Archive for November, 2009

Some terrible things have happened today.

The first was a terrible thing that happens every Sunday: I’m at the office, bloated, slightly hungover, caffeinated, and generally miserable because my life is a joke.

I was more excited than usual to get to the office today, however, because I was looking forward to a productive Sunday of writing cover letters and craigslist postings and generally beginning the epic task that lies ahead of me: getting my shit together. In the 10 months of living in Boulder, my shit has become heinously scattered, probably because I’ve had no reason to have it all together. Entropy obviously ran its course, and now my shit is everywhere, and I’m sort of tired of that. So now I’m in a silly video game, gathering pieces of shit and putting them in my little bundle so as to move on with normal adult life. This metaphor has become filthy and disgusting.

In order to do that, I banned myself from all of my normal forums of entertainment which include, but are not limited to Facebook, gchat, textsfromlastnight.com, Twitter, thesartorialist.com, the Huffington Post, the New York Times online, Gawker, the Economist online, and this blog. As a total digression, yesterday was my favorite day of the year: The Economist outlook for 2010 arrived, and I almost cancelled my plans for the night to pore over the glossy pages of predictions that I will inevitably obnoxiously quote in arguments until at least April. I had to exercise A LOT of restraint to not bring that bad boy to the office today.

Clearly you can guess what happened because I’m writing a blog entry. Drowsy, I decided to check out the headlines, which turned into checking out all of my various websites, and then, irritably, there were a bunch of phone calls I had to answer, and now here I am, 4 hours into my day and not even one piece of shit gathered into my little bundle. Great. Hooray for today.

Frustrated with the way things were going, I decided to take a deep calming breath and partake in one of my favorite daily rituals: making a latte. The coffee machine at the office is unnecessarily fancy and initially incredibly intimidating. There are buttons everywhere. There are symbols everywhere. There is a large pointy stick thing that is used to heat milk and make foam. Normally, I would avoid this machine at all costs, act slightly superior for drinking black coffee, and secretly envy those who had mastered the machine to open up the world of free fancy espresso drinks. Normally. But when you’re sequestered in an office with a stupid little microphone around your neck all day, it suddenly becomes fun to learn difficult things, if only because it helps you kill a minute or 30.

My first experience with the fancy coffee machine was disastrous. My milk had no foam, the espresso sat there so long it got cold, and I had an intense urge to quit my job and move to a different city since the whole ordeal was witnessed by someone waiting to use the machine after me. They were likely laughing inside, immensely entertained while waiting to make their perfect latte. I was crying. The second time was better, except that I overcorrected my no-foam problem and ended up with a cappuccino. 3^rd time’s a charm, though, and having conquered technology, I decided to use it each and every day, sometimes multiple times a day, and have all the Starbucks lattes I could ever want absolutely 100% free. I even graduated to syrups and, for a real treat, mochas (non-fat, no-whip).

I look forward to this ritual. It is part of my routine. So when things go awry, like today, I get upset. The tragedy of today: there was no regular espresso in the machine. This may seem like a small problem to those of you who drink herbal tea, but I can assure you I need caffeine in order to avoid killing some unsuspecting ass hole who asks me a question about room rates or spa treatments, so decaf is not an option. Boring black coffee it was. I cursed at the latte machine, made my cup of joe, and promptly choked on it, spewed it all over the counter, and had a couple of terrifying minutes of wondering whether the scalding black liquid all up in my lungs was going to kill me. Hooray. Penance for my lack of productivity.

And now I’m writing this blog about it because I’m remarkably irritated.

On a semi-related note, only because it also happened today, it is never appropriate to talk to strangers in the bathroom when you’re in different stalls unless you have some dire emergency like you pooped your pants or cut off your hand. Telling me you put your shirt on inside out while I’m trying to make pee pee is not okay.

On a less related note, I had my first customer call center experience last night since starting this silly job. It was wonderful. I asked Marge at Xcel Energy all about her hopes, dreams, family life, and astrological sign.

’Tis the season, and I’m not talking about the season of holiday cheer. We’ve reached those vital weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, a span of days that Hollywood has convinced us is magically romantic. Read: we’re so desperate not to spend the winter alone, we oft go to drastic measures to declare our love and find a date for (worst case scenario) New Years Eve and (best case scenario) Valentine’s Day (hey, a girl’s gotta put in work now to get the goods on the Hallmark holiday of the year).

Enter mistletoe, parties with abundant alcohol, holiday dresses, and some cracked out notion we should be honest with each other, which leads to my absolute favorite part of the whole season: heartfelt written communication (hey, who said print is dead?). I love remorseful (and usually strangely vindicating) text messages, emails, and cards from exes who are either romanticizing the past for the sake of a couple of months of seeing if the old spark is still there (it’s not, trust me), or feeling bad about the way they horrifically broke someone’s heart because they just had THEIR heart broken. Likewise, I love brand new confessions of love through one of these means.

Hey, I’m in all ya’ll’s boat. So to really kick the season off just right, I thought I’d write my open letters of remorse and confession to lovers past and potential (requited and unrequited, known and unknown). Recognize yourself and craving a torrid affair? Contact me; I’m available from now until January 1. After that, no promises.

To my very first boyfriend: It seems that it’s finally been long enough that all of your latent feelings for me have melted away, leaving in their wake a healthy but distant respect for our friendship, which can now blossom, unsuffocated by unrequited emotion. Here’s the problem: it’s freaking me out. Now that you’re no longer inexplicably smitten with me, I remember exactly what I liked about you—you simultaneously enrage me and give me all kinds of a-ha moments when I see something your way. Plus, I miss being an ever-present blip on your periphery. So now I’m the one texting, calling, and generally trying to force you to hang out with me, only to be denied, which of course only intrigues me more. It’s possible that once you turn your doting attention to me once more, I’ll lose interest, but tell me, first love, what must I do to regain your good graces? I’ll even make out with your face, as long as you tell no one.

