Degrees of Separation

Most of us have had the experience of walking away from a conversation, knowing exactly what we should have said.  I, personally, am always about 300 times cleverer in those imaginative alternate realities than I am in real life.  We rehearse these conversations that we had somehow botched originally, struggling restlessly with the knowledge that if we would only have another chance at that exact same conversation, we’d be so devastatingly ready that redemption would surely be ours; and our would-be retractors, those unworthy victors of the original exchange, would realize just how awesome we truly are.  Usually, though, those conversations never happen again, and we’re left as the sole believers in our undiscovered wit.  Really, hindsight and too much free time is a tough combination for everyone.

What’s worse, though, is when those conversations actually do recur, and you never manage to cultivate a comeback. 

As a graduate student studying English Literature, I get asked the same question over and over again (sing it with me fellow liberal arts students): What are you going to do with that?

And, to a point, it’s such a fair question.  Genuine curiosity doesn’t offend me.  It’s the tone, it’s the follow-up questions, it’s the look of distrust and suspicion, as though I’m going to prowl the town with Derridean flair and start systematically dismantling street signs because there is no way they can ever truly represent the signified. (I’ve taken a lot of theory this year)

People don’t really ask me what I want to do with my degree, they ask me why I’m still pursuing an education, and there are a few thoughts implicit -and sometimes explicit- in this inquiry:

Why are you shirking your responsibility to be useful in society?  What are you afraid of in the “real world”?  Why are you wasting your time/money/ heretofore undiscovered musical talent and/or modeling potential?  OK, no one ever asks me about the last one, but I won’t pretend to know for sure that’s not what some people are wondering.

And I never know what to say.  I always smile politely, reply with something benign and meaningless, then toy with saying, “You are not worth another word, else I’d call you knave,” but quoting Shakespeare at people in this situation seems sort of counterproductive.

However, I recently finished my first year of graduate school, and I’ve been pushing myself to really explore the symbiotic relationship between Academia and small town life.  I think even if a foray into Foucault wouldn’t interest a lot of people who were not sitting through a theory class (and, to be fair, a lot of people who are sitting in a theory class), there are still a few things I’ve learned from my first year as a graduate student that transfer to life outside of Academia.

Work while confused.  Try to work through your confusion, and, if you can’t, learn to use your confusion.

This is where I admit that I totally understand why people think literary theory is ridiculous.  Sometimes you read sentences that are half a page long.  People make up the craziest words, and you’re just supposed to go along with it.  And then you have the theorists who tell you that words don’t really provide stable meaning anyway, so good luck ever knowing what anyone is talking about.  I spent about 50% of my time confused this year, and there was many a moment when I considered throwing text books across the room, but, alas, they were generally too heavy. 

The secret to making it past those moments of frustration is, perhaps, just accepting them.  Yeah, someone’s making something up right now, and, OK, this person could probably make an effort to be clearer, but maybe something this person is saying could add to your life.  You could actually walk away being more than you were before you started participating in this exchange (because, never doubt, it is an exchange). And if, at the end of the sharing you’re still confused, look at what’s confusing you and make sure that you communicate your own ideas in a more efficient manner than what you just witnessed.  It’s OK to not understand.  It’s never OK to shut down because you don’t understand.

Be around people who get you, and also be around people who don’t.

I first really clicked with one of my friends in the program because we’d both earned a B on the same, minor essay, and were disproportionately angst-ridden about it. Even though we ended up having more in common than our unrealistic academic standards, I still get a lot of comfort from having a person around who knows where I’m coming from when I scowl at a 19/20, because I really was aiming for that 100%.

I also have a few friends in the program who will unabashedly tell me to chill the hell out and watch a movie or get a drink.

In life, you need people who will reinforce your drive and understand your slightly neurotic tendencies – you need those people who will assure you that you aren’t crazy.  You also need those people who will tell you that you are definitely crazy.

You do not need to prove that you are the smartest person in the room.

Grad school is very competitive, and even though our program is not as cutthroat as others, there was still occasionally the sort of tension that derives from two or more people heatedly debating an irrelevant point in order to see who would prove themselves Smartest Person Sitting in an Uncomfortable Desk. I’m not sure what you get for winning this award, but if the prize was cookies, I really regret not participating. Next time.

