Every day can't be the best day

Almost a solid month has passed since I got back from KY. I've spent it mostly by going on crazy destashing sprees of purging anything that isn't bolted down from my room and closet. I feel like Motley Crue in a hotel room circa 1982. Despite my concern over this manic state, I did accomplish two important goals: there's an actual hamper in the closet and an empty suitcase available, in case I ever need to go somewhere. Moral of the story, dream big, people.

The rest of the time has been spent reading and cultivating a refined sense of ennui. Normally I'm fairly resilient, but this summer has floored me psychologically. Sometimes I try to wriggle free, but like a straitjacket or the Snuggie from hell, my depression envelops me and and struggle is useless. Better just sit here and take it. Currently self-medicating with cookies and Sylvia Plath -- surely this will end well.

I try to leave the house as often as possible to stave off the impending Mrs. Rochester-style decline that will be my undoing. But getting out of my house is no easy task. My parents are extremely paranoid, and are convinced that every outing spells doom, even for themselves. I went to the mall today after sitting through a ten minute lecture on being careful and aware because someone had once been robbed in the parking lot. I dealt with this warning by parking in the Bass Pro lot. What fool would mug someone in the vicinity of at least fifty men with knives and/or guns? Also, it was broad daylight on a Thursday morning. What can I say -- fearless.

Oh, well. Every day can't be the best day. Maybe one of them will be, though.

Louisville: the London of Kentucky

Well dayum, why couldn't I have lived here? Louisville is a magical city of riverboats, huge-ass Victorian houses, and endless bridges over relatively untroubled waters.

We went here on Tuesday, and did the usual BB 'n ALB circuit: cemeteries, letterboxing, tea, and architecture creeping. There are precious few people that share these interests, so I'm grateful for a friend who doesn't mind off-roading in the name of the fascinating and bizarre. Our destination today was Cave Hill Cemetery, a Victorian cemetery and arboretum built by those who truly understood how to memorialize the dead in style. Huge mausoleums, impressive sculptures, memorable names to add to my perpetual list ("Freelove" and the Strother twins, "Owen Gray" and "Gray Owen"): this place has it all.

Oh, and this guy who seems to be famous hereabouts:

For house and architecture creeping, there are the beautiful "Old Louisville" neighborhoods which managed to survive the wrecking ball as well as the general shocking decay of other similar areas (I'm looking at you, Cincinnati). Blocks and blocks of gorgeous Victorian monstrosities along St. James Court (in various states of upkeep and/or division into apartments): who would I have to kill to live here?

And then the tea. Why this idea hasn't made its way to Nashville yet, I'll never know.

You know those East Nash hipsters would be all over tea soda in a Mason jar.

After this adventure, BB helped me pack and flee the scene of this summer's crime(s). We spent a couple days in Nash, including a full thrifting tour (plus "the bins" outlet -- think Goodwill meets Thunderdome: "Two men enter, one man leaves!"), breakfast at Noshville, Marathon Village, and assorted other stops that make this such a great place. But, alas, she had to return to the homeland, where gainful employment and an exciting future await. Fare thee well, faithful friend. May the color of the day be ever in your favor.

Back home in Nash, killing time til diving back into the shit show that is school/work. This week has been consumed by a massive wardrobe/book/junk cull that has been years in the making. "What is a closet, really, but a catalogue of the different personas we have auditioned and discarded?" (Tim Gunn, who's looking more like a guru every minute). I'm not an inherent hoarder, but I do unnecessarily collect certain things for various unhealthy psychological reasons I have come to recognize. But why hold on to things that are no longer appropriate or that no longer make me happy? Surely absence is better than hoarding unhappiness. Is it because I think nothing better will come along? But it will, because I deserve it and will work to find it. Donate ALL the things and start afresh and unafraid. "When half-gods go, the gods arrive."

Obviously this is a bigger issue than hanging onto middle school jeans (not that I did that...), but you get the idea. Better an empty closet or heart than one that is full to the brim with things that bring you down. Hurry up and clean it out, because better things are on their way!

Bumming in Bourbon Country

All good things must come to an end, and, thankfully, so too must all hellish things. I finished my internship with a shred of sanity intact and fled the scene of that crime like R. Kelly had just pulled his beretta. I'm sure I learned something worthwhile, but the main takeaways were: 1) Kentucky taxes take 20% of your check, and 2) stay away from our northern neighbors. Trailer Park Boys was a lie. These peeps be cray.

Now BB is visiting from the homeland and we're trolling the Midwest in search of bourbon and mayhem. Double points if these elements are combined. The trip thus far:

Saturday: Welcome to the 5th smallest state capital! There is nothing here. Downtown strolling and a quick trip to my former place of work to witness the horror of the animatronic coal miner in the exhibit. Unexpected bonus: terrifying animatronic guy sharpening knives! Evening ghost tour of a bourbon distillery. Unfortunate experience with 125-proof moonshine. I could tell BB had taken a drink because she was literally crying.

