A Fairy Tale

I read this today and thought it was pretty funny:

Once upon a time in a land far away, a beautiful, independent, self-assured princess happened upon a frog as she sat contemplating ecological issues on the shores of an unpolluted pond in a verdant meadow near her castle.
The frog hopped into the princess' lap and said: "Elegant Lady, I was once a handsome prince, until an evil witch cast a spell upon me. One kiss from you, however, and I will turn back into the dapper, young prince that I am and then, my sweet, we can marry and set up housekeeping in your castle with my mother, where you can prepare my meals, clean my clothes, bear my children, and forever feel grateful and happy doing so."

That night, as the princess dined sumptuously on lightly sauteed frog legs seasoned in a white wine and onion cream sauce, she chuckled and thought to herself: 'I don't freakin think so.'

Best Day Ever

I woke up late, did not shower, walked into class ten minutes late, and didn't say anything intelligent in class.

But I'll get to the point of it.

After class I ran faster than the Roadrunner being chased by an anvil to the sorority house, grabbed up my debit card and BFF Kate's computer. And then, my flannel shirt and I purchased two tickets in the third row to the Indigo Girls concert in Athens on January 24.

You are reading the blog of one very happy lady.

Get out the map, get out the map and lay your finger anywhere down.

My finger is pointing to Athens, GA with a great amount of excitement!

Nausea

Today, I am numb. I am numb, dumb, and a bum.

The alarm goes off at 9:30. That's 9.5 hours of sleep, full of too many dreams, that I did not want to dream. With half the covers off the bed, and my right leg dangling over the edge into the cold room, I want breakfast. The fog seems to drift from outside my closed window into the space between my ears and in front of my eyes. The noise from the hall seeps under my door, a vacuum just outside the piece of material that all too often disconnects me from the world. It reeks of crisp new day, and I desperately want to go back to sleep.

Sluggishly, I sit up and reach for my computer to check my email. A message about a job that I don't even want in the first place, something about a missing cat, and a strategically written note of delayed wishful thinking. Fuck off world, I'm tired of your games. I'm hungry. I'm hungry for feeling and knowledge, intuition and connectivity. But here I lay, starving; so I grab some candy.

To the showers! Like Hitler himself sentences my naked body to the sickeningly cold and smelly tiled room where my bar of soap dries out my skin and my cold, wet hair gives me shivers. They sing and laugh and piss me off in there.

There is a choice between Bob Marley and Melissa Ferrick. I choose Ferrick and with it comes nausea. All the women who had been in that shirt before me. Where that shirt has been and who and what it represents sickens me. All the fucking and fighting, manipulation and unsterile arguments lead me to my window. Jump? No, there's no time for that. Besides, it's noon and I need a cigarette.

Am I inept?

My initial title for this blog entry was going to be "I am inept." I changed it after writing the entry.>

So, not only have I only just begun preparation for my presentation tomorrow on Cognitive Therapy and Cognitive Restructuring, shout outz to Beck and Meichenbaum--woot!, but my Thanksgiving break was an absurd and ridiculous display of laziness and an inept ability to be a functional lesbian--or so I thought.

Let me explain. I spent my vacation watching Mash Season 6, disc 1, Christmas cartoons, going shopping with my mother for preppy girlie clothing, discussing reality modeling tv, and drinking apple martinis and gin and tonics. I also played a lot of Scrabulous on facebook. I went to bed early and alone on my 22nd birthday. The only 'gay' thing I did was go to my first all-lesbian bar on Saturday night to hang out with my friend Stacey and to hear Lindsay Hinkle sing about a number of relationship issues. At the bar, I was awkward and discussed community psychology and 'duck lip' dance moves with new friends. That makes me not a 'good' lesbian but a nerdy college student.

Thus, I have been pondering my identity as a lesbian and as a queer activist. My identity in Sewanee is almost entirely shaped by my sexual orientation and my place here in this community as an activist. I'm irritable and angry, alone and dissatisfied and I also bitch too much about the aforementioned list of negative characteristics about myself. My poor friend Stephanie reassured me tonight about my awkwardness in relating to women that I'm interested in 'romantically.' She said, "I'm the same way with guys, it's normal. 'The pick,' up here on this mountain, is slim, don't get upset, just do what you have to do and get the fuck out."

Preppy haters, listen up. I'm through being used by you. Take notice: my 'by appointment' sign on my dorm room door, is for serious. I'm no longer your stereotypical gay bitch. I am my own person. I'll wear a dress if I want to. I'll do what I want. Stop making me feel guilty and exiled. I want to be happy, so leave me the fuck alone.

