How Babies Feel

I have little to no experience in the childcare arena, but it seems to me that frustrated toddlers usually cry because they don't know what else to do.  Very rarely do I feel that way.  Rather, I usually want to sucker punch someone in the windpipe.  Today is different. 

I have had some major frustrations at work recently, and on several occasions, I have been so exasperated that my face has flushed and tears have streamed down my cheeks.  I HATE crying about work because frankly, I don't have enough responsibility or make enough money to care as much as I do.  Still, my desk has been a Betsy puddle multiple times in the last week.  Today was the worst and though I managed to avoid a full-fledged sob-fest, I have felt an immense amount of pressure in my chest since approximately 8:45am.  What scares me is that it feels kind of cold, like my whole insides are numbing.  I always thought the cliche of corporate America withering your soul was a joke, and now I'm concerned that it's my reality.  Pending a serious conversation with my parents about finances, I need to quit like...ASAP.  I can almost always find the the whole almond in the marzipan, but I can no longer see the goodness or value in what I'm doing.  I'm trying to hold off on quitting so that I'm not the 45,000,1 American without health insurance, but I honestly don't know if I can do it.

When I feel like this there are really only two things to do: watch "Defending Your Life" and eat Chinese food.  The takeout is ordered, so I'm going to start the movie and do everything I can to stop grinding my teeth whilst thinking about the daily grind.

My Gorgeous Girls

Being that I am an overenthusiast, there are A LOT of things I enjoy.  This list includes, but is not limited to: laughing, making pretzels, hanging out in Anthropologie, shopping for home goods in thrift or antique stores and reading non-fiction.  Yet perhaps my most favorite thing to do is find ways to make other people feel really special.  Please note that I'm not one to plan blow-out events...the pressure of a surprise party is a no go in my book.  Rather, I am a veritable encyclopedia of things that my friends like/things I know they want.  To me, it's not good enough to know that Rob likes ginger ale; it matters that he prefers Seagram's over Canada Dry.  

Even more than caring for friends, I relish opportunities to nurture my twin sister.  From a young age I used to make her pancakes that spelled out "I Love You" and when she came to DC for my graduation I greeted her with takeout because I knew she'd be hungry after the flight.  She is equally considerate of me and I am hugely reliant on her encouragement and affection.  My Mom compares us to a gardner and flower, saying that we trade off roles so that we both have the chance to blossom.  Precious!

Being away from Sara is hard for many reasons, but a large part of me misses spoiling her.  My inner caretaker has been going wild over the last few months and I realized that in the interest of my own sanity, I needed somewhere else to funnel this energy.  The immediate conclusion was obvious: I should have a baby!  If I weren't so young, broke and busy, that might actually be an option.  I tried to think of something that's a step down from baby, so my next plan was to get a puppy.  Sadly, the young, broke and busy stuff applies to that circumstance as well.  Still, I wanted something more than a plant, and after pensive deliberation, I decided that my maturity (or lack thereof) meant I would only be a suitable parent for a hermit crab or a beta fish.  

Flash forward to this afternoon, when I become the proud owner of two female betas: Pollyanna and Bathsheba.  The man in PetsMart assured me that females can live together in the same bowl, but my two favorite ladies were NOT HAVING IT from the second I put them together.  I should have known better than to take his advice--this PetsMart guy was obviously an idiot.  Case in point: When my roommate, Charlie, told him that we graduated from GW he said "Oh yeah?  Go Hoyas!" with a really proud look on his face.  At first I thought he was trying to take a playful jab at us by referencing the Georgetown Hoyas, but through further interaction, it became apparent he was just.that.dumb.  Seriously, anyone in the DC metro area with half a brain knows the difference between GW and Georgetown.  We're rival schools...it's kind of a big deal.  (P.S. I acknowledge that my harsh criticism of this man may be slightly unfair, but Mama wouldn't be so cranky if he hadn't encouraged her to jeopardize the lives of her precious aquatic children.)

