So Soon

Oh Hello. I didn’t see you there. More accurately, I can’t see you there, and that’s okay.

It’s nice to blog again so soon. I decided to sneak in this quickening type update because I forgot to add something in my last post.

Another problem I’m experiencing that is keeping me from reaching my full potential is that, currently, all of my jeans (save one pair that are (is?) too tight to wear right now) have holes in the crotch.

I’m sure the solution would be to go out and buy new jeans, but I just don’t want to. In the meantime I’m wearing casual-type-slacks, which is kind of fun. I hope the pants fairy visits me in the mean time.

And here’s another thing.

My neighbor is a smoker. That’s fine I guess. Gross, but fine. Anyway she smokes out on the steps between our apartments. Again, fine. The problem is that she uses the steps as an ashtray. At first I didn’t really have a big problem with it, but now I’ve come to the realization that she is also using the steps as a spittoon.

Big Problem. Not only that, but I can hear her spitting. While I’m inside my apartment. Listening to music at a loud volume.

I want to talk to her about it, but confronting people is always freaky isn’t it? I don’t want to come off as the bitchy neighbor, but I have the right to not walk through spit and ashes right? And I'm sure it's kind of a public health hazard. Or a public rudeness hazard. Probably both.

It seems like such a small problem in the scale of things. Bah.

Lists of Things

 

Hi. 

I've been gone for awhile. This is a fact. 

A lot of things have happened since I last blogged at you. 

The first thing is that I moved. It’s funny that my last (and very, unnecessarily, painfully long) blog was all about how much I love my apartment.

And then I decided to move like a week later. So what kind of person does that make me? I suppose that’s for you to decide.

Before you judge me please consider these things:

1.     I was pretty sure I was experiencing a mid-twenties/Alice In Wonderland type of growth spurt and I was actually getting totally freaked out by the smallness of my studio.

2.     With the exception of one really great person I was feeling largely friendless in Detroit.

3.     I was about to start grad school and I wanted to take advantage of the many amenities that I am paying so much money for.  (It’s not cheap to attend the 2^nd best School of Social Work in the country, and yeah I get to brag about that a little bit) 

So there’s that. It seems like such a long time ago. Sadly, nothing I do goes unpunished. I’ve been struggling with adjusting to a new apartment as well as school. While I am largely happy with this decision, I do miss my funky Detroit neighborhood. I’m in an apartment complex now and I just hate the idea of it. I pay a lot more money for less community and less pleasing aesthetic quality. I have had to call the police twice because people were fighting in the courtyard.

But here are the really awesome things:

1.     I am 45 minutes closer to fiancé’! We’ve gone from a 16 hour car ride, to 2.5 hours to 1.75 hours (depending on traffic and my fear of driving in any condition). So that is pretty baller.

2.     My best friend lives close by! She is married and has a job and I have a stupid schedule, but just the fact that she’s only 20 minutes away is nice.

3.     I’m closer to family members that I’ve never been close to before and I’m getting to know one of my cousins.

4.     I have a bedroom. It is still weird not to be sleeping in what was combination living room/office/boudoir/craft studio. 

That last thing makes me feel sort of grown up. 

Here are some things that I’ve done that are strange and adult-like.

1.     I have renter’s insurance.

2.     I’ve been able to keep a plant alive (it will probably die now that I’ve said that)

3.     I’m getting glasses

4.     I bought a toaster

5.     That’s it. 

Here are the reasons why I am still very much ungrownup. It’s a really good thing that I’m not getting married for at least two years because I am what the youngsters call a “hot mess”. 

1.     I’m working on a wreath made of acorns. Of course I am too busy to find enough acorns/fight squirrels so now I have about 30 useless acorns sitting on my kitchen counter. They will probably be there for awhile longer.

2.     I can’t be bothered to clean regularly for any reason.

3.     I am still well versed in what it means to become intimate with a bag of chips. Interpret that however you want.

4.     I have a big fat diamond on my hand and I’m pretty sure I’m going to drop it down a sewer. Not on purpose, obviously, but because I paranoid. 

That’s about it. I’m going to try and do a better job at updating this again. I’ve gotten into pretty good routine, but no promises. 

It’s mostly to take a break from the unbelievable amounts of homework I am expected to accomplish, as well as an interruption from the constant conversation about how sad the world is and what we’re going to do about it. Passion needs to back off sometimes. 

I also don’t want to suffer from dead blog syndrome. That would be disappointing to everyone who is involved in the creation of this masterpiece. 

Also I'm not editing this. 

Go Fourth Apartment Two

(In advance: Please forgive me for the lack of page breaks in this post. Even though I definitely put spaces between paragraphs, the formatting seems to be messed up. Hopefully this problem will not affect how you feel about the content.)