To the boy I’ve had a crush on since we met in 11th grade: I regret not stealing you when it didn’t count because I fear I’ll never get another chance. You’re great, you. I’ve naturally completely romanticized you, likely making up personality traits, since I’ve known you so long and seen you very little in the scheme of things (those meetings are magical to me, though). You’re smart, funny, social, articulate, sexy, and probably in possession of a secret superpower, like flying or mind-reading. I hope it’s not mind-reading. I’d hate for my limited interactions with you to be characterized by unnecessary awkwardness. I’d like to steal you now, from the current love affair in which you’re involved, but I kind of like your girlfriend, so I’ll never make a pass. All I’m asking is that you acknowledge the secret love between us. Come on. Please?

To the boy I should have kissed on that parent-mandated youth group ski trip: I want you to know how much you mean to me. Without you, I would have never really learned to flirt. Due to your tutelage that fine January weekend, I realized all I had to do was to take a swing at you, and you’d push me down in the snow and lay on top of me. I still remember that warm toasty feeling and pleasant realization that I’d accomplished my goal of male contact. I regret not kissing you instead of that other boy. And I regret not pursuing things, at least until I started dating my high school boyfriend. My feelings for you didn’t subside, though, especially after I saw you at Yearbook camp later that summer. I can’t help but notice how our interests have run parallel all these years, what with working in the beverage industry and listening to Jeff Buckley, so if you’d like to try to recreate that first kiss, I just want you to know game.

To the awkward tall dude who I’ve known since I moved to Boulder and hung out with a lot, but with whom I have yet to exchange phone numbers: I know you’re doing fine with the ladies, what with your bomb apartment, knowledge of the restaurant world, general joie de vivre, and willingness to pick up the tabs of all of your closest friends. But here’s the deal: I regret trying to prove how smart I am to you instead of just aspiring to be one of those dumb biddies you make out with one night in your 800 thread-count Pottery Barn sheets. After all, sometimes you want an intellectual discussion, and sometimes you just want silent, meaningless intensity. As for me, I just want to experience those sheets. Let’s try to run into each other again this December if you feel the same way.

To the guy who will inexplicably have me at his beck and call forever, possibly without knowing it: I realize we have one of those slightly incomprehensible relationships where we’re good friends with lots of tension (sometimes sexual but usually just actual). I’m sorry I provoke you all the time, but I don’t want that to change. I do it because I hate/love you, and I know a relationship between us is a terrible idea but kind of wish it would happen anyway. Though I sort of want you to quit playing games with my heart, I’m more likely going to be just a little bit tormented forever. I just want you to know that on the one hand, you can suck it, and on the other, see you soon, as always, so I can think about how great you are and wallow in self-induced misery. It’s the holidays—give a girl a break.

To the nice guys: I’ve had the privilege of dating a lot of you, and I apologize for lumping you all together here. I really do think highly of you, but I’m sorry I’m inherently not attracted to you. And by that I mean, I’m sorry for you, but I’m more sorry for me. If I could get past my horrifying affinity for ass holes, my life would be filled with cocoa and fireplaces, foot rubs and snuggling, matching sweaters and reading in bed. I want to give it another go, I really do, but I just don’t think my karma can take another 3 week relationship that I end out of nowhere, right when things are heating up on your side. You’ll all remain affectionately in my heart forever, and will likely have the last laugh when they (whoever “they” are) find me in my apartment, dead for 5 days, half eaten by the neighborhood cats.

To Jared Steager, wherever you might be: I’m calling you out by name, Craigslist missed connection style. We met one incredibly nerdy week in Washington, DC at a National Youth Leadership Forum on Law. You had a girlfriend. I had a boyfriend. I also had acrylic nails and too much eyeliner. You dressed like a hippie. It didn’t matter, we had one of those interactions where we immediately felt like we’d known each other forever. Of course, being a dumb high schooler obsessed with movies like Serendipity, I thought we were soul mates. If that happened now, I’d think more along the lines of another John Cusack movie, acknowledging that connection comes from what you like, not what you are like, and then we’d probably have a night of fiery passion, ending with me leaving your apartment and touching my uncharacteristic cowboy hat, acknowledging the moment, but expecting nothing to happen again. Regardless, I’m sad that we lost touch, Jared Steager, and given that it’s just after the anniversary of our meeting, I wonder what you’re doing now. Are you unhappily wed somewhere in your home state of Wisconsin? Or are you living the dream out in the world? Are we soul mates? Or just dust in the wind?

And to all my past lovers who have broken my heart or had their heart broken by me: I leave you with a Tom Rush lyric: No regrets, no tears goodbye/Don’t want you back, we’d only cry, again /Say goodbye, again.

Like I said, ’tis the season. Happy writing.

The first WORK email I received today started with this:

Good morning Laura,

Are you feeling fat and sassy this morning?

I don’t know this person, but they’re clearly watching me, big brother style.  When am I ever NOT feeling fat and sassy? And the day after Thanksgiving? The answer is, “Amen, sister, can I get a hallelujah!”

Thanksgiving is theoretically the most wonderful time of the year. It’s all about overcoming our differences to come together and eat until we pass out in front of the TV, just like the Pilgrims and the Natives did. I like that. Normally, I stretch this joyous holiday into a 5-day weekend in California, over-consuming and over-exercising with the entire Belquist clan, none of which has ever heard of the word “moderation.” This year marked the first Thanksgiving in Divorced Kid World, as well as the last chance for Adam to catch the CU (powder puff) football team play Nebraska at home. To appease all parties, we opted to stay in Colorado for this one, and Adam and I agreed (through extortion and coercion) to cook Thanksgiving at Mom’s house after we did our brunch duties at Dad’s.

Such a monumental occasion suggests documentation. Without further ado, the play-by-play:

8:50 am: I wake up to a text from Adam requesting I text him when I wake up. I do so, find out he’s in South Denver, and suggest he drives himself to Dad’s for brunch, since picking him up would mean driving over an hour out of my way. We fight, he tries to manipulate me into picking him up anyway by telling me he hates people who don’t follow through on promises. I passive-aggressively don’t respond and get in the shower. Yay family time. Happy Thanksgiving.

9:35: Apparently confused about what holiday it is, I dress like Santa Clause, if Santa wore short red dresses to family gatherings.

