I had to drive to Chicago again this past Friday. In the days leading up to the drive I went back and forth between pure annoyance and a relieved excitement. Unlike the previous trip, my lead on an apartment was far more promising and there was a real chance of returning east with a place to live. I still had to make the six-plus hour trek, though, and I had to do it on a Friday evening. For those of you who don't know, night driving is not one of my strong suits as I have absolutely terrible vision, not to mention I was driving directly into rain. Ever since I drove two solid hours on 80 in a monsoon, I have had serious reservations about driving in weather of any kind. Essentially, I would have only been happy if it was the morning and it was sunny but not too bright. I'm none too crazy about brightness either.
I left work at three o'clock that afternoon after changing out of my dress and heels. Earlier that day, a mother and daughter in the office told me they loved my shoes and I did a small dance before declaring they had only cost me six bucks. They make my toes scream, though, so what the mother and daughter didn't know is that I ran upstairs after I spoke with them and flung the shoes under my desk. I guess I could have kept them there but I ultimately stuffed them under my passenger seat, which is where they are now. So I started driving north west, letting the radio signals run out before I switched to CDs, noticing how low and large the clouds looked, and running through what could be expected for the weekend. I knew I had to like the apartment or else we might not have any place to live. I knew that I had forgotten to pack something but I wasn't sure what it was. I knew that I would get to see my boyfriend for maybe four hours, which wasn't exactly thrilling but it would have to do. And I knew that I should have brought more than a bag of pretzels for road trip snacking.
Then my car started blinking at me and that really pissed me off.
Now at this point you're probably wondering if there is anything I like, considering I've already bitched about rain, darkness, brightness, pretzel quantity, and now cars doing things they shouldn't. The fact of the matter is that nobody likes their cars doing things they shouldn't, so I feel that this one is fairly justified. Anyway, the low tire pressure light went off, which is problematic because my car has a history of leaky seams between the rims and the tires. One time I was driving home from college in my first year and the low tire pressure light came on. I didn't think that was a serious issue so I continued driving until the woman next to me at a red light did the roll down your window hand motion and said "You realize you're diving on a flat tire, right?" Woops. So I take the light seriously. I'd been driving for maybe an hour and a half so I hadn't exactly made a ton of progress at that point. I pulled off at the first rest stop I saw, got some gas, then began my search for the air pumps.
But they simply were not there.
I know that seems unbelievable, perhaps even impossible, but as far as I could tell I was not seeing anything that resembled an air pump. I tried to nonchalantly check out the tractor trailer area, but you can't exactly be nonchalant about that. So I kind of ho hummed around the parking lot for awhile, wondering if I should ask the man inside the gas station if he was hiding all the air. A pick up truck with an attached U-Haul trailer was parked a few spaces away from me. His truck and trailer ran perpendicular to the parking spaces and when he moved (fiiiiiinally) the air pumps appeared. Hoorah! I said to nobody. I snatched up the spot right next to the blue "Air" sign and I triumphantly leaped out of my car. I grabbed the rubber hose and looked at the nozzle on its end.
"Who the hell are you?" I asked the strange metal object. It looked like a dentist's tool and definitely not like anything I had ever used to put air in my tires. I tried a variation of methods to make it work. I think I hit it against my hand, pulled on it, twisted it, said please. I also noticed that the other end of the hose didn't appear to be hooked up to anything, as strange as that sounds, and I didn't see any air tanks nor did I see anywhere to put my quarters. Here's another thing you should know about me: I hate this bullshit that suggests a woman doesn't know anything about her own car. I make a relatively concerted effort to at least have an understanding of what is happening and why, so believe me when I say I was growing increasingly frustrated by this stupid little nozzle that I had never seen before. As I have a car guy, I called him.
"Please don't make fun of me for the questions I'm about to ask you."
"Go on," he said.
I described the thing as best I could, I told him that no, no, don't worry, when I press my thumb into the tire it does not feel low, but yes, it looks low. I continued on about the metal gadget and my theory that it's not real and this thing is broken. Then he asked:
"Does it look like the one dad has?"
Ugggghhhh I don't know if it's the one dad has. My car guy is my brother, by the way, so I think I'm allowed to be a brat to a greater degree. Brother said that I should be fine but to stop the next time I could and locate a real air pump. "Real" is my word, by the way, because I still wasn't convinced that this thing was of any good to anyone. I got back on the road, drove about seven miles, pulled off at another rest stop and was met with the same stupid contraption as before. This one looked slightly more legit, though, as I could hear the air, feel it moving in the rubber hose, and saw that its end was embedded firmly in the ground. I decided to play with the dentistry nozzle, performing the same basic methods as before, twisting and turning it, until the smallest hiss of air came from the downward facing valve. Deciding not to question my good fortune, I filled up my front tire to the best of my ability, stopping when I thought it looked fuller. Yes, I thought to myself, you will have to do for now.
A man approached from the direction of the tractor trailer parking lot.
"Darlin', do you need help?"
Because I hate when anyone assumes I need help, let alone offer it, I really had to keep my temper in check. [Note: when asked in a job interview what my weakness is, I am for SURE going to tell them I hate help, don't want or need help, and don't like the assumption that I can't do it. And then I end up with way too much on my plate, wondering why in the hell no one offered to help me with anything. It's something I'm working on.]
"I don't know," I said to the man. "I filled it up. Do you think it looks ok?"
He took a step back and sized up the tire.
"Let me go get my tire gauge."
The wind was picking up and the humidity was effectively gone. I watched the puffy clouds spread out and start to rain on the distant highway to the west of me. I still had close to five more hours of driving left. I wasn't even in Indiana yet.
The man returned from the cab of his semi with the tire gauge. We had a brief discussion about what the weight of my tires should be and then I gave a really fast, really garbled explanation of why I had trouble with this particular air pump and I'm used to a needle and I've never used one that's meant for duelies before and a lot of other stuff that was meant to convince him but ultimately myself that I usually know what I'm doing but not right now, no, not really. I don't know what I expected; maybe a man who would validate my insecurities with a cutesy-but-condescending comment or a disapproving mini lecture about knowing the ins and outs of one's automobile. Instead he smiled and said:
"Darlin', that tire looks pretty darn good. Let's do the rest."
I checked the pressure in the first tire then made my way around to the other three with air hose in hand. The man held onto the gauge, handing it to me when my open palm appeared above my shoulder. I asked him if he thought I was driving into weather. He turned his face towards the sky and assessed the clouds, the same ones I assume he has driven under for years.
"I've been fighting rain since Philly," he said. "But at least it ain't snow."
I screwed the cap on the last tire and handed him his tire gauge. We wished each other safe travels and he began his walk back to his truck. He stopped a short distance away, turned around and said.
"Make sure you get one of these for your car. They're not expensive. Best to have one." He was waving the yellow gauge at me. I got back in my car and started it, the low tire pressure light flickering once or twice and then fading to black.
