Eryn the Language Detective

As a fresh college grad I thought maybe I could Julie&Julia by tracking my post-graduation path to employment. And then write a book about it of course, which will inevitably become a movie, consequentially making me an accidental millionaire, which conveniently precludes me from ever actually becoming employed...

I’ve LOVED not being in school. I love the lazy parts like waking up late, but also the freedom to be productive in whatever I deem is productive. I know this can’t go on forever…the popcorn and the ice cream will eventually catch up with me. I’ve launched into crafting, which is a great creative outlet, I still regularly crossword to keep my noggen thinking, I spend a lot of time researching possible futures, reading, and friendshipping. Ironically now that I’m done with school, my desire for knowledge has gone through the roof. Seems odd, but I’m so hungry for any little crumb of new information that all conversations have become scavenging grounds. I feel not only empowered, but responsible to use big words and think big thoughts. I think maybe this paradigm comes from being at a previously un-planned stage of life. For the first time I’m truly flying by the seat of my pants and life is literally what I make of it. That’s a lot of responsibility.

The girl voted “first one to get married” and “first one to have kids” in every grade is in the unpredicted state of offspring-less singledom. I mourned the loss of that “ideal circumstance,” and I’ve had to realize dreams that are only under my stewardship that I can do alone. Apparently the future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams and I’m ready to embrace it.

My beautiful dream: FORENSIC LINGUIST.

Eryn the Language Detective. Aka Eryn the Potentially Unemployed…It’s a rather obscure position, and I’ve been informed my hiring potential will remain minimal even after whatever training I can find (i.e. more school, boo). That’s a dream murderer. Or rather, it would be if employment was the dream. (Don’t tell my dad…I just like learning…) I was asked if I’m still in the stage where I believe that I can leave college and land the job of my dreams. In response I coined my new job-hunting philosophy, I’m an “idealist graduate.” Reality may slap me in the face on this one, kind of like my “love idealist” phase…but don’t kill my dream already! Don’t read the 6 year old stories of how Cinderella died alone and Sleeping Beauty never woke up! For the love! I’m still planning on happily ever after. Please don’t make me lock my dream up in that big tower because you keep threatening to “just let him know what the real world is like.” He’s MINE and he belongs to ME, but we will both thrive if we know you will protect him from the nay-sayers. You wanted me to think and grow, so please don’t get cynical when my dream isn’t perfect. Or if it changes. Or I add new ones to the mix. Because quite frankly, I don’t plan on ever stopping.

"Get yo'self to the grocery store for some ribs and some ice cream, girlfriend..."

An examination