In Which I Make Light of a Serious Problem
06 Dec 2010 Leave a Comment
My dating history is not exactly star-studded.
There, I said it. In bold, even. Whew, that felt good. Except not, because this is my life we’re talking about. And now, a review of my bad decisions. Don’t worry, for the sake of your eyes I’m not going to go through all of them. Just the really awful ones. And I’m going way back.
Oafish Teenage Boy: So, uh, will you go out with me?
What. No. No way. Your idea of flirting is hitting me in the head with a light saber. What are you, eight? Are you going to ask me to prom by snapping my bra?
15-year old-me: Yeah, okay.
This was Bad Decision #1. It lasted roughly 4 months, and at the age of 24 he has knocked his girlfriend up twice. They all live with his mother.
Awkward Teenage Boy Full of Angst: ……
Ugh, he’s been sitting in the corner for an hour now. Is he going to do this EVERY time he hangs out with my friends? What a whiny twat. HaWaaaah*, I’m not paying enough attention to him. Now he’s going to cry his angsty, beady eyes out. HaWaaaaah.
17-year-old me: Shut up, conscience! He’s a tortured soul who never got enough love. If I’m not around to rescue him with my embrace, no one will love him. THEN HE WILL DIE FROM A LACK OF LOVE AND COMPASSION.
You are a sad, sad young woman. If you do not break up with him before college, I am leaving your brain.
I have no idea what happened to this guy. Once I left for college, I decided the best thing to do was to never talk to him again. I’m sure that many of my pictures have been burned in effigy.
The best (worst) of all these was the insecure manchild who didn’t want me spending time with any single men, especially if there was also a couple around, because that meant my friends were trying to set me up on a secret double-date. He is now married with a child. It was a shotgun wedding.
After this, it gradually started to get better. And somewhere along the line I started to actually grow a pair. But so far that hasn’t helped me out whenever creepy guys hit on me. I’ll save those stories for another day.
*read: Lucille Ball’s obnoxious crying.
A Fresh Start
24 Nov 2010 Leave a Comment
in Introspection Tags: 'splaining, Feelin's, Hooray for shortcomings!, No seriously
Like a phoenix, I have risen from the blog-ashes to post once again. Except, you know, not nearly as majestically. It’s hard enough to rise from ashes without being in a series of tubes.*
For the past year I’ve found it very hard to come up with reasons to update. Between the illenss and loss that popped up in my family and in families of friends, I just didn’t have it in me.
I’ve taken a long, hard look at this blog and decided that it’s time for a new approach. I’ve been so hyper-sensitive about this ‘internet privacy’ hoax and I spent way too much energy over writing what I thought The Internet wanted to read. Who the hell said I had to do any of that? Sometimes I don’t make any sense.
After all, I’m sure The Internet is fine with me just being myself. Right? Riiiight? So I’m scrapping the ‘cantabile’ crap.
I’m Shara, a twenty-something in the Chicago area who recently graduated college and is trying to procrastinate her way through finding a career in psychology/social work/maybe music if all of the Sir James Galways of the world develop tragic autoimmune diseases that diminish the use of their hands.** And this is kind of/sort of my cheap way of giving myself some feelin’s therapy. Self-discovery: tell your friends.
Maybe one of these days I’ll work up the courage to post a picture of myself.
*Ah, outdated jokes. I could go on all day. But I won’t. You’re welcome.
**Don’t worry. If you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, it’s because you aren’t a music nerd. And that’s okay. As long as you only judge me for my inappropriate comment that’s bound to get me rheumatoid arthritis.
In which my bathroom goes down the sh*tter
25 Sep 2009 4 Comments
in Domestic whining, I can't make this up Tags: My shoddy apartment, No seriously
After I got home late two nights ago, I found something peculiar hanging from my bathroom ceiling:
Ain't it a beauty?
In case you can’t see it clearly, what is next to the fan is a popped bubble from the ceiling. Which means there is a major water/plumbing problem upstairs. My roommates and I, after properly freaking the hell out, decided to look a bit closer.
Yeah... I'm afraid to pee in my own bathroom.
In addition to the multitude of cracks, there is also a healthy amount of bugs and mold. So we put in a maintenance request (and called Res. Life in 30-second intervals), and we finally received a visit roughly an hour ago. The first disappointment was that neither of the stellar handymen could speak English very well. The second disappointment set my roommates and I aflame.
The handymen took a brief glance at the ceiling and responded, “Well, we scrape the mold, seal up and paint. Okay?” NOT okay! The mold that is gracing our apartment happens to be black mold, which is known to be cancerous. So Anna instantly called her mother, whose expertise is real-estate property. To cover up mold without spraying it (“re-mediating,” in her terms) is illegal. Unfortunately, neither of the workers belong to a union, which is making this whole ordeal much harder than it needs to be.
So, we put in another call to Res. Life about the mold, and now you’re pretty much caught up with the situation. We’re still waiting for them to come back. Oh, and all three of us need to leave in about ten minutes.
Since I’m virtually anonymous, what the hell.