I think that an insect has laid eggs under my skin. I have three nasty, itchy bites on my left ankle and the whole thing has become swollen. It’s a pseudo cankle and I’m very distressed about it. Not so much about the insect eggs, but the cankle situation. If some form of beast wants to lay its unborn children under my skin, that’s fine. I supposed it’s on honor, but not at the expense of a cankle. Furthermore, I am not comfortable with only one cankle. Having one slim, gorgeous gam will only increase the cankle’s hideousness. I am not wrong about this.

I shouldn’t be surprised though. I live in a hundred (fact unverified) year old building that doesn’t have screens on the windows. They open out so birds and bats can fly in at their leisure. But the bugs think that they have the right to come in and possibly lay eggs under my skin. I am at the mercy of these arthropods, and mercy is something severely lacking in those who have jointed appendages, exoskeletons and thoraxes (thoraxi?). I can’t take responsibility for any of it. I’m far too busy. I will just have to suffer through this one cankled leg phase. 

But here’s an even better update that I think you will enjoy much more than reading about my insect/human fusion problem.

 Ba...
 da...
 boom...













I’m engaged! 


It’s pretty exciting times around here my friends. But I won't talk about it much on this blog because my snarkiness will ruin the romance of it all. Feel free to peruse the wedding blog that my FINACE’ and I have cooked up. Bon appetite. 

And I want everyone to know that this engagement isn’t going to make me an adult. I will not stop writing this blog just because I have a lady ring on my dainty little finger. I am still far too immature to be a married person. So you’re welcome. 

Now enjoy Part Dos of my apartment saga. 

I found my apartment on Craig’s list. This is a recreation (in true Craig’s list form) of the ad: 

FunkyFourthStreetStudioapartment$400utilitiesincluded.FourthStreetFairPeacocksandmore!

I thought, whatever does that mean? I guess the most important stuff was accounted for; the price and utilities.  As for anything other relevant thing, it was not available. But it sounded good, affordable and close to my new office. 

But most importantly, what did “peacocks and more” mean exactly? And what’s so funky about this neighborhood?

I decided to come home and visit for a long weekend. This apartment was the first one my mom and I looked at. Turns out, there was a peacock (peahen) living on the street with a bunch of chicken friends. The block long street was tree lined and there was indeed funky stuff everywhere. Funky is one of those things that is hard to describe, but like pornography, you’ll know it when you see it. 

The building itself looked decent from the outside even though the stairwell was spooky. But the apartment was perfect. Small, but perfect for me; brightly lit and clean. It also had a completely tree obstructed view of not one, but two highways. So it felt like being in a city, but didn’t look like it. The “tour” took 5 seconds and the building manager didn’t seem to care if I signed a lease or not. This is the perfect landlord temperament. 

We looked at a few other rat infested apartments, but this one was the best. It was weird to decide where I wanted to live right away because it’s not usually that easy, but I believe if you find exactly what you’re looking for the first time around, why keep at it? Why shop around if you would like to live in a funky, peacock filled neighborhood, which is so close to your office that you can (and do) walk? The ad did not do this street any justice and neither does this post. 

Here are some of the other highlights:

1. Lighthouse lens (recently stolen. By who? Giant lens theives. Why? Because black market lighthouse lenses are a real commodity. How? With the help of a giant)
2. Big scary Dooley car that used to breathe real fire!
3. Dog park/stage area
4. Short bike ride to the recycling center
5. A hearse
6. Everyone kind of smells like alcohol all the time
7. Fire pit 

 
Funky Fourth Street Friends and Foes 

Go Fourth #1

Welcome to the long anticipated post about my apartment. Actually this a two parter and I've written very little about my actual apartment. Be forewarned: This is a tale for the ages. You will probably sending your grandchildren podcasts about this in the future. Or your grandchildren will be Ipods and they will be sitting on your lap. Make up what you want, it's your future.


Let's begin. 

You may have looked at the title of this post and thought “Sarah you numbskull! You putz! You grammatical illiterate! You country bumpkin! What are you thinking?!”

I am not mollified by this sentiment. But I will let you know that it’s a pun. And the clue is hidden somewhere in this post. (It's hidden right here)

I moved to Detroit last summer and I think everyone will whole-heartedly agree that this is exactly where a young, talented, jet setting, lady-about-town should be spending her formative years. Before this I lived in New Hampshire (because I wanted to see what it was like to Live Free or Die). Before that I lived in Kalamazoo, which is where I left my gal. Before that, Nebulous West Michigan. And finally my mother's womb. Sorry.

Background information alert! Man the lifeboats! The swell is coming up from the starboard bow! 


I am from the West (Best) side of Michigan; Detroit is in the South East. Some fans out there are probably shrugging their shoulders and going, "What's the difference? Michigan is just a glove shaped region and it's all the same to me."

Cap'in! She's not gonna make it! Release the sails! She's coming in full blast with Michigan facts! 

Time for some education you ignorant dunk. 