10:10: I load the day’s necessities into my car—my toothbrush, laptop, and a case of wine. I look twice at the tequila and try to convince myself I won’t need it.

10:37: I arrive at Thanksgiving feast numero uno feeling awkward and wishing I’d picked Adam up after all. After I cut my coffee with Bailey’s, Dad’s gf Wendy suggests we open the champagne, and I agree, relieved. Since I’m the resident wine-o, this task falls to me. I can’t get the cork out. Fail. Wendy’s son Dustin does not fail. I’m both demoted and dejected.

11:12: We sit down to eat. Brunch conversation surrounds witty comments on the use of instant mashed potatoes in Thanksgiving dinner and, remarkably without my doing, The Omnivore’s Dilemma, the corn lobby, and why processed food is a manifestation of everything that is wrong with the world. I bask in my sphere of influence, happy that I’ve created an army of foaming-at-the-mouth food issue people, even if they’ve taken it a step further than me and inexplicably eliminated plastic from their homes. At least we’re not eating turkey bacon. Thank you, Michael Pollan, Patron Saint of all things locally raised and organic, may you bless yourself.

12:29 pm: My armpits start to get sweaty from the caffeine-nervousness combo. Maybe because Wendy’s telling me all about how she made her cranberry sauce and stuffing the night before, I have yet to start, and I still have no idea how to cook a turkey. She gives me a recipe that involves making a foil tent, which is impossible for me to envision without including foil sleeping bags and foil pillows. She also offers to send me home with cranberry relish and her own homemade stuffing. Wisely reasoning that Mom probably wouldn’t like eating Thanksgiving sides made by her ex-husband’s girlfriend, I politely decline. Besides, that feels like cheating, so I freak out and announce an early departure about 4 minutes later, thinking about the fact that Grandma Judy has already threatened to write me out of the will if dinner isn’t served between 7:30 and 8.

1:11: I arrive at Mom’s house.

1:12: Grandma Judy and I get into a fight about how to cook a turkey. I’m obviously acting like an expert since I’m now armed with instructions and a vision of a foil tent. She looks down at me from her turkey ivory tower, built through 48 years of experience, and tells me the only way to cook a turkey is in a bag. I tell her to go sit down. She tells me I’m going to fail miserably, and also that if I don’t use a bag to cook the turkey, the entire family will get AIDS. 9 minutes later, I’m deaf and hoarse, and I grudgingly agree to let her take over all turkey cooking activities. Win for Grandma Judy.

Judy's louder so she wins

1:21: Apparently taking over all turkey-cooking activities does not include washing the turkey. I struggle with the 22-pounder, making sure to get water in every orifice. Grandma Judy loudly suggests I use soap so as not to give everyone salmonella. I loudly refuse so as not to make everyone ingest chemicals.

1:24: Grandma Judy and I take 9000 photos of her favorite part of the turkey, the neck. She makes me hold it and makes a lot of jokes about posting those pictures so as to threaten ex-boyfriends, stalkers, and would-be suitors. I think that sounds like a great idea.

that's a neck, ya filthy animal

1:59: Adam has chopped 2 onions, a whole bunch of celery, all of the sweet potatoes, a bulb of garlic, chives, rosemary, and sage. I have toasted a few pieces of bread and burnt a couple of them. Adam is the detail person. I am the higher level visionary. I have also already had a lot of wine.

2:37: I find the can of cranberry sauce and the bag of stovetop stuffing mix Grandma Judy bought in addition to my shopping list of ingredients. It’s good to know my family has faith in my ability to pull off a fully homemade Thanksgiving feast.

fail

3:10: The pies, cranberries, and stuffing are finally done and the turkey is in the oven. I eat 3 cookies I find in a bag on the counter and go nap on the chair in front of the TV.

5:15: I wake up to find Adam half on and half off the other chair in the living room, yet inexplicably still asleep. He looks like he’s practicing for international flights. I wake him up to finish the feast preparation. We promptly get in a fight because apparently the cookies on the counter were his and apparently they cost a fortune. He calls me a fatty. I call him an ass hole. Yay family time. Happy Thanksgiving.

BEANS SLEEPY!

5:27: The potatoes are boiling, the chicken stock is reducing, and my béchamel is bomb. I threaten to light Adam on fire because due to football and my consumption of his precious cookies, he’s decided he’s no longer helping. Yay family time. Happy Thanksgiving.

6:42: Mom’s friend Luke arrives while I’m mid-meltdown because everyone’s bailed on me for appetizers and Broncos at the last minute. Luke is 4 years older than me and tells jokes that I liked in third grade, but he’s also objectively one of the most attractive men I’ve ever met. My brain is confused, so I’m tossing back glass after glass of champagne, eating cheese, and trying to watch the 37 things on the stove top/not burn myself.

7:10: The turkey comes out of the oven to rest. I mutter a comment about it being dry, Grandma Judy must have sonar hearing because she retorts that the bird is more MOIST than any turkey she’s ever seen. I spend a precious 3 minutes in repulsed convulsion over the word moist; Adam takes the opportunity to drop a few more words I hate (ointment… blech).

7:36: I begin rotating things in and out of the oven in an effort to keep everything warm while Grandpa Jim teaches Adam how to carve a turkey. Patience not being my strong suit, I make a suggestion or 25 about how maybe this learning experience could be put off until a year when we have the luxury of an extra 30 minutes before dinner. I also notice at this point that Adam didn’t whisk all of the flour lumps out of the gravy. I tell him this. He must be deaf because he ignores me.

7:51: We sit down to eat. The gravy is cold. Grandma Judy is trying to outdo Luke with bad jokes. Mom can’t figure out why a water pitcher is useful. Adam is still calling me a fatty. I hate everyone. So does Grandpa Jim, but he’s a lot more subtle about it.

7:53: I ate too much cheese. I’ve taken three bites and I’m stuffed. Everyone else loves the food, or pretends to love it, probably because I will rip their throats out if they say otherwise.

7:54: Apparently Luke doesn’t eat carbs. I mentally cross him off all invite lists for future parties.

7:55: The turkey is moist. Grandma Judy gloats. I congratulate her on using foolproof modern technology to achieve her desired effect.

