"Now That We Have Our Mimosas"

Ingredients

• -1 beds in your childhood home
• An inedible Hershey's Kiss
• Your first best friend's engagement
• Pajamas from your mom
• Socks on your Christmas list
• 1 adult coloring book
• 25

Instructions
There's something about readily encouraging your mom to sell your bed and turn your bedroom into a craft room that makes you feel like an adult. As if to say, "Go ahead, delete my childhood. I've got a space of my own, and, when I'm in town, I'll figure it out."

Or maybe it's as if to say, "Now that I'm here at home and have been sleeping at my dad's all week instead of your house, Mother, I realize that I was wrong. Because I'd actually rather split my time between the two of you, contrary to what I've said for the last 18 years."

So, perhaps it's as if to say, "I'm adult 'cause I mistakes make."

Yeah.

My mother also readily admitted, at the end of the week in which I was home, that she's thinking of ridding of the craft room... What can I say; you can't not miss me. Also, look at us-- two consenting adult women making mistakes! We can change our minds and live up to it! There it is: my mom and I are adults because we make mistakes.

SCENE BREAK: I've mentioned my line of adorable Halloween costumes as an adult-- the Princess Diana Beanie Baby, Kit Kittredge the American Girl doll, and, this year, trying to decide between Lambchop's Shari Lewis and a Girl Scout. But across our kitchen table this October, my mother proposes proudly, coyly, 

"You should be a Hershey's Kiss!"

"Why, what a wonderful idea, Mother!"

She purses her lips and lowers her voice. "That way you can write 'KISS ME' on the tag."

"Ummm... I believe the tag only says 'HERSHEY'S's,' but, sure, I might write 'KISS.' That's cute."

"Or you could write 'KISS ME.'"

To say she gives me a "knowing smile" belies the phrase. Anyways, this costume idea lends itself well to my desire to put myself out there more. Oh, it could easily be made "sexy"-- I do write "KISS" instead of "HERSHEY'S"-- but I naturally push so strongly against that concept that I turn out like this:

This is my attempt at being less cute and more risqué this year. Oh, and if you're wondering, Mom: no one kissed me.

END SCENE

My mom and I are also adults because we wear faux silk pajama separates that you can't wear as anything but pajamas. Like, if you wanted to work out or lounge or shop at Walmart in them-- in no world would that be acceptable... Those pajamas. My mom has been wearing her real pajama separates for years, and I'll still never understand how she needs a new pair (or two) for Christmas each year... Where do they all go? Regardless, guess who didn't ask for anything for Christmas and received a highly specific gift instead? Me, a naive body not yet cloaked with the goodness of Kohl's soft faux silk. When I first opened this present, I had that, "Oh, cool, a(n) [insert practical gift I didn't really need but could definitely use]" reaction; I didn't understand why my mom got me a collared, patterned pajama separates set. But then I realized that she was passing the torch. Unpacking this stiff yet silky set from its cellophane (my mom and I love a good online shopping sale) when I got back to my 24-year-old young woman's New York apartment the next day, I noticed a sharp change in the room, as if these large baby blue PJs brought with them a new energy, a spirit. That, my friends, was the spirit of turning into my mother. 

SCENE BREAK: The only time during the Christmas break that my best friends and I could get together was the morning of Christmas Eve. All of us in the Fab 5-- if you can't believe that's our official name, then you won't believe that's the title of our private Facebook group-- now live, work, & PhD in 5 different states, so it's surprising we were even able to find 3 hours together during the holidays. My friend Samantha had only driven in at 11pm the night before. And so, in my father's kitchen at 9am on Christmas Eve, we set our scene.

My four gals all pile out of a small car and are instantly welcomed by the maniacal barking of my home's border collie. As I invite them inside, hugs abound with slight shrieking and humungous smiles to celebrate all being together for the first time in two years (last year I stayed in NY and screwed it up), my voice reaching a recognizably hyper pitch and the girls' typical tempering of that with laughter-- all this, matched with a tension. In a split second moment, I think,

This is the first time we've all been in the same room in person, getting squeal-y like this, in two years-- and two years ago we were all fresh out of college. Sense memory is a bitch. Ladies, we are not 22 and 23 anymore. Oh, no; we are 24 and 25. We're not ripe with the energy of emerging young adulthood. We are weathered apartment dwellers with student loans and ex-boyfriends. Things have changed. We have changed. Who are we? What is time?

You know, a split second moment. I have a feeling the girls felt the same, as this is the type of unspoken internal language that only lifelong best friends can share, because we know where we came from. After the hyper hugs (probably me, mainly me), I offer Christmas cookies, fruit, the product of a scone experiment I made, and coffee. Instead of any of this, naturally they choose drinking. It's 9am; who's eating yet? 

Sara begins to pour mimosas as we gather around my kitchen table. I attempt to scrape experimental scones off the wax paper onto unwilling plates. We smile at each other and put cookies on our plates as Sara finishes filling up our glasses to the brim. 

Ah, that gorgeous sparkling orange. Before we even pinch the glasses' stems, Sam speaks up.

"Well, now that we have our mimosas... I have an announcement to make."

What-- My inner eyes do that shocked "bow-ooga" cartoon reaction-- Woah woah--

"I'm engaged!"

I knew it! You didn't give me time to finish my thought sentence! 

