Adam friended Him. Not even ten minutes later Adam has His number. That’s when I lost it. I never got His number! He never messaged me on Facebook, and we both know we never exchanged flirty text messages. I couldn’t believe it. Three years ago He was my first kiss. Now He’s more interested in my roommate. After some digging on Adam’s part, he found out He (still) isn’t into labels and doesn’t see himself as gay or straight. Even though I was freaking out, I have to give Him some credit. It’s much easier to be gay or straight than it is to be neither. Then people really can’t figure you out.

Now that I’ve had some days to think about it, and I’ve stopped bemoaning the fact that another guy I kissed happens to like boys, I realize it doesn’t matter who He likes. So what if Adam learned more about Him through a few text messages than I ever did after a night with him? (I swear I’m okay with this.) Still, no matter what, He and I will always have the gay-not-gay party. And jello shots.

New homeless American Girl doll

I am 21 years old, and I own every American Girl doll. Except for the latest doll, Rebecca Rubin, the Jewish girl growing up in New York in 1914, I have them all: the Native American, the escaped slave, the Great Depression doll, the hippie, the doll on the prairie, the Revolutionary War doll, the WWII doll and the young WASP in training (my favorite). But the company’s latest doll may be the most interesting yet. Meet Gwen: the homeless doll.

News of her first hit the media four days ago. Reviews are mixed. Some parents think it’s a great lesson to teach children. Others think it’s in bad taste. Gwen’s father walked out on the family. Her mother lost her job, forcing her and Gwen to live in their car. Many critics are angered because Gwen, like every other American Girl doll, costs $95, and none of the proceeds are going to help the homeless.

So, is Gwen a good way to teach children about today’s harsh economic times, or is she a tasteless move just to make another buck?

I think we can check off the whole “trying to make money” bit. The company isn’t exactly struggling. A part of me would like to believe American Girl just wanted to find a way to teach little girls about a difficult subject. But come on, is a pretty little white girl with perfect blonde hair and a perfect white sundress really the face of homelessness? It’s an issue that has parents, pundits and homeless advocates in a tizzy. The good news is, the shouting won’t last forever. Gwen will only be available for a few more months.

The Roommate Chronicles

When I agreed to live with my best friend Adam this year, I knew there would be some…occurrences I would have to deal with. Mainly, Adam’s overpowering desire to have sex with multiple partners multiple times a day in multiple rooms of our apartment. But he’s my best friend, and that’s what you do, make scarifies for those you love.

Tonight Adam had his first visitor (well second, but I didn’t see the first so if I don’t see them, they don’t exist.) Each year Adam likes to introduce himself to (i.e. fuck) the incoming freshman. I can’t be sure the guy tonight was a freshman, but judging from his small size and the fact that he came to a stranger’s house for sex at 11 p.m. on a school night, makes me think yes. As soon as I opened my apartment door, Adam shut his bedroom door. At least he’s considerate.

As I was shuffling around my room, Adam came in to say hi. He gave me a smile that said, “I know you want to yell at me, but you love me.” Surprisingly, I didn’t want to yell. I just said hi and moved on. As I was in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher, Adam and his “friend” walked out. The boy–not sure of his name, but we’ll just call him Gay 1–looked timid as he let out an overeager “Hi,” to me. I wanted to tell him that no matter how hard he tried, we would never be friends. He would never be my fag, and I would never be his hag. I would never friend him on Facebook and meet with him for coffee dates. I would never hold his hand and braid his hair and reassure him that Adam really did care for him, he just had a problem with commitment. I’ve seen too many of these guys. (More than 100 to be exact.) Instead, I bit my tongue and said a polite hello.

After they left, I got to thinking, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. I’ve known Adam was, to put it lightly, “sexually active,” since I’ve known him. I may give him hell for it, and I may constantly warn him about the dangers of Internet hookups and unprotected sex, but he’s my best friend. Besides, this should make for some interesting blogging. =)

Two’s company

Carrie Bradshaw lied. There are no single people in Manhattan. This entire island is like Noah’s Ark. Everyone’s been coupled off, and I’m the girl who didn’t get the memo. They’re everywhere: on the subway, in the park, in the movies. And they’re not just holding hands. They’re making out. They especially love doing it in front of me. It’s like they need someone there to cheer them on. Is there something in the water here? I’m beginning to think all the grumpy, jaded New Yorkers moved to Jersey. Now all that’s left is gooey eyed young loves who can’t stop feeling each other up on the train. If Cleveland was chosen as one of the worst cities for singles, New York can’t be far behind. It doesn’t help that I’m not 21 or that the few guys I know here are gay. It also doesn’t help that I spend my days talking about harem pants and the next big color for fall (apparently it’s going to be purple.) Straight guys don’t give a damn that I work at a fashion magazine. For a single, not quite 21 year old Midwestern girl, meeting a guy in New York is about as easy as meeting one in, well Ohio.