I'm happy that this man asked if I needed help. I'm happy because he was neither salacious nor patronizing, two attributes that are sadly common for women in distress. I like to think I have a fairly good sense of people's intentions when they approach me, but I've been wrong before. A couple of years ago I was getting gas at a neighborhood gas station and a man in a nice car, nice suit, and with a nice haircut was at the pump behind me. He was surely someone's father. I had no reason to distrust him based on looks alone, but as he was getting back in his car he paid me a lewd, over-sexed, threatening comment that I'm sure I was supposed to take as a compliment. Because he's a rich guy, right? All ladies want a seemingly powerful man to leer at her and then make her feel disgusting. Anyway, the man who helped me with my tire was a truck driver and he was dressed "like a truck driver." I suppose that other people might think of that as a red flag in itself, but because he reminded me so much of my dad, I basically knew what kind of character I was dealing with. Sure enough, he kept his distance, never attempted to cross any kind of boundaries, and walked away as soon as I was finished with his tire gauge. Best of all, he at no point made me feel stupid. He could have. He lives and works in a truck, his life is comprised of checking it and making sure it runs correctly. But he seemed kind of proud that I knew what I was doing. I don't even know the guy's name.
The drive to Chicago was fine. It rained from Toledo to Gary.
And the weekend was wonderful. I found an apartment AND boyfriend surprised me by literally appearing at the restaurant where I was eating dinner Saturday night. Brother has informed me that he has furniture he needs to get rid of so I can take any of it with me, and I've had a day of texts from buddies I haven't heard from in awhile. I received my first house warming gift last night from a former teacher, a framed Emma Goldman poster with a killer quote. Now all I need is a job! Minor detail, I think.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Taking a Crack at Fiction
I've been slacking, I know. But I'm a working woman with a cubicle now and I can't just abuse that kind of power, you know? I also have a small pile of paper clips that I get to call mine. I'm a somebody. By the time I leave, I will have worked there for 3.5 weeks. Thank you, Former College, for liking me the way you do.
Right, so this entry.
As you may or may not have noticed, this blog, the very one that is meant to bolster my career as a writer, has merely become musings from my life. They are perhaps creative non-fiction but really it's observation based entries with the occasional anecdote thrown in. I said to my self, "Self, you should give the readers a fine example of your skills as a fiction writer!" So that is exactly what I'm going to do. The following story is definitely not based on my apartment hunting experience in Chicago. This is fictional and I made it up. All of it.
9:40
Catie had made it.
After driving for nearly six hours, navigating her way through down town traffic, and listening to the same CD through the state of Indiana, she had made it.
Hidalgo: The Breezy City.
The past year had been filled with various opportunities to visit the city, all of which she took. Writing conferences, academic presentations, and schmoozing the boyfriend's family had brought her back time and time again. Even better, they were structured visits organized by someone else. She was always tagging along and tricking passerby into believe she was one of them. Catie was not nervous for this new adventure, though. She saw it as a chance to tip toe into adulthood and do it without anyone noticing. She was tired of the constant barrage of Wellwudyagonnadothere questions that seemed to mock her decision to pick up and move. Catie had no idea what she was going to do there and that delighted her.
One part of the plan was certain: an apartment must be found. Hannah, Catie's soon-to-be roommate, had gotten a job in a northern suburb of Hidalgo. As soon as Catie found out that her friend from college would be moving, she jumped on board and volunteered to be the second half of the rent check. It didn't bother Catie that she herself was unemployed; she knew she'd find something eventually. But neither Catie or Hannah had ever had to deal with landlords or leases or utilities that are-or-aren't included. In retrospect, because I the narrator have that, Catie was not correctly going about the apartment hunt. She had contacted a professional service, one that had been recommended, and made an appointment. She assumed that a professional service would offer far more help than conducting the search on her own. Besides, they're professionals! This is what they do!
Catie slept over at a friend's apartment, anxious for the early morning meeting but ultimately pleased with herself. She had done it. She had taken the initiative and the process was moving forward. She was going to find the perfect apartment and Hannah was going to love it. She awoke the next morning earlier than the alarm was set and went over all the questions she would ask at the meeting. She couldn't wait to impress the agents with all of the research she had done. She walked into the kitchen to find her friend and her room mate eating breakfast.
"So, Catie, how are you getting to your appointment?" asked the friend.
"I figured I'd catch a cab."
The other two girls exchanged glances.
"Wait," said Catie, "that's a thing, right?"
The friend thought for a moment before speaking.
"Yes. But not around here."
The two girls set to work, creating verbal maps of their neighborhood, pointing and naming landmarks, directing Catie to an area that might have cabs. They were saying things like They should be there and I think I've seen them there before. But Catie wasn't worried--it was her day to shine.
Catie's appointment was at 9:00. She arrived at 9:06. The reason for her tardiness is another story, but know that it involves those cabs that should be there.
The company was called PlaceHolders and the office was in a part of Hidalgo called GuysVille. Guysville is called this because of the number of good looking guys in the area. Catie burst through the front doors and, panting slightly, announced: "I am Catie! And I have an appointment!" The three receptionists burst into applause and the one with the large fake breasts offered her a warm chocolate chip cookie. She also gave her a form to fill out and motioned to a large leather couch. "Make yourself at home!" the chirped, her ample bosoms muffling the sound of her voice. Make yourself at home, laughed Catie to herself. Don't mind if I do. She sank deeper into the couch's leather, allowing her sweaty shirt to crystalize in the ice cold air conditioning. The flat screen was showing a live qualifying round of something happening in water: women's water polo or synchronized swimming perhaps. A tall man in a sleek suit appeared from a back room.
"Catherine?" he asked, all of his teeth showing.
"That's me!" said Catie, jumping in the air.
"Let's go get you an apartment!" And his sleek grey suit was already headed upstairs to the offices.
The man was named Todd and he was delighted to help such a pretty, well prepared young lady. He made small talk while he showed her to a small cubicle, outfitted only with a desk, two chairs, and a computer. Todd said, "I'll tell Amanda you're here." He disappeared around the cubicle wall. Catie checked her watch. It was 9:26.
At 9:31 Amanda shuffled into the seat opposite Catie, a large designer bag draped over her petite frame. Amanda put the bag on the floor, revealing her perfectly round pregnant stomach. The freckles on her skin had seen too much sun and they all melted together into a bronzey layer of pseudo-tan. She had choppy light hair pulled back away from her pale eyes. Her printed sundress hung tight on her figure but it was still flattering; skinny arms, skinny legs, skinny face, huge boobs, and that little round tummy. And there on her left ring finger she wore a wedding ring: two pewter squares connected by a single stone. Amanda looked like art.
Catie told her what I wanted. She gave her a price and a neighborhood and she watched her enter the information into the search system. Catie imagined all of the wonderful places Amanda would take her in her car, the baby kicking inside as Catie spun around with open arms in the living room of the new place. She would call Hannah and they would celebrate across time zones. I'll take it! Catie would exclaim. I'll take it!
Amanda turned the monitor to face her.
"So these are your choices."
Catie squinted at the screen. There were three properties listed. In the entire city of Hidalgo there were three apartments.
"And these two," said Amanda tapping the screen with her pen, "have a start date of August 1. Which is Wednesday. So do you think you could be in by then?"
Catie's eyes shot away from the screen and into Amanda's.
"No, I don't think that will work."
"Hmm." Amanda took a blank map from her bag and began drawing on it with her pen. "So that leaves you with one place. And it's right here." She circled a seemingly empty spot on the map. "It's not really near....anything. You said you wanted to be near public transit?"
"Mmm hmm."
"I see. Well the good news is you're about six blocks from a bus which will then take you to the violet line or the apricot line. That's about a 45 minute bus ride to get there. Then once you're on the train, you'll have to transfer after you've ridden about a block or two, and at that point you can hop on any of the other train lines. But only between the hours of four and five in the evening."