(Screaming) (Hugging, shrieking, jumping, arm waving, jumping)

The night beforehand, Nathan (Sam's fiancé) asked Sam to marry him in front of town hall, by the Christmas tree, with her parents and sister watching on the steps, in the rain. Sam drove 6 hours from Illinois, got proposed to at 11pm, went to sleep, woke up at 8am and was like, "K, peace, I'm gonna go do Secret Santa with my girlfriends. Bye!"

Of course. Because The Fab 5 are weathered 24- and 25-year-old adults from 5 different states who have committed to Secret Santa, and each other, for all 6 years since high school. And for 7 years before that. We are older but still the same. We are family. And that is shown in the family photos we took with Nathan and Sam-- creepy as f*#$, but Nathan was cool with it.

END SCENE

Adulthood is also found in the pursuit of the mundane. The look on my father's face-- nay, the shock and gladness that overcame his entire body-- was as I expected when I told him he could buy me socks for Christmas. He always does-- or wants to, I should say. 

Who hasn't opened a holiday or birthday gift of socks and rolled their inner or outer eyes? Socks are the most practical and boring gift you can give someone (only because it's still socially unacceptable to give someone underwear, unfortunately). More inane than other common vague gifts-- lotion, candles, nail polish-- socks are unisex and humanly necessary. If you know literally nothing about someone and buy them socks as a gift, you can pretty safely guarantee they'll use them. Even if they're a weird color or The Breakfast Club-themed, socks will be worn because no one sees them and laundry day's a bitch. I still own and wear the socks my mom bought me in high school even though they say "Eat my shorts" or have Judd Nelson's face on them. (She saw me watching The Breakfast Club once. Little did she know I was watching it to see what the big hype was all about, and I hated it. I was 14.) Universal, generally impersonal, mostly boring.

When my dad asked what I wanted for Christmas this year, I asked for socks.

SCENE BREAK: The setting is Chelsea Market. The store, I don't know what it's called but it's this little independent bookstore in there, right across from where the indie rock band was drunkenly playing Christmas tunes in December, which is super stupid in front of a book store... The goal is to buy gifts for my stepmom and my Fab 5 Secret Santa, Julia.

Moving towards the back of the shop, the sight of some fun-looking journals off in the distance, I am stopped dead in my tracks. A table of coloring books? But why such large, glaringly white, thick, and sophisticated coloring books? 

Can there be more than the $25 Crayola coloring book for adults that I found online in November when searching for a get-well gift for a friend and didn't buy because good Lord that's expensive for a damn coloring book seeing as I'd need to buy nice colored pencils, too?

How on earth does someone color within these extremely fine lines? How can you get away with titling these books "Color Me Calm" or "Soothing Designs for Fun & Relaxation" when, honestly, they scream inevitable anxiety due to lack of patience and failure of incompletion? 

Why do I feel like I'd be bored by page 4 of "Creative Flowers?" Can I take half of "Secret Garden" and half of "Secret Cities?" What does that have to say about my commitment to an urban environment?

What is "Secret New York???" Why won't I allow myself to open it? Am I afraid I'll want an adult coloring book? But seriously, though, is someone revealing political or architectural secrets about New York via intricate black and white drawings, because I'm not sure how effective that form of communication is? 

I move along.

It's the next week, and the setting is a different independent book store in New York City. The goal is now to purchase gifts for my mom and sister. I wander around the store too slowly for someone who knows it's about to close, unfulfilled until I reach the checkout counter's display.

Oh, shit, is that a mini adult coloring book? Isn't it almost a normal size, though-- eh, but definitely still fancy, with that heavy cardstock cover? 

Are adult coloring books, like... a thing?

I buy it for my sister.

It's the next week. Barnes and Noble, Westlake, OH. My sister and I are deep into the back crevasse of the store, where they lob the humor books. Turning a corner, we approach the barely browsed large maps and crosswords to see "if" they have any adult coloring books. 

Hot damn, how can there be so many?!?!

And, gee, if we walk into the main lobby we'll see that their largest display is a table full of adult coloring books?

Oh, it's like that?
(Yes, that was a Hamilton reference.) 

It's Christmas Eve morn at the Fab Five Secret Santa. I receive, at last, "Secret New York."

Do any of these drawings have anything to do with New-- Is this a page of cassettes and VHS tapes?!

It's Christmas Eve. My sister is opening presents at my dad's. After gifts from my mom earlier and her birthday 10 days ago, she receives her fourth adult coloring book. She isn't unhappy. 

The setting is Christmas morning. I open a gift from my mom to find a pack of Crayola colored pencils... for adults. 

Did I choose this or did this choose me? 

END SCENE

Adulthood

What does it mean to be an adult? I don't know; maybe you should ask one. Once in this blog I aptly named myself a "baby adult," and I've been feeling pretty good about using it since. I don't know how "old" I'll have to be before I consider myself an adult-- a true no-hiccup-when-you-say-it-out-loud adult. Maybe it's because I'm short. Maybe it's because I don't have a full time career. Maybe it's because I don't wear professional attire. Maybe it's because I don't have a 401k. Maybe it's because I sleep in a twin sized bed. Maybe it's because somehow I still tend to be the youngest person in many crowds, astonishingly. Maybe it's because I ate ice cream for lunch today. Maybe it's because I'm still on my mom's Family Plan. Maybe it's because I don't have any savings. Maybe it's because I have three stuffed moose on my bed. Maybe it's because I still have a wider collection of stuffed moose. Maybe it's because I don't feel qualified or worthy of being an adult because of all of these things and the true disconnect I have with any mainstream, typical post-college lifestyle. Or maybe it's because I don't want to grow up.