Death on two legs

They looked so unassuming sitting on the glass shelf.

They were perfect: brown, wooden wedges with three leather straps. I had been thinking about them ever since I tried them on in May. I didn’t buy them because they were just another pair I didn’t need. But then again, who ever needs shoes? After  I got my first pay check, I decided to reward myself and buy the perfect sandals. I wasn’t a runway model in them, but I never am. That should have been my first clue: thinking I was graceful enough to pull off three-inch wedges. Mistake #1.

Today I decided to wear them to work. I usually bring a more comfortable pair of shoes to change into when I leave, but this time I chose not to. Mistake #2. Who needs comfortable shoes? I told myself. I’m tall. I’ve got long legs. I work for a fashion magazine. Surely I can handle some harmless little sandals for eight hours. Mistake #3.

Later today, on the phone with my mom, she asked how my day went. I told her I couldn’t remember because all I could think about was the pain reverberating through every bone in my feet. I wish I could say I was being dramatic. Those cute, innocent sandals kicked my ass. By the time I reached my cubicle–ten feet behind my sensible co-workers and their sensible shoes–I was longing for my beat up, smelly Target flats. I can do this, I told myself. I work at InStyle. Every woman hear traipses around in three inch stilettos. They all make it look so effortless, so elegant. I on the other hand, made it look neither effortless nor elegant. It was just as painful for people to watch me clunk around in my shoes as it was for me to clunk around in them. Every time someone passed me, he or she glanced from my face to my feet, as if that explained everything.  They looked at me with a mix of understanding and pity.  I tried not to hobble away in embarrassment as my colleagues sped past me, like I was a car doing 60 mph in the fast lane.

Standing up was the worst. Each time I let out a sigh (loud enough so the other interns could hear and perhaps take pity on me) and unwillingly pulled myself up. This great task was followed by a wince and a silent exclamation of “Fuck this hurts.” Halfway through the day, my abnormally narrow feet looked like Polish sausages. That is if Polish sausages were red and sweaty. During one extra hurtful trip to the copy machine, I almost ran into fashion director Hal Rubenstein,who I like to refer to as the glue that keeps InStyle’s binding together. I narrowly avoided wiping out one of the most important people at the publication. Mistake #4.

The rest of the day passed as such. More wincing, followed by swelling, a couple hobbles, and an overall limp to my walk. After leaving I made my way to Gap and bought the first pair of men’s flip flops I saw. My feet had never been so happy. On the way home I noticed a tall, graceful girl, her stilletos clacking steady and quick on the pavement. She made it look so easy, as she placed one strappy heel in front of the other. The sidwalk was her catwalk, and I was the girl in charge of cleaning off the runway. Then again, maybe she’s just a better actress than me, I thought to myself as I moved to the slow lane, letting people sweep by me.

The life of an intern

Day 1
Started my internship at InStyle by continuously nodding off during our two hour welcome/orientation. Proceeded to the 26th floor where the intern coordinator greeted me. I walked past offices full of fashionable women on the way to my new cubicle. After giving us the basics, she left myself and the three other interns alone so we could settle in to our new “offices.” I started getting rid of all the former intern’s junk, including her ridiculously large picture of President Obama and her surprisingly tiny picture of Channing Tatum. I noticed a slip of paper that had the editor’s breakfast menu on it: two turkey sausage links, tomato with no white part, salt and pepper on the side. I decided to keep that.

After a quick trip to the supply closet, I was ready to enter the world of fashion journalism. The rest of the day went by smoothly: helped with a few odd jobs, learned the ropes of things, and went with another intern to buy the editor’s lunch. She said he was a very busy person (who knew editors were busy), and told me to walk fast when completing tasks for him, lunch included. When she forgot her phone at the restaurant, she left me with the task of bringing him his lunch. I was estatic for a task. I hoped I would get to se him, maybe even say a quick “Hey girl hey.” When I got there, his door was open, and I could hear him talking to his secretary, but I couldn’t catch a glimpse of him. I decided walking up to him to say hi, sushi in hand, was not an option. I left, slightly defeated. I hadn’t even seen the editor but I knew he liked spicy tuna rolls with brown rice.

As I was walking back to my desk, I passed three extremely beautiful and extremely tall women. I realized they were models. Much staring ensued. Later that day I did finally catch a glimpse of the editor. As I was standing in front of my boss’ office, waiting to be assigned my next task, the editor walked out of his office. We made eye contact. Or rather I stared at him longer than approriate and he gave me a WTF? look. We had a moment.
__________

My internship isn’t what I expected. Granted, it’s only day three and things could drastically change. But I think it will all work out. Things have a way of doing that, even when it’s tough.