"What do we do if it's not between four or five?"
"Hmm. I don't know." Amanda's eyes narrowed in on Catie. "You don't look happy."
"Well, I don't understand how we're only eligible for one apartment."
"Hmmmm." Amanda nodded, her hair unmoving. "Well I think the problem here is your budget. It's just..." Amanda trailed off. "It's too low, is what it is. And I just don't think you're going to....hmm...find anything....hmm....here...specifically." Her square wedding ring hovered over the map to which she was referencing.
"What do I do now?" Catie no longer felt pretty or well prepared. She was panicked.
"We usually tell our clients to go home until we find something. It's just a shame that you drove all the way here." Amanda's shiny face tilted a little in feigned compassion.
Catie looked at her watch. It was 9:40.
Right, so this entry.
As you may or may not have noticed, this blog, the very one that is meant to bolster my career as a writer, has merely become musings from my life. They are perhaps creative non-fiction but really it's observation based entries with the occasional anecdote thrown in. I said to my self, "Self, you should give the readers a fine example of your skills as a fiction writer!" So that is exactly what I'm going to do. The following story is definitely not based on my apartment hunting experience in Chicago. This is fictional and I made it up. All of it.
9:40
Catie had made it.
After driving for nearly six hours, navigating her way through down town traffic, and listening to the same CD through the state of Indiana, she had made it.
Hidalgo: The Breezy City.
The past year had been filled with various opportunities to visit the city, all of which she took. Writing conferences, academic presentations, and schmoozing the boyfriend's family had brought her back time and time again. Even better, they were structured visits organized by someone else. She was always tagging along and tricking passerby into believe she was one of them. Catie was not nervous for this new adventure, though. She saw it as a chance to tip toe into adulthood and do it without anyone noticing. She was tired of the constant barrage of Wellwudyagonnadothere questions that seemed to mock her decision to pick up and move. Catie had no idea what she was going to do there and that delighted her.
One part of the plan was certain: an apartment must be found. Hannah, Catie's soon-to-be roommate, had gotten a job in a northern suburb of Hidalgo. As soon as Catie found out that her friend from college would be moving, she jumped on board and volunteered to be the second half of the rent check. It didn't bother Catie that she herself was unemployed; she knew she'd find something eventually. But neither Catie or Hannah had ever had to deal with landlords or leases or utilities that are-or-aren't included. In retrospect, because I the narrator have that, Catie was not correctly going about the apartment hunt. She had contacted a professional service, one that had been recommended, and made an appointment. She assumed that a professional service would offer far more help than conducting the search on her own. Besides, they're professionals! This is what they do!
Catie slept over at a friend's apartment, anxious for the early morning meeting but ultimately pleased with herself. She had done it. She had taken the initiative and the process was moving forward. She was going to find the perfect apartment and Hannah was going to love it. She awoke the next morning earlier than the alarm was set and went over all the questions she would ask at the meeting. She couldn't wait to impress the agents with all of the research she had done. She walked into the kitchen to find her friend and her room mate eating breakfast.
"So, Catie, how are you getting to your appointment?" asked the friend.
"I figured I'd catch a cab."
The other two girls exchanged glances.
"Wait," said Catie, "that's a thing, right?"
The friend thought for a moment before speaking.
"Yes. But not around here."
The two girls set to work, creating verbal maps of their neighborhood, pointing and naming landmarks, directing Catie to an area that might have cabs. They were saying things like They should be there and I think I've seen them there before. But Catie wasn't worried--it was her day to shine.
Catie's appointment was at 9:00. She arrived at 9:06. The reason for her tardiness is another story, but know that it involves those cabs that should be there.
The company was called PlaceHolders and the office was in a part of Hidalgo called GuysVille. Guysville is called this because of the number of good looking guys in the area. Catie burst through the front doors and, panting slightly, announced: "I am Catie! And I have an appointment!" The three receptionists burst into applause and the one with the large fake breasts offered her a warm chocolate chip cookie. She also gave her a form to fill out and motioned to a large leather couch. "Make yourself at home!" the chirped, her ample bosoms muffling the sound of her voice. Make yourself at home, laughed Catie to herself. Don't mind if I do. She sank deeper into the couch's leather, allowing her sweaty shirt to crystalize in the ice cold air conditioning. The flat screen was showing a live qualifying round of something happening in water: women's water polo or synchronized swimming perhaps. A tall man in a sleek suit appeared from a back room.
"Catherine?" he asked, all of his teeth showing.
"That's me!" said Catie, jumping in the air.
"Let's go get you an apartment!" And his sleek grey suit was already headed upstairs to the offices.
The man was named Todd and he was delighted to help such a pretty, well prepared young lady. He made small talk while he showed her to a small cubicle, outfitted only with a desk, two chairs, and a computer. Todd said, "I'll tell Amanda you're here." He disappeared around the cubicle wall. Catie checked her watch. It was 9:26.
At 9:31 Amanda shuffled into the seat opposite Catie, a large designer bag draped over her petite frame. Amanda put the bag on the floor, revealing her perfectly round pregnant stomach. The freckles on her skin had seen too much sun and they all melted together into a bronzey layer of pseudo-tan. She had choppy light hair pulled back away from her pale eyes. Her printed sundress hung tight on her figure but it was still flattering; skinny arms, skinny legs, skinny face, huge boobs, and that little round tummy. And there on her left ring finger she wore a wedding ring: two pewter squares connected by a single stone. Amanda looked like art.
Catie told her what I wanted. She gave her a price and a neighborhood and she watched her enter the information into the search system. Catie imagined all of the wonderful places Amanda would take her in her car, the baby kicking inside as Catie spun around with open arms in the living room of the new place. She would call Hannah and they would celebrate across time zones. I'll take it! Catie would exclaim. I'll take it!
Amanda turned the monitor to face her.
"So these are your choices."
Catie squinted at the screen. There were three properties listed. In the entire city of Hidalgo there were three apartments.
"And these two," said Amanda tapping the screen with her pen, "have a start date of August 1. Which is Wednesday. So do you think you could be in by then?"
Catie's eyes shot away from the screen and into Amanda's.
"No, I don't think that will work."
"Hmm." Amanda took a blank map from her bag and began drawing on it with her pen. "So that leaves you with one place. And it's right here." She circled a seemingly empty spot on the map. "It's not really near....anything. You said you wanted to be near public transit?"
"Mmm hmm."
"I see. Well the good news is you're about six blocks from a bus which will then take you to the violet line or the apricot line. That's about a 45 minute bus ride to get there. Then once you're on the train, you'll have to transfer after you've ridden about a block or two, and at that point you can hop on any of the other train lines. But only between the hours of four and five in the evening."
"What do we do if it's not between four or five?"
"Hmm. I don't know." Amanda's eyes narrowed in on Catie. "You don't look happy."
"Well, I don't understand how we're only eligible for one apartment."
"Hmmmm." Amanda nodded, her hair unmoving. "Well I think the problem here is your budget. It's just..." Amanda trailed off. "It's too low, is what it is. And I just don't think you're going to....hmm...find anything....hmm....here...specifically." Her square wedding ring hovered over the map to which she was referencing.
"What do I do now?" Catie no longer felt pretty or well prepared. She was panicked.