I love being able to audition for teenagers, yet I complain about feeling like I can't even submit for 25-year-olds. I get offended when moms or other babysitters think I'm a 9- or 10-year-old's mother (and not obvious babysitter), but I also feel immense pride when, after 45 minutes of panicked & confused maneuvering of my 10-year-old into not merely hockey equipment but goalie equipment for my first time ever, he saunters in his badass helmet out onto the ice to the clapping of two nearby moms. 

"Wow, Unnamed Child! You look AWESOME!"

They continue to pump him up with compliments and even take a photo to send his mom before he waddles away. One of the moms turns to me. "Nice job! He looks so fierce!"

"This was the worst part of my week."

Great response, Anna. An emotionally raw (& feisty) babysitter probably isn't a common sight for them, but they immediately jump back on board. "You know, I'd never want to be a Goalie Mom. It's hard."

"Really?"

The other pipes in. "Ohh, yeah! There's so much extra equipment. It's stressful, but you'll get the hang of it. And look! He looks so awesome."

Put it on in the wrong order. See what happens.

The three of us talked for a good 30 minutes or so. They respected my perspective as a babysitter and asked me for advice. It was enjoyable and satisfying to be welcomed and treated like, well... an adult. Hey, I like hanging out with moms. The mom of my previous middle schooler and I stay in touch. The year after I stopped sitting for her, she had me over for lunch! I made cookies or something! The 11-year-old I used to watch (/with whom I used to discuss Jane Austen movie adaptations and significant symbolism in The Hunger Games) in college has a mom who was both my babysitting and work-study boss, and we still Facebook message and get together when she's in town. Truth be told, I've loved hanging out with my parents and their friends since I was a kid. When I was younger, I actually preferred it. 

I've always had an odd mix of serious maturity and a reluctance to grow up. My sister and I went straight from "Mommy" and "Daddy" to "Mother" and "Father." I'd hang out with my fifth grade teacher and my mom after school and chat about our class like I wasn't in it, only to go home to play quietly with my Polly Pockets. I shopped in the kids' section until the eighth grade, the year after I was the only one to eagerly volunteer to work the popcorn machine at our first school dance-- because I thought it would be more fun than socializing with junior high idiots. I voluntarily forced myself one summer to read Fahrenheit 451 and a nonfiction book about reading the entire Encyclopedia, all while watching primarily Disney Channel original programming. 

A 30-year-old playing Hannah Montana's 17-year-old brother gave me so much hope.

Growing up, I was always more comfortable socializing with people younger or older than me-- never my own age. Now, it seems each year of age difference becomes less of a big of a deal the longer you're out in "the real world." As I'm starting to hang out with a wider net of people than those with whom I graduated college (no offense but thank goodness, right?), the whole Age thing is more murky. I didn't notice at first that my recent improv class had a wide mix of ages-- and that I was the youngest. I almost always assume everyone is my age because I, like most humans, am naturally a bit egocentric. Weeks into my class, we finally learned each others' ages-- because, guess what, it didn't matter. They were all older than I'd thought. I don't know; perhaps people living in New York age incredibly well. And perhaps I am more self-centered than I realized. But I also think that, once you move past college-aged, you're defined more by your wider age chunk, not your number age. The friends whom I found out were 30 fit into the same age chunk in which my brain puts me. However, I also feel that society places a ton of what I see as largely unnecessary pressures on ages and age chunks. As absolutely inane as this sounds, if these friends were married, or if we'd talked more about our jobs, or if they lived by themselves... would I still have thought they were 24 or 25?

... even though the older I get, the more I do this...

In forcing myself to think about age while writing this, I realized that it's possible I don't subscribe to what I "should" be doing at this point in my life so much that I'm instead subscribing to not be doing what I "should" be doing at 24. When I talk about my day jobs, need I undermine my self, time, and income by constantly degrading these jobs, which I actually care about and enjoy? Would it be so difficult or wrong for me to admit that I look admiringly upon those my age who choose to get married? Am I simply holding off on adulthood until after I finally go to Disney World?

Clearly, the concept of adulthood is tricky. I have few tangible thoughts on it because, again, I see myself as a Baby Adult. I have no authority other than being alive. Alright, hold your horses, OK, and let me tell you what I do know: I believe I should be working, paying my rent, paying my bills (except that Family Plan!), buying my groceries, trying to find what both happiness and success mean to me while not forgetting to be a kind person to those around me, and wearing clean underwear. Beyond that... What's a 24-year-old to do? 

6 months until I'm 25. Then, only a quarter of my life will have been lived, and, truth be told, I find that exciting. (I know I'm going to live to be at least 98 because, when I was 4, the woman who used to bake our birthday cakes told my mom and me definitively that all Annas live to be very old. And soon after that we read an obituary in the newspaper of an Anna who died at 98.) Listen, I've been freaking out about being the best damn 40-year-old I could be since I was ten. Age is merely lessening the gap.

Amherst City Hall, 2009. The *next time Sam (middle) took a pic here, she got engaged.
*not verified

Cheers.

Recipe 49/52. Dreary, we reach with feeble limb for the bitter end. The end, once but a pale apparition, has never furnished with such light. Death... is nigh.

HAPPY NEW YEAR! As it is now January, thanks to time, it's been one year since my last post on online dating. It seems only appropriate to update you on the online dating culture, since it has to have improved in a year. Right? 

My Christmas tree is still up, so I present to you An Unassuming but Intelligent Old-Fashioned Woman's Journey from Timidity to Judy Garland: a new classic holiday story. 