Black Friday

Holy God.

My mom and I ventured to North Point Mall today. There were gates placed strategically in an effort to herd the shopping goats, donkeys and horseys to their destinations. Having been raised in Seneca, SC (aka. smallest town ever, highlights were the new Super Wal-Mart '04 and the Cinemax 8, which was upgraded from a 6 in '02), I have never seen anything like it. Of course, it took 15 minutes to find a parking space, and we had to fight a Camry for it. My mom drives a mini-van; we totally won. :)

We got in the mall after having to wait on some guy who was trying to get out of a parking spot in an SUV he totally didn't know how to drive. (Rich people! *gawk*) My first stop, Regis. Mom's first stop, JCPenney's. Me for a haircut, her for an electric blanket. (That! is a sobering comparison.) Anyway, the point of the story and my drunken babbling:

The lady who cut my hair, didn't speak any English. Her name is Salvia, and I'm guessing she's from eastern Europe. Now, I don't know how much you people know about me but. I am VERY particular about my hair. Let's just say, she and I were communicating via a picture and the most elementary form of human communication: facial expressions. I'd smile if I wanted her to cut in one spot and frown for another. It turned out alright, but initially, and for the duration of the hair cutting experience, I wanted to cry.

My mom laughed when she arrived from JCP to get me. Apparently my facial expression was priceless. It was kind of like that deer-in-headlights look, minus the perked up ears. Though I will admit, my hands and legs were tense the entire time and I was more than ecstatic to be walking out of there.

Next was the birthday shopping, I had to fight some lady for the last pair of size *& Classic Fit blue jeans in Gap. Also, I got a really snazzy green sweater, scarf, stripedy shirt, socks, and these really cool sock/slipper things with the no-slip circles on the bottom. All in all, I'd say it was a successful adventure to the mall. I'm really glad to be home, full of Thanksgiving leftovers and with a manageable hair-do.

Watch out Decatur, here I come!

Happy Thanksgiving? That's questionable.

What I would first like to share is that I am a member of a blended family. And by blended I mean psycho.

When one is a member of a blended family one must become quite skilled at forgetting previous holiday experiences and hoping with all there is for to hope that each new holiday season will be a beautiful and cherished occasion.

*deep breaths*

I was plucked from bed this morning by my brother. He threw a pillow over my face and said, "Get up butthead. Mom's making breakfast." I told him that I was an adult and that I would get up momentarily and/or when I felt like it. Which translates psychologically to, 'You, as a ten year old child, cannot tell me what to do, but thanks for warning me of Mom's wrath and that there's food to be eaten. I'll be down in a minute.' He understood, as brother's do. I put on my glasses, checked my email and went downstairs.

Breakfast was, you know, great! Bacon, cheesy eggs and grits. Also, mimosas.

After breakfast, I was instructed to "do the dishes."

Then we, being my brother, sister, mom, and myself, stuffed the bird. It was comical. Mom forgot that the giblets are stored in the neck and started freaking out because she sent the other bird to a friends to be teriyakied and didn't take the giblets out. I checked it, the friends removed those giblets for us. :)

Then the kids freaked out when they saw the turkey's organs go into a pot. "Ewww! Gross!"

They were sent to the showers. The step-sister hovered nearby; typical. (For all you non-blended family members, here's where things get interesting.)

I snuck downstairs to have my morning cigarettes. (Usually, I have one in the morning but when I'm forced to sneak about to smoke, one turns into, you know, three.) When I came back upstairs, Mom was throwing dishes around the kitchen. Soap suds lined the countertops and you could cut the tension in the air with a knife, that happened to be in her hand. I took the knife from her and started wiping the counters. "What's up?"

"I can't handle it anymore," she explained, her usual conversation-starting phrase which translates into, 'Please listen to me, because I have no one else to bitch to." I sat down.

After the bombardment of emotion. I hugged her. Offered to take out the garbage and informed her that I was taking a shower. When I went to go upstairs, there was the little devil, seated on the middle of the steps listening to everything. She saw me, scrambled up the stairs, and sought refuge in the bathroom. I wasn't about to let her get away with it. "Please don't listen to other people's conversations on the stairwell," I said. To which she replied, "Okay," in that damn pseudo-angelic voice.

Now I need another cigarette, or, you know, twenty.

Lindsey Hinkle + MSR = My very exciting upcoming Saturday night

http://www.myspace.com/lindseyhinklemusic

Simply lovely. Check it out.