Awesome thing number #1. Michigan is mitten shaped. It's also made up of two huge peninsulas and some other tiny ones.Take that Toledo!


Awesomething #2. Michigan has some very distinct regions. East and West are only two of them.


Awesomething #3. Ever heard of the Great Lakes?  If you continue to be ignorant about Michigan we will drown you.

When I decided to move to Motown I'm sure there was some collective head scratching. So not only was I moving to a new city, but I was moving to a new city from New England, which is quaint and picturesque. 

Picturesque

Let’s back up a step further. I lived in a cottage on the ocean in a resort town during the winter in New England. And not only was I moving to a new city from New England, but I was moving to a city in which I had been to once in my life. And not only was this a new city from New England in which I’d only been to once, this city was Detroit, which is not considered as quaint as New Hampshire, but more quaint than East St. Louis.

Quaint

Giant Pumpkins

I imagine that being quainter (according to spell check quainter is a word) than East St. Louis is not difficult to do. And not only was I moving to a new city from New England, only been to once, which happened to be Detroit, but I was moving to this newcityfromnewenglandnotneverbeenheredetroit BY MYSELF. 

Just to make sure you’re paying attention: 

 New town+ not from here + never been here+Perceptions of Detroit+ alone. 

Feel free to hit your collective mental freak out buttons now. 

You may a little surprised that this was anxiety producing. If all of those factors were separate I would have been fine. I moved to New Hampshire without knowing anyone. I love being in large cities. But the compound interest of these things was bringing my already delicate plane of existence into a tailspin.

And as I mentioned before, I’m from West Michigan, which because of it’s proximity (being in Michigan, but no where near Fort Pontchartrain) to Detroit has special Detroit-bashing privileges. 

And I am a weak young female. If I were an antelope I would be the first thing a lion would attack. I am not fit to live in the wild. So based on my perceptions and my WASPy West Michigan upbringing this was a really bold move.

My mom was probably the only person who was excited about this move. She lived here in the 70’s, when Detroit got its oh-so-cute-nickname: Murder City. But my mom is A LOT braver than I. She is the lion in the previous metaphor. Not that she’s stalking me and trying to kill me, but she could if she wanted.

My dad grew up in New York City. And I don’t know if many people know this, but NYC sucked in the 70’s. At least that’s what I’m told. But even he was afraid for me to live here and he grew up on the Lower East Side. New York is just better at faking it. New York can be the most dangerous, grittiest, drug fill cess-pool and people will still want to live there. 

Other humans are usually not excited when I tell them that I live in the City of Detroit. I’ve seen fear in many a people’s eyes when I tell them where I live. I think my friend’s grandmother may have had a heart attack when I told her that. No joke, she clutched her chest and didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I'm surprised she didn't put swoon. (From fear, not romance)


Sometimes when I tell people that you actually live in Detroit (not the metro area) they say, in a voice dripping with a delightful mixture of pity and condescension,  "I'm sorry." Then you have to get into a whole "I-chose-to-live-here-because-Detroit-isn't-going-to-get-better-until-talented-people-live-there-and-the-city-is-a-reflection-of-the-state-and-we-all-have-a-collective-responsibility", speech. I would prefer to shake people and yell at them and give them a taste of what they're so afraid of, but that's not okay in polite society.

But I’m not going to go on about Detroit so much. I’m just trying to set up the context for what I really want to talk about. I will say that I love living here. While I would not sugar-coat what it's like, but it's not as terrible as you've been led to believe. Detroit has its issues, but it's certainly not dead, and it's certainly not hopeless. A 60 year decline is a big problem and the truly embarrassing thing is that we've let it happen. And what the city doesn't need is pity or negative messaging. To do so is nothing short of offensive and egregious.

If you’re interested in me gushing about the city I will, but until I get a specific request for that you can check out my friend’s blog: Lost in the Suburbs. Or you can check out my other friend's adventures in moving to our fair city: New Homeowner, Old Home.

Sorry for getting all serious on you folks, I had a momentary lapse in being un-funny. Stay tuned for part 2, the aptly named, Part 2.

Fear of Abandonment

Dear Friends (and enemies trying to destroy me), 

I am sorry for not updating recently. I have been jet setting and you know how that goes. I also tried to update a few weeks ago and blogggggspot wouldn't let log on. So there's that. I do have a juicy post waiting in the wings, it just needs some tweaking. I wrote it about a month ago and it started getting out of control so I stopped writing until I could get a grip. And that time is now, or tomorrow. I shall dust that off and give you readers a treat. 

In the time I've been gone I have:

1. Taken a train ride

2. Gotten a new job

3. Met some duds

5. Gone swimming in a hotel pool! 

6. Learned about an embezzlement scheme 

7. Cleaned my apartment 

8. Started a quilt 

9. Put nine things on a list

I guess this post sucks. But as you can surmise from the above list that I've been busy. If you have a problem take it up with our complaint department. Oh wait, we don't have one because it's just me and I can't pay anyone to write these posts, let alone hire a complaint department. 