7:59: I’ve inexplicably cleaned my plate and have reached the wall of death or vomit.  Probably vomit since I’ve had a mild case of the stomach flu since last night.

8:05: Pie. Thank god I have a second stomach for dessert.

8:07: Grandpa Jim busts out his notes on the characteristics of the generations and baits all of us (uh, Grandma Judy and me) into a discussion. Highlights of his generation: loyal, career-oriented, don’t like fun at the office. Highlights of my generation: networking attention whores, whimsical non-executors, don’t like the office, period. Luke must not have a joke on the subject because he is silent. Mom is subtly trying to fit herself into a younger generation.

9:05: Grandma Judy and I decide to play Scrabble. Grandpa Jim bets on Grandma Judy to win. My first play is worth 70 points. My second play is worth 66 points. I tell Grandpa Jim to get over his generational prejudice because I have arrived.

9:17: Grandma Judy tries to cheat at Scrabble.

9:54: Grandma Judy tries to cheat at Scrabble.

10:11: Grandma Judy tries to cheat at Scrabble.

Grandma Judy tries to cheat at Scrabble

10:32: I show Grandma Judy where she can get more points because I feel kind of bad for her. She calls me a friggin’ horrid bitch. I laugh. She laughs. She’s still losing.

10:59: I win 390-262. Grandma Judy tells me at least she knows how to cook a turkey in a bag.

Wiiiiiinnnn

Key takeaways:

1. I survived.
2. This entire day built up to 15 minutes of consumption. Due to the appetizers pregame and the stomach flu, it wasn’t even an enjoyable 15 minutes.
3. The global system will crash during my generation due to ADD and a lack of execution on lofty goals.
4. Michael Pollan rules.
5. I am now the family’s reigning Scrabble champ.  Proudest. Moment. Ever.

It’s been awhile since I’ve had a real, serious crush on someone. I’m not talking about all the little 10% crushes that I write about here. I have those on, like, everyone. 10% crushes are harmless and merely represent the acknowledgement of an attractive quality in someone else. In fact, if you’re a male who’s my friend or acquaintance (and we’ve never dated or anything), I’ve probably have had or do have a 10% crush on you. Just saying. Don’t freak out. Except in cases of poor judgment or heavy alcohol consumption, 10% crushes are rarely enough to force me to act.

What I’ve been remarkably devoid of is the kind of rare crush that makes me want to forgo my single lifestyle and settle down, however temporarily, with some lucky (?) dude. The universe should pray that I continue to lack a love interest. I cannot handle real crushes. They make me change from a relatively normal self-confident woman to completely 100% insane. When I don’t have a real crush, I’m able to hold my own in conversation, make a joke or two, laugh sincerely, and have fun at my own expense in pretty much any social situation in which I find myself. When I do have a real crush, and that real crush is present, I’m a blithering idiot. This existence of multiple personalities is a phenomenon I see in a lot of women; I think scientists should turn their attention to this issue and come up with some sort of medication or treatment as fast as possible. The well-being of thousands, maybe millions, is at stake.

The slow Sylvia Plath-like onset of viable-love-interest insanity is nearly undetectable at first. Usually, this kind of crush starts because I have a series of great nights with some young attractive man; nights in which we cast off our inhibitions and talk about our deep views of everything from the dumb biddies in the bar to the secrets of the universe. He laughs. I laugh. There’s so much laughing. It’s easy. We can talk so freely! We share so many views! We’re hanging out because we want to hang out- sometimes infrequently, but each time is magical.

Inevitably, I decide I have a real, solid crush on this young man, and the conversation suddenly gets a lot less free. Wanting to be perceived as girlfriend material, I put the kibosh on conversation topics surrounding past relationships and current less-significant love interests that might debilitate my chances, which also takes away a lot of my funny stories. I start trying to cater my conversational interests to the interests of the object of my affection: “Um, yeah, so geology, huh? Tell me more about the 95,000 different kinds of rocks. No, I promise you it doesn’t bore me. I’ve always been fascinated by carbon dating.” I bat my eyelids more, make awkward Scandinavian attempts to do more arm touching (fail), and laugh with restraint so as not to miss anything (and, quite frankly, because there’s very little I find hilarious about rocks).

Usually, this turn in my attitude is not enough to actually ruin things, so something like a nice healthy make-out sesh happens. And so open the crazy floodgates. At the beginning, the thoughts start to sound a lot like this (and will continue to sound a lot like this until the inevitable demise): Why hasn’t he text messaged me or called in the last 2 hours? Has he lost interest? He probably lost interest. Maybe I should just text message him. But then he’s going to think I’m obsessing, and he won’t want to hang out with me. Better play it cool. But, seriously, why hasn’t he text messaged me? Maybe I should get a friend to text message me, just to make sure my phone is receiving texts. Maybe he lost his phone! That’s probably it. He probably just doesn’t have his phone. Whew, back to work. Ah! But maybe he’s not interested!

Then I’ll receive an invitation to hang out: Did he mean hang out or hang out? What are we going to do? What are we going to TALK about? Dammit, I never read that book about rocks that I feigned interest in last time we were together. Now he’s going to want to know my thoughts, and I’m going to have to make something up, and if I don’t know anything about rocks, he’s not going to like me anymore. HOW do we suddenly have NOTHING in common? I wonder if he’s inviting other people or if this is a date. Oh, god, what if it’s a date? What if he invited other people?

Tormented as I am on the inside, I’m still pretty good at keeping the emerging crazy under wraps. Where the façade starts to crumble, however, is once the facebook stalking begins, because then I start saying things along these lines:

“Hahahaaaa I facebook stalked you.”

He says, somewhat flattered, somewhat creeped out, “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. So, um, who’s that cute girl in 4 of your 755 photos?”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, totally not a big deal, I was just curious. She’s pretty much adorable.”

“Uh, ok.”

“I’m just saying, maybe you should date her or something. I mean, you seem to spend a lot of time with her, and, you know, put your arm around her and stuff, and she’s totally cute.”

“I’m still not certain what girl you’re talking about.”

“Oh. Yeah, forget I said anything.”