16 Sep 2009 2 Comments
in Psychology, TMI Tags: Exposure... kind of, Mental health
It’s amazing how hiding behind the internet gives you the freedom to talk about something you’d never dream of actually saying to someone’s face.
Exhibit A.
"You cocksucker! Im'a come through the screen and slap the shit out of you, asshat! MOM. I'm PLAYING HALO. I don't WANT to CLEAN my ROOM."
Of course, I realize that putting up a picture of my grandmother blows my cover if one of my few readers happens to recognize her. But I figure if that was the case my family would’ve torn me a new one by now. And I’ve always been an advocate of visual aids.
So, against every fiber of logic in my body, I am going to let all three-or-less of my readers in on a little secret. Why the hell not.
Ever since I was in kindergarten I’ve been recognized as that brilliant kid who doesn’t try hard enough. I have never been officially diagnosed with any sort of attention deficit disorder, but I do have a perscription for Adderall “just in case.” It all stems from my parents’ paranoia that I can’t focus on anything productive long enough to finish it. To be honest, I sort of think that’s true. My internal motivation to ‘get things done’ is extremely low (just ask any of my former teachers about the frustration of me turning things in), and, as much as I don’t want to admit it… the Adderall works.
It’s short-acting, which means it stays in my system for up to 5 hours, and when I take it, I feel like my brain has reached its full potential. Today I took it for the first time in months and I’ve already written down a page and a half of future research I have to do for my Experimental Psychology class after I finished the work that’s due this week.
But there’s a problem with this as well- it makes me feel like I’ve turned into a workaholic squirrel. I get jittery. My heart feels like it’s going to break through my ribcage. I have to fix every little project I’ve ever put aside.
It also goes against something I strongly believe in- healing through therapy over medicine that affects the brain. Before comments come flooding in (ha, ha), I’d like to point out that I’m not being narrow-minded about this. If biology is a factor, it always wins. As a former professor would say,
“Your ass doesn’t care if you just want one piece of chocolate cake. Your DNA could give a crap if your biggest fear is getting breast cancer like your mother did.”
If I ever accomplish my goal of being a psychologist, I wouldn’t dare tell the parents of a boy diagnosed with ADHD* to refuse medication. If he can’t keep his restlessness under control and impulsively attacks other students*, why fart around with setting goals and talking about feelings when Ritalin works instantly?
And that’s where I’m torn. See, there’s still a part of me that thinks I’m just lazy. That if I just work myself like I never have before, I won’t need any medication. Playing Final Fantasy or watching TV instead of studying is a choice, right? I’ll be the first to say that I have terrible habits.
For now the way I’ve been placating myself is by taking the Adderall when the deadline is closer than ever and I’ve been backed into a corner.
Thoughts?
*Violence and hyperactivity are common behaviors of children with ADHD. Not to be confused with ADD, which is simply an inability to focus. I’m less black-and-white on the ADD issue, obviously.
A quick update
01 Sep 2009 5 Comments
in I can't make this up Tags: No seriously, Oh Nonna
My grandmother never throws anything away. Ever. She has a particular weakness for small things, because “they’re just so cute.” (‘Cute’ extends all the way to every airplane liquor bottle she’s ever owned. Unopened, of course.)
My mother has done the best she can to thwart this Mistress of Pack Rats, but progress has been slow. For example, my grandmother would sooner die than throw away a perfectly good Cat Fancy magazine. If she can’t keep it anymore, why not give every Cat Fancy she’s ever read to her loving granddaughter? She has cats!*
The article on the bottom right is why my grandmother swears she can have conversations with her cat.
Among the many things she was told to throw away was an old bathroom rug of hers, but… hold the phone! She has a granddaughter! In college! With an apartment!
To be fair, I have inherited some neat things from her, such as a napkin holder, salt and pepper shakers, some fantastic vintage jewelry, and her knockout Cornish hen recipe. Alas, the rug did not fall into this category.
N: Here, I have this rug for you. I can’t use it anymore because the cat always pees on it.
Me: Um… er… well…
N: I keep washing it, but for some reason she just keeps peeing on it. Here you go!
I ended up throwing the rug away later because it still had a lingering scent of cat piss.
*My mother has cats. I just live with them from time to time.
My wacky grandmother
26 Aug 2009 9 Comments
in I can't make this up Tags: No seriously, Oh Nonna
Let me begin by saying that my grandmother is 86 years old and I adore her. When you get to be her age, you can’t not have any quirks (my mother likes to say that a lot when my grandmother is driving her crazy).
My grandmother is surprised in this picture.
Here are some Nonna Highlights:
“I hate it when the cat is in the room while I’m changing. It makes me feel like a stripper!”
“This isn’t a martini! It tastes like soda!”
“Have you seen Brad Pitt’s beard? It looks like a chicken’s ass!”
“Oh, this must be Sharon’s grandson. My God, is he ugly!”
“The driving teacher told me I blew a stop sign. I don’t remember doing it, but I believe him. I don’t do that when I’m by myself, though.”
“If I get in an accident… and I don’t have my license… what’ll happen to me? I won’t get put in jail, would I?”
And now, for the obligatory discussion that all elderly women have with their granddaughters:
N: So, do you have a boyfriend?