Thankfully, I had a spare fishbowl in my closet (don't you?!) so Pollyanna is now comfortably swimming in the living room while Bathsheba remains in my bedroom.  They are wonderful additions to the family...welcome home fishies!

"Happiness is anyone and anything that's loved by you."

I've recently discovered a new and unexpected kind of torture: the eternal crush.  Unlike run of the mill attraction, this is not someone for which you actively pine.  Rather, this person is a neutral in your mind until you somehow become reminded of past feelings.  A swift jog of the memory sets off an Alkaseltzer-like reaction and you are dissolved by a combination of rekindled longing and confusion over the lasting emotion. 

Yes, there is a boy that does this to me and I've felt the same way about him since I was 16.  I'd like to point out that my affection for him doesn't paralyze my emotions; the pudding proof is that I've been madly in love with someone else since I met him.  Here's the (slightly embarrassing) thing: This boy and I have never actually dated...we haven't even kissed. If I followed the "He's Just Not That Into You" school of thought, I would have written him off a long time ago.  Still, I flatter myself that my feelings for him are more than unrequited love, perhaps because I'm too proud to admit that this enchantment is not reciprocal. 

After a long stretch of no contact, he and I have started speaking regularly.  The good news is that I'm not putty when I see his name on my caller ID.  Through physical and mental distance, I've gained some perspective that makes things a bit easier.  For many years, I truly idealized him; he was a house upon a hill to me.  With time I've been able to find notches in his wood and imperfections in his construction, but somehow, these topical flaws do nothing to detract from the greater truth of who he is.  While I am no longer consumed by a desire to impress him, I still find him to be 100% amazing.

I understand that significant barriers will always prevent us from coupling.  Yet no matter how many things I "know," I still get anxious when we speak, wondering if he'll be brave enough to address the underlying tensions we both dance around.  Sometimes I sigh as I secretly dream that he'll fly to DC and pepper me with kisses. Yet more often, I smile, mesmerized by the promise of finding someone new who will inspire the same emotion without the nagging uncertainty.

A toast to Charlie Brown and whoever comes after the little red-headed girl.

Well now that you mention it...duh!

In life, obvious circumstances have a tendency to remain unrealized until someone verbalizes the truth that everyone has subconsciously accepted.  Ignoring the elephant in the room is oftentimes the socially permissible option, and consequently,  when I run into my ex-boyfriend I will conduct myself as if we have no history; when you have a huge blemish on your face I'll avoid staring or questioning at all costs; and when I buy a box of Entenmann's Frosted Devil's Food Doughnuts I expect you aren't thinking  that I plan to eat the entire box on the way home from the grocery store.  

In all of these circumstances, there is a disjoint between the polite assumption and reality.  Similarly, there are often truths in ourselves and our relationships that we don't recognize or believe until one critical moment.  For example, my friend Ilyssa used to ask me to bring her things all the time, like food and class notes.  I had no problem spoiling her a little because in my mind, friends do that for each other.  However, she lived in a dorm that didn't have a buzzer and rather than come get me, she would make me wait outside until someone exited the building, regardless of the weather. The strange part is that this behavior never seemed ridiculous to me until my roommate told me that humans are supposed to be vertebrates.  Ouch, and point taken.  

Yet there are also happy truths that stay hidden until someone is courageous.  Perhaps the most obvious example is the tradition of saying "I love you." No matter how confidently you believe that someone cares for you, it's the tipping point of 1-4-3 that propels you into the intoxication of absolute adoration.

With that in mind, Rob has been one of my closest friends for the last two and half years and transitioned into his current role as my non-romantic life partner/entire social life at least nine months ago.  Still, I've always suffered from a slight complex because I didn't know if it was weird to call him my best friend.  He has a soulmate from back home, and realistically, my twin sister will always hold the top spot in my heart.  Yet explaining Rob's significance without using the words "best" an "friend" is near-impossible, so I frequently call him that behind his back.  