Then he shakes his head, and I wallow in a moment of self-pity and awkwardness thinking about how I’m socially incapable of having a normal relationship with anyone.

Now detecting my awkward crush and smelling the desperation (if it wasn’t abundantly clear about 3 stages ago), my crush asks me to hang out less and less. So after not hearing from my stunted relationship partner for a couple of days, I break down and call him, and my phone conversation goes a little like this:

Me (a little too aggressively perky): “Heyy!!!!!! How ARE you?”

Him: “Uh, great, you?”

“SO good. Where have you been? I feel like I haven’t seen you in FOREVER.”

“Uh, I’ve been out and about.”

“Oh, me, too. I love being out. It’s so fun. I go out all the time with a lot of different friends. We have SO MUCH FUN.”

“Uh, right, well, maybe we’ll run into each other out, then.”

“Mmm? Yeah, I mean, unless you want to, you know, get together or something.”

“Well, I have plans tonight.”

“Oh, yeah, me, too. Plans. Lots of plans. Lots of plans without you.”

“Ok…”

“Well, I meant maybe tomorrow or something.”

“I have plans tomorrow.”

“So do I!!!”

“Then why did you just ask me if I wanted to do something tomorrow?”

“Ha! Ha haaaa! Silly me, I forgot I had plans. Well, I guess I’ll just see you out. I hope you have a GREAT time with your plans.”

“Right. Bye.”

“So good to talk to you! Bye!” Then I throw the phone across the room, irritated with his clear lack of interest and disgusted with myself, and start making plans to move to Antarctica alone until this whole thing blows over.

The final death knell is usually a disgustingly honest text message or email about the nature of my feelings, simultaneously professing my love and berating him for not seeing how great I am and wanting to be my boyfriend forever. Of course, this crazy talk is met with gentle yet firm rejection, and the inevitable demise happens: I take it like a break up. A pint of Haagen-Dazs and a chick flick later, I bounce back, crush-less and ready to return to sane, normal existence once more. As for the dude, we enter friend realm, and determined not to get crushed again, I make sure our relationship stays there forever.

I hate my other personality. She’s a dumb dumb girl, and she makes my normal personality look like an idiot. Lucky for me, she doesn’t completely get in the way of serious relationships; she’s existed as long as I can remember, and I seem to remember a boyfriend or two (but hey, maybe that’s the delusional schizophrenia talking). Relationships just have to sneak up on me, whether through long-term friendship or instantly-requited love connection, and skip that whole crush phase. But if you are a guy who’s lucky enough to provoke insanity in the future, try to take it as a backhanded compliment. We both know you’ll eventually reject me, but ride it out feeling good about your sex appeal, and then take cover. There’s no telling what that bitch will do when provoked.

Call me narcissistic, but I typically like people with whom I have things in common. Especially if we have a lot of things in common. Normally, when I meet these people, we have a couple of hours of manic conversation, and then I try to force them to be my best friend, which isn’t too much of a stretch, because usually they happen to kind of like me, too (yay!). A blissful harmonious friendship is built upon mutual love and respect, and I kind of want to write a coming-of-age story about it and sell it to Lifetime.

Occasionally, though, I meet someone who is similar to me, but undoubtedly cooler or more accomplished than I am. This leads to intense stress, because then I’m compelled to have a coolness-off.

I can’t win the coolness-off. That’s the problem. So this conversation just makes me incredibly anxiously competitive, because I really want that person to validate me, and they just won’t do it.

Most recently, I experienced this with my roommate’s brother, who came to town to visit her after he moved from LA to New York to expand his successful business. Because Lindsay told me all about him, I already knew we had similar interests and intense personalities—recipe for friend crush right there. Except that Tim is undoubtedly cooler than I am. Taking the bicoastal business out of the equation, he has also recorded an album and maintained a seriously clever blog for about 3 years (uh, the mark of a true genius, duh) that explores A LOT of the same things my blog explores.

So, of course, when Tim walked in the door on his first night in Boulder, jetlagged but somehow still aggressive and hilarious, our encounter inevitably turned into a coolness-off. He probably didn’t experience this. He probably thought, “Why the hell does this girl feel compelled to tell about 100 stories starting with the phrase, ‘I’ve totally done that, TOO, let me tell you MY story now.’” I spent the week talking AT Tim, which I’m sure he really enjoyed.

Occasionally, coolness-off’s turn into actual friendships. Enter Rusty. Same kind of thing at the beginning: we’re similar people, except that Rusty is a successful lawyer, paints, plays like 9 instruments, is good at every sport ever, has lived in Israel and Turkey, and has worked for the FBI. So, you know, I ended up acting like, “Look at me! I’m totally cool, too! Not as cool as you, but give me a couple of years!”

It worked out with Rusty; apparently he at least thinks I’m tolerable since he continues to hang out with me. Except that I still get aggressively competitive toward him when he tells me things like, “I’m writing a book and a friend of a friend is a literary agent and interested in paying me lots and lots of money for it [at least this is how I heard it].” Jealous rage and competition ensue, and then because he’s a friend of mine, he makes fun of me for it. Rad.

You can’t win ‘em all, I guess, but I’m not into losing. So I’m sorry to past, present, and future coolness-off victims: hopefully you’re taking it as a backhanded compliment instead of a personality disorder.

I have another little topic I want to write about today, but first, I’d like to give a shout out to some of my homies.

Caffeine: What up, my main man? I really like you lately. Not only do you make me perky and aggressive, you also make me ready to conquer the world with my pent-up energy and intense coffee-induced ambition. That’s pretty rad, at least until I start having an anxiety attack and seriously sweaty armpits. Word to your mother.

My crushes, friendly and romantic: oh heyyyyy. You probably don’t know I have a crush on you! Unless, of course, I admitted it to you when I came to dinner at your restaurant because you read another entry on this blog, and then you cornered me and forced my hand. C’est la vie. You crushes these days have one thing in common: you’re super into something you do. I like to watch you do whatever that thing is, whether crafting cocktails with a serious look on your face, waxing poetic on wine, subtly suggesting I look at the new Thomas Keller food porn (uh, cookbook), talking politics until I’m ready to kill you, connecting with me through liking all the things I like, or just being super awesome without really realizing it. Luckily, this feature means we have good friend chemistry that need not be anything else. Handy, because it allows me to not put myself out there in any way.