Anyway, really, when we’re so concerned with showing off our intelligence, we tend to tear other people down instead of trying to discern how to add to the conversation before us.  And, you know, sometimes the best way to add to a conversation is to just stay silent.

It’s great to know what you want to do in five years.  It’s necessary to know what you have to do to get through the week.

Things get busy in graduate school.  Things actually get so busy that you start to long for the days when you thought you were busy as an undergraduate.  Adding to the atmosphere of preoccupation (that smells slightly of fear and coffee) is the fact that there’s basically always something you could be doing – another project that needs completing, a paper that needs revising, etc.  Believe me when I say that to-do lists are helpful, but also rather frightening things.  It’s easy to be in the middle of one project, and then accidentally start to think of all of the other projects you may never get to because of old age. 

Despite what you may have surmised based on stories of adrenaline-fueled individuals lifting cars off of children, panic is not conducive to an effective working environment, at least not long-term.  As much as you can, focus on one task at a time, if for no other reason than you will actually experience joy when you finish one thing, instead of anxious dread because you thought you were on a journey to Accomplishment, but you’re really on a treadmill with a carrot dangling in front of you.  And you don’t even know that you particularly like carrots.

Unapologetically spend time doing what you love.

OK, so, after all of that, I still don’t know what to say to people who don’t get my degree, but I do know that my first year as a graduate student has taught me that I don’t need to apologize for the joy and sense of purpose I get from being a part of Academia. 

I truly believe that the world is a better place when we’re doing what we love, if for no other reason than we’re happier. 

As for what it means when I’m saying “better” and “happier,” and who I’m actually talking about when I say “we,” well…Those are questions for some literature students. See how much you need us?

To the Haters

I knew I had undergone a successful Facebook friend-purge when I logged into my account yesterday and was met with dozens of red equal signs.  People dismiss “Facebook activism” as lazy and empty, and to a point I agree, but sometimes I enjoy visual representations of common sense.  That being said, after 24 hours of a consistently positive newsfeed, this status managed to sneak through the cracks of my master filtering rationale (e.g. Do I feel said person would be appropriately disturbed by the phrase “binders full of women”?):

“I married a man. Under God. Which this nation was founded under Him. So my heart and beliefs go to Him. I know my spouse would say the same.”

There are a lot of things I could say to this (I might begin with: Stellar sentence construction), but most responses have already been verbalized much more clearly and gracefully than I could have managed in a Facebook comment. Also, it’s been a longstanding belief of mine that in Facebook arguments, there are only losers.

But I do want to say a couple things, because I’ve been having an imaginary conversation with this person - and people who share her opinions - all day.  So, although I am really overflowing with gratitude for the members of the LGBT community, especially the Allies, who are showing their colors (see what I did there? With the red equal signs?), I’m going to go ahead and address this post to all the haters.  Mostly because I’ve always wanted to address something to “haters” since Jay-Z is my spirit animal.

So, to the haters:

I have been one of you, so I do appreciate the fervor with which you’re expressing your beliefs.  I understand what you think is at stake.  I can imagine how you feel right now, to look around you and perceive the moral foundations of society crumbling.  You have to be scared and angry, so I don’t wonder that you’re saying some hurtful things.  I’m hurtful when I’m scared and angry, and also when I’m hungry or haven’t had enough coffee.  I’m imagining some of you poorly-fed and under-caffeinated conservative folks are just completely blowing up an unluckier individual’s Facebook feed right now, and, truly, I do get it.

But, whatever you say your God wants (and I qualify with “your” very consciously here, because I have a feeling, if you’re truly representing your Deity’s feelings on love, we worship very different Gods) doesn’t really have much to do with what the state allows.  This, I know, does not quell your religious outrage, so let’s deal with that.  You’re comfortable telling people what God wants and doesn’t want, and to a certain point I understand that, even if I don’t agree with it.  But since that’s the rhetoric we’re deploying, I want to play, too.  I don't think God cares that I identify as bisexual.  Really, I don’t.  I’m inferring this because I spent years begging God to make me straight, and here I am, decidedly, happily not. What I recognize now is that I was so busy begging, I didn’t stop to hear God telling me that my sexuality was something to celebrate.