Sunday: Cincinnati. Can someone please explain why there's been no new construction in the Midwest since 1885? Anyway. Taft housing, river walking, Graeter's eating (disappointment, these dudes need a Braum's), and cemetery letterboxing. I got a nice neck sunburn in preparation for my return to the South.

Monday: Somehow we are still in this town. Candy factory touring (again with the bourbon balls -- even the chocolate is liquored up here), more cemetery creeping, Civil War fort climbing, and generally driving around looking at whatever this backwater has to offer. Sadly, that ended up being a fish hatchery.

Tuesday: on to Louisville!  Cemeteries, Victorian district, and an intriguing establishment known only as "Hillbilly Tea." Eventually I'll have to head home, but ain't nothing good waiting there so I'm delaying it as long as possible. More adventures to come...

Hello, stranger

Well, just two more weeks until you're hearing me complain about living at home again! There really is no middle ground: I'm either unhappy alone or I'm unhappy with people. At least one unhappiness is free and includes a dishwasher. Dayum, I am spoiled.

Anyhow, what a weird effing week. Old Man Lunch Club are now my biggest fans (genteel Southern manners never fail to charm), boss who probably still thinks I'm incompetent wants me to write a conference paper on our collection (cue this face), and a shady man from the past is blowing up my inbox.

Let's cut right to the chase. It's ALC, whom you may remember from several depressing posts from about two years ago. We became good friends (?) the last semester of school and into the summer, and I was pretty sure he was the chainmail-crafting, bad-movie-pirating man of my dreams. We talked and texted every day, and had weekly dinner and movie dates. Yet no decisive action ever took place. When I finally said something (albeit in the most redonk and creepy way possible), he responded that he was not interested. Oh. Um, okay. He wasn't mean or weird about it (which he certainly could've been -- I basically broke into his car at 1 a.m.). But how confusing. I was less heartbroken than just completely befuddled. I just... if it walks like a duck, swims like a duck, and cooks me dinner at its apartment, it should be a damn duck. If this kind of attention is indicative of just friendship, how are we ever supposed to know when they are interested? Men are ridiculous, end of story. It's either this or those ones who claim their inclinations were so obvious that we must be blind to not understand. Nope, you're full of shit. Go sit down.

Anyway, I went off to New York, and ALC went off to grad school in a foreign country that fall. We continued to talk, until one day, with no warning, he disappeared from the almighty Facebook. I'm not suggesting that FB should be anyone's primary mode of communication, but when you're in another country, don't have a phone, and I don't have your email address, it's pretty much the only outlet left. I was puzzled and frankly disappointed. I mean, feel free to cut the ties of FB whenever, but don't leave me with no way to contact you if we are, in fact, friends. It was weird, but eventually I just decided he was cutting home ties generally and becoming immersed in his new life. Nothing I could do about it. A year passes, no news. We all figure he's dead, in jail, or in earnest pursuit of local girls (/boys? Jury's still out.).

Cut to last week, when out of nowhere, I get a notice on LinkedIn from ALC. Whaaaaaaaaat? Throwing caution to the wind, I send him a message asking where the hell he's been. And now we're emailing every day like two years have not passed. We're still on the same topics, too: crappy movies, bad drink recipes, and the masterful intricacy of R. Kelly lyrics. Even though I know he's not interested in me, it's nice to have someone like me to talk to again. He's not from around here, so it's doubtful I'll ever see him again. Still, you need all the friends you can get, amirite?

Wifi ninja

Things both better and worse here. Better because things are going more smoothly at work now that I think I know what I’m doing (although still batshit terrified of boss’s judgment – am writing this while avoiding interacting with her by pretending to still be on yesterday’s project), and because an end is finally in sight (less than three weeks!) Better because I got to write a little bit for work, thus re-establishing my sense that there is at least one thing I know how to do alright. Better because I befriended Old Man Lunch Club and they don't think I'm a fool.  Better because I finally got internet at home! Much rejoicing! Slight amelioration of isolation and ennui!!!

I can’t believe it took over a month to get internet. Well, yes, I can. The thing was, I never saw my landlady, despite the fact that she lives upstairs. I often heard her, though (1:30 a.m. shower in the bathroom directly above my bed, furniture assembly complete with power tools at 5:30 a.m., etc.). And the one time I did see her, she promised to get back to me with the wifi password, but never did. So did I track her down and assert my rights as a paying tenant to internet service? That hardly sounds like me, does it? No. Did I wait til she and her family were out of the house on July 4th, then sneak upstairs, search in vain for a router, and then finally hack a computer to find the password? You betcha.

It was definitely a “look at your life, look at your choices” kind of moment. I realize that the simpler and not crazy thing would’ve just been to find her and ask, but I know that would’ve been awkward for me and I already know I’m crazy, so might as well run with it. I’m aware I make things much harder than they have to be because I’m weird like that, but what can I do? I always think of Yul Brynner’s character in the old Anastasia when he says something to the effect of, “What is difficult for most men is simple to me. What is simple for most men to do is impossible for me.”