Think of it as a preamble to an update, a preamdate.

-Thugs and Kisses

This Hotel Definately Doesn't Have a No Racoon Policy

This adventure in Cleveland has gotten slightly more interesting. I have checked out of my hotel, but only after several encounters with really awesome/horrible stuff.

1. The bus ride home was really special. I met a woman who I would like to call Mrs. Something is Sticking Out of My Ankle Lady. She pointed at me and asked something incoherent which sounded like, "YouplayMonopoly?" I don't know what she was pointing to and couldn't really hear her, and that was frustrating so she left me alone. A few minutes later she started spraying perfume/love potion and waving at someone/anyone/no one across the bus and yelling "Hey boo!" The cynic in me wanted to tell her that this was no way to attract a man, but Mrs. SSOMAL is much more wise than I. To my surprise, one of the bus gentleman was really into this gesture of affection and came scurrying over. They had a very sweet and mumbled conversation about something (the meaning of life, probably) and I reached my destination. I would venture to guess that these lovebirds will probably mate for life. Is it really that easy to find love/attention? If it is count me in!

2. I switched hotel rooms. This was supposed to be easy. Sadly I had to give the woman at the front desk the old one-two when she tried to charge me full price instead of the Cleveland Clinic rate, which is what I had on my sweet junior suite. I don't suggest you ever see me give anyone the old one-two because it's not pretty. By that I mean it's awkward and not intimidating. It's a terrible combination of whining and shrillness that most people don't want to deal with. I am a champion pouter.

I enjoyed my standard room though. The room was more accepting of my temperament. 

3. When I returned to my hotel last night the elevator smelled like weed. Up until then I did not think I was staying in a seedy place. I mean the internet may as well have been dial-up and there was a cigarette vending machine in the lobby (Really?), but it seemed decent enough. But if there is any fact you want to retain about me it's this: I hate weed. It's smells like the worst smell in the world. It's such a bad smell that I can't even compare it to anything except maybe something intangible like failure/despair/rejection/worthlessness/New York City in the early 20th century. So when I smell it, I associate it with rudeness and I'm blaming the hotel for this one. More about drugs in another post.

4. I did some laundry at the hotel. This seemed simple enough except that there wasn't any laundry detergent (and no, I'm not that spoiled or dumb to assume that there would be vats of free laundry detergent, I've seen samples in vending machines before). But I was afraid to ask the lady at the desk where any might be located because she was mean to me earlier. But that goes along with the theme of this blog because that should not be a deterrent. So my ineptitude and fear of normal human interactions will provide you with seconds of comedy and joy. It is not difficult to intimidate me. I am more like a mouse than a person. But mice are probably more brave.

Let's press on, shall we?

This morning I got up the nerve to ask the new desk attendant (and from my two days of experience, notoriously nice) if there was any detergent on the premises. Turns out there was some in the vending machine! It just wasn't obvious to this dumbo. Really there were no clues. No signs in the laundry room pointing out the fact that detergent was available and also I brought my own snacks so I didn't go anywhere near the lobby-vending-machine-that-wasn't-anywhere-near-the-laundry-room. Me right, hotel wrong.

Now here's the description of the laundry room!

A. There was a huge wheely thing that looked like it might belong in a photo developing lab from the 1840s.  I discovered that it was actually used to iron pillowcases, who would have guessed?

B. There was a motor on the floor. One might assume that it belonged to one of the machines, but at this point I don't think it's safe to assume anything.

C. There was a pile of wet sheets in the corner that were covered in what looked like blood.

In conclusion of what the laundry room looked like: somewhere in which a prostitute would wash clothing. I am not trying to be judgemental.  You've got to keep those leather short-shorts and sequined halter tops clean. Am I right ladies?

5. This morning when I was checking out there was a lady losing her cool at the front desk. I didn't catch the beginning of this best-of-humanity-interaction. Apparently she was not getting her deposit back. Or it was stolen. Or she never really paid it. I can't really recreate this scene for you, but it was nasty. The other thing about it was that her son had lost his phone and he kept going back up to the room, not finding the phone, returning the key, asking for it back, repeat.

When Mr. Nice Desk Man asked them to leave the other Miss Nice Desk Lady alone so she could check me out they freaked out again. And yeah I have changed she to they because now her daughter was also yelling at Mr. NDM. And they kept asking for a different room number and Miss NDL was getting really flustered. It should also be mentioned that there was a tiny little boy with them as well. He seemed very calm given his mother's/grandmother's/kidnapper's rampage. I smiled at him a lot because I'm sure it's not the first time he's witnessed this and probably not the last time either. He told me that he liked my shoes. Anyway, I didn't want to get in on the middle of any of this foolishness so I mustered my best white-Anglo-Saxon-Protestant manners and kept-the-hell-out-of-it. Blank stare, stiff upper lip, thinking about gardening, all that. And that really sucks because Anglo-Saxons were brutal and didn't put up with bull spit like that when they were on their pillages.