The puppy living illegally across my hall: You’re cute. I like you.

Law School Admissions Committees: I’m pretty much done with my apps, and I just wanted to say what’s up. It would be super cool if you thought I was qualified for your institution and sent me a letter to that effect. Until then, I’m going to be tormenting my friends with neurotic behavior. You have the power to eliminate their distress through a simple form letter and a postage stamp! Regardless, I wish you a very happy holiday season. Please keep a look out for my Harry and David fruit basket, not sent with any intention of hastening your decision. Hugs and kisses.

My glasses: turn that frown upside down. I don’t hate you now that Pretty Laura has made a return with the arrival of her new contacts! On the contrary, I miss your subtle power to portray my true personality to the world. I’m sure we’ll be reunited soon, like the next time I have a hangover and have to get up early.

My two new best friends, who I’ve aggressively pursued in the past 4 days: One of you had to put up with my drunken question, asked over and over, “no, seriously, can we be best friends?” as we stood bonding over silliness in the Boulder bar scene. The other of you was coerced into coming out for “just one drink” when you had to get up early for work the next day. Just know that I totally have a history of this, starting in kindergarten when I forced Molly Kittle to be my friend by following her around until she finally gave up, exhausted, and accepted her fate. You, too, will have to accept your fate. I’m kind of sorry for my antics, but not enough that I’m going to stop. Yep, creep. Thanks for indulging it, new best friends.

It has become abundantly clear to me that somewhere between age 21 and age almost 24, I lost my bar swerve.

This is baffling to me. Practice should make perfect, and as there was a stage in my legal drinking career when I would buy one drink before finding some willing male to pick up the tab for the rest of my night, I feel like I should not now be at a juncture where I’m going home early, dejected and tired of being the one buying rounds.

I don’t think I was significantly better-looking in college. I mean, sure, I used to get all cute and stuff when I went out, wearing a dress, contact lenses, and maybe some eyeliner instead of my glasses and Sherlock Forest boots. And okay, maybe I was a lot more willing to make small talk with idiots in order to exploit them for a vodka soda or two. And fine, I often ignored my friends to make coy eye contact and bite my lip a few times at some willing victim.

I’m not sure I’d call it maturity, what I’m doing now. Suddenly, I’m one of two personalities at the bar: the awkward girl standing stiffly in the corner, nursing her beer and avoiding eye contact because I hate everyone in my vicinity for their stupid drunk antics, or I’m starting a dance party, provoking my friends, and obnoxiously commanding the center of attention with the same kind of stupid drunk antics my other bar personality hates. There’s a decisive lack of obvious cleavage, eye contact with males, and willingness to entertain inane conversation in exchange for an alcoholic beverage, and I’m not sure I actually see that as a problem.

Effectively, I kind of see being good at the bar scene a little like being good at Twitter: Are you pretty, and can you be funny and timely in 140 characters or less? Because that’s all the dim-lighting and deafening acoustics are going to allow you. This is why celebrities excel at Twitter. This is also why they excel at the bar.

There are a few average people out there who get it. For instance, I found myself staring jealously at a couple of women at a wine bar the other night. Initially, I was staring at them because I couldn’t avoid it. Both were highlighted blondes with huge fake boobs, and their outfits resembled that scandalous number Jennifer Lopez wore to the Oscars back in the day: shrink-wrap-like tightness and barely enough coverage to avoid seeing an areola. They were bra-less, perky, and heavily made-up, and it was impossible to do anything other than gape, open-mouthed, from across the restaurant. Even I couldn’t look them in the eye, so I’m not sure how males would defend themselves against the overpowering nature of their jugs.

Once I got over my shock at the sexual elephant in the room, I watched as these women worked the other patrons around them, particularly men with obvious money. They’d lean over the bar, tits-on-parade style, and poutily ask for something. The bartenders, caught by an apparent boob tractor beam, would trance-like give them anything they wanted, and then some man near them, also caught in the magical forcefield of oozing sex, would suggest that the bartender put that on his tab.

I spent a couple of typical Laura moments disgusted with the human race, and then realized that these women, who may have had a combined IQ of 100 (but, hey, maybe they were physicists or engineers, how do I know), were actually genius. They didn’t have to go home with anyone, they didn’t have to use their wit to make up for anything, and they didn’t even have to hold a conversation with anyone but each other, yet they were going to drink and eat for free all night long.

Touché, ladies. I need a lesson from you. You’ve pared the icky human interaction element of a night out down to a mere moment of conversation through the bartender. If you ever do meet someone who can surmount your monumentally intimidating sexual wall and see past the silicon to your true soul, you’ll know you’ve got a keeper. And in the meantime, you’ll never wake up regretting all the rounds you bought for your friends.

Me, on the other hand? I’ll be the one judging you Debbie-Downer style across the bar, or the one making a fool out of myself on the dance floor, in hopes that some equally-awkward male suitor will join me for a dance-off or something. Instead of fighting your sexual prowess, I’d like to take this moment to cultivate some mutual respect between yourselves, who work the bar like it’s your own, and me, who’s regressing in her ability to interact in places with dim lighting and alcoholic beverages. Pour one of those free drinks out for me. I’d do the same for you, but I’d have to buy it myself, and that kind of seems like a waste. Maybe if it’s dollar whiskey night.

For all intents and purposes, I’m Single with a capital S right now. I’m not really dating anyone, I don’t have anyone waiting in the wings, and I don’t really have a viable love interest. All of that renders my love life about as interesting as daytime television: fine as background noise, but nothing you really care about. I’m kind of enjoying that. I’m really enjoying that. Especially because I get to experience the advance-retreat ritual of dating from the outside, observing it as if it were a documentary. I oft can almost hear the commentary of BBC’s documentary superstar Kenneth Branagh: “The female shows her interest through rapid eyelid movement and a slight upturn of her mouth, called a coy smile. She then ignores the male 3 times as he advances, finally succumbing to the offer of an intoxicating liquid. She’ll walk away, and he’ll follow until she’s satisfied he’ll make a good mate. Copulation ensues.”