I also want to say that I’m writing this as a woman who has not spent a lot of time dreaming of her wedding, and as a person who completely agrees with the argument that the legalization of same-sex marriage will likely not bring about structural change.  Yet I still deeply care about this issue, because I am basely opposed to someone telling me what I can and cannot love.  I also think denying same-sex couples equal rights is symptomatic of larger issues in society, and simply makes people feel inferior.  Let’s not do that, OK?  There’s no point.  My hypothetical marriage to another woman would not invalidate your hypothetical marriage to someone of the opposite sex.  Really, as charming as I find your Facebook statuses, I do not want to marry you, so you’re safe.  Truly.

Now, I’ve spent a lot of time telling you what I do understand, but I also want to address something that is beyond my grasp:  What is it about my capacity to love another human being that threatens you?  I want you to dig deep and answer that, because that’s a question I had to answer to come to terms with my own identity.  (And, for the love of God, I’m not suggesting you’re all closeted homosexuals.  I just want you to think about what you’re fearing here, and ask if it’s rational)

After I came out to my sister, she asked me how I felt, if I was scared of anything.  I said I was acutely afraid, because there were so many people I loved, so many people who were important to me, whose opinions of me would fundamentally change if they knew.  Jess said something that I hope every closeted member of the LGBT community will hear one day: “We don’t need anyone who doesn’t accept you.  Anyone who can’t love you for who you are does not deserve to be a part of our lives.” 

I want you to know that while you are a multifaceted creature whose opinion on homosexuality does not comprise your identity, and we do actually need you and benefit from you in our society, we do not need your rhetoric. This is a debate you’re going to lose.  You aren’t building anything, you aren’t protecting anything, you’re merely trying to stop growth.  I’m sorry you’re scared.  I know how uncomfortable you are; I remember how that feels, and I am willing to be patient as you shake off these prejudices – a shedding of old skin that can take a long time.  But, friends, you’re on the wrong side of history.  I mean, come on, just check out our kickass profile pictures.

Diving into the New Year

Humans are complex creatures.  We make resolutions at the end of December to be better people, and then the majority of adults spend the first of the year exhausted and hung over.  And yet we make the resolutions.  A major reason I love the new year is the renewed faith people have in themselves to accomplish goals that were apparently too out of reach in November or early December.  One of the only qualms I have with New Year’s resolutions is how hard people are on themselves when they break them.  Friend, you had to have suspected you were not going to be carting yourself out of bed at 5am every morning to go to the gym.  Unless there was a really good bakery beside the gym, and you could eat your croissant there and be like, “Close enough.”

I don’t like that we curb our ambitions because we might fail, or dislike this time of year because it reminds us of our rather predictable missteps and resignations. Let’s just be honest about our lack of foresight: very rarely do we know at the end of one year what will be good for us through the next 12 months.  I can’t even skillfully plan out my groceries for a week.  When I sat down and thought about it all, actually, some of my favorite memories have come from broken promises to myself.  So, in honor of 2012 and all of the times I had to actively ignore that inner voice Oprah is so fond of telling us to listen to, here is a fun time that occurred because I released myself from my resolutions.

Those of you who have been reading this for a while may vaguely recall my declaration to never cliff dive.  Mostly, my determination to avoid this form of recreation was borne of my impressive knowledge of limnology: Sometimes there are jagged rocks on the bottom of lakes.  I have never been, and, I thought, would never be, so hard-pressed for something fun to do that I would feel compelled to spontaneously throw myself from a cliff.  I have cable.  Plus, Bella Swan took an angst-ridden jump off a cliff in New Moon, and sort of succeeded in zapping any bad-assery from the act at all. 

Yet, one summer a friend and I had his jet skis out on a lake, and he pointed out a ledge in the distance. 
“We could jump if you wanted,” he said in a tone that clearly implied I could say no and he would not judge me at all.  I had one sane moment of appreciation for his neutrality before I more deeply considered his tone.  Perhaps he anticipated I would say no.  He anticipated this response, no doubt, because I am responsible, and level-headed, and enjoy possessing full mobility of all my limbs.  Clearly these suppositions were unacceptable.

“Definitely!  I’ve always wanted to cliff dive.  Let’s go!”  I then proceeded to race him to the base of the cliff.  I cannot say why I not only lied, but channeled my sister to give the peppiest response to his request possible, but I did. 