Domestication

I just finished baking my birthday cake with my two sisters. This was a new experience because usually I bake it by myself. I always insist on having birthday cake on Thanksgiving because that's when the whole family is together and also, I hate pie. My mom always gets mad that I want birthday cake instead of pie, so I end up making it myself.

Phoebe measured the water. Taylor measured the cooking oil. I cracked the eggs and orchestrated.

"Could someone please find the wax paper?" I asked.

Taylor would reply, "I will," but would not know where to find it. Phoebe would step in and get it and bring it to me. Oh, kids.

Though I like to bake and cook things, I feel a little bad that I just taught the girls how to bake a cake. Like I may have just instilled traditional gender roles. I'm such a hypocrit.

Betty Friedan, please excuse my behavior.

Phoebe

It's Thanksgiving break (thank God), and I am home in Atlanta with my family. I walked in the door and was immediately greeted by my sister, Phoebe. She is eight years old going on seventeen and I am completely convinced that she is a miniature version of myself except for the following differences:

1. She is way cooler than I will ever be in dress and peer social status.
2. She is way smarter than I ever was at her age, and will probably end up way smarter than me as an adult.
3. She will probably go to an Ivy League School.

I was eating my home-cooked meal of mac and cheese with tomatoes in it (yum) and green beans when she sat down next to me at the table and began an academic discussion. The discussion began with her thoughts on the book Charlotte's Web which as many of you know is my most favoritest book in the whole wide world. Let me explain this to you with an example. When I filled out the Homecoming Queen Nominee Questionnaire, I answered the question What is your favorite book? not with The Bible but instead with "Charlotte's Web by E.B. White."

(Side note, Marlee Matlin is on Law and Order SVU...*swoon*)

Ok, so, we had a fifteen minute conversation about her gifted class and about Charlotte and Wilbur and art and "interesting discussions" about those subjects. I almost cried, my little sister is so so so smart and I am so proud of her. She has such enthusiasm for academics. Her face lit up just to be able to have an intellectual conversation with me. I really had to choke back the tears because I didn't want to ruin the discussion. The fact that we are so similar was then solidified when our conversation turned to the television program that we were viewing.

A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving was on. My brother asked if Peppermint Patty was a girl or a boy. I answered that she was a sporty girl. I was about to add my speculations about her sexual orientation when Phoebe said, "I'm pretty sure her real name is Sarah."

To which I replied, "Why do you think that?"

When she answered, "That's what Marcy calls her."

I laughed, and said, "Marcy calls her sir."

My brother said, "That's why I wasn't sure if she was a boy or a girl, duh."

Phoebe laughed and I was reminded of my issues with chronic lyricosis. I told her about this and my mom started laughing and talking about how we are the same person.

Chronic lyricosis: when you get the words to songs incorrect and sing them in front of other people who then correct you. This phenomenon has plagued me since I was three years old in the Christmas pageant singing the incorrect lyrics to Silent Night at the top of my lungs. "Round round versibly!" instead of "Round yon virgin." What three year old knows what a virgin is anyway?

Conclusions:

1. Charlotte's Web is the bestest book in the whole wide world that positively shapes bright young girls' minds and gives them an understanding about the world and its concepts, i.e. friendship, love, community, death and life.
2. She will probably attend Yale, Harvard or Princeton AND I'll get to wear a t-shirt that says, "My Sister Goes to Yale."
3. Chronic lyricosis is genetic.
4. My sister is fucking amazing, and I love her, a lot.

In Passing

Mother always said,
“Mind your P’s and Q’s, my dear.”
Someone should tell her.

There is someone with whom I interact on a semi-frequent basis that for some reason, has the ability to make me fee like shit almost every time I interact with her. Did her mother not raise her to be considerate of other people and their emotions? apparently not.

According to this individual I am "lame and gross." Now, ordinarily I would be completely able to ignore such comments and move on with my life. But you see, these comments only come at me when I'm down. When I'm having a rough day or when I'm really stressed out about something or when I'm really blue. What the hell kind of person would say such things to someone who is hurting?

Well, the "lame" comment occured last night and quite frankly, I'm tired or being emotionally discomforted everytime I see someone who claims to be my friend and in fact has pledged to uphold and care for me through the bonds of sisterhood. If you're reading this, cut it out. If you're hurting, I'm here for you. But please stop hurting me.