"We usually tell our clients to go home until we find something. It's just a shame that you drove all the way here." Amanda's shiny face tilted a little in feigned compassion.
Catie looked at her watch. It was 9:40.
And that's the end of Part I! There is a Part II that is also fiction. Wait for that?
In unrelated news, here are my top two biggest crushes of the 2012 Olympic Games. I thought about this a lot and I'm pretty proud of my picks. The double golds go to:
- Nathan Adrian; Swimming; Best smile this side of the equator.
- Allyson Felix; Track; Never breaks a sweat and is basically the cutest.
I'm heading back to Hadalgo Chicago this weekend. I assume everything will go smoothly. Right?
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Trust Thy Garmin
Greetings from my mini road trip! I have successfully made it to Chicago where I will begin the apartment hunting process bright and early tomorrow morning. I am staying with a friend who lives in the general area of where I want to live, but my appointment is at an office that is [apparently] at the Heart of Boys Town so I will be hitching a ride in that direction. But, most importantly, tomorrow will be an adventure and it will give me further validation that I'm not afraid of everything. And I won't complain if it also yields a place to live.
Before embarking, my list of concerns far outweighed my list of excitements. (Can "excitements" be used as a noun? I just did it.) To begin with, and I think this is pretty legitimate, I have no idea what I'm doing. I have no qualms with admitting this to anyone; I actually keep mentioning it in hopes that someone will volunteer to do it for me. Right, so I have no idea what I'm doing. My other big concern was that I'd get here, be shown a bunch of apartments, and then not like any of them. I can't really extend my stay in the city past Monday (Tuesday if absolutely necessary) so I've been operating under this idea that if I don't find something tomorrow, then I guess we're not living anywhere. If you're keeping a running tally of my concerns, not actually knowing what I'm doing and assuming I won't find anything are the two at the top. And then there was the driving anxiety, which was just an entirely different bag of tricks. Pretty much every time I've driven to and from Chicago, I have been with my man friend who grew up here. I never have to worry about it because he knows where he's going and he gets really excited when he gets to honk his horn or shake his fist at someone. (That last bit is usually followed by him giggling and saying something like "Did you see what I did?") Not this time! I did the drive all by myself and for whatever reason, my imagination got the best of me (again) and I had visions of single handedly shutting down the Dan Ryan. (I don't even know how one would do that, but I managed it in my head.) THEN, on top of all of this, I was really freaked out about parking. So to recap:
-I'm totally hapless
-I'm going to be homeless
-The state of Illinois is going to revoke my driver's license
-I'm going to abandon my car in the middle of an intersection and run to Friend's place
Well guess what? Everything has been completely fine thus far. In fact, I parked my car smack dab in front of my end destination. In another fact, I PARALLEL parked it, which was easily my biggest victory on the road trip. The drive was, uneventful, save for the warehouse of fireworks somewhere near Valparaiso. And because I drove here from Ann Arbor, I hardly spent any time in Indiana! Hoorah! (Sorry, Indianaians, but driving on 80 for the entire width of Indiana is, frankly, troubling. But I'll do it on the return journey, don't worry.) As much as it pains me to do so, I think I need to give a hearty round of applause the the ancient Garmin that my mom insisted I take with me. Traditionally, I hate technology, even when I'm aware of how much it helps. I have lived a GPS-less life, even printing out MapQuest directions when I would travel for work this past year. I did not want that pushy Garmin woman telling me what to do, especially on the road trip that was meant to solidify my independence. But, because I was vulnerable and spiraling into a descent of anxiety and hypothetical failures, I took the damn thing. And I gotta tell you: total life saver! I had a hard time trusting her at first. She does not like to reveal any of her methods until it is time, and I like to know which steps are coming up when. I eventually accepted that she knew what she was talking about, even when she would say cryptic things like "Drive 90 miles." To where? Then what? And why? But I did what she said and here I am.
After a fairly un-exciting summer, I'm gearing up for an exciting and busy August. Which will be nice, because then I won't have as much time to create fake scenarios in which the Chicago Police are reprimanding me. (I'm not a bad driver by the way, but the mind creates what it wants.) I'll be working a lot and hopefully all of the apartment stuff will be taken care of. Then I can move forward with furnishing it! With all the money I don't have! Hoorah! Also, my interest/joy/motivation for finding a job has been re-awoken so I'm going to try and get me one of those, I guess.
DON'T WORRY YOU GUYS I'M FINE NOW!!!
Now to find the perfect little kitty for my new life. Don't tell Chester.
Before embarking, my list of concerns far outweighed my list of excitements. (Can "excitements" be used as a noun? I just did it.) To begin with, and I think this is pretty legitimate, I have no idea what I'm doing. I have no qualms with admitting this to anyone; I actually keep mentioning it in hopes that someone will volunteer to do it for me. Right, so I have no idea what I'm doing. My other big concern was that I'd get here, be shown a bunch of apartments, and then not like any of them. I can't really extend my stay in the city past Monday (Tuesday if absolutely necessary) so I've been operating under this idea that if I don't find something tomorrow, then I guess we're not living anywhere. If you're keeping a running tally of my concerns, not actually knowing what I'm doing and assuming I won't find anything are the two at the top. And then there was the driving anxiety, which was just an entirely different bag of tricks. Pretty much every time I've driven to and from Chicago, I have been with my man friend who grew up here. I never have to worry about it because he knows where he's going and he gets really excited when he gets to honk his horn or shake his fist at someone. (That last bit is usually followed by him giggling and saying something like "Did you see what I did?") Not this time! I did the drive all by myself and for whatever reason, my imagination got the best of me (again) and I had visions of single handedly shutting down the Dan Ryan. (I don't even know how one would do that, but I managed it in my head.) THEN, on top of all of this, I was really freaked out about parking. So to recap:
-I'm totally hapless
-I'm going to be homeless
-The state of Illinois is going to revoke my driver's license
-I'm going to abandon my car in the middle of an intersection and run to Friend's place
Well guess what? Everything has been completely fine thus far. In fact, I parked my car smack dab in front of my end destination. In another fact, I PARALLEL parked it, which was easily my biggest victory on the road trip. The drive was, uneventful, save for the warehouse of fireworks somewhere near Valparaiso. And because I drove here from Ann Arbor, I hardly spent any time in Indiana! Hoorah! (Sorry, Indianaians, but driving on 80 for the entire width of Indiana is, frankly, troubling. But I'll do it on the return journey, don't worry.) As much as it pains me to do so, I think I need to give a hearty round of applause the the ancient Garmin that my mom insisted I take with me. Traditionally, I hate technology, even when I'm aware of how much it helps. I have lived a GPS-less life, even printing out MapQuest directions when I would travel for work this past year. I did not want that pushy Garmin woman telling me what to do, especially on the road trip that was meant to solidify my independence. But, because I was vulnerable and spiraling into a descent of anxiety and hypothetical failures, I took the damn thing. And I gotta tell you: total life saver! I had a hard time trusting her at first. She does not like to reveal any of her methods until it is time, and I like to know which steps are coming up when. I eventually accepted that she knew what she was talking about, even when she would say cryptic things like "Drive 90 miles." To where? Then what? And why? But I did what she said and here I am.