Then the lady started swearing big time. Here's another thing about me: I don't usually mind swearing in most situations. But public loud swearing is the worst. I guess that's it's job though, to be scary. She started reaching into her bag and I was certain she was going to pull something out like a pipe or a gun. Is it bad that I backed up a step; prepared to run?  But she pulled out her glasses. So, maybe a little bit of an overreaction on my part, but I stand by decision, WASP upbringing be dammed.

Mr. NDM remained pretty calm, but did threaten to call the police. It was at this point that I decided to wait outside for my shuttle. Needless to say, I will not be staying at that hotel again.

I am about to leave the Cleve, but I want to end with this: Staying in a hotel alone is boring. I don't recommend it to anyone.


On the bright side, the hospital has a pool and I was able to go swimming. Life does have happy endings.

Is There Room at the Inn?

I love hotel pools. There’s something about the heavily chlorinated water that makes me want to dance…or swim. I love that you don’t have to clean them. You can just play in the water and then leave. It’s weird because I’m not a strong swimmer, nor do I even enjoy swimming that much. I can’t even go underwater without plugging my nose. Having a pool in my hotel can usually make or break my vacation. It’s just something nice to come back to after you and your loved ones are finished with your boring old sightseeing. If there is a hot-tub, even better.

I bet you’re wondering why I’m talking about hotels pools instead of my apartment, which was the original plan. Well the original plan is out (for now) and the thing that is currently happening to me is in.

I am in Cleveland. I’m not going to make any Cleveland references because I don’t know any. I did not plan on being here this weekend. But my dad is currently in the hospital here and I came visit him. But that is not what this post is about.

This post is about the fact that I’m staying in a hotel. By.My.Self. I have never in my life been alone in a hotel. I’m not even sure what to do. I’m not even sure why anyone would let me do this or that it could be so easy. I thought they were going to turn me away at the front desk because I look like a vagrant. True story: My hair has become a nest for raccoons. But this hotel doesn’t seem to have a “no raccoons policy” so I think we’re in the clear.

Oh and because the Cleveland marathon is today the only room I could book was the junior suite. I don’t know what makes this a suite. Oh wait, yes I do. It has a pull out couch! Now I can invite all of my Cleveland friends over and we can have a slumber party.

So here I am. Bored. Alone. Surrounded by the remains of delicious snacks. 

But here’s the important thing. The thing that ties the end of this post to the beginning of this post. I think it’s called a conclusion. There’s a pool here. I didn’t even know it because I didn’t come here to swim. This should be the absolute pinnacle of my trip to Cleveland.You can imagine my delight when I arrived at this hotel and found out there was a pool.

But guess what?

It’s closed.

For the summer.

Bummer. 

 

I apologize that this post isn't very interesting. 

Pay Attention to Me Please.

Several Updates A-Coming Atcha.

1. I’m thinking about changing the name of this blog because I’ve been told that it sounds a little self-deprecating. Although this was not my intention, I can see where it may seem like that. I do not mean to imply that I am irresponsible, disorganized or impulsive, because I am none of those things. I just don’t know how to balance my checkbook and I don’t make my bed every day.

If you're wondering what I'm like (and I'm sure you are). 

Liz Lemon

Plus April Ludgate

Plus Annie Hall

Equals This.

 So now you know. I'm a fanny pack-wearing, party animal.

My idea for a new blog title: Her Snark is Worse Than Her Bite. What do you think?

2. I'm trying to decide what to write about next and I want to see what you might like reading about. Here are some ideas that I mentioned in my first post (plus some more that I think sound fun):

• Why technology scares me
• Social Interactions in which I fail
• Going to the doctor
• Things I like
• Cooking is for people who are not alone 
• My apartment
• Weddings
• Drugs
• Car accident
• Your choice!

So give me some feedback, pick a topic and I will continue to entertain you with my quirky raving. 

ROFL.

Adult Deeds Grow like Adult Weeds

Emergency Alert! I was gone for almost 24 hours exactly and my Hydrangea went into shock. The wilt factor here is at 90%. I’ve been away from home on an insane retreat with what felt like 100’s screaming middle school students (really it was less than 30) and this is what I come home to?! An almost dead plant. Nice. Again it seems like water may have been the solution as ole’ planty has perked up in the leaf department. I know it was warm this weekend, but really? You were soaked in water when I left. I couldn’t really give you more or you would have drowned. The audacity. This confirms my suspicions though: I need a roommate because this problem wouldn’t have existed if I had an awesome, loafs-on-the-weekends-and-helps-me-take-care-of-my-plant-roommate. Engage finding roommate sequence: Now.

Now here’s a story. It’s not brief so plan to be here for awhile.