That’s just the most basic advance-retreat, though. Once the romantic relationship commences, advance-retreat takes a myriad of different forms.

The first few weeks of anything are pretty black and white: Boy meets Girl, Boy asks out Girl (or the opposite, I’m a modern woman, after all), Boy makes out with Girl, Boy makes out with Girl a lot of times, other things maybe happen, Boy and Girl say they want things uncomplicated, things get complicated. Emotionally, the period is characterized by euphoria (unless you’re me, in which case it’s characterized by obsessive anxiousness and stress). Physically, it’s characterized by a lot of sexy time. And mentally, it’s characterized by either playing out the long-term scenario of lifelong commitment in one’s head (uh, girl) or by deciding not to think about it at all (uh, boy).

Then comes the gray area. Girl wants more, like for Boy to stop having sexy time with other girls, Boy doesn’t want more but wants to keep having sexy time with this Girl. Advance, retreat: Boy grudgingly agrees to try commitment, Boy gets afraid of commitment and decides he wants to go back to the way things were, Girl is okay with this for a couple of days then wants to go back to commitment, Boy agrees to try it again… advance, retreat, advance, retreat. Vicious cycle, that.

Or another scenario: After the introductory sexy time period, Girl decides she doesn’t like Boy. Boy is confused, but they keep hanging out because Girl wants to be “friends.” Girl has a little too much to drink, Boy is around, sexy time happens. Boy thinks, “Game on,” Girl says she just wants to be “friends,” until she has a little too much to drink again. Advance, retreat.

And then, most awkward of all, there’s the friends-lovers advance-retreat. With all the coed interaction these days, it’s sometimes hard to distinguish when one’s feelings constitute a friend crush and when they constitute a real crush (hey, I blur the line all the time, no big deal). Not wanting to blow the whole friend thing, this situation most often results in drunken unplanned hook-ups that end with one member of the party waking up no longer intoxicated and saying, “Um, so, that was…interesting, but I’ve got an early… thing. Uh, I have to go [forehead kiss/one-armed hug and no eye-contact].” Things are terrible as both people analyze what their true feelings really are. Eventually, the friend love comes back, the questions come back, and the drunken hook-up happens again. This totally sucks because it skips right on over that whole initial euphoric period, going straight into the realm of misery. As sorry as I feel for the involved players, I think anyone involved in the friend-lover advance-retreat should remember that you’re also subjecting your group of friends to unnecessary social anxiety. Which of you should they invite to the ugly sweater party? Can they invite both of you? Will that be awkward? Do they have to choose sides now? When it comes down to it, which friend DO they like better? So many questions; so much complication. Why can’t we all just go back to being friends?

Suddenly, I can hear my “wiser” married friends’ voices, supplanting Kenneth Branagh, saying, “You know, Laura, all that game-playing goes away when you meet the right person (whatever the hell that means).” Yeah, right. Then you’re struggling to express how much someone means to you without taking things too fast. I really love you! But let’s not put a label on it! Let’s move in together! Or make each other iTunes playlists!

Oh, silly humans. I suppose it could be worse. After all, the female praying mantis bites off the head of her mate after sexy time (bitch, please!). That’s gotta be an awkward one to explain to friends at the next party: “The sex was really great, but I just couldn’t help myself- I ate his head. No, I mean that literally, get your mind out of the gutter for a second and try to understand the gravity of the situation.”

Dear Admissions Committee,

I’m writing to express my concern with the notion of you using my personal statement as grounds to accept me to or reject me from your university. Let me preface this open letter with the fact that I am one of those unfortunate candidates who has stats that in no way differentiate her from the rest of the middle of the pack: we are a group of smart young adults that must rely on our ability to portray our experiences through the written word in order to gain admittance to your fine institution.

My issue does not lie in the idea of you getting to know me. I’d like to have a cup of cocoa (perhaps laced with a shot of bourbon or peppermint schnapps) with each and every one of you as I charmingly regale you with tales of my 23 years of life, each strategically presented as a subtle way to show you how qualified I am to be a lawyer, how wonderfully I will perform in your classes, and how I’ll be rich enough someday to faithfully meet your requests that I donate to my alma mater.

My issue also does not come from some insecure idea that I cannot effectively express myself in writing. I can wax poetic on my life all day long, and I often do, indulging in my narcissistic tendencies by maintaining a humor blog (www.imjustlaura.com). People seem to think this is well written and funny, especially if their name is “Mom” or “Grandma.”

On the contrary, my issue lies in the fact that I am denying you the POSSIBILITY of getting to know the complete me because I am limited to sending you a neatly packaged essay outlining a selected story and a choice quality or two. How am I to choose a story with which you’ll identify? How am I to select amongst my abilities and highlight one that will give you anything more than a one-dimensional view of who I am?

Maybe, dear committee, you’ll like my cleverly-crafted tale of my first day in wine sales, when, not knowing what the BBC-sitcom-character-like Master Sommelier meant when he said a wine was “light in the mid-palate,” I had to quickly muse that people who are spending less than $10 on a bottle of wine aren’t really looking to talk about the wine’s complexity, anyway. After all, it shows gumption, humor, and a quickness of tongue, all qualities that will benefit me in law school and beyond. Plus, hey, I know stuff about wine. I’m clearly going to be a valuable associate someday, impressing clients with my ability to order a perfect pairing that’s expensive, but not gaudy.

Trying a different tack, maybe you’d prefer me to write about my adventures in Latin America, living in developing countries and initially struggling with the language so much that I told a girl stuck in an elevator, “Hope here! I will to go to find the man who is to let it out to go dancing!” I overcame the language barrier and made international development my lifelong intellectual passion, after all. Maybe you’d like to imagine me forging new legal pathways in the global arena, wearing my shiny institutional pin like a badge of honor (and a way to give you a shout-out, naturally).

Better yet, perhaps I should talk about my entrepreneurial endeavors, the trials and tribulations I faced in starting my own business, and how I was able to apply that to helping someone else grow a small business. That tale says, “Look at me! I’m a risk-taker! And I learn so well from my mistakes that I can teach others from them!”