We tied the jet skis off by the shore, and swam around the base of the cliff to find a place to begin our climb.  He grabbed one of those random tree branches that sometimes stick out of cliffs (I don’t know why this is a thing, but it is), and swung himself out of the water.  After watching him go, I silently plopped my forehead against the surface of the water in grim acceptance of my fate, then laboriously followed.

This is the way it will all end, I thought to myself somberly as we carefully climbed the slippery, moss covered rocks.  I am going to literally jump off of a cliff to impress a boy.  Somewhere on the planet, Betty Friedan sighed.

When we reached the top, we both peered anxiously over the edge.  I’m going to be upfront with you and say the cliff was only about 50 feet over the water.  It doesn’t sound like a lot, but I don’t even like falling from my 5’7” height, so I’m just assuming 50 feet wouldn’t be fun either. 

“You can go first,” he said gallantly.  I raised my eyebrows.  “Unless you’d rather I go.”  The implicit unless you’re afraid hung in the air between us, and I took a deliberate step forward.

“I guess I should have asked before,” my friend’s conscience seemed to catch up with him.  “You’re not afraid of heights?”

I rolled my eyes.  “No real issue with heights, just a wee bit hesitant to jump from a cliff.  But I think that’s just an indicator of prominent mental health.” 

He remained silent as I looked over the edge again, trying to pretend I had the mental capacity necessary to calculate a safe trajectory for my jump. 

“If I die,” I said, “I’m going to kill you.  And then sue you.”

“Want me to count for you?”

“In my experience, math will only exacerbate the problem,” and those could have been my last words, because after ensuring the world would remember my ability to make bad jokes in uncomfortable situations, I took a breath and ungracefully leapt from the cliff, stifling what I’m sure would have been a confidence-inspiring squeak. 

I can compare the sensation to a rollercoaster with no safety restraints, or a slide without the friction, but none of those phrases really do cliff-diving justice, especially when the entire time I was falling I was berating myself for having the ability of a nine-year-old to forgo a dare that no one ever even uttered.  And yet I was also feeling sheepishly triumphant, because I had done what we all want to do as often as possible: overcome fear – an admittedly reasonable fear, but a fear nonetheless.  I’m definitely not addicted to that form of recreation (if you want to know what kept me from making cliff-diving a necessary activity of my summers, I’d have to quote the voice of our generation and say, “It’s the climb”), but I like to be able to faux-nonchalantly tell people I enjoy cliff-diving.

The experience is a good reminder for me that I don’t always know what I’m doing.  Especially when I’m making resolutions, at any point in the year.  So, friends, if you slack a little this year, if you skip the gym for a day (or a week), or you forgo an hour of introspective journaling for an hour of trashy television, more power to you.  You’re right where you’re supposed to be for 2013.  Good things happen to us when we’re being human.  Happy New Year, and happy reading. 

You'll Have to Excuse Me, I'm New Here...

Hello, reader(s)!  If you’ve been here before, then you’ll notice some changes.  For example…I updated.  But, in more superficial, but no less exciting, news, I changed the background and my profile picture, which should indicate the following things:

-The party really doesn’t start until I walk in.

-I finally learned how to work the template on blogspot.

-I am a sophisticated intellectual now.  Please note the glasses and scarf.

-I learned how to tie a scarf. 

That’s right, newness is everywhere.  In fact, a mere month ago, I moved to Pittsburgh.  Now, I’m from a small, rural town. Like, there’s literally a place you drive past where you have to exercise caution to avoid the grazing goats.  We don’t have a sign up yet; we’re waiting for the appropriate graphics to become available.  The point is, Pittsburgh has been a bit of an adjustment.  But, as I assure my potential employers in every job interview, I’m a quick learner. 

A few weeks ago, I had decided my next entry would cover everything I have learned so far in the city.  Lesson One: Fairly quickly I discovered the secret to crossing the street is not actually to wait for the “walk” sign, but to find people in business suits with briefcases and jet across with them.  They don’t wait for cars, but cars wait for them because they have briefcases.  They look important.  They look like they can afford good lawyers.  In comparison to them, you probably look like you would not be able to afford the change to call an ambulance to scrape you off a bumper, so just follow the gainfully employed to the sidewalk.  And the other thing I learned so far is…

I lied in all of those job interviews. 