After a fairly un-exciting summer, I'm gearing up for an exciting and busy August. Which will be nice, because then I won't have as much time to create fake scenarios in which the Chicago Police are reprimanding me. (I'm not a bad driver by the way, but the mind creates what it wants.) I'll be working a lot and hopefully all of the apartment stuff will be taken care of. Then I can move forward with furnishing it! With all the money I don't have! Hoorah! Also, my interest/joy/motivation for finding a job has been re-awoken so I'm going to try and get me one of those, I guess.
DON'T WORRY YOU GUYS I'M FINE NOW!!!
Now to find the perfect little kitty for my new life. Don't tell Chester.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
In Which I Reveal My Fashion Secrets!!!
Blurgh. Right you guys? That's what I felt today when I made my To-Do list:
1. Find apartment
2. Find job
3. Watch more 30 Rock
I look at that list and I'm alarmed at my out of whack priorities. 30 Rock should always be at the top. I suppose my roomie-to-be will be sort of bummed if September rolls around and we're living out of our cars. But my Netflix account! I will say. At least we still have Netflix! And then I will warm my hands over a barrel fire.
I keep going back and forth between feeling totally frantic and totally calm. There's a fine line between the two, you know. Sometimes I have a hard time deciphering which is which, but I guess you'll have that when much of your day is dictated by which season of Boy Meets World is playing on MTV2. (Prime BMW years are playing right now, by the way. Don't miss out, this is great stuff.) When items one and two on the above list are taken care of, I will absolutely be feeling a lot more calm than frantic, but for now I have to face my neuroses head on like a big girl. That's what adults do, right? Mom? You want to field this one? The good news is that all this 30 Rock watching has tricked me into thinking I am Liz Lemon, so even when I'm not writing a TV show this coming year, respect that I am doing so in my head. Tina Fey is my spirit animal.
The truth of the matter is that finances and shelter are not my biggest concerns. I mean, they're primary, yeah, but not big. I think if you picture it, that statement makes sense. It makes sense to me. Anyway, I'm concerned about my clothes, which is totally lame, but it's also totally true. I get it. I'm not "fashion forward." I don't have a "haircut." I buy my jeans at "the mall." I'm historically mopey about this issue, actually. I don't ever do anything about the issue but I am a damn good moper so I like to stick with things I'm good at.
TIME. OUT.
Top 3 Favorite Criticisms of Katie's Fashion Said By Men Who, The More I Think About It, Really Could Be The Jack Donaghy To My Liz Lemon:
1. High School: "You're not bad looking....I just think you should ask [her] how to be pretty."
2. College, Year 2: "Why Katie! You're looking surprisingly un-dumpy today!"
3. College, Year 4: (Said to my very fashionable and new at the time boyfriend.) "This is perfect...now someone can teach her how to dress."
Might as well throw in a "Your face is kind of nice when it doesn't look like that" and we've got ourselves a sitcom!
#blessed #friendship #confidence
(Time out to the time out: Know that the top three are actually three of my best friends so I probably retorted with a "fuck you" or something super mature. And then I burned whatever I was wearing and wrote about it in my diary.)
So now I am moving to Chicago, the Akron of the deeper midwest, and I'm like Wait a minute. I'm not any of these adjectives that are used to describe my potential neighborhoods! Maybe "artsy" on a good day but that's it! Naturally I began to think of all the ways I would not aesthetically fit in, and I had this flashback to a dance I went to in 10th grade when all the girls wore mini dresses and I had on a lavender floor length ball gown. It had taffeta and rhinestones and please believe me when I say it made sense at the time. I also watched a girl drink a Gatorade bottle full of tobacco spit at that dance. Truly, the stars had all aligned. It's hard to buy what you think is right and then it's just not because it takes until the event itself (the dance, the move to a new city) to realize that you've made a horrible mistake. And that's when you hone your sense of humor and get voted Best Personality in your high school class. Or whatever, that's just a guess.
I started compiling a list of fashion must-haves; items that will convince the general public that I'm not a total moron. But I never actually finished the list because I didn't know what would go on such a list and the more I thought about the list the more I realized that I didn't really care about it in the first place and I was just looking for an excuse to write stuff down. I think the only item I had was "Shoes?" because I thought that sounded practical. But as I sit here resigned to the fact that I won't be making any major wardrobe changes, I ask myself: What would Liz Lemon wear? How would the alternate persona of my spirit animal (but, really, kind of the same persona) react to this change of both scenery and costume? I think she would eat a hot dog, be hilarious, and show just enough cleavage to make it interesting. As I say often, we heavy browed women need to stick together--the power is in our eyebrows.
(Note: Do you have any idea how many women have approached me and said "You know, I really respect your decision to keep your eyebrows thick"? A lot of them. So much respect, everybody.)
I will, however, cave for one fashion essential. I'm going to buy a lot of scarves and I'm just going to scarf it up all the time. Because nobody really questions what you're wearing as long as you have a scarf. What's that? Why yes I am wearing a Prom 2008 t-shirt! Doesn't it look so vintage with this fashion scarf draped over it? I know for a fact I've gone to fairly nice restaurants in a pitted out white v-neck but because I wrapped a scarf around my neck twice, I was ready for a night on the town. Scarves. Seriously, everybody. They are the true chameleons in this world. Also, I sometimes drop stuff in them and digging out earrings and pretzels at the end of the day is really nice.
Eyebrows. Scarves. Tina Fey. Ladies, if you have all these things, life can never disappoint you.
And bros, I don't know what to tell you. Like, go read a book, I guess. But you are also invited to keep your eyebrows thick and your scarves glorious.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Most Recent Cover Letter
July 15, 2012
Company
Address
City, State, Numbers
Dear lady whose name I found on the website and I don't actually know if you're the correct person to contact,
In my 22 years of life on this earth, I have yet to encounter anything as personally gratifying, intellectually stimulating, and genuinely fun as Working. That must explain why I've so enjoyed Working since I was 16. The experiences and wisdom that I have gained from Working are simply incomparable and that's why I've decided to continue Working. While perusing the Internet, I came across your job posting and it really caught my eye. That is an example of my critical reading skills and my ability to multi-task, as I was going through wedding albums on Facebook at the same time. This position would really bolster my appreciation and passion for Working, and I think you will find that I have specific, integral assets that set me apart from other candidates.
Unlike many twenty-somethings currently entering the workforce, I have the many luxuries and benefits that one obtains from a BA in English. As an English major, I am able to speak English (fluently), write in English (fluently), and understand nuances and symbols found in both English-language literature and film. This past year, I completed a senior capstone project that is required for graduation. This process taught me the importance of a strong work ethic, creative problem solving, and taking pride in what I produce. Did I mention it was 140 pages long? I know that number seems large, but that's only because it is. I wrote a collection of short stories, an impressive example of just how creative I am. You didn't explicitly mention anything about creativity in the posting, but I'm pretty sure you meant to. Taking creative license with the English language is something that most people--writers, musicians, poets--don't usually do. In that way, I guess you can consider me something of a risk taker.
Aside from my academic skill set, you should know that most of my Work experience has taken place in an office setting. This is why I love Working so much! I am a master of telephone skills, both answering and talking. I have very neat penmanship. I am funny but not abrasive. I am pretty but not the kind of pretty where it's going to get anybody in trouble (IE: small chest). I iron my clothes before I put them on and I try to smell nice. I know the alphabet very well and am very good at putting things in that order. Though if you prefer it a different way, just tell me! I believe that communication in the office is key and I am also very good at adjusting to change. I know how computers work and I know how to use fax machines. I make coffee. All of these skills make up my skill set, a set of skills of which I am very proud. I bring pride to whatever task I am assigned and I want to make you proud, too. I want to set my pride and my skill set into motion by Working for you.