Tonight, things changed. Rob drove me home after dinner and when we pulled up to my apartment building, he saw one of his coworkers and rolled down the window to say hi.  When his coworker asked what he was doing in the area, Rob nonchalantly responded, "my best friend Betsy lives here."  To anyone who knows the depth of our attachment, "best friend" wouldn't seem to scratch the surface.  Yet somehow, this was a very important moment to me.  I told Rob goodnight and as he drove away, his headlights weren't the only thing beaming.  I'm writing this post a few hours later and am still kind of gooey from the residual effects of being called his best friend.  It was special.  I feel special.  Thanks Rob, for saying it like it is.  Keep an eye out for a package--your half of our best friends necklace in the mail.

Open Letter to my Twin (Sara)

If I could choose one thing forever it would be you.  If I could choose two things forever it would be you.  Twice.

My heart bursts when I think about how precious you are.  Though we can't have constant togetherness, we'll find our way back--I'm sure of it! Until then, may we have many more Skype-filled evenings.

Never my anger bear, always my baby bean.  Don't forget to text me updates from FML.   

I've Fallen for Fall

When I started using the internet in 7th grade, I logged on for one primary purpose: online quizzes.  I blocked HOURS of time for self-reflection and used insightful personality inventories such as "Who's Your Celebrity Match?" and "What's Your Theme Song?" to dive deep into the mysterious abyss of my 13 year-old soul.  I still battle my inner test-taking fiend, though I rarely indulge her.  However, I recently stumbled across a quiz entitled "What's Your Season?" and it was impossible for me to resist.  The questions were trite, but something was designed properly because I completely agree with the results.  I am undoubtedly a "Fall."  There are innumerable reasons why Fall is my favorite season, aka the unequivocal best season.  Yet in the interest of finishing this post so that I can find out what type of cheese I am (not kidding...), I'm listing five of the best things about Fall. 

1) Positive mental effects of the Winter Solstice.  Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise, right?  WRONG.  I'm mortified that even as a healthy 22 year-old, I can't stay awake for any movie started after 9pm.  Seriously, I am permanently in search of excuses/lies to justify this behavior.  "I'm fighting something off" has officially been retired because autumn has opened the door for "my circadian rhythm is easily affected by light and dark."  I mean, it's natural to go to bed when it's dark outside...that's what we're programed to do.  I'm not a loser!  ::erupts into a fit of tears::

2) Countdown to Thanksgiving.  Family reunion?  Check yes!  As an added bonus, my twin's boyfriend, James, is coming home for some turkey.  His company will undoubtedly be oodles of fun because he is the BEES KNEES.  However, I hope he is prepared for a little hazing, because I fully intend to remind him that I'm still my twin's #1. 

3) Pumpkin EVERYTHING!  Pumpkin scone, pumpkin bread, pumpkin latte, pumpkin pie, pumpkin butter, pumpkin pudding, pumpkin soup, pumpkin seeds, stomach looking like a pumpkin after eating too many pumpkin treats...

4) Halloween Costumes.  Historically, I have spent many hours doing the necessary due-diligence to think of a quirky costume that allows me to a) look presentable and b) carry a prop. Over the last three years I have dressed up as a doctor (lab coat and real stethoscope included), an artist (paint palate and faux mustache included), and a bee keeper (HUGE hat covered in net and honey pot included).   This year, I'm coordinating costumes with my best friend/entire social life, Rob, which means the decision making process has been slowed considerably.  If all goes according to plan, I'll convince him that we should go as Marie and Pierre Curie (Nobel Prizes and radioactive material included).

5) Layering.  Welcome back, sweaters and tights.  Mommy missed you.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Most people get their hair cut and leave feeling refreshed and attractive.  I mean, if I'm leaving $90 lighter (what?!  Marcus is sooo worth it--he cuts Joan Rivers' hair!), I should be confident that I look 100% fantastic.  Why then, is it an emotional roller coaster every time I step into or out of my salon?  