There are still a lot of mysteries staring judgmentally at me, waiting to be solved.  I tried to wait to write this until I learned how to do more than cross the street, but, let’s face it,  it’s 2012 and Glee was renewed for a fourth season: all signs point to an imminent apocalypse.  I might as well update.  So, here are some things I really want to know, but haven’t figured out about the city yet.

Where is everyone driving to that’s making them so angry?

Seriously, there are some incensed drivers here.  Like, the light will be red, and people are honking their horns for you to get moving.  Sir, the laws of the road demand that I stay stagnant.  And, really, it doesn’t even seem to matter if traffic is running smoothly, people just sporadically honk their horns or yell profanities out their window, as though negative energy is the new natural fuel.  So I want to know where these angry people are going, that way I can go somewhere else.

Why would people think I’d give them money to buy tickets to a Steelers’ game?

I passed about five people today with “Need Steelers’ Tickets” signs and empty cups for money, and…OK, I appreciate their honesty, I guess.  I mean, if they would be looking desolate and have a “Need Money for Food” sign, I’d toss some change in there, so props to them for not going for the obvious deception.  But, really…do people, like, give money to fund someone’s football addiction?  I’m not even offended, just baffled.

If I live here long enough, will I develop a sort of Spidey Sense?

My roommate and I walked to the neighborhood next to ours the other day to get some pizza, and we passed two people yelling racial slurs at each other from opposite ends of the street (one man apparently thought that his shirtlessness would add some weight to his argument, so he peeled off his t-shirt), and two arrests.  Now, had my roommate given the slightest hint that he was uncomfortable and we should turn back, I would have jumped all over that opportunity like Lindsay Lohan should jump on any guest-staring opportunities offered to her, but I did not want to be the person to suggest we go back.  I know, pride will be such a nice companion for me in the police station identifying Mugger #2.  But I don’t even get it, because that neighborhood is a hop, skip, and a jump away from ours, so how do you even know where a safe piece of pizza can be had?  And will I ever be able to tell just by, like, tilting my head in the wind and sniffing out danger?  Because I’d like the opportunity to pull a street-wise, “It’s quiet.  Too quiet.  Let’s go to that well-lit Primanti’s instead.”

Do people expect me to say “Stillers” instead of “Steelers”?

Because I won’t.

Am I convincingly faking a sense of direction?

Pittsburgh geography escapes me, yet I still insist on asking people where they live like I’ll actually have any conception of what they’re telling me.  But I do the fake smile of enlightenment, and, “Oh.  I see” so they don’t feel the need to offer more directions I won’t understand.  Though, I suspect we both know what’s going on.

Now, I’m not despairing or anything.  I know if there are 1,000 things I have yet to learn, and I learn a new thing every three days, math will happen and one day I’ll know more than I do now.  For now, though, I am content to simply glance out of my window at all of the cars on the street below and be thankful I’m not driving.

Happy reading.

(Also, my sister, who has been a good sport about having several cameos in my blog, started her own blog for a social work class.  Check it out--it's funny and informative.)

Unduly Noted

Years ago, my boyfriend had me listen to a song he liked.  When he asked what I thought of it, I, not yet schooled in the ways of cultivating a romantic relationship, replied honestly, saying I thought the music was good (this conciliatory statement is as laughable from my 16-year-old self as it would be from my 22-year-old self, since I know only slightly more about music than I do about Olympic gymnastics), but the lyrics didn’t really do much for me.  My boyfriend, who did actually know a good deal about music, replied mournfully, “Josie, there was a time when people appreciated music for more than its lyrics.” 

Indeed.  Well, though it may be an indicator of my musical ignorance, I will confess to still enjoying music primarily for the lyrics.  Now and then, I will go through sprees of listening to classical music that’s just instrumental, but that’s mainly so if someone walks into the room I can “hastily” shut off my music, pull the, “Oh, I didn’t see you there” routine, and seem more sophisticated that I actually am.  Though I know some people derive pleasure from music as a form of technical, complex art, I look at music as a form of catharsis, and I have always found the most emotional release through words.  Also, when people start to talk about crescendos and adagios, my eyes glaze over, and no matter how much I try to bluff my way through the conversation, I always make it extremely apparent that singing “Row Row Row Your Boat” in rounds is about as technically advanced as I get.