Ingredients

• Boredom
• Nerds (people, not Rope)
• Aziz Ansari's Modern Romance audiobook, so you'll miss all the graphs
• "Hey"
• Whammy!
• Holiday MAGIC, or time

Instructions
Where else to begin a modern holiday classic but with a winter flashback: The last time I cooked with online dating, the ingredients I shared were all cockamamy dingbats' attempts at messaging/texting me via our connection on the dating app Hinge, and I poked fun at the mobile dating culture in which I was apprehensively participating. Shortly after, a male friend and I were having a conversation about the "who should pay first" Abbott & Costello-like debate. As a straight male actor, he struggled with the expectation most of his own Hinge matches had that he'd automatically pick up the check, when in fact most of the women he met there made much more money than he did. He pointed out my blog post, in which I'd joked that I'd use dating as a way to finally dine out in NYC, to prove his point. My blog! Obvious satire in highest intellectual form! But he knew there was a layer of truth under there-- I'd blown my own old-fashioned expectations into not-so-exaggerated satire of using dating apps to snag free meals. I'd written the recipe in the short period of time in which I really was excited about the possibilities of dating-- still shocked that there existed, so close in proximity to me, guys who were willing to pay for things. Oh, youth. I had no idea the cobwebs through which I needed to weed before I got to that food-- and how little I enjoyed the reward. 

Why, then, after deleting Hinge fairly quickly, would I return to it 4 months later? I claimed I didn't enjoy my time talking to or spent with my matches because they were all finance/business guys. I knew it was because I'm a romantic traditionalist who would never take a dating app connection 100% seriously. Regardless, I'd become fascinated by Hinge-- stories of other's experiences with it, articles written about it, etc. Also, it was May and I was a little bored. Combo? The plan to beat Hinge.

If Hinge updated my matches based on which profiles I liked/disliked, could I not turn it totally on his head? If I was matching with only business-finance Ivy League boys (or guys from Ohio), could I completely 180 it to match me with solely unemployed comedians? Turns out the answer is... yes.

See how we're already close to Judy Garland?

In less than 2 weeks, I rid my matches of Harvard grads working at Goldman Sachs and replaced them with diversely educated funny guys working at Nickelodeon, their own production companies, or nowhere. Here's the silly part: I had no intention of meeting up with any of them. Albeit for research's sake, I was a dating app troll. Months later, I proudly told my plan's success to 5 male friends of mine and one declared that this is exactly "what's wrong with online dating." Looking back, I can't say I fully disagree. Well, despite my intentions, I met Nickelodeon, Sk8rboi Freelance Photographer, and Loyola Boy (you can find his story here, as well as a picture of a baby monkey) for my 2 longest Hinge stints: with Skr8, a fun chunk of weeks (including the 4th of July, romance's most serious holiday!) that fizzled out so naturally it seemed wrong; and with Loyola Boy, the true definition of "The Long Con." (While we were seeing each other, I used it to describe our situation because I thought it meant "the long conversation." Then I found out what it actually meant... and unfortunately could keep using it.)

Leading us to late September, the perfect pre-climax to a holiday classic: frustrated with modern dating and angry, yet again, that I live in this millennia. As per previously mentioned, one of my best friends Caroline is a natural font of wisdom. From her flat in London, she advised that I stop sitting around complaining and instead go forth and set the world on fire... ... Nope; no, that was my single year of Jesuit education. Here, you'll see how I got confused, they're so similar: 

"When you meet the right guy it'll feel so right, so perhaps this suffering is key to true happiness. Otherwise you'll end up marrying a f#$*boi and then you're stuck with that shit for life (or until you get a divorce) 

Keep going  

Use bumble [a dating app for which I'm convinced she works, due to how much she pushes it] 

Date around 

Treat yourself"

Like a true holiday heroine, I jumped back on my smart phone-- but this time with Coffee Meets Bagel. What a difference! CMB, as we on the inside call it, is for, you guessed it-- nerds! You see, Hinge, Bumble, and the other slew of dating apps? They claim to be different than Tinder (widely known as the hookup app), yet they display the same interface; the expectations are so muddied that, at the end of the day, I'd rather use Tinder and know what I'm getting into. CMB does not, by any means, scream "casual sex." On the scale of Tinder to paid eHarmony and Match.com memberships, it is somewhere nicely in the middle, whereas Hinge bounces towards the middle like a mindless hyper leprechaun trying to sneak up on it, only to get too scared and quickly soft-shoe it back towards Tinder. 

Also importantly, CMB fit in perfectly with what I was reading/listening to in Aziz Ansari's Modern Romance, which I suggest be read to all babies in the womb. Aziz, my main man, presents fascinating research and experts, and makes some arguments of his own, like contending that calling online systems like Tinder "dating" apps/sites is misleading.

“Online dating is just a vehicle to meet more people,” says the author and dating consultant Laurie Davis. “It’s not the place to actually date.” The anthropologist Helen Fisher, who does work for Match.com, makes a similar argument: ... “They should be called ‘introducing services.’ They enable you to go out and go and meet the person yourself.” (Aziz's New York Times piece "How to Make Online Dating Work")

CMB kicks you & your match out of your chat window after 7 days. Right before that 7th day, it bugs you repeatedly to make sure that, if you want to, you've set up a time to meet. Because who the F wants to date within a chat window?! (I know, we all know them, but let's be serious and not talk about them right now, OK.)