Thank you so much for the time you have dedicated to reading this letter. I understand that many people write you letters, so I am honored that you are reading mine. I greatly look forward to hearing from you and discussing the position! If you have any further questions about my education or work history, do not hesitate to ask.
I do not do Photo Shop.
Sincerely,
Katherine.
Company
Address
City, State, Numbers
Dear lady whose name I found on the website and I don't actually know if you're the correct person to contact,
In my 22 years of life on this earth, I have yet to encounter anything as personally gratifying, intellectually stimulating, and genuinely fun as Working. That must explain why I've so enjoyed Working since I was 16. The experiences and wisdom that I have gained from Working are simply incomparable and that's why I've decided to continue Working. While perusing the Internet, I came across your job posting and it really caught my eye. That is an example of my critical reading skills and my ability to multi-task, as I was going through wedding albums on Facebook at the same time. This position would really bolster my appreciation and passion for Working, and I think you will find that I have specific, integral assets that set me apart from other candidates.
Unlike many twenty-somethings currently entering the workforce, I have the many luxuries and benefits that one obtains from a BA in English. As an English major, I am able to speak English (fluently), write in English (fluently), and understand nuances and symbols found in both English-language literature and film. This past year, I completed a senior capstone project that is required for graduation. This process taught me the importance of a strong work ethic, creative problem solving, and taking pride in what I produce. Did I mention it was 140 pages long? I know that number seems large, but that's only because it is. I wrote a collection of short stories, an impressive example of just how creative I am. You didn't explicitly mention anything about creativity in the posting, but I'm pretty sure you meant to. Taking creative license with the English language is something that most people--writers, musicians, poets--don't usually do. In that way, I guess you can consider me something of a risk taker.
Aside from my academic skill set, you should know that most of my Work experience has taken place in an office setting. This is why I love Working so much! I am a master of telephone skills, both answering and talking. I have very neat penmanship. I am funny but not abrasive. I am pretty but not the kind of pretty where it's going to get anybody in trouble (IE: small chest). I iron my clothes before I put them on and I try to smell nice. I know the alphabet very well and am very good at putting things in that order. Though if you prefer it a different way, just tell me! I believe that communication in the office is key and I am also very good at adjusting to change. I know how computers work and I know how to use fax machines. I make coffee. All of these skills make up my skill set, a set of skills of which I am very proud. I bring pride to whatever task I am assigned and I want to make you proud, too. I want to set my pride and my skill set into motion by Working for you.
Thank you so much for the time you have dedicated to reading this letter. I understand that many people write you letters, so I am honored that you are reading mine. I greatly look forward to hearing from you and discussing the position! If you have any further questions about my education or work history, do not hesitate to ask.
I do not do Photo Shop.
Sincerely,
Katherine.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
In Which My Jaw Explodes By The End of This
Sinus pressure: a phenomenon exclusive to the midwest or does everyone's face feel like it's going to explode? The only way to survive this festering blanket of heat is sitting in air conditioning as often as possible. Now don't get me wrong; I love the AC. I'm a bear without it. But my sinuses have a funny way of responding to said recycled air by swelling to twice their normal size. And my teeth hurt? Apparently that's a thing. In conclusion: I'm struggling, but I'd rather be in pain then leave heat regulation to my body's natural chemistry. It can't "do" that. I'm going to ice my face.
So the past week has been positively exciting, save for the 5th of July when I woke up and immediately hated everything I had drunk the night before. It was all in the name of America, though, so I think that makes it okay. Anyway, the McSweeney's piece came out two Fridays ago and this has been a most interesting week of feedback, both good and bad. I realize that's a little too naive or cutesy of me to like the negative comments but (surprise?) it was my first published piece, so really I had no frame of reference. I did come across something on Twitter that said my blog is boring. Well, obviously it's boring there's like, five entries. Don't worry, though. Robert is already planning to re-vamp it/move it to wordpress, so even though the content will stay exactly the same, you will at least be aesthetically tricked into thinking I'm a real writer. Speaking of tricked into thinking I'm a real writer: a nice woman on Twitter asked where she can find more of my writing and I thought well I can send you one of my diaries. Because that's what I'm working with! The piece was also re-posted on The Huffington Post, so I guess I could have sent her that link which would have been to something she already read. But really, everything from personal e-mails to new Twitter followers has been exciting, so thank you. And maybe I'll write something new someday or something.
If you missed the McSweeney's piece, don't worry! Here it is! And don't forget: if you do Instagram pictures of food (or anything for that matter) I don't actually hate you.
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/an-open-letter-to-people-who-take-pictures-of-food-with-instagram
But even more exciting news is the fact that I am officially headed for Chicago! (The Windy City will also make this blog less boring.) Maybe a month ago, I promised my roommate from freshman year that I was absolutely committed to being her roommate should she get hired at the Chicago job for which she had applied. I've been completing a lot of job applications of my own, none of which have panned out. (So if you know anybody in Chicago...) Right, so she got hired at a big kid job and I will be accompanying her and being her freshman-in-life roommate. This will all be happening in early September unless, of course, somebody decides tomorrow that they need me in Chicago right away. Whatever, I'm super excited, and I have utmost confidence that everything will work out swimmingly. I'm also excited about my mom's promise of buying me a Keurig. It's all I asked of her in regards to the relocating. Hot drinks. (Which is weird because my body really does struggle with regulating its temperature. Maybe that's why.) I've had a good run in Ohio but the time has come for me to explore other parts of...the midwest. I figure this will finally afford me the opportunity to pretend I'm in a John Hughes movie and John Candy's my wacky uncle. I've done it before, but this time it will be relevant.
Here's a story that's not boring! Last weekend, Biz and I went to Cleveland for a night of bar hopping. The night was going like most of my other bar hopping nights, complete with eight dollar beers and mefeeling being shorter than everyone else. We eventually made our way over to West 6th which is an area I was supposed to know about but didn't because I never go to Cleveland. Upon entering the bar, we immediately ran into girls from high school, which was awesome, especially because one of them was clearly mid-conversation with a guy then physically shoved past him to talk to us. The bar's music was being supplied by a surprisingly good cover band headed by a lead singer with the charm of Zack Morris and the leather vest of Aladdin. I believe we made eye contact once or twice, not that I've been thinking about it ever since then or anything. I had resigned to stop drinking (I don't know why) but then I was getting all these sweaty hugs from this other crew of from-high-school-kids who were at the same bar by way of a party bus, so I revoked my resignation. I wedged my way into an open spot at the bar, between two empty chairs, and I flagged down the lady bar keep. This bar must have been 100 degrees inside, and she was wearing a long sleeve black shirt, black pants, a lot of black eye make up and all of her heavy black hair worn down her back and on her shoulders. She looked fucking miserable. Naturally, I decided she was the best person with whom to place an order.
Can I get a Bud Lite, and a water, please? I shouted over Zack Morris's rendition of Poker Face. [Note: 30 seconds before, Biz had lovingly stroked my shoulder and said "water??" Note to the Note: She was DD so she was just regular thirsty not like, drunk thirsty.]