But even though I love me some good lyrics, I’m as guilty as the next person of singing a song for weeks, maybe even months, before I actually listen to the lyrics.  I’m not talking about singing the wrong words to a song (because, really, people do that for years, or until some sort of public or semi-public embarrassment has occurred).  I’m talking about belatedly garnering the meaning to a song that you’ve been gracing the world with your rendition of for many countdowns. 

Here are some songs that have been popular on the radio at one point or another, and should eventually give you pause:

T-Shirt by Shontelle

A song about a woman so heartbroken she has one of the most devastating First World Problems: a rejection of Jimmy Choo’s?  Girl, the young and in love of America feel your pain and hope you can find the strength to muddle through.  But, really, Shontelle should lose you before the chorus.  My “T-Shirt” revelation happened when I was in the car with my friends, and we were all singing along to the song.  We got to the part, “Gonna be late, gonna be late, but, all my girls gonna have to wait…”  and awareness struck.  I looked back at my friends and said, “If any of you were ever late for something, and I showed up to your house and found you lying on your bed in your ex-boyfriend’s t-shirt, I really think I’d kick your ass.”  Because, seriously, if you don’t feel like hanging out, you call and cancel your plans.  You don’t lie around scantily clad while your friends wait for you.  That’s just bad manners. 

Speak Now by Taylor Swift

Taylor Swift is an artist I would love to hate, because she’s all about teenage love and clichéd rhymes, and I really want to be above all that.  But I’m just not.  Every time she comes out with a new song that I like, I always shake my fist at the radio and give a grudging, “Damn you, Taylor Swift,” resigning myself to some repeated plays on my iPod.  That’s not to say that Taylor doesn’t occasionally bring her own record to a screeching halt (Like in “Love Story” when Romeo solves all of his and Juliet’s problems by simply talking to her dad?  Oh, Shakespeare, if your Romeo had only had Swift’s foresight...).  In “Speak Now,” Swift sets up a story where she has sneaked into an old lover’s wedding, planning to speak up at the more or less rhetorical “Speak now or forever hold your peace” part of the ceremony.  But, before she gets there, she tells the would-be groom, “And I am hiding in the curtains.  It seems that I was uninvited by your lovely bride-to-be.”  Hell yeah you were, Taylor.  You’re the psychopath hiding in the goddamn curtains of her wedding, trying to steal her fiancé.  Fucking right she uninvited you.  There’s really no point in trying to make the bride sound unreasonable, because it seems like you really had that one coming.

Defying Gravity, Wicked

I love this song, and I love this musical (I also love this book, even though I cannot find a single person who will gush over Maguire’s genius with me).  The lyrics to this song are fun and empowering, like I imagine they were intended to be.  So how did the song make this list?  Well, I really only ever sing it when I’m doing something mundane, like going for groceries or coming home from school.  “It’s time to tryyyyy defyyyyyying graaavity…” (Yeah, I bought that milk!  I went to the bank!  Look out world; I’m defyyyying graaavity.)  You can never be doing anything cool enough to live up to this song.  Elphaba will always be leaving her best friend to prepare to take on the wizard, and you will always be driving in your car, trying to remember if you bought the right brand of butter.

Call Me Maybe by Carly Raye Jepsen

I know this song gets a lot of criticism and has been parodied to death, even though, just admit it, you’ve spent at least two weeks humming it, whether you like it or not.  From what I, via my limited expertise, can discern, the music itself is catchy.  And, also, I think we can all relate to the general narrative of being attracted to someone, kind of gritting your teeth and making the first move, and waiting in what could be terminal anxiety to see how the other person reacts.  So, Carly Raye, we get it.  We really do.  But what we don’t get is why “This is crazy.”  Because you just met the guy?  Friend, it’s what you do.  It’s the unfortunate law of socialization that in order for an initial meeting to become prolonged, someone has to offer up a form of further contact.  And we can only hope, as supportive listeners, that the “All the other boys try to chase me” line was thought, but not spoken aloud to the potential suitor.  Otherwise, maybe we’d suggest you not spend too long waiting by the phone.