Here's a quick Run-DMC-down of my brief (shocker) time with CMB:

1. The textbook perfect awkward end-of-first-date kiss 

Sadly he ended up being judgmental and conniving. Alack.

2. My first encounter with someone who looked nothing like their profile

3. A hibernating med student 

Planning a date 2 months in advance is oddly moving too fast.

4. A fellow Wildcat who went immediately from promising ice cream partner to an idiot who thinks offensive undermining is effective flirting

And that was that.

5. Proof of the uselessness of the greetings "Hey!", "Hey," "Hi," or "Hey what's up," "What are you up to," or "Cool" amidst other actually engaging conversations

... honestly forgot to respond to these.

6. I'd like to say this: If you can't respond to a date offer, which you initiated, for 2 days, I lose interest. Because you're a stranger I've never met so this is the only info I have to go on.

Also, here we see that I, too, am guilty of "ghosting"... Where did I go? Perhaps to a maze in my brain where I was figuring out why the more time passed, the stronger he came on?

7. Slight & subtle sexism = confusing & unnecessary (oh, and also still offensive)

At least we agree people are stupid.

8. ALMOST finally getting down to exactly what one guy wants-- almost!!! 

If only I'd had a better understanding of his version of the conventions of the English language, we could've had an enlightening conversation! Alack again. 

9. An eager beaver who immediately texts pics of his Halloween costume and continues texting heavily all weekend-- only to drop that he'll be in Germany for the next 2.5 weeks. As in, "How's a date 3 weeks from now?" No lie, 3 weeks is just enough time for me to start dating someone else and spearhead a major crowdfunding campaign to raise $20k for my nonprofit. Sorry, dude. But thanks for all those pics from Germany... I hope you weren't using your data.

Take a knee, kid. 

10. Rude finance flakes with no respect for your time because nothing ever changes. Standing taller.

Except for meeting up with the guy who didn't end up looking like his picture (but only because he's smart and asked me to a cider festival-- man, does asking someone out to a specific fun event work), I challenged myself to not do or say things I didn't want to do or say this time around. Given my low expectations, I gave zero f*#%s. If someone didn't text me back, I didn't care because, like, whatever. It's Coffee Meets Bagel! If someone offended me, I spoke up. If I didn't want to see someone again (poor cider fest guy), I let him know. My first test of this was up there in #10. Some frat boy from my own alma mater, of all places, asks me out, claims he'll choose the place, and then disappears, only to cancel the date 4 hours before the time he chose for it to start. Sadly, this is not the first time this has happened, with "swamped at work" always the excuse. OK, fine. In that case, don't schedule a date during the week!! What on earth makes a job with a flexible end time a suitable prequel to a date?! This time, I didn't want to deem it acceptable... but for some reason I was so nervous to send my pointed rejection. This guy went to my college! We had, uh, maybe 10 mutual friends! I can't come across as a b...iiii...tt...cchhhhhhhhhh.

I obvs got over it. And then the craziest thing happened... he answered. This careless boy, whom I don't know at all, wastes my time, then sends a plea of "apology," clearly waiting for me to forgive him. Fine; you want me to give you a second chance, sure, but I'm not about to pander and forgive you for disrespecting my time. Thus, I'm a bitch, and I don't get a date. Well, cool, because that Sunday I GOT STUFF DONE.

My last bout with online "dating" has taught me that I'm learning what I want. I want to date someone whom I meet in real life, naturally and without the help of an electronic introducing service, because that's a stubborn romantic ideal I've had my whole life and can't shake, and that's OK. I want someone whom I don't have to badger to meet up, who respects my time, gender, and career. I want to feel like we are on the same page, not attacked or ignored. And I'm 100% not afraid to admit it. 

CMB brought me the longest "relationship" I've had since my first boyfriend (1.5 months, score!). I've not included him in the list of 10 above because he was genuinely great. Completely vetted through a close friend of mine, cute, 100% respectful. Unfortunately, life sucks. Our bodies betray us by means of housing a random mystery called "chemistry," which I picture as a the devilishly happy red gremlin from Whammy!.

Love/hate this dude.

While I could easily claim, "I wish I knew why my Whammy threw a whammy at this situation!" I can't blame it all on unexplained physiology. That's a cop out and we all know it. This "it's no one's fault" mentality makes us feel better about ourselves for breaking up with someone or turning someone down. And while it is no one's fault, because no one is at fault for being the uniquely holiday cut-out cookie he or she is, stifling the honest and justifiable reasons for not wanting to date someone denies us the opportunity to learn from our relationships. I do not suggest when you decline a young lady's date request that you also text a detailed list of why you do not wish to date her; similarly, handwritten letters have incredible sentiment, but I don't wish to see you passing one containing a memoir of your romantic needs to that guy with whom you've been on 3 dates. However, I dare you to speak up for yourself to yourself. And if you have been dating someone for a while, to speak up for the both of you. Equally respect both each other's intangible Whammys and concrete time. Unapologetically own your needs as confidently as you acknowledge the stupidity of love. 

Bartholomew, it's not Helena's fault she doesn't get along with your brother, which is a deal breaker for you, just as it is not Portia's fault for being a homebody, which happens to work against Septimus's extrovert mojo he's got going on right now. You are not cruel for wanting your girlfriend to be friends with your brother; he's the sheath to your sword, part of you! Portia, you are not lesser, you don't need fixed, and you're stellar for being a homebody! Somewhere out there is a lord or lady who wants to spend every night on the proverbial couch watching the proverbial Game of Thrones with you, because other people are scary and you gratefully don't need that consistent haunted house experience. 