You jump, I jump

So, on this glorious Friday evening, I am hangin with my home-girl Kate. BFF Kate and I usually hang out most every night, but you see, tonight is different. It's special. Why? you might ask. Because Kate and I have had very important plans all week for this night. I purchased fine chardonnay (Lindeman's Bin 65) at the liquor store, which costs about 3 dollars more than the chardonnay that I normally purchase (Jacob's Creek). Tonight, Kate and I are watching "Titanic" on TNT.

I know, I know. What a lame movie. Well fuck all y'all. This film came out when Kate and I were twelve. We both had huge Leonardo DiCaprio crushes. I kept a Romeo and Juliet poster on my wall until I was sixteen and kissed Leo goodnight, every night. I have seen just about every film he's ever been in. I am an open lesbian, but I would still do him today. I own a collector's La Coeur de la Mer, a Christmas gift from my aunt that I received when I was in jr high school. I walk around saying things like, "I'll teach you to chew tobacco like a man," or I finish people's sentences with the phrase, "...over on the bed. The Couch!" or by yelling, "He does landscapes!" at random people who irritate me. Also, my best friend in jr high school, Emily, and I used to perform live productions of "My Heart Will Go On" for her parents with microphones and all. Let's just say, "Titanic" had a huge impact on my teenage years.

My only qualm with watching this on television is that you don't get to see Kate Winslet's breasts, which Kate had to remind me about on three different occasions this week. You know, I don't know why we don't just watch my copy of the film, I have it on VHS.

Friday

Last Friday a very large box arrived for me in the Student Post Office (SPO). I love it when I receive very large boxes in the SPO. Why? Because it's sort of like a huge status symbol to walk out of the building carrying a very large box of who knows what. Mainly it says, someone loves you enough to send you a very large box full of, for all that the preppies know, air.

Anyway, I'm getting off track. The box did not contain anything for me. But what's inside, oh my, is a bridal shower gift for one of my very bestest friends. Though I'm excited about the bridal shower and the wedding and my friend's happiness, I can't help but be perplexed.

My friend who is the same age as me, will be married two weeks before we graduate from college. You can't tell it, but I just paused for a long moment sort of stunned at the previous sentence. Not only is Katie getting married in May, but Marge, Katrina and Amanda are engaged. I am so happy for them, so very happy. But at the same time, so very very shocked, bewildered, dumbfounded (and other synonyms).

Most of my wardrobe is comprised of the color black. I do not own grown up church clothes. My idea of dressing up entails tights and my mom's old scarves from when she was single. Classy, but definitely not married-type-of-people clothing. First order of business over Christmas break: purchase a pants suit and heels that I will not scuff and will be kept in the box and are made of a real adult material, leather perhaps.

I heart you engaged ladies, but you guys are making me purchase kitchen appliances when I feel like I should be doing collegy things for you to celebrate, like taking each of you out for a pitcher at Shenanigan's.

For Melissa Bank, Ashley, Lexi and Robert

Thank you, Melissa Bank, for painting such lovely pictures in my head. They bring back a lot of experiences from which I am now able to draw conclusions.

Thank you, Ashley, for making connections that are sometimes awkward but need to be spoken. Also, thanks for reminding me that locals are cool. You constantly surprise and irk me, but you're such a bad ass and I appreciate you.

Thank you, Lexi, for human connection.

Thank you, Robert, for being a cozy sleeve on which to cry, and for being the one who reminded me that sometimes everyone needs a second chance because as we all know, people change and grow everyday.

:)

Books and Class

If there's one thing I've learned from my sorority and from my time here in Sewanee, it's that books and class are important but they shouldn't rule your life:

"Books and class...got myself a fancy pair...when you knock there's someone there...study every night, story of my life."

when combined with...

"Beer and flasks...got myself a fancy pair...when you knock there's no one there...party every night, story of my life."

...seems to be my current dilemma. Let me give you some examples of this phenomena:

1. While saving the world with massive amounts of quiche on Saturday, I drank vodka. Why? because it was there. Also, because I needed to be able to feel at ease when discussing various academic topics with alumnae.

2. Last night, I went to the local bar/restaurant to meet up with my fellow Feminist lady friends. We were combining our knowledge of Feminist theory to produce our "Feminist Pledge" for the graduating class. I seemed to be the only one interested in actually getting the damn thing written so I could leave, but in the process consumed a pitcher of beer.

3. While writing comps, I found it absolutely necessary to consume wine. Why? so that my prefrontal cortex would shut up, thus allowing me to expand my academic horizons.

