Monday, January 31, 2011

Valentine's Day

These secret admirers are a suspicious group. What are they saying, really? "I love you, but I don't want you to know that I love you."
What do they even gain from this? The recipient of the token of their anonymous love cannot know who their admirer is, and so they cannot know if the feeling is mutual. The Admirer is left in exactly the same place as before, minus a few dollars.
It's as if they want only the part of a relationship where they make the person happy, without any of the other important landmarks: working out disagreements, being a shoulder to cry on...getting introduced?
I wonder if they have group meetings about how secretive they are: Anonymous Anonymous. Unless the rule is that you can't tell anyone about your alter-ego, in which case the meetings would have to be cancelled.
Don't get me wrong, it is nice to be told that you are loved, but it is important to know who loves you. Otherwise it could very well be some creep who has been driving by your house every day at 3:30 because he knows that's when you are outside in the yard, and who has fallen in love with your plant-watering technique.

Sunday, January 16, 2011


Earlier I had resolved to get rid of unneeded junk in my room. In my mind I had pictured myself going through my room with a pot of fire and burning all evidence of my pack-rattedness. When it came to actually beginning, I decided that standing by the wood-stove in the kitchen was close enough.
Now that I am actually in here, I feel it would be weak to do nothing, so I take down my decorative post cards--they were starting to annoy me--and put them in a box that Abbie gave me for Christmas. I notice for the first time a preponderance of post cards from South Dakota, from our cross-country trip in 2009. I never knew I went on such a shopping spree there. Four of them won't fit in the box. Well, at least I did something that slightly resembles cleaning. I will sleep with a clean conscience tonight.
As soon as I think that I feel incredibly guilty and suddenly notice how messy my room really is. Two pairs of pants, a small blanket, a towel, my bathrobe and an empty plastic bag have been compensating for my lack of carpet for some time now. I know that if I pick them up I will be stepping onto a very slippery slope...but it has to be done sooner or later.
My problem is not just that I am messy, but that when I do clean I fool myself into thinking that I am a clean-freak. So I pull everything out, ignoring past experiences and sure that this time I will be disciplined enough to finish the job. Right around when I finish tearing my belongings out of the communities they have begun to build, and right around when I am about to start putting these inhabitants of my little kingdom where they are supposed to be, it occurs to me that I am outnumbered. I feel so overwhelmed that I escape right away, shuddering and my heart racing because I just survived a near-death experience.
Then I live in denial for weeks, occasionally moving various items to obscure places, until I decide to clean again. It's a vicious cycle.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Don't be fooled, I really DO like animals.

I stare into the bowl, willing the 2 oblivious goldfish to die. A year is more than long enough for a fish to live, and they have already stretched that overly-generous death-date for almost 3 months.
I bought them last November as a welcome-home present for my little brother and sister. They seemed more exciting than simply a bouquet of flowers. Plus we aren't allowed to have pets in our apartment and I have something of a rebellious streak.
Oh well. I don't take care of them anyway. Nor do Abbie and Jay. All the three of us do is trash talk the defenseless swimmers. My dad changes the water in their pathetic bowl of a home about once a week. He feeds them too. So do Abbie and Jay, occasionally, when they can find a free moment in their virtually empty schedules. The fish are often victims of overfeeding, due to lack of communication between the 6 hands that feed them. I don't hear them complaining though, and it certainly doesn't seem to have affected their health for the worse.
Resigned to the fact that they are still alive and well, I walk back to my room. Once arrived the first order of business is to excavate my bed, which has accumulated lots of junk throughout the course of the day. If I was really lazy I wouldn't even bother, and I would just sleep in one of the other 3 beds that are in here. I imagine that's what the Mad Hatter would do.
First my box of makeup gets moved to its rightful place atop my shoe holder. I then spot a t-shirt cleverly masquerading as my sheet and reach for it. Suddenly I stop. There, on the sleeve, is a stinkbug. Relaxing in my room, on my bed, on my brand new shirt! The nerve! Luckily I already know the drill. I pick up the shirt and carry it into the hall. Then I flick the unfortunate insect and I hear him hit the wall. This is my revenge: he isn't dead, only paralyzed. Now he will lie there until he starves, freezes, or regains motor skills and perseveringly directs himself to a more populated area of the apartment. In that case, we would start all over again.