When we're honest with both our hearts and brains, because we're humans and have both of those things-- I hate to assume, but let's say 100% we do-- we grow. We'll (hopefully) not mess up the same exact shit next time. We'll progressively wade through the crap instead of being stuck... behind the crap... Gross. Caroline was right: the more people you go on dates with, the more life experiences you gift yourself, the closer you get to figuring out what you want. No, you can't always count on your fingers tangible reasons that you don't jive with someone, nor can you define what you want and need during or after every romantic endeavor. Sometimes you realize months later what you liked and disliked. The more we allow ourselves to honor what we know we need, though, the less we swim around in exhausting dates we want to escape. Listen, I'm all about giving people a fair chance, because you can't judge a book by its cover and other quotes like The Golden Rule, but I'm also allowed to say, "You know what, Fulvia, I know Constantine doesn't want a relationship right now and I'm personally not interested in something just for fun, so I'd prefer if you didn't set us up. Thanks for checking in. Bt-dubs, your toga is hot." 

(Tryna bring old-fashioned names back on an extremely old-fashioned 1st century level)

I wrote a list of my relationship needs. I expect it to change. I expect certain bullet points to never change. I respect it and love it, for it is product of pain and assholes. Oh, let's not write pain and assholes together like that. It is product of pushing and shit. You know what, never mind.

I do not regret my 3 short stints with online dating. I'm done pretending it is for me and give props to those who use it. My step-sister is marrying her best friend whom she met on OK Cupid, so like, how the flying fish can I claim it's baloney? I dare you! But I am finally comfortable allowing myself to wade in my now less shitty crap in corporeal, old fashioned life, recognizing that my Year of Dating (2015, if you're lost), in which I unpreparedly threw my middle-school-level self into the Russian roulette of modern dating in New York City, left me unfulfilled and, ah, can end! I tried, I risked, I enjoyed some of it but mostly none of it. What I did enjoy, though, was thoroughly enjoyable-- yeah, I'm talking to you, you awesome dudes who were unfortunately outnumbered by awkwardness or ignorance this year! 99% not into dating or talking to multiple guys at once, 99% won't see someone who dislikes seeing comedy shows, and 100% still figuring out texting, flirting, first dates, and "defining the relationship," because quite seriously what the frick. I have zero answers, and that's better than the negative quantity I used to claim. 

I feel like zero is an undefinable entity I can hold. 

Well, we've made it through this Hallmark holiday classic without a workaholic ignoring the holiday season, some girls having one last shot at friendship, or finding out Santa is real. Perhaps, in my journey, you've taken offense or questioned your own behavior. That's either because it was a successful modern holiday flick or you think I'm overreacting, overly judgmental, aggressive, or stuck up. To which, ladies and gentleman,

Pumpkin & Booze: a Cure to Colds and Young Adulthood

Bonjour, & bienvenidos to a month after I said I'd be finished with this blog. Anyone surprised? No? Great, let's eat.

Ingredients

• Parents
• Compliments
• Pumpkins
• Celebrities
• Parties

Instructions

When you are an early 20's female in NYC, all of the above are potentially problematic. Take the glaring example of pumpkin: 

Yeah, this article interesting, click it..

Why does this innocent gourd deserve such fiercely loaded judgment &, thusly, protection? You don't see my listing pattypan squash or zucchini or kabocha up there-- why do they get away scot-free? 

I mean, the real reason is because I didn't go home to Ohio to have homemade Krieg's Itz the Berries annual kabocha frozen custard or Homemade Mitchell's Ice Cream's special zucchini fall flavor. SHIT no. I went home to get some PUMPKIN. TWICE. DAMN STRAIGHT. So that's why that's there. And also to provide a sweet transition to: parents.

Indeed, I flee-ed to the Cleve a few weekends ago, thanks to the extra time awarded to me by the national holiday celebrating massacres and a man compelled by Spanish greed-- thanks to it, but not because of it. No, I would've been forced to fly home whether or not I was able to spend more than 12 hours there. My mother made a bold move: she pulled her "I never make you do anything" card to require my presence at my cousin Kelly's wedding shower. A card that, sadly (really only for her), is 100% valid; my mom historically never makes me do anything. The closest she's come has been not letting me do something. I wasn't allowed to participate in both my high school senior spring play and the annual Lorain International Princess Pageant, which I'd wanted to do because this same cousin Kelly won 3rd Runner Up & thus local celebrity as the German Princess in 2003. Now, I'm not saying that the bridal shower of one of my top favorite cousins is not worth a card pulling. It's simply that you'd think my mom would pull this highly valuable, pretty much one-time-only card on, I don't know, her inevitable retirement party or making me move my crap out of her basement. Nope; she's selfless. And, even if I could only be in Ohio for 5 hours, I was to be at Quarry Hill Winery in Vermillion, OH at 1pm on Saturday.

Obviously, this meant that when I woke up Friday morning with a sore throat, congested head, and body aches, I was going to have to suck. it. up. I drank an entire 56 oz jug of orange juice that day. I also performed in an improv show downtown that started at 10:30pm and then got to bed at 2am, with my alarm set for 5:50am the next morning.

Now, don't hide what you're thinking-- "if you couldn't breathe out of any nostril, barely got through work, and felt dizzy in Candy Land all day, why on earth would you go perform in an indie improv show in the East Village?!" No one was making me do it. However, one does not simply bail day-of when they're part of a 7-person team and 2 people already said that they couldn't make it days ago. Also, it was in a really great venue, OK?!