A wise woman once said, "I have no time to be sober." As a senior 1/2 comped student at Sewanee, I am inclined to agree with her analysis of the Sewanee experience. Thank you Miss Ensor.

"life comes at you fast"

"nationwide is on your side..."

What a great campaign ad. I was reminded of this tonight when I received a phone call from one of my good friends. She was, as she said, "wiggin' out man," when I pulled up to pick her up on the side of a random sidewalk on campus.

Life sometimes hands you a grocery-store-sized-bag of food that needs to be hand-selected, washed, sliced, cooked, and eaten. The amateur chef becomes overwhelmed and indescently overcome with emotion. To Do lists can help, friends can listen, fellow cooks can give advice. But sometimes, these coping mechanisms don't do much and you just need your mom. And that, is totally okay.

My dear friend and sister, I heart you.

Thank God I'm not a Homecoming Queen

Yesterday, I joined about 30 individuals of both sexes in the promenade across the Sewanee Tigers football field. For all you non-Sewanee folk, drunken smiles, Wellington Capes and ridiculous shoes, the kind with the pointy heels that I wouldn’t be caught dead in, filled the field, if that gives you any sort of perspective. My friend/escort, McLarty, and I took the field, my right arm taken up by a bouquet of assorted flowers and my left arm through his right. I was freaking nervous; thank God I had had that final screwdriver before heading to the field.

When they announced my full name, I felt the same way I did when I was a child and my mom yelled my full name when I was in trouble. Then they declared my hometown, which isn’t actually my hometown. As I walked forward, quite a few people cheered. This made me smile and feel a little bit better about the situation, and less like my mom was accosting my behavior. McLarty's mom snapped pictures. I shook the Vice Chancellor's hand and took my place at the 40 yard line.

The winner's were celebrated, and then I hugged the Queen. After, a few awkward things occurred. First, my ex-boyfriend's mother attacked me and took more pictures, and second, I accidentally flashed someone (and by flashed, I mean, I straddled a ditch to hug someone and this other guy saw my slip and commented on my 'undergarments') in front of numerous parents, including McLarty's mom.

So, in conclusion, I look cute even when my slip is showing and despite the fact that I had been making quiche all morning while drinking vodka. I was totally out of my element, I had a great time, and I am glad I did not win. Why? Because I don’t think I could ever put “Homecoming Queen” on my resume, “nor is it appropriate for anyone else to do so,” says my Feminist mind. Also, I don’t wear ‘appropriate’ pointy homecoming shoes. C’est la vie?

Surprises

Tonight, I was laying in my bed typing furiously on my laptop. My hunt for psychology articles at the front of my cortex, my prefrontal cortex actively engaged in the judgment required to make each thought a series of keyboard strokes. My hand deep in the front of my hair, feverishly moving fingers...trying to massage my brain.

Progressive relaxation theory. Jacobson. Spiritual alternatives. Stress-induced anxiety. Systematic desentizi... *KNOCK KNOCK*

I leapt from the bed, eyes glazed and feet bare.

I opened the door, "David!"

"Sam!" David replied, embracing me in a big bear hug.

"I didn't know when you'd be here, what's up?"

We chatted for about twenty minutes. Soon my friend Erica walked in, and news of Linda Claire's pending arrival was announced. Three of my very favorite people ever ever EVER!

I love Fridays, and I love Homecoming. But I love sketchy alums even more, especially the ones who I miss so dearly, most of the time.

Friends are hard to come by, and friends who come especially to see you, are even more rare. I heart you guys!

Season 4, L Word

So, I have basically spent the last 24 hours in bed watching the fourth season of The L Word, while taking a lot of Sudafed and eating a lot of Chex Mix.

I sighed, laughed, gawked, yelled and cried A LOT.

My conclusions:

I'm still in love with Shane. I still want to be Alice. And I still find Helena annoying. Tina has come back into my safety circle. I trust her again. Bette is definitely a new favorite. I have never liked her until this season. I think Jodi is good for her. Mainly, I'm concerned about Alice, I hope she doesn't have another break down next season. It's okay, Alice, I love you!

Discoveries:

Every time I watch The L Word, I learn something new. This time, I learned some stuff about myself. Mainly, I learned from Shane. What I walked away with basically, is a compilation of feelings and cognitions. I really admire Shane in this season. She walks away from an intense emotional and fucked up situation, does a lot of self-medicating, until she not only sobers up but wises up. She learns to stabilize while taking care of the business in her life and falling in love. If Ilene goes and fucks with her character again, I swear, I might just mail some Anthrax to that bitch.