Me: Um, yes I do.
N: What does he look like?
Me: Well, he’s got two eyes, ten fingers and toes…
N: I know that! You’re dating a man, not a mule!
Mom: He’s African-American, Ma.
N: Tch, you’re always dating those dark boys!
At this point let me say that I’ve dated a grand total of 2 guys that match her tactful description.
N: You know, your grandfather was almost mugged by two African boys…
Mom: That was thirty years ago. Shara’s boyfriend did not try to mug Daddy.
N: Oh, right. (pauses) That Indian lady down the street said to say hello.
Mom: (sighs) Not this again. She has a name.
My grandmother, like many others of her generation, likes to refer to people by their ethnicity. She sees nothing rude about this, as she herself is Italian (which according to her justifies everything).
A common enemy
26 Aug 2009 Leave a Comment
in I can't make this up Tags: My shoddy apartment, No seriously
My taciturn roommate and I bonded today over something that annoys the crap out of us both: the mariachi band that lives downstairs.
Before I write any further I need to point out two things before I’m condemned as a culturally insensitive prick:
1. I lived in this apartment last year, and these musicians are terrible. One evening I came home to something that sounded like this:
2. They played with a pulsating bass for three hours without taking a break.
3. Whenever these guys have practice, they’re drunk by the time it’s over. Which is often. Last year my old roommate Colleen* and I were hosting a slightly rambunctious party so naturally we were worried when there was a knock at our door. Thankfully it was not the police, but a visibly inebriated member of our neighbor’s band. Most of us had reservations about actually answering the door though, so nobody protested when our friend Al* insisted on using his barely passable Spanish to get to the bottom of things:
A: ¿Qué pasó?
B**: I got some tamales if you guys want some.
A: Uh… you aren’t holding any tamales.
B: Yeah man, they’re in the kitchen.
A: Uh… Estamos bien, ¡grácias!
So, thanks to this situation that can be annoying to most people, Anna* started to talk more freely.
Oh God, I can feel the pulsating bass again…
*Names have been changed
**Short for “borracho,” which is Spanish slang for “drunkard”
Hitting a bit close to home
25 Aug 2009 2 Comments
in Domestic whining Tags: Tense 'n awkward
My worst attributes are staring me right in the face.
Let me backtrack so that sentence will actually mean something. Upon the start of my last semester as an undergrad, I decided to opt for a three-bed, two-bedroom apartment with the third slot left open- my roommate of choice (R1) and I had tiny hopes that it would never be filled. I knew that the university viewed campus housing akin to some sick form of Tetris, though, so I wasn’t surprised to hear that there was a randomly assigned addition to the apartment.
Because I would only be subject to the experience for a semester for six months, I opted to share a bedroom with the new roommate (R2). I later realized that my graduating early was a better argument for me to have the room to myself, but it turns out that R1 is more assertive than I am stubborn (which I’ll admit is relative).
I met R2 on Saturday, and she was nice, although she didn’t say much. What she did say, though, spoke volumes.
(R2 and I almost bump into each other)
R2: Oh, sorry.
Me: Not a problem.
R2: I get the feeling that I’ll be apologizing to you a lot today.
Me: It’s all right. We don’t have a lot of room because of the boxes, so I understand.
R2: Yeah, but it’s kind of a habit for me to be apologizing…
The conversation bothered me because she reminded me so much of myself. I’m socially inept, you see. I’ve gotten a lot better over the years, but on occasion people still mistake me for a prick when I don’t know what to say or who to look at.* So she, like me, has a lack of social confidence- but she’s more passive and reserved than I ever was. To make a long story longer, I really hope this doesn’t play out the way I think it will- R2 bottling up any resentment she has toward me continually for the next four months.
*I’m also notoriously terrible at saying “no” whenever it counts. Again, it’s a work in progress.
It’s a go!
25 Aug 2009 Leave a Comment
in Probably pretentious Tags: 'splaining, Not a real introduction
I’ve been toying around with the idea of starting a blog for a very long time, and I figured that since people are making movies and becoming internet famous because of their personal opinions that now was a perfect time to get off my lazy… well, at any rate, here it is.
I both love and fear the power of anonymity. It allows you to speak freely with minimal consequences, but if you happen to be exposed that same anonymity from the rest of the internet can bite you in the ass. I recently read an article about two female law students who were blacklisted due to harsh rumors that were spread about them on an internet forum.
Before anyone jumps to conclusions, I need to make a few things clear:
1) I am neither one of these girls, and nothing of the sort has ever happened to me.
2) The credibility of this story doesn’t hold much water because a) I can’t for the life of me remember where I found the article and b) if what I read is true then these bimbos had to have done/said something that REALLY pissed off their classmates.
But it’s still plausible, and I happen to be a bit on the paranoid side.
At any rate, I’m not about to give out any real names, phone numbers, or mailing addresses of the people in my life but I will share stories about them (and possibly pictures).
Whelp, that seems like a resonably meaty beginning. Hopefully I’ve hooked at least a few readers and if not, my life will continue on with one more thing checked off my list of things I never thought I’d do.