It’s not all sunshine and Youtube, though. A dark cloud of depression hovers overhead due to the recent exodus of QB to the west, never to return. Well, maybe to return at selected holidays, and at this point my plan is to leave the car idling in the auditorium parking lot on graduation day so I can speed out to NM immediately following the ceremony, but regardless I won’t see her for quite awhile, and never every day like we were used to doing (til I move in to her garden shed, anyway). Our relationship was magic in a way that only the sudden recognition of a kindred spirit can enable, and her devotion to providing me with snark, chocolate, and motivation is largely what got me through this past year. She listened to me, helped me, and tried to straighten me out as best she could. Most importantly, she gave me what I always wanted but never believed I deserved: the complete and undivided attention of another person. I don’t know how I’ll get along without her. Fare thee well, noble BFFL. I am eternally grateful. I’ll see you on the other side (of the country).    

Reality check

“Your life is such an epic saga of things that are slightly horrible, punctuated by the truly awful."

Wise words from the sage QB, who is like a sassy Ann Landers who cuts through the BS and brings me treats. The last part is based on our theory that my general lack of heft is causing my brain to feed off of itself, similar to the process experienced by the malnourished and purposefully protein-deprived cult victims,  and that we can remedy this with constant application of fattening substances (“You want some cherries for your ice cream? Whipped cream? Crushed Pop-tart?”). I’m not sure about the science behind this, but if it gives me an excuse for my insanity and allows me to do things like put two kinds of ice cream in one bowl and frost a red velvet Pop-tart with Nutella, I’m certainly not arguing. Next it’ll be intravenous whiskey, which, although the side effects of tears and sudden and startling life clarity can be rough, has continually brought me through to a better state of health.

Anyway. I set out today to write a blog that for once doesn’t read like an extended suicide note. Let’s see how that goes.

Last weekend I stayed at Chez QB. We went antiquing and watched the entire 33 episode run of R. Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet,” which is as close as you can get to “The Room” for the money. I won’t spoil any of it for you (although how could I? Every 5 minutes is a new insane cliffhanger), but suffice it to say that if your name is Bridget and you don’t grasp the insane ironic cliché’ of cheating with a midget (who is also a stripper and whom you stash under the sink when your cop husband comes home), you’re going to get what’s coming to you.

We may or may not be scripting a cat version (R. Kitty’s “Trapped in the Cabinet”) as we speak. And by we, I mean our two girl crew of “Graham Cracka” and “Platinum Prawn.” Add that to the rap about museum storage I’m secretly drafting every day I’m here (“I’m the original Hollinger gangsta/ bitch, don’t make me get my swatches out!”) and you can how my career is about to really take off.

Same old situation at work. I’ve been parlaying the Southern girl’s innate ability to charm the elderly into scoring free meals from old lady volunteers and life advice from editors in another department (the one I’d like to be in but that doesn’t have interns, natch). It makes things easier now, and who can say how it might pay off in the future (i.e., remembering me for a job, or in their will).

EF found out she will be birthing a boy. Of course everything I have made for it is purple. So help me, I will turn him into a little Prince or Freddie Mercury if it kills me.

It's the Fourth tomorrow. I have that day off, but not Friday, which means there's no sense in going home. I have no plans and no companions. I hope I can find some fireworks. I really hope I can find some Sonic.

Meanwhile, here's this in case your life was missing something:

Mid-point crisis

“If this is the dynamic you’re used to, no wonder you can’t interact with people in a normal, healthy way.”

QB’s response to this week’s crisis (my family putting down our 15 year old dog and informing me via email) is pretty spot on. I’m way over my tears budget for this year, so I’m not even going to write about the emotional agony of losing a four-legged friend. Almost everyone goes through it eventually, but this has happened to me three times in the past 4 years and there’s not much I haven’t already said.

Anyway, this response got me thinking (almost always a dangerous thing). But it’s true. Normal interactions elude me even when I’m pretending really hard to be normal myself. It’s not really flattering to think that your own personality is “wrong” and getting in the way of your own life, but for a long time it has been.

I’m shy, secretive, defensive, self-destructive, easily intimidated, stubborn, and proud to a fault. And it’s ruining my life, which honestly has never needed my help being shitty, anyway.

Latest example: I’m terrified of my boss. I have no idea what she wants from me, am convinced she thinks I’m an idiot, get very flustered in front of her, and avoid contact or asking for help because of these reasons. I will go to any lengths to get by her. Which is ludicrous: ostensibly she is here to teach me (and provide a recommendation, should the need arise). But I can’t get over it. Today is my mid-internship evaluation and I’m half-convinced I will either be sent home in shame or reprimanded for all these things I do that I know are stupid and wrong (even as I continue to do them), but cannot seem to help.

Did I used to be better, or was the universe just asking less of me?

Pedaling back to TN tonight as fast as Space Ghost will carry me to drown my anxieties and depression in a sea of cupcakes and trashy tv.