She held eye contact with me long enough to acknowledge that she had understood my request. She dipped down to a refrigerator below the bar and popped back up with a Miller Lite which she flicked open with a phantom bottle opener that had appeared as if from nowhere. She might have used her hand, I don't even know. The beer immediately erupted out of the bottle, spilled over the sides and ran off the bar. I was already displeased that it was a Miller Lite, but at this point it was just mocking me. I paid the girl with a 20 and when she gave me back my change, she looked at the puddle of beer and placed my bills in it. I shook them off, stuffed them in my purse, and turned around to look at Biz. I simply pointed at my Miller Lite bottle. She shook her head in the way that one might "SMH."She SHH.
And that's what I consider to be a not boring story.
My jaw hasn't exploded yet but touching my tongue to my teeth hurts. I think I might take something.
OH do you know what my favorite response to the McSweeney's piece is? A friend of a friend inquired if that's my job now. To write stuff for people and then get paid. In a perfect world...
So the past week has been positively exciting, save for the 5th of July when I woke up and immediately hated everything I had drunk the night before. It was all in the name of America, though, so I think that makes it okay. Anyway, the McSweeney's piece came out two Fridays ago and this has been a most interesting week of feedback, both good and bad. I realize that's a little too naive or cutesy of me to like the negative comments but (surprise?) it was my first published piece, so really I had no frame of reference. I did come across something on Twitter that said my blog is boring. Well, obviously it's boring there's like, five entries. Don't worry, though. Robert is already planning to re-vamp it/move it to wordpress, so even though the content will stay exactly the same, you will at least be aesthetically tricked into thinking I'm a real writer. Speaking of tricked into thinking I'm a real writer: a nice woman on Twitter asked where she can find more of my writing and I thought well I can send you one of my diaries. Because that's what I'm working with! The piece was also re-posted on The Huffington Post, so I guess I could have sent her that link which would have been to something she already read. But really, everything from personal e-mails to new Twitter followers has been exciting, so thank you. And maybe I'll write something new someday or something.
If you missed the McSweeney's piece, don't worry! Here it is! And don't forget: if you do Instagram pictures of food (or anything for that matter) I don't actually hate you.
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/an-open-letter-to-people-who-take-pictures-of-food-with-instagram
But even more exciting news is the fact that I am officially headed for Chicago! (The Windy City will also make this blog less boring.) Maybe a month ago, I promised my roommate from freshman year that I was absolutely committed to being her roommate should she get hired at the Chicago job for which she had applied. I've been completing a lot of job applications of my own, none of which have panned out. (So if you know anybody in Chicago...) Right, so she got hired at a big kid job and I will be accompanying her and being her freshman-in-life roommate. This will all be happening in early September unless, of course, somebody decides tomorrow that they need me in Chicago right away. Whatever, I'm super excited, and I have utmost confidence that everything will work out swimmingly. I'm also excited about my mom's promise of buying me a Keurig. It's all I asked of her in regards to the relocating. Hot drinks. (Which is weird because my body really does struggle with regulating its temperature. Maybe that's why.) I've had a good run in Ohio but the time has come for me to explore other parts of...the midwest. I figure this will finally afford me the opportunity to pretend I'm in a John Hughes movie and John Candy's my wacky uncle. I've done it before, but this time it will be relevant.
Here's a story that's not boring! Last weekend, Biz and I went to Cleveland for a night of bar hopping. The night was going like most of my other bar hopping nights, complete with eight dollar beers and me
Can I get a Bud Lite, and a water, please? I shouted over Zack Morris's rendition of Poker Face. [Note: 30 seconds before, Biz had lovingly stroked my shoulder and said "water??" Note to the Note: She was DD so she was just regular thirsty not like, drunk thirsty.]
She held eye contact with me long enough to acknowledge that she had understood my request. She dipped down to a refrigerator below the bar and popped back up with a Miller Lite which she flicked open with a phantom bottle opener that had appeared as if from nowhere. She might have used her hand, I don't even know. The beer immediately erupted out of the bottle, spilled over the sides and ran off the bar. I was already displeased that it was a Miller Lite, but at this point it was just mocking me. I paid the girl with a 20 and when she gave me back my change, she looked at the puddle of beer and placed my bills in it. I shook them off, stuffed them in my purse, and turned around to look at Biz. I simply pointed at my Miller Lite bottle. She shook her head in the way that one might "SMH."She SHH.
And that's what I consider to be a not boring story.
My jaw hasn't exploded yet but touching my tongue to my teeth hurts. I think I might take something.
OH do you know what my favorite response to the McSweeney's piece is? A friend of a friend inquired if that's my job now. To write stuff for people and then get paid. In a perfect world...
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Ok, seriously, please like me.
To begin: When the fan on my laptop makes this much noise, I half expect it to blast into space. I wonder how the Geek Squad would handle that. As I'm sure many of you can relate, the fan goes crazy when you watch too many YouTube videos. But sometimes, I feel that the laptop is merely responding to the quality of what you just watched as opposed to the quantity of what you just watched. With that being said, I can only assume that my laptop didn't know what to do with me YouTubing a song from Rent.
Last week I attempted to blog about something that legitimately interests me, but I got distracted by cats or fruit or something and I just "didn't have it in me." I'm back now, with a little less fire/intrigue for the topic but I'll give it a shot anyway. Why do we like things on Facebook? And I mean this in the literal clicking the "like" button sense. What compels us to click it? I like things all the time, and I of course appreciate having posts liked in return, so I'm surely not putting anyone down for doing or not doing it. I've come up with some ideas as to why we like the things we do, none of them really being a definite answer. I thought that I should share.
You're being an asshole. For awhile I assumed that all Facebook likes were rooted in some kind of disingenuous sociopathy. Which is terrible, I know, but it's too easy to just hit the "like" button then laugh to yourself about how much you don't like it. And if you don't supply a qualifying statement with your "like" in reference to things that should never be liked (breakups, bad days, deaths, etc.) then you are, actually, kind of an asshole. So when I see someone's picture with 33 likes on it, I can't help but wonder how many of those are done ironically, perhaps in an effort to piss off a third party who had an issue with the party in the picture. Do you know what I mean? "Did you see that new picture of him and his new girlfriend?" "Yup, and I liked it." Point. Made. But obviously not all Facebook likes can be attributed to merely messing with people. So maybe...
You're being sincere. Which is awesome if you are. The "like" button seems so straight forward; if you like it, you click it. But, as mentioned above, that's not always the case. I've noticed that most people who are sincerely wishing someone the best will leave a comment or, best yet, send a private message so they can fully express how much they like it. The "like" button has become a default option and I'm the first to admit it. If you don't really know how to respond but you want to acknowledge that you saw it, you "like" it. Again, I think this only happens sometimes, OF COURSE I think it's done sincerely. But if you're not always being ironic but you're not always being nice then...
You feel obligated. The best way to show loyalty is to support publicly, and nothing is more public than Facebook. Like all of the profile pictures: you are a good friend. Don't like all of the profile pictures: you are a bad friend. Never before have we been able to quantify friendship and now the "like" button finally enables us to visually compare who is a better friend than whom. Take for example my college's senior thesis project. Every single senior has to complete one in order to graduate. As you can imagine, everybody (my self included) posts about turning it in. If you aren't finished with your own yet, odds are you don't actually like this piece of information. It sounds petty but it's true. But you like the post anyway. You don't want to but you know that someone will bring up the point that you didn't publicly "like" it, which means that you are mad, bitter, jealous and so on and so forth. The same can be said about people who get engaged. I'm sure the bride or groom-to-be has a friend or two who is WAITING around for his/her partner to pop the question and the thought of someone else getting a ring invokes heartburn and nausea. But the news is liked anyway. Why? You're a jerk if you don't. And then...
