Unemployed and Academically Homeless

Yes, I have spent the last month getting married, leaving my hometown, moving to another state into a tiny apartment to live with a boy and that being a boy who has existed in an entirely different world than mine for over a year.  I packed my books and my bags and some more books and literally wept in dismay at the sight of what was to be my home after two men had trashed it for three full months.  But all such trivialities are part of life; they have been dealt with, are being dealt with, maybe even will be dealt with someday when I really get my act together.

Here are the two things that really scare me:

1)      For the first time since 10^th grade, I have officially spent at least 3 weeks as an unemployed individual.

2)      For the first time in my conscious life, September has come and I am not buying books (well, textbooks anyway) or organizing syllabi.

I spent today doing dishes, cursing some floor lamps (some assembly required), shopping for light bulbs (and you thought one buys bulbs when one buys the lamps), doing dishes, reading, wandering aimlessly to the local University library, wandering more aimlessly around the local University campus and wishing

I was in a classroom, crossing the street to the other library and wishing more of the same, making a (darn good) pot of chili, and doing more dishes. 

However, in spite of my longing for discussion and academic stimulation, I am oddly enjoying the role of “homemaker” after strong reactions against such “feminine” stereotypes.  I like making a (to me) unlivable space into a cozy home.  I enjoy throwing vegetables into a pot and seeing what comes out.  Having time to bake one’s own bread is, in fact, a luxury.  Reading without the goal of crafting a 30-page paper is nice.  Granted, I feel a little slower, a little dimmer, maybe just kind of sleepy, but staying home has its perks (time for French pressed coffee at least once a day being a favorite "perk" of my own…HA).

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Of course, then ensues the following conversation:

Me: (sigh) I fail at writing a blog entry.

Ben: Well, dear, I guess you are just better bred for having babies.

I cannot wait for grad school.

Dear Reader, whoever You may be:

If you are a more observant person than I, you may have noticed a rather significant lapse of time between this blog post and the last; and the last was, quite frankly, a cop-out.  Although I have a number of at least somewhat valid excuses for such neglect on my part (two jobs, planning a wedding, moving, maintaining a fiancé, etc, etc, etc), I know deep in my heart that these things are, well, bull.  After all, have I not found time to read the entire Harry Potter series in less than two month’s time since I missed it in childhood?

So, sir or madam reader, allow me to be perfectly frank with you.  Spare me a moment to be open in a way that only the disconnected cyber-reality of the blogosphere can offer as I easily avoid your face-to-face interference reaction.

The answer to my absence is mainly this: fear.  (Okay, okay…if we’re really being honest, my essential laziness may also play a role).

I recently recounted the same excuse and source of fear to two very dear friends of mine.  I discovered that my mother reads my blog.  Faithfully.

Nothing against you, Mom, I promise.

But remember that face-to-face interaction that the internet so conveniently avoids?  Somehow this seems to be lost when someone on the other end of the couch reads your heart 15 minutes after you post it.  I have nearly trained my fiancé to never, ever, under any circumstances ask me about the personal writing I allow him to read.  My explanation?  Everything you need is already there.  I pour more of myself into the keyboard at my fingertips than to any other source.  If you need more information, I have failed. 

If you are fortunate (or foolish) enough to glimpse the words I place on a page you are probably a) a professor or classmate, b) a complete stranger, or c) going to get your head bitten off by yours truly if you ever mention the specific of a piece again.  Perhaps I exaggerate (although, as Benjamin could attest to, perhaps not).  But the main point being, as much as I desire to publish, to write, to be known, at times I find it is only in the most indirect and disestablished manner.

Of course, there are other fears involved as well.  Professors who will discover the more trite side of my writing (not to mention imperfect and unchecked grammer).  Anyone who might ever take personal offense to anything I say (people-pleasers unite…as long as it’s okay with everyone else).  People judging me harshly for my out-of-control use of parenthetical remarks. 

However, one of those same friends, though understanding, challenged my tendency to dig in my heels at the first sign of confrontation, as she so often does.  She reminded me that leaving my mother’s house will not leave the fear of being known.  She brought to my attention that my esteemed professors are no longer grading my words.  She re-emphasized that to become a good writer, I must let people see my crappy work.  She challenged/ordered me to post by the end of the weekend.

So here’s to you, Kate.  Although, thanks to you, Mom, I still couldn’t bring myself to publish without at least one perfunctory proofread.  ;-)

Hunting Groceries...A creative piece

Ok, this is a long one.

This is a piece that I wrote a few months ago as part of a creative writing class.  It’s not very good but I'm rather fond of it.  Though written in the first person, this is actually me trying to enter the thought process of a very dear friend of mine as I struggled to watch her deal with her own trials where I was utterly helpless.

Hunting Groceries

I step onto the black striated pad and the doors swing open at my unspoken bidding.  I briefly consider the use of the manual doors to my left.  What kind of genuine American would ever open a door himself when two steps away a system of lasers and pulleys are perfectly willing and capable? 