As previously mentioned, I was on a retreat with middle school students this weekend. A little background information: I run a program for middle and high schoolers. I won’t say the name of the organization in which I work because: A. Headquarters will descend on this blog like harpies and find a reason to destroy it and B. The organization is suffocating me right now and I don’t want to besmirch my safe little blog world with its name.

Back to my story now please. If you have ever been around middle school students (or if you were one) you know that they are insane. I don’t know if there is even a real word to describe them exactly. Their actions merit a succession of synchronized jaw-dropping moments with my co-workers and I because every moment is a little more incredulous than the last. If you thought the hormonal roller coaster was painful to go through, it is even more painful to watch. 

I for one was not a fan of being ages 11-14. I can’t really say that this is unique, so I won’t. But for me, being around middle school aged people makes me nervous. Maybe it’s because I was a wreck in middle school and I’m projecting my bad feelings about middle school on them, rendering me paralyzed and unable to make basic human interactions. (Maybe this is bad practice, but this is my blog so I’ll do as I please.) Or maybe it’s because I don’t know how to interact with them. I am a shy and introverted person who doesn’t like to make conversation with weirdies (aka middle school). I don’t like to make cliché statements to people and try to do it as little as possible. With middle schoolers it’s difficult to do that because there are so many cliché sentiments to choose from. And most of those statements come from some sort of experience and I feel like I have very little to lend to anyone except “you’re life sucks now but it will get better once you can drive”. That is not positive or helpful. They are also just difficult to have a conversation with. Since part of the creed/honor code of being a pre-teen or teen is selfishness and vanity they don’t often reciprocate conversations. Having a one sided talk with a person who may start running around in circles at any moment is not my idea of a good time.

It usually goes something like this:

Me: In a voice that I hope sounds sincere, How are you?!?!??!??!?!?

Selfish Middle Schooler: Fine.

Me: What have you been up to?

SMS: Nothing.

Me: How is school?

SMS: I hate my teacher.

Me: Why?

SMS: Because she made me do math.

Me: That sucks, I hate math too!

SMS:

Me: So, what kinds of things do you like to do?

SMS: Basketball

Me: I’m not very good at basketball.

SMS:

Me: Do you have any siblings?

SMS: Yes (then something in her or his brain explodes and they see a friend/bug/nothing at all and start freaking out and running around)

Making conversation with someone shouldn’t feel so desperate. So I try to interact with them as little as possible.  Some of you may be thinking that it’s possible that they are intimidated by my so-called “authority” and don’t know how to talk to adults. False. They have no fear of me. The only thing between a human stampede and me is usually access to some sort of snack item. Some of you may also be thinking that I should just treat them as you would any other person. To those of you who are thinking that I say, “shut your traps.” Because you have no idea what you are talking about.

The actual point of this post:

This may have actually been an adult defining moment for me. As I’ve said several times throughout this post, I went on a retreat this weekend. With kids. It was fun, but exhausting. There was a point where I saw light at the end of the tunnel.

The event:

I went back to the cabin to brush my teeth. For one precious moment I was, gloriously, shamelessly, and resplendently alone. The peace took on surreal quality that one could describe as “secret tranquility”. I was about to leave this happy place and rejoin the chaos crew, but a tiny voice called my name.

“Sarah” she said.

A dreaded statement if there ever was one. (The children don’t often refer to me by name) I looked down from my enormous height and saw one of the more nasty, sneaky and defiant students we have with her t-shirt pulled down over her thighs.

“What’s up?” (trying to be nonchalant)

“I need a pair of pants out of my bag”

My brain explodes. We had packed all of the kid’s stuff into our luggage van after breakfast to cut down on the not being able to sprint out of the camp at end of the day situation. Genius right? Wrong. The children didn’t seem to understand that if they needed something like, their inhaler for example, that they would not have a ton of access to it. Maybe it’s our fault for not explaining that to them. Because sometimes we forget that, although they act like “big kids”, middle school students are actually just elementary students with bad attitudes. But they wouldn’t have listened anyway so the point is moot.

We had just helped the camp clean up the grounds a bit so my first thought was that she considered her pants “dirty”. I was about to tell her that there was no way in hell I was getting her a clean pair of pants because she had dirt on them.

My other thought was “ohgodohgodohgodohgod.” For a split second I thought this girl had gotten her “moon time” and I was going to have to have the “talk” with her. This is the last thing on earth that I ever want to do. Gross and also I didn’t want to be the person she remembered later in life telling her about “the joys of womanhood” and "feminine hygiene" (which is a phrase that when you hear it doesn't imply anything about hygiene, but how unhygienic you are) I would have had to tell her that this is a “special” time in every “young lady’s” life and that she could now use her “intuition” to figure out if people are lying to her. This obviously is a load of bull spit and the only reason we keep perpetuating this myth is so we don’t all cry ourselves to sleep ever night.