But still.

I successfully wake up at 5:50am, though mainly because I can't breathe. Zombie-like, I travel train & bus from Queens to New Jersey to my gate just as boarding began, which is fine since I fly standby and we get the leftover seats. Unless... there are none. In a haze, I sit there wondering why my name isn't being called, until I finally notice the crowd of others waiting. 

I dedicated myself to <4 hours of sleep and a trip to New Jersey but DIDN'T EVEN BOTHER to check the flight availability before I left the house? Honestly, at this point, I don't know who I am anymore (though that could've been the snot and lack of sleep). The 67 available seats-- that there were yesterday at 9pm, clearly the most relevant time to now-- are now 2 seats, and instead of being 3rd I am now 25th on the standby list. But they (my dad) don't call me the Luckiest Pass Rider in the World for nothin'. Oh, right; that's who I am: Economy Plus on an impossible flight.

Ohio ETA: 10:50am
My bed ETA: 11:35am
Departure for wedding shower ETA: 12:30pm
Shower at a winery with homemade apple cider sangria: 1 to 5pm
Pumpkin frozen custard + farm apple stand ETA: 5:15pm
Comcast On-Demand so I can finally watch "Mr. Robot" ETA: 6pm
Sleep: 9:30pm

10:00am: WE'RE GOING TO A MOTHA-F*#$IN' ISLAND

Oh, you thought that after exhausting my sickly narcoleptic body through 3 hours of sleep, a flight, a 40 min nap, and 4 hours of pure adrenaline partying that I'd not be expected to go to "the Key West of the North" in the middle of October? Then you must've forgotten my mother's card. Ah, yes, when you wrap it all together, my mother was using her untapped parenting power to force her 24-year-old square & stuffed-up daughter to party non-stop. 

At 11:15am, we board the Miller Ferry to Put-In-Bay Island, the "crown jewel of Lake Erie"-- indeed, the Key West of the North. Other than being the favored locale for the Scherach & Rupp families (mine) to drink and eat (mainly drink) in a marathon-like fashion, PIB actually holds awesome historical significance. I grew up thinking that Oliver Hazard Perry's famous Battle of Lake Erie won the War of 1812, but now I'm not sure if that's true. It was a major battle, though, and it was from the harbor called Put-in-Bay that Perry sailed to defeat the British fleet and gain command of Lake Erie. Perry was one eloquent dude, and through this battle he gifted America with "We have met the enemy and they are ours..." and the less widespread "Don't give up the ship" that was printed on his battle flag, which I think is pretty badass-- and which PIB's Perry's Monument has printed on a lot of T-Shirts and tote bags, so sue me if I want one.

<3

Adult children know when to power through. I don't drink the traditional starter/breakfast drink of a Bloody Mary stuffed with a pickle and meat stick at a dive called Joe's Bar. I do drink a hot mulled spice wine at the boiled down Oktoberfest, as Oktoberfests on a summer destination island of 138 permanent residents on a Sunday football afternoon tend to boil down to. At one point, I become so focused and intensely enraged at this bigoted, white-haired redneck (I'll say it if it's true) singing and playing guitar on top of a round bar fully surrounded by Cleveland Browns-clad Ohioans cheering him and his backwards insensitive jokes on... so intensely focused probably due to my cold meds. Yet, in the spirit of a family wedding shower, I hold back from interrupting his act and possibly angering a crowd of tipsy Midwestern football fans. Sometimes you have to hop into a 10-person golf cart, sip a mini plastic cup of wine, and let it go. 

There's nothing like drinking Pink Catawba Wine, of the Catawba Islands of Lake Erie,
in convenient plastic cups.

I not only survive but also feel surprisingly better; must be that fresh lake water air. I wake up for the last hoorah-- being fitted for a bridesmaid's dress for cousin Kelly's sister (also known as my cousin)'s wedding. Then, my mom and I stop at the "nice" mall before going to the airport, and if you were wondering where the other ingredients were coming in, they occur here.

Parents: While sitting at Panera, my mom asks if I've been flossing. If not, I should, because my breath smells; she barely got through our order at the counter. Thanks. Also, I'm to "stop it, with your hands." I've got this sub-conscious twitch with my right hand that I've been trying to lessen, but leave it to one's mother to stomp it out without any explanation other than a firm "stop." Walking around, my mother notes that I am wearing 2 different socks, which my dad had already managed to mention within an hour of my being home two days ago. With different different socks.

Compliments: While on the phone outside of Teavanna, where my mother is purchasing some Oprah Chai Tea only because it's on sale, because it is UNREAL expensive, a young woman smiles at me and quietly offers, "I love your outfit." I'm taken aback by a few things: 
1. her confidence to say something not 100% direly necessary to a stranger; 2. her unknown reasoning of why this kind thought was important enough to interrupt my phone call; and 3. that someone complimented my entire outfit. I am not an icon of fashion and this was so important enough. I smile a slowly formed (due to shock) smile and thank her genuinely. 

The next compliment I receive from a stranger-- I forgot that that must happen a lot in Ohio!-- is at the Cleveland Airport. It's been a textbook beautiful, sunny, perfect day thus far with my mother and the dress and the mall, so when the middle-aged TSA security agent who checks my boarding pass and ID looks from my ID to me and says, "You lowered your ears... It's cute!", I bumble through initial shock, again, to a "thank you, " smile, and laugh. As my chuckle begins, though, I realize how freaking weird & potentially inappropriate it is for this TSA agent to tell me that my haircut is "cute," but at that point I'm taking off my belt and shoes for some other guy. 