According to You by Orianthi

This song reminds me of when people come to you for advice, but they already know exactly what they’re going to do.  So you have to faux-patiently listen to them go on and on about their “dilemma” for an hour before you can repeat to them essentially what they already said to you.  In this song, Orianthi has a very difficult decision to make.  Or something.  Her boyfriend says she’s “stupid, [she’s] useless, [she] can’t do anything right,” and a host of other demeaning comments.  First of all, why are you still with this jerk?  Run, don’t walk, your talented ass away from Demeaning Dave.  But, luckily, another person in Orianthi’s life thinks she’s wonderful, incredible, etc., etc.  So, you know, she’s hearing good things from someone.  However, after comparing the two men, Orianthi sings to Boyfriend #1 a.k.a Most Likely To Be The Last Thing Orianthi Would Save In A Fire, “It’s too bad that you’re making me decide.”  Everything else about this song bothers me, but the idea of there even being a decision to make, or the idea that she had to have someone else to go to before she left BF #1, just really irks me.  Yeah, it is really too bad you have to decide.  But tough choices like that are why we have coins to flip.  And radio dials to turn.

Never Gonna Leave this Bed by Maroon 5

Regret and redemption are two popular themes for songs, and if you can juxtapose your woeful sentiments with relatively upbeat music, you’ll probably have a hit on your hands.  “Never Gonna Leave this Bed” is no exception to the rules I just made up.  I think, when we fantasize about our love lives, we may all tend to think we’d appreciate a significant other who would go to impossible lengths for us, remind us of our beauty and intrinsic worth every day, and, hell, toss a thoughtful gift our way every now and then.  But, in reality, although we really do want our romantic counterparts to treat us well, when people go over the top, that shit gets old fast.  When Adam Levine croons, “Wake you up in the middle of the night to say, I will never walk away again…” I have to wonder, is he waking this poor girl up every night?  That seems unnecessary.  Even periodically, it seems annoying.  Like she’s in a deep sleep and he shakes her shoulder until she blearily opens her eyes, and then he assures her, “Don’t worry.  I’ll never leave you again.”  Dude.  At this point, that’s less of a promise and more of an irritating threat.  And reassure her in the daytime, when she cares.  Though, I have to say, this song almost didn’t make the list, because if anyone is going to wake me up in the middle of the night and be forgiven, it would probably be Adam Levine.

I’m by no means saying that when a song gets tangled up in its own logic we can no longer appreciate it.  In fact, I think the same thing could work for music that often works for literature: When something you love is not sensible in a literal manner, and you cannot explain away the inconsistencies, you just become distracted by whatever is nearest to you and mumble, “Yeah, it’s like a metaphor, or whatever…” and then exit the conversation quickly.  (Maybe don’t try that with “Call Me Maybe” unless you’re feeling really ambitious).  This isn’t a post to drain your enjoyment out of music.  In fact, I personally gain more enjoyment from recognizing these lyrical mishaps than I do from ignoring them.  But if you can’t do that, then, by all means, sing loudly, sing happily, and let no one tell you how to appreciate your music.

As always, happy reading.  

And the Meek Will Inherit a List of Unfortunate Occurrences

Just like everyone else, I have a few core beliefs. 

1)     One of the most important skills you will ever learn is how to sincerely and effectively apologize

2)    If someone tells you that he/she is not even a little afraid of the dark, that person is lying to you

3)    You’ll make and keep more friends by listening than you will by talking

4)    Even if we don’t know our over-arcing purpose in life, on a daily basis our purpose is to make life a little easier for one another

5)    You will always be happier not knowing how many calories are in a mocha, a McDonald’s hamburger, or movie theater popcorn.  Just don’t ask.  Ever.  (Incidentally, I also believe people who perform studies to find out such information are secretly very unhappy people who want to spread their misery)

6)     Finally and unoriginally, everything happens for a reason.  Well, maybe not so much that everything happens for a reason, but that things tend to work out eventually.

In case you were curious (or worried), this list is not exhaustive.

Now, the problem with believing that things happen for a reason is that, logically, there are times in my life when I need to decipher exactly what that reason is.  When life does not go according to plan in ways that are upsetting but not especially tragic, the easy answer to “why did this happen” is “to teach [said person in shitty situation] humility.” 

Obviously this answer is annoying and unsatisfying; let’s not pretend otherwise. 

Yes, life can be disappointing, and if you had somehow not known this illuminating information before, I am glad I could spend several paragraphs breaking the news to you.  Let us not forget, however, the many things in life that teach us humility.

Singing the wrong words to a song.