“Why do you need a clean pair of pants?”

“Because one of my friends made me laugh so hard that I peed on myself.”

It was in that moment that I knew that I was being punished for enjoying my 45 seconds of solitude. Only a person without any mercy would have said no. It was also sort of touching. I mean she obviously trusted me. (yeah I was the only adult around, but still). And I kind of fell in love with the fact that she laughed so hard that she peed her pants. That’s one of the points of this program. Kids get to be with their friends in a safe environment. And that’s one of the beautiful things about being a kid (or even a human in general) sometimes you laugh so hard that you pee on yourself. So I told her I would go find her bag and bring her some clean clothes.

The next part is not as cute. The bag I had to find was a super large, wheeled piece of luggage that I could have packed said child into. And it was underneath another bag that was the same size. Did I mention that we only went for the night? So I had to climb into a boiling hot van, over mountains of stuff to access other stuff, lift one huge bag over the seat (I am not strong whatsoever) flip her bag over, and then find clean clothing. When I brought it to her, she did not say thank you.

I suppose the point of this story is that is something an adult does. It’s not the defining thing, but I’m sure it comes up a lot. Sometimes you have to do something that you know is going to suck because it will help someone else. Even if you don’t get a thank you.

Post the Second: The Quickening: How To Take Care of a Hydrangea

This is what I am trying to figure out. What makes you a “grown up”? Is there a defining moment in which you climb a metaphorical (or real) mountain, stomp around, beat your chest/simultaneously throwing rocks and exclaim “HEY EVERYONE! I AM AN ADULT! LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME!” This statement may lead people to believe you are not in fact an adult, but a mountain beast who has stolen the skin of adult human. News flash: It’s not difficult to figure this out because mountain beasts don’t fit in human skin all that well.

I’m sure that’s not the case. The actual truth may be, as my adult cousin pointed out to me, that most people are pretending and some of them are better at it than others. Tricky. This is disappointing and refreshing at the same time. So maybe the pressure is off and I can’t go along my merry way and try to muddle through the best I can.  Thanks cousin.

Here is an example of something I am currently trying to figure out:

Hi Drangea!

There was a moment a few weeks ago in which I thought it would be a great idea to go out and get a ferret or some other small beast. I’m happy to say that this was just a fleeting moment and it never came to fruition. Whatever respect I had for myself would have been lost to simultaneously weeping and cleaning a ferret cage. Eventually I would have had to train the ferret do tricks so I could keep paying my rent. The scenario becomes more alarming when you imagine the ferret and I shambling along (because we would have rickets) with chimney sweeps, singing horribly remade renditions of songs from Mary Poppins. Doubly bad because ferrets are notoriously bad singers. As the ferret and I swirled further into the grim oblivion, our lives irrevocably destroyed by the poor choices we had made, we would have had no choice but to turn towards the river and throw ourselves into it.  Close one. Point: Me.

While I would have been less lonely, I would have had a responsibility to another living mammal and that is just not in the cards at the moment. So I am now the proud owner of a small blue Hydrangea plant. I chose it because I used to work in a garden center, watering plants. The Hydrangeas were the most beautiful/least pretentious plants in the nursery. Roses are the popular girls in the plant world. Everyone loves them (except me) but they are literally the worst. Roses need a lot of sun (attention) and have to be watered early in the morning because all that sun evaporates their precious water supply. They also have thorns and I think everyone here is pretty tired of that metaphor. And they are difficult to keep alive (divas). Hydrangeas on the other hand, posses a certain quiet grace that one can attribute to their sensitivity and honesty. Like roses, hydrangeas are also sensitive. One cannot get their leaves wet when they are in a shade environment because they will become moldy. But they are sensitive in an Emily Dickinson sort of way. If Hydrangeas are hard to keep alive it’s because they are so wrought with humanity that they have to waste away to prove a point about mortality and the frailty of life. Roses die just because you’re not looking at them ALL THE TIME.  They are more like Brittany Spearz. The other cool thing about Hydrangeas is that you can change the color of their petals by changing the amount of aluminum in the soil. Nice one science! These are the things you think of when you wake up every day at 4am for an entire summer to water plants by yourself in the dark.

I have had this plant since Saturday. Today is Friday. That is six days. We’ll see how this goes. I have already had a wilting scare. Turns out you have to water plants more than one time. I am trying really hard though. I’m moving it around my apartment so it has different stimulation. I’ve been giving it leaf massages. I opened the window so it can feel the breeze on its petals. But I have a feeling that this plant knows something about my ineptitude. I once had a lemon topiary plant. Her name was Abigail. She had an untimely death. I will say no more on this because it’s still upsetting to me. I am also going on a retreat for work this weekend. Would it be weird to bring the plant with me?

Anyway, I truly believe that if I can keep this plant alive I may be able to move up to something bigger…like a unicorn. If I can find one.