This is fine; I excuse it on the basis of this is Ohio and things are different here than in New York, where I typically yell obscenities or shout "Shut up!" to any male stranger who says anything complimentary to me. The other day some jackass young guy was loitering in the Duane Reade check-out area. I couldn't get past him, so we did that fun little dance, which he soundtracked throughout with his creepy, "Oh, hello," "You wanna dance?" and "Hey, good day to you, too, beautiful"-- shit like that. As I finally got around him, I yelled, in front of a long line of customers, "Shu-ut up!" over my shoulder and proceeded to pay for my bag of pretzels. I'm not proud of how much I shout or swear at catcallers in public, because that's honestly not the best way to handle the situation-- but, for this shy Grandma-like Midwestern gal, that's simply what comes out.

Celebrities: An angel from my improv class is a swing (like an understudy, but for many character tracks) in "Hamilton," which is currently the hottest ticket on Broadway in years-- sold out until at least January with those tickets at $200+. It tells the story of Alexander Hamilton using rap and hip-hop, told by a non-white cast, and one isn't to listen to the soundtrack before watching it onstage. It is nearly impossible to see, and I had fully accepted I'd see it in, like, 2 years. But this talented angel happened to be on that night, so he offered my class a few standing room tickets for FORTY DOLLARS. I'm still in shock that I saw it and had such a great view! Anyways, back to the important part: He takes the 3 of us who attended backstage, where I see my female friend who is a swing, and. Also. So You Think You Can Dance Season 3 finalist Neil Haskell, aka also a swing who was on that night, aka also the high school celebrity crush obsession of my friend Lindsey and me circa 2007 to 2009. One never imagines they'll meet their first celebrity crush and I'm now standing 10 feet away from him. It was, honestly, bafflingly funny and unreal to me, because when we were "obsessed" with him, we were 16 and never dreamed of meeting him, so that gave us permission to be silly and playfully dramatic about it. But there he was.

We were 16. Come on.

And then. Then suddenly there also was. In addition. JENNIFER ANISTON.

Perhaps you don't know, but I am, not playfully, obsessed with "Friends." It was monumental in my formative years. As I've mentioned before, I timed out the completion of the 10 DVD box-sets from 7th grade to my high school graduation, so that as I was leaving my best friends at the finale of our childhood, I would simultaneously watch the "Friends" finale with my best friends at a party; I'd had it planned for years. It was an emotional mistake that will forever embed "Friends" into every fiber of being of my adolescence. Without any agency of my own freewill, "Friends" will always be my favorite show and Jennifer Aniston one of my favorite actors. 

Imagine being flanked on the same stage by two people who, on two totally different levels of celebrity, were strangely both largely emotionally tied to your high school years. Lindsey was also my "Friends"-watching confidant, so I began sending strong SOS signals to her from my beating heart. I felt like I was going to puke, in my own little world, unable to hold a conversation. I walked over to my female swing friend and her boyfriend-- also my friend-- and told them what was going on with my body/mind/vomit. She says,

"Oh my gosh! You have to tell him."

Both her boyfriend and me: "NOOO." 

She proceeds to say that "OMG he's so weird, he'll love it, you have to, when else would you ever get to blah blah blah" and of course she's right-- why the hell not? Since she walks over to get him from the other side of the stage, I know she's definitely already primed him. When they all try to be civil and introduce me like I'm a normal person, I shake his hand and then cut the crap.

"OK, so, just being honest/just so you know/you should know (I blacked out, I don't know), you were my first ever celebrity crush."

Continue black out. All I remember was mentioning Lindsey and spouting a few unnecessary lies, such as that I was 14 that summer and that it was the first reality show we'd ever watched-- as if these made it more innocent-- and also as if that would make it less awkward-- as if it even needed to be awkward. I distinctly did say, "It was a weird summer." 

I didn't meet Jen, but I didn't want to; it wasn't my time. Not yet. But Neil Haskell, hottie of 2007 to roughly 2009, did ask me where I studied improv, twice, and took a picture with me where I was trying to make some sort of cool ironic face but instead look like I'm crying. 

No, if I'd have known I was to need to make a good impression, I wouldn't have worn my box-like Limited Too jacket, thanks for asking.

Anyone keeping a scoreboard of how difficult it is to be a 24-year-old white lower-middle-class female in a big city, that's another tally in the Inconsequential and Annoying category. 

What this recipe shows is that my parents, though states away, are still so actively involved in my life that they can smell my breath and force me to suck up a cold for family time; that, despite popular belief, young women can be intelligent and still love pumpkin; that discerning how to react appropriately to compliments from strangers is a complicated and difficult issue for young women; and that, at this time, I am not emotionally fit enough to meet celebrities on the spot. It appears there is learning and growing to be done!

Wouldn't it be nice if we were all as poised as Jen? As financially independent as Jen? As trained at taking compliments as Jen? As not required to go to events when she's ill or tired as... Oh, no. Jen's life is not perfect. And if I want to be a successful and respected actor like her, that means that partying even when I don't want to doesn't have an end in sight... 

Better get me a Bloody Mary with a meat stick.




For a taste of what PIB is like when I'm not sick, here are different shots of my mother and I eating and drinking in the span of 1 day:

And this doesn't even show the winery.