I’ve done my share of dating, which means I’ve also had my share of breakups. For the vast majority of these, I’ve been the dumped party. Over and over again. I’ve then had to see those women go on with their lives, go to classes, go to work, walk around and live and breathe–and I’ve always wondered, how do you do it? Because when you’re the dumped party, it is sometimes unfathomable that the world should go on in the wake of your pain. How do you do it? How do you laugh, and smile, and go on with your life when you’ve done this to me?
And now that I’ve done the breaking, I finally know the answer.
Hey, remember when I used to blog? Yeah, me neither.
My life imploded in the past couple of months. I don’t want to go into detail, but the end results include a new apartment, a new therapist, and a new car. I’m like a grab bag of emotional extremes. It’s a riot.
And now, for the first time in my life–adult or otherwise–I live alone.
The other day I was about to part ways with a friend when she said, “Let me know if you need anything.” I said I would and she looked me right in the eye and said she didn’t believe me.
“I think one of the reasons we’re friends is that we’re both really self-sufficient,” she said, “and kind of stubborn about that.”
I amended my statement–I said I’d try–and then I got on the subway.
The less we say about it the better
Make it up as we go along…
I was in high school when that sunscreen song came out. You know, the Baz Luhrmann song that was actually a Chicago Tribune column by Mary Schmich but still got falsely attributed to a commencement speech that Kurt Vonnegut didn’t actually give at MIT?
Yeah, that one.
I’ve been thinking about it lately, as I’ve waded through working and living in a college town during commencement season, having never really left my alma mater. I hear snippets here and there of the bleak economic forecast for graduates, the speakers urging all those fresh young faces to buckle down and weather the storm.
But I think if I were speaking to a group of graduates–even better, if I were speaking to myself three years ago–I wouldn’t say anything about the economy, or hard work, or even sunscreen.
I would say You are not alone. And even if you are, you’re still in good company.
So as a proud member of the underemployed, and as someone who just generally likes making a little extra cash, I often participate in surveys, studies, and focus groups. At one point I had a pretty regular gig doing vision studies through a research hospital and I felt like they were secretly training me for the CIA–one of the studies tapped into the massive funding available from Homeland Security by having participants look for weapons in luggage x-rays. (Conclusion: the less common weapons are in said x-rays, the less likely a screener is to notice a weapon when it’s there.)
Anyway, many of these require some kind of pre-screening to determine eligibility. For market research this often involves making sure you don’t work for an ad agency. Other studies are looking for very specific participants–say, dog owners who’ve bought several kinds of kibble over the past few months.
Aside from the standard demographic questions, many screening surveys ask about medical history.
Something about the spring brings on wave after wave of almost staggering homesickness. I find myself near tears on public transportation, making mixes of the songs I played over and over again in high school as I stared at the ceiling, breathing in the scent of the soft brown carpet in my bedroom.
The funny thing is that my parents always assumed I’d be the child to run away and never come back. And I guess I embraced that some, flying out to the farthest opposite edge, from the country to the city, from grass and mountains to cobblestone and glass.
And I like it here, I do. I’ve fallen for Southie accents and watched the still-as-glass waters of the Charles reflecting the Boston skyline. I love the childlike glee that pours from apartment windows when the Sox or the Celtics pull through in the playoffs, love to feel the summer air on my cheeks as I bike down Columbus after dark.
I know, I know–I’m trying not to be a crazy cat blogger. But every once in a while I take videos of them, and certain people who follow me on Twitter really, really like those videos. Read the rest of this entry »
When I first adopted the cats, I promised my loyal readers–all two of them–that this wouldn’t become A Cat Blog. And I think I’ve stayed pretty true to my word.
But there are times when your cats are just That ridiculous, and you happen to be filming them.
Posted by pandanose 
Posted by pandanose 
Posted by pandanose 