This mistake can break your narcissistic rhythm even when you’re alone, but if you’re in a group of people, there’s really no hope for your pride by the end of the song.  Especially disheartening is the mis-sung lyric when you’re absolutely bellowing the song, because you feel like you’re singing exceptionally well that day, and those around you are truly blessed to hear your voice.  The secret belief that somewhere a producer at a record company is lurking and waiting to sign you may also be quietly thriving somewhere.  Even the most unconfident singers have days like that, when you sound just like Mumford and Sons, and you’re being especially soulful, because these lyrics are deep, these lyrics resonate with you, these lyrics…fuck.  Those weren’t the right lyrics.  Depending on who you’re with, people will either glance quickly at you and then pretend not to notice, or mock your mercilessly.  Either way, you’ve fallen pretty quickly from that musical pedestal on which you happily placed yourself.  And just like that, your singing career is over, and if you’re in a car, moving or not, you’re seriously considering opening the door and hoping for the best.

Microsoft Word and/or Google has no idea what the hell you’re talking about.

It’s one thing to misspell polysyllabic words that you find in a book for and by Smart People.  We can forgive that of ourselves.  It’s even acceptable to look at words like “who” and “the” and silently contemplate how strange they appear. Maybe we’re just feeling linguistically existential.  More likely, we had too much or too little caffeine. But sometimes you can type a word into a document, and Microsoft puts that red squiggly line under it, and, all right, texting has completely ruined our lexicons, so we accept we could be rusty on the spelling of this word.  However, when you patiently right-click, Microsoft has “no spelling suggestions.”  Outraged, you google your “word,” and Google is all, “The fuck?” or whatever the Google equivalent of “no spelling suggestions” is.  What word were you thinking of?  Have you used this pretend word in conversations with your peers?  In handwritten assignments, have you tried to make “narratively” a thing?  Obviously, the sting of this can be somewhat lessened if, outraged, you exclaim, “Well, it should be a word,” and get a baffled bystander to agree with you.

Failing at small-talk.

Even people who are generally good at small talk are not always good at small-talk.  And, really, inane chatter is a game for two—the person with whom you’re conversing has to be somewhat adept at talking about nothing, too.  Yet, despite the odds staked against us, when we walk away from a server, a cashier, or, worse, an acquaintance we really should be able to talk to, and have failed to keep them engaged in the dry details of our life, we feel like we’ve failed at this basic level of human interaction.  We didn’t have to get this person to propose at the end of the conversation, we just had to keep him or her interested enough to not look extremely relieved when sufficient time has passed that both of us could walk away.  Sometimes small-talk is difficult because we can’t really decipher the jargon.  Does “we should get together for lunch sometime” actually mean we should get together for lunch sometime, or does it mean, “You can nod and make up an excuse to leave now.  We’ll both just pretend to forget that neither of us has the other’s number.  Retreat!”  

Realizing you’ve been using the same word/phrase in a conversation incessantly.

When suddenly you catch yourself saying “like” in a conversation, completely needlessly, and that word seems damnably familiar, the topic of your exchange suddenly seems to disappear and all you can think about is not repeating that word again.  You’re not a Valley Girl.  Unless you’re crafting some explosive simile, you will not use the word “like” again.  And suddenly that’s all you’re saying.  Or maybe it’s another word that’s slightly more sophisticated.  You instantly develop a fear that the person you’re talking to will think you have one of those Word a Day calendars, and are otherwise verbally bereft. 

Not hearing what someone is saying…over and over again

We all have mastered the pleasantly neutral expression and half-nod half-headshake that symbolizes, “I have no idea what you just said, but I’m tired of saying ‘what,’ and really hope you’re not giving me money or bestowing super powers upon me and I’m missing it.”  It’s a 50/50 shot whether or not this person will call you on your fake-out (because it’s usually pretty obvious) or just pick up the conversation more audibly, leaving you lost and with a permanently vapid look on your face.

Don’t forget, for all of the times we walk straight into walls or realize we’ve been wearing a shirt inside-out all day, there are also times we pull off incredible feats that surprise even ourselves.

Or, you know, simply avoid walking into walls, and dress ourselves successfully. 

Either way, try to keep in mind that if you’re unlucky enough to have an audience to your embarrassing moments, everyone has been through what you’ve been through.  Even if no one around you is compassionate and understanding, most people are at least thankful for your presence, because you’ve provided a distraction from the last embarrassing thing someone did. 

Happy reading, all.  Stay humble.