I think most men, women and poodles can agree that hairstyle is a highly personal thing.  I'll admit that I freely judge people based on the status of their locks--especially women. Frizz says "I gave up a long time ago", short and spiky says "I'm either a lesbian or fine with you thinking that I'm a lesbian" and bangs say "I'm adorable and not afraid to be unique."  Have I mentioned/is it obvious that I have totally cute bangs?  Anyway, I spend a lot of my time feeling great about how I look, hair included.  I'm appropriately attractive for the life I want to lead, so I feel pretty lucky.  That being said, I have some MAJOR anxiety when I know a haircut is approaching.

As of today, I  think I've discovered the root (see what I did there?!) cause: Marcus, my stylist, is infinitely cooler than I am.  It's not just me...take a look at the facts!  He's tiny and comprised almost entirely of muscle; he was in the Army for many years before becoming a hair dresser; his partner is the manager of the Four Seasons, so every night he goes home to his suite in a luxury hotel; he's always traveling abroad and recently bought an amazing condo in Florida; he was featured in a magazine... the list goes on and on.  

Normally I can charm people with my enthusiasm and wit, but Marcus never seems impressed with me.  He's been my stylist for almost a year and we're just starting to develop a rapport, if you can even call it that.  Most of the time I can't hear what he's saying over the blow drier and I just nod and laugh as if he's incredibly brilliant.  Even without the hearing impairment, I think there is a fundamental lack of understanding between us.  Last time he was cutting my hair he said: "I think you're the first person to ever call me mature...it makes me feel old."  Um, earth to Marcus, I never said he was mature.  I think of "mature" as making good decisions, and between his jet-setting, his wine-soaked evenings and his appearance-centric ways, he's living the dream of a seventeen year-old bee with an itch.  I KNOW I have never called him mature, and have spent the last twenty minutes racking my brain to come up with a string of words that when combined, sounds like the word mature, but doesn't actually include the word mature. No answer yet, but I'll keep playing my own version of Mad Gab until I think of something suitable.

Back to Marcus--I try SO HARD to make him like me through good tips and encouragement, but he doesn't care.  Instead, I usually hear one of three things:

1) You should come more often.  The cut needs shaping on a regular basis.

2) Your hair is coated with minerals, probably either copper or bleach--DC water is awful.  Go to Sally's Beauty Supply and get a demineralizer to use once a month.

3) You have happy hour written all over your face.  (Okay--I'm not drunk, Marcus, just happy to see you!)

Come to think of it--Marcus kind of sucks.  Still, I have yet to find someone that provides comparable quality and thus, I remain his minion.  I even recommend him to friends all the time.  I mean, bringing him business will  force him like me, right?  Shut up--I know I'm pathetic--stop judging me.  ::flips perfectly trimmed hair and storms out of the room::

I Can't Stop Watching: Butoh

My older sister, Allison, is a lovely, 100% adorable human being.  She is SO FUN, and I relish the traditions we've developed over the years, such as going to DSW and making fun of the truly heinous shoes.  One of us usually starts off with something like "hey--weren't you looking for these?" and erupts into a fit of giggles.   It's all downhill from this point, as we continue to repeat variations on that opener at least once an aisle. Sales clerks roll their eyes, my twin, Sara, avoids eye contact, and Allison and I WEEP with laughter.  It should be noted that this isn't a casual glisten on the cheek, we're talking tears.streaming.down.face.  It's awesome.

Another crucial aspect of my relationship with Allison's is her ability to expose me to new forms of art.  She's creative and works in the arts (director/playwright, thank you very much!), so she can always share something that I have no idea exists.  Good examples of this include the musical "Children of Eden",  old Michael Bolton videos and most recently, the glory known as butoh.  For those of you not familiar with butoh, the oversimplified definition is that it's a form of Japanese movement/dance.  More specifically, "[i]t typically involves playful and grotesque imagery, taboo topics, extreme or absurd environments, and is traditionally "performed" in white-body makeup with slow hyper-controlled motion, with or without an audience."  Props to Wikipedia for a good description, but you really won't get it until you watch it yourself.  I should probably learn more about the historical context for how butoh came to be, but instead, I just keep watching the clip below.  It's very bizarre to my ignorant, Western eyes, but I love it.  LOVE IT.

Watch it for yourself--it won't disappoint.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ms7MGs2Nh8