It’s possible that all you really want to know is that I’m not just another liberal arts grad, flitting off to law school because I have no marketable skills other than “I’m smart,” and I have no idea what to do with myself now.  In that case, I should probably write one of those I’ve-wanted-to-be-a-lawyer-since-the-other-kids-in-my-kindergarten-class-were-saying-they-wanted-to-be-fairy-princesses-when-they-grew-up kind of essays.

Or maybe I should just try to make you laugh, telling you about one of my many epic falls/embarrassing moments/heinously awkward situations from which I picked myself up, learned a lesson, and kept on trucking. The metaphor in that is truly beautiful, and though it may not speak to my law school qualifications, it’s sure to stick out in the sea of personal statements you’re reading about how great everyone is, and how they’ve overcome all kinds of adversity to get to where they are.

So you see my dilemma, members of the admissions committee, and you see that I cannot possibly show you what I’d like to show you through two pages of the written word.

Luckily, I have a couple of solutions to the problem we’re facing. Proposal one: let’s go to lunch (I’ll buy!), and I’ll do my best to win you over with my charming personality, articulate nature, and taste in restaurants. That’s what lawyers do when wooing prospective clients, after all. If it doesn’t work, you’ll at least have gotten a free meal out of the deal (no such thing as a free lunch- ha!). Proposal two: in the event that you don’t think it’s fair to grant me an audience (I understand if your definition of “interview,” vague as it may be, encompasses lunch meetings with applicants), I’ll send you a compilation of my best stories from my blog (www.imjustlaura.com). None of them end with explicit paragraphs describing why I’m qualified to be a lawyer, but they’ll at least give you an accurate picture of who I am. And that’s really what you want to know, right?

So what say you? Does either one of those proposals work for you? If so, I invite you to contact me at your leisure, and I’ll be happy to provide details you may need.

Thanks, and I look forward to speaking to you soon.

Sincerely,

Laura Elizabeth Shunk, future esq.

I don’t care what your pretend answer is to the question “what do you fear,” your real answer is rejection. Worse than death, loss, and taxes, rejection can make you feel dejected and tiny (no easy feat when you’re gentle giant height).

Ok, so possibly I’m projecting here. My first rejection is, at this moment, ringing clearly in my ears. I was in 3^rd grade. Without boasting too much, up until that fateful day in Mr. Lantz’s class, I was kind of a hit when it came to playground “tag” (and by tag I obviously mean boy chases girl, pins her down, and tries to kiss her… in the real world, we call this sexual assault). But I realized that day of misery, while wearing my Umbro soccer shorts and giant tee shirt, not everyone ever found me adorable.

My rejecter was Sean Carnahan. He called me out for having a crush on him because my brother was his friend, and my brother told him (hey ass hole- I’ve never forgiven you for that). My response was golden: “No, no, my BROTHER has a crush on you.” Yeah. Like that was gonna work.

That little taste of reality was all it took for me to enter my awkward stage, shunning boys for books and effectively not having the self-confidence to have my first kiss until I was 15 and on a parent-mandated church youth group trip (but haHA… god was CLEARLY involved with that little deviant act).

Later in life, I got so afraid of rejection I started revoking my invitations before they could be denied. I shamelessly flirted with one dude I had a crush on in the 8^th grade only to deny him when he asked me to the 8^th grade dance. I was nervous. The prospect of being dumped by the funny awkward popular dude made my armpits sweaty enough to nip it in the bud (complete digression, potential 8^th grade dance date and I went on a couple of RECENT dates… something I doubt would have happened had I let things run their course when I was 13. Awkward me really knew how to set up future me with fantastic blasts from the past). In the 10^th grade, I invited my new next door neighbor to the Sadie Hawkins dance, only to promptly reject him 24 hours later. I still remember his prodding, telling me that his parents said he could go. It worked out better for him in the long run; he married the next girl he dated after that saga.

Now that I’m past teenage insecurity hell, rejection continues to feel like the 3^rd grade version I experienced many moons ago, complete with the same self-preserving awkward antics. Suddenly, the girls showing more cleavage are of more interest to my male peers than my modestly dressed average-chested self. I’m smart enough and witty enough to become one of the guys, but not quite sexy enough to DATE one of the guys. A friend of a friend put it best: “You’re like the cool girlfriend we all want to hang out with, but no one is allowed to touch.” Fine and well if you’re actually the girlfriend, not as cool when you haven’t had any romantic male action in months, because then it just sounds like you’re the group’s token lesbian.  Generally, I subtly try to ask a dude I have a crush on out, only to have him cleverly circumvent the situation with the “I’d rather just be friends” talk, and then I pretend like that was what I meant, anyway. We awkwardly one-arm hug, saying things like “You’re great. You’re one of my best friends,” and then we go on our separate ways, too mortified to see each other until one of us is dating someone again.

I’m sick of that fear, and I’m ready to take on the world of rejection with gusto. Nothing gets rid of a phobia like repetition, so I’m trying to set up some practice situations on my nights out. Hey guys that are out of my league: let’s meet at one of Boulder’s stellar bars. I’ll play my typical scenario of making heinous amounts of eye contact with you, winking (uh, blinking, never learned how to do the flirty eye-motion thing without squinting like I have disabilities), and biting my lip (believe me, it’s nervousness). I’ll then proceed to pull my now-standard stunt: I’ll purchase two drinks, a cocktail and a cheap beer, walk over to you and say, “My friend bought me a cocktail, but I’d already bought a beer… you look empty, so I thought I’d give it to you.” Then instead of commenting on my glasses, asking what I got my degree in, or generally proving yourself to have an IQ above 100, you’ll reject me, hard core, by snubbing me or proceeding to give the beer to a hot girl hanging around you who’s giving me the stinkeye because I’m the heinous ugly bitch trying to steal her man. I’ll feel embarrassed and write about it. Balance will be restored in the universe. After enough of these encounters, I should be able to see the humor in the whole thing, and I’ll stop fearing looking like an idiot when you don’t accept my advances, resulting in a newly empowered me. Maybe I can write a book about it.

oh look! yep, still awkward!