This is the fifth grocery store in two days.  I hardly dare hope as florescent lights race through the metal latticework of pipes and beams painted white, over the endless shelves and out of sight before crashing into the plaster wall at the limits of the warehouse-like store.  I am exhausted, my body fatigued from its constant beleaguering. It sent me on a rushed trip to the bathroom midsentence just this afternoon because how dare I try to leave the apartment and socialize after being confined to bed for days.  When the white-painted walls started to undulate and close in, staying was no better or worse than puking in a public toilet. 

I search the shelves for fifteen minutes before making my half-hearted selection.  As I traverse the shining white tiles back to the front of the store, I feel a burning in my throat and a lightness behind my eyes.  I am not in a hurry so I stroll past three identical crates of produce except for the color of the mounds rising from their surface; ruby tomatoes contrast with green peppers and bright oranges.  A tallish man in a grey sweatshirt browses the deli as an advertisement blasts over the quiet hum of coke machines and air vents.  A man garbles and gasps over the loud speakers until he confidently spits out some numbers: “only 9.99 (mumble, mumble) 12.99” he concludes in a cheerful voice, seeming pleased with the obvious success of his effort.  The man in the sweatshirt is nervous.  He picks various things from the shelves lining the front of the deli and sets them back down; kicking the floor with his sneaker as the man behind the counter quietly slices his selections.

“Will that be all for you?”  The man shuffles past neatly stacked rows of colorful chip bags topped with a marching row of red salsa in green metal caps.  I step forward and ask for a cup, indicating the soda-fountain to my left.  “Just water.” 

I sink down at one of the tables to re-read my box.  Bread mix.  A blue box with yellow lettering screams, “Gluten-free!  Wheat-free!”  I can see it already…shaping the jell-o-y mass of dough to bread-like shape.  The lump won’t change in the oven any more than to restructure the invisible molecules and turn an unappetizing brown.  Six dollars for a box of eatable play-dough.  I sip my water slowly, dreading the drive back to my lonely apartment through the freezing rain.

A man in a blue cap and red polo works a few feet away.  A name tag dangles from his jacket as he scrapes open cardboard boxes and replenishes the stacks of bananas on shelves of grey felt.  He carefully separates the yellow bananas from the green and places the bunches shoulder to shoulder like an oblong army.  He wanders away out of sight and returns seconds later.  He removes his glasses to wipe them, holding them up to his face three times before settling the thick rims back onto his nose.  He is methodical but unconcerned as a worn and simple wedding band glints in the light and colors of the produce section.  I look away momentarily as a man not much older than myself strolls through the oranges, trailed by three boys, two in matching sweatshirts.  The boys chase each other, yelling; their voices breaking the otherwise steady ripples of a relatively calm evening in the store.  When I return to the banana-man, I find he has quietly disappeared without any of my further scrutiny.

As I ready myself to stand, a middle-aged manager approaches the soda fountain juggling his pre-packaged dinner on one arm as he holds a cell phone to his shoulder.  He croons into the phone; “It’s going to be what’s best for everybody.”

Another employee approaches the banana stand.  At first I think maybe she is inspecting the other man’s work, until I realize that she is picking over and messing his carefully arranged piles.  She pulls apart two bunches to shove five bananas total into a rustling green bag.  I smile (just a little) as a crazy thought half forms in my head.  I know just how those bananas feel, being inspected, prodded, pulled apart, only to be peeled, smashed, maybe rot.  By selecting perfection she has only delayed the inevitable.

Finally I get up.  Kelly Sweet croons softly over the PA system, “Gonna go find me a rainbow / Hang it up in the sky…”  I snort as the rest of the lyrics rush unbidden to my consciousness.  I kick the chair back to the table, tennis shoes squeaking on the shiny floor tiles.  I push hastily through the automatic doors, shoving them open before the sensor registers my movement.  Behind me sits a blue box of six-dollar, gluten-free, wheat-free bread mix on a sticky table next to a Styrofoam cup of tepid water, lost under banners of happy people sinking their teeth into bright colors of spuriousness.

Stick a Fork in Me...

I love food.

But there is something that goes beyond sopping up that last bit of marinara with a fresh crust of French bread. Deeper than smackingly tasting each finger after pulling apart a succulent chicken-wing (partly to drive Mom crazy but mostly not to miss any of that greasy, spicy goodness).  Nearer and dearer to my heart, even, than slicing into that perfectly medium, melt-in-your-mouth steak after month upon month of living vegetarian-style in the school cafeteria. 

Two words: Baked goods.

The first week home from school I decided to experiment as my parents didn’t think it prudent to invite me to accompany them to California upon graduation (no, I’m not bitter).  When my foray into Asian cuisine totally flopped (who knew rice and curry could burn like that?!), I immediately turned to brownies.  What could be easier for dinner than dropping a couple of eggs and some oil into a soft pile of chocolatey powder?  Forty-five minutes and half a pint of vanilla ice cream later and the rice glued to the bottom of the pot soaking in the bottom of the sink couldn’t have been further from my mind.

Homemade English muffins were fun and pretty tasty, but I can see why Thomas still has a job.