I was going to conclude this post with a simile about how I’m like plant, but that feels lame. 

Post the First: Why I'll Never Be an Adult

Let's first start off by paying homage to a certain Allie Brosh, creator of the oh-so-special Hyperbole and Half. I was inspired by her post “Why I’ll Never Be an Adult”. I read it a few months ago and thought “My sentiments exactly”.  So Allie, I hope you don't think I'm stealing any of your ideas. I am merely inspired by a genius. 

I decided to start writing this blog because:
A. I have come to the conclusion that I will never be a fully fledged productive member of society and maybe this blog will help.


B. The Interweb is starting to get super lame. Facebook? Old hat.


And C. My anxiety disorder has come to a point where if I don’t unbottle some of this noise, I will have to turn myself in to a robot and program myself to use my laser vision to burn down some buildings. How will I do this? I don’t know, but I’m sure I can find it on the Googlebox.

What was the tipping point for the birth of this monstrosity/blog? Why have I decided to become an anonymous blogger, writing things at 5am? You asked for it (maybe you didn’t) so here it is: 

I had two of my old college buddies over for some good times last night and I realized that my 12X13 apartment wasn’t in ship shape. I actually haven’t cleaned it in 3 or so weeks. This is a long time to not clean such a small space. My reason for not cleaning seems simple enough. It’s spring and I want to do some “OFFICIAL SPRING CLEANING”. This a wonderful adult-like-idea that hasn’t translated into an adult-like-deed. I haven’t found time to do this because everyone knows the weather has to be wonderful so you can open your windows and birds can fly in and help you, but I live in Michigan and winter holds a grudge until June (and that’s early). I also live in Detroit and all the birds have been subject to white flight (Racist bird pun! Zing!). The other thing is that my job is an energy suck and when I come home I push everything into a pile, and then curl up with a book or the Interweb. I am officially not a person you want to be having children. My other theory about cleaning is that you do all of it once a month and then watch things disintegrate around you. It’s always a mystery to me that things don’t just stay clean. My mother and significant other are probably rolling in their future graves/urns. Don’t get me wrong, I love a clean apartment, I even enjoy cleaning as an anxiety-reducing-cleansing-ritual, but keeping things clean is not my strong suit. In the pursuit of being wrapping this story up, let’s move on.

Fast forward: My apartment looks presentable if not sparkling. There are some dishes in the sink, but they are soaking (and probably will be for another two weeks). I also realized that I haven’t bothered making myself look presentable in a few weeks either. I attempt a half-hearted French braid (because my friends love it when I look glamorous) while simultaneously Black Berry Messaging my friend, Herbert Goldblum, awesome catch phrases that I am cultivating (sorry for mentioning Black Berry Messaging, I feel like a complete turd for saying it. Pretend I said was actually Hologram Messaging him. At least that has some sex appeal) I realize that I haven’t cut my nails in a few weeks either. How did this happen? Well, nail growing is the same phenomenon that cleaning is. I just can’t believe you have to maintain more than once. I have to cut my nails, but I don’t want there to be nail clippings everywhere (adult-like-thought alert, don’t make a mess and then you won’t have to clean it up). So here’s my genius thought: Open the window and cut your nails outside! (Nailed it! Ha!) Maybe that doesn’t sound super crazy, but it’s a culmination of choices like this one that have become a staple in my life. So here we are.

Further along in my evening, after my buds and I partook in some delicious BBQ sandwiches (and by the way I forgot my wallet so aforementioned buds had to buy me a sandwich) my dear friend Martin VanSchnitzle told me that after a year in his apartment, he has just now bought a can opener. Before that he was puncturing holes in cans and popping the lids off. And Martin has a real grown up type job! He has a bedroom! If my friend was half man, half otter, I wouldn’t be surprised. After that we tried some Frankenstein walking. And no offense Frankensteins, we did it to honor your contribution to society. And like you, maybe all we wanted was a friend to call our own.

And just so my other bud (Jean Blumfield, wife of Carl Blumfield) doesn’t feel like she is left out of this story: She definitely started a dandelion fight. 

To some I may look like an adult. I am 24 years old. I have my own apartment. I comb my hair. I have a 9 to 5 job. (Well I volunteer full time and get a stipend for it) I am even marginally responsible and don’t ask my parents to bail me out all the time. (Unlike the Big 3! Ha ha, political joke! Zing!) But sometimes I pay my bills days late because I think money is going to appear in my bank account that I’m not going to spend on a Segway Tour. Sometimes I eat a box of Cheese Its instead of dinner. I may look like an adult sized worker bee, but I am actually a larva. What’s between larva and worker bee and larva you ask? I will answer your question with another question: Who cares? Whatever stage of bee it is, trust me it’s lame. It doesn’t provide anything for the hive and it doesn’t get the special pampering that larva does. To the Bee experts: Discuss