You like to like stuff. We all have these characters hiding in our friends list. They like everything. Sometimes you forget how you even know this person, but they like your song lyrics, inside jokes, pictures of your cats, random outbursts. They like it all. I haven't made sense of this one yet. Best friends, crushes, peripheral friends, love interests, friend crushes, acquaintances; at the very least, a small narrative can be developed as to why they "like' something of yours. It's the strangers that are tricky. Maybe they're being sincere, which is great, but still confusing.
I really started thinking about this a month or so ago when everybody graduated and my newsfeed was inundated with announcements. This by no means bothered me; I'm a recent grad, too. But everything was "liked," waaaaay up into the double digits, and I just started asking this question. And then, because we must share a mind, a pal (ZJ) posted something a long the lines of "What do I have to do to get a like on my status? Graduate, have a baby, or run a marathon, it seems." And I thought that was really funny because it's kind of true. But this spirals into the discussion of "Why do we post what we post on Facebook/Twitter?" and that is far larger than simply dissecting why the likers like what they like. I think it's fair to assume that I'm pretty cynical. Why else would I question being supported by my friends or others being supported by their friends? I'm not totally wary of anyone's intentions, I really am just interested in everyone's standard for committing to the "like." And no, I will not be sharing mine.
Though you should know that I just liked the following status:
When I use a typewriter, I always type in the voice of Jeff Goldblum, not sure why.
That more or less finishes that discussion, though I realize it answers nothing, not even for myself. Facebook makes friendship fascinating; it's kind of redefined it, if not totally restructured it. Don't even get me started on how many times I've fielded questions pertaining to why my boyfriend and I are not in a Facebook relationship. Apparently it's not real if it's not public, and it also means that we must not like each other very much if we don't want to "admit" to being together. For anyone who's ever seen us together: you're totally right. Not a whole lot going on between us.
Anyway, social media; what a weird thing. You should ask me about InstaGram.
Now go give Gulag Orkestrar another listen! For whatever reason, Beirut was just what I needed on this 90-degree-and-rising Sunday and my compy calmed down as soon as the first track started. Did you know that one of the band's major musical influences is a Baltic trumpeter named Boban Markovic? I assume we're related.
Last week I attempted to blog about something that legitimately interests me, but I got distracted by cats or fruit or something and I just "didn't have it in me." I'm back now, with a little less fire/intrigue for the topic but I'll give it a shot anyway. Why do we like things on Facebook? And I mean this in the literal clicking the "like" button sense. What compels us to click it? I like things all the time, and I of course appreciate having posts liked in return, so I'm surely not putting anyone down for doing or not doing it. I've come up with some ideas as to why we like the things we do, none of them really being a definite answer. I thought that I should share.
You're being an asshole. For awhile I assumed that all Facebook likes were rooted in some kind of disingenuous sociopathy. Which is terrible, I know, but it's too easy to just hit the "like" button then laugh to yourself about how much you don't like it. And if you don't supply a qualifying statement with your "like" in reference to things that should never be liked (breakups, bad days, deaths, etc.) then you are, actually, kind of an asshole. So when I see someone's picture with 33 likes on it, I can't help but wonder how many of those are done ironically, perhaps in an effort to piss off a third party who had an issue with the party in the picture. Do you know what I mean? "Did you see that new picture of him and his new girlfriend?" "Yup, and I liked it." Point. Made. But obviously not all Facebook likes can be attributed to merely messing with people. So maybe...
You're being sincere. Which is awesome if you are. The "like" button seems so straight forward; if you like it, you click it. But, as mentioned above, that's not always the case. I've noticed that most people who are sincerely wishing someone the best will leave a comment or, best yet, send a private message so they can fully express how much they like it. The "like" button has become a default option and I'm the first to admit it. If you don't really know how to respond but you want to acknowledge that you saw it, you "like" it. Again, I think this only happens sometimes, OF COURSE I think it's done sincerely. But if you're not always being ironic but you're not always being nice then...
You feel obligated. The best way to show loyalty is to support publicly, and nothing is more public than Facebook. Like all of the profile pictures: you are a good friend. Don't like all of the profile pictures: you are a bad friend. Never before have we been able to quantify friendship and now the "like" button finally enables us to visually compare who is a better friend than whom. Take for example my college's senior thesis project. Every single senior has to complete one in order to graduate. As you can imagine, everybody (my self included) posts about turning it in. If you aren't finished with your own yet, odds are you don't actually like this piece of information. It sounds petty but it's true. But you like the post anyway. You don't want to but you know that someone will bring up the point that you didn't publicly "like" it, which means that you are mad, bitter, jealous and so on and so forth. The same can be said about people who get engaged. I'm sure the bride or groom-to-be has a friend or two who is WAITING around for his/her partner to pop the question and the thought of someone else getting a ring invokes heartburn and nausea. But the news is liked anyway. Why? You're a jerk if you don't. And then...
You like to like stuff. We all have these characters hiding in our friends list. They like everything. Sometimes you forget how you even know this person, but they like your song lyrics, inside jokes, pictures of your cats, random outbursts. They like it all. I haven't made sense of this one yet. Best friends, crushes, peripheral friends, love interests, friend crushes, acquaintances; at the very least, a small narrative can be developed as to why they "like' something of yours. It's the strangers that are tricky. Maybe they're being sincere, which is great, but still confusing.
I really started thinking about this a month or so ago when everybody graduated and my newsfeed was inundated with announcements. This by no means bothered me; I'm a recent grad, too. But everything was "liked," waaaaay up into the double digits, and I just started asking this question. And then, because we must share a mind, a pal (ZJ) posted something a long the lines of "What do I have to do to get a like on my status? Graduate, have a baby, or run a marathon, it seems." And I thought that was really funny because it's kind of true. But this spirals into the discussion of "Why do we post what we post on Facebook/Twitter?" and that is far larger than simply dissecting why the likers like what they like. I think it's fair to assume that I'm pretty cynical. Why else would I question being supported by my friends or others being supported by their friends? I'm not totally wary of anyone's intentions, I really am just interested in everyone's standard for committing to the "like." And no, I will not be sharing mine.
Though you should know that I just liked the following status:
When I use a typewriter, I always type in the voice of Jeff Goldblum, not sure why.
That more or less finishes that discussion, though I realize it answers nothing, not even for myself. Facebook makes friendship fascinating; it's kind of redefined it, if not totally restructured it. Don't even get me started on how many times I've fielded questions pertaining to why my boyfriend and I are not in a Facebook relationship. Apparently it's not real if it's not public, and it also means that we must not like each other very much if we don't want to "admit" to being together. For anyone who's ever seen us together: you're totally right. Not a whole lot going on between us.
Anyway, social media; what a weird thing. You should ask me about InstaGram.
Now go give Gulag Orkestrar another listen! For whatever reason, Beirut was just what I needed on this 90-degree-and-rising Sunday and my compy calmed down as soon as the first track started. Did you know that one of the band's major musical influences is a Baltic trumpeter named Boban Markovic? I assume we're related.
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