And of course, number one reason to make a rare trip to the store and confiscate someone’s apartment: cupcakes.  It’s just one of those things.  See them in ad or here someone mention a party and I’m craving fluffy white cake and gobs of vanilla frosting for days.  I’m drooling just writing this, despite the canoli still resting comfortably in my gut.  Here’s the catch: I don’t even like cake.  Birthday cake?  Forget about it.  Give me a peach pie or a mound of ice cream.  Wedding cake?  I fought it for a while.  But wrap it in some colorful paper to keep it moist and make 30% of the dessert whipped frosting…I am so there. 

So what’s the point?  Well, there is none.  Except that you are now forewarned of my rapturous relationship with my taste buds.  Stay tuned for my existential struggle with what will hopefully be a new hobby (i.e. cooking) following my recent frightening screening of the extraordinary documentary, Food Inc.

Put Another Dime in the Jukebox, Baby

I’ve recently discovered something interesting about my music tastes – they change.

Well, duh.

But I’m not talking about just changing with age, maturity, popularity, rebellious natures, etc.  This manna for my ears seems to fluctuate according to location.  I first began to notice this phenomenon as I made solitary trips home from school.  At first, I blamed it on cornhole-Ohio’s terrible lack of decent radio stations.  I mean, really, with only four good country songs in the world, those poor dozens of DJs must be bored senseless.  And clearly this senselessness must be where the rest of the country music comes from.

But I digress (in a ranting diatribe kind of way).  As the flatlands of Southern Ohio stretched into the slightly less flat curves of western Pennsylvania, I would always find my attention straying away from my half dozen CDs that rotate on a (maybe) monthly cycle through the disc player.  Somewhere around Erie I would always begin to long for something different from the Indie tunes I had come to appreciate.

At first the stations would center on catchy and upbeat pop, right around that same time that I would desperately begin to seek the nearest exit for a cold one (coffee, that is).  But seeing as these stations could only boast about a dozen more songs than the country DJs I had left behind, that would quickly become old news.

By the time the odd smells of the greater Buffalo area would come rolling through my open windows or the unsealed corner of the windshield (no worries, the paper towel stuffed in the crack is generally quite effective), I was always searching for the familiar sounds of Brother Wease or the songs my parents grew up on.

I’m not sure what it is about home that makes Pat Benatar and Aerosmith more appealing than Mumford and Sons or Adele.  Maybe I’m regressing into the music that I forced myself to enjoy, partly to rebel and partly to impress my older brother with my new tastes.  Maybe it’s me taking a full mental break from everything school.  Perhaps it’s the cultural difference between “Midwest” and “Northeast.”  (It really exists.)  Or maybe it’s just the same inexplicable separation from my “other” self that I always feel when I cross that seven-hour time warp between my home of adulthood and independence to that of my childhood and insecurities.

A Clichéd Analogy

I am relatively new to this whole blogging thing.  But due to the encouragement of some well-meaning (but perhaps ambitious) people and a promise to myself that I should, would, must continue to write upon graduation, here I am.  Based purely on instinct, I feel that the first thing to be done is to explain a well-intentioned but of course cheesy blog title.

Let’s just be honest here: choosing a title for a blog could be the number one reason that I did not start writing one three months ago.  Well, that and about 250 pages worth of papers to write that would actually matter for something.  But here we are sticking with a name that popped into my befuddled head just this afternoon-- Experiments in Breathing.

I know, weird, right?  But let’s take a peek at my thought process.  (Lucky you!)

As I sit and actually get a chance to think about this new phase (meaning post-graduation), it seems as though my life will continue to change at a pace so rapid, I’ll barely have time to breathe.  At least, that is how any big life change makes me feel.  If I may be so cliché, it is a little bit like a roller-coaster, or rather, waiting in line for a roller-coaster at this point.  It’s exciting, and terrifying.  You’re among friends, and of course you are all pretending confidence like it is your job (even though none of you actually have a job yet).  You sort of know what is coming because you read the description and hear other people screaming.  You laugh and joke about that last corn dog you probably shouldn’t have eaten (as if eating a corndog could ever be a good idea).  And if you think too hard, you might find that you have to recalibrate your breathing.

That fear, that excitement, that falsely bold anticipation is wonderfully choking.  That heart-in-your-throat feeling, the I-might-wet-myself anxiety (TMI?) pressing on your chest and lungs with the weight of a small elephant. Well, you get the picture.  Sometimes, it’s difficult to breathe. 

And this is where the name comes from.  I am charging at full speed around a blind corner with my life-source trapped in those spongy bags encased in my ribs.  There is a new diploma featuring the seemingly unattainable bachelor’s degree under the clutter on my dresser.  A wedding gown drapes the mirror, frustrating the glass’s attempts to reflect the unfinished childhood memories piled on my floor awaiting a trip to Goodwill.  My wonderful fiancé is spending this weekend moving furniture into a tiny apartment four states southwest.  I browse web sites with recipes and pillowcases to procrastinate the necessary research on grad programs. 

So here it comes.  Here I sit in the home of my “childhood” working myself up to strap myself in and learn how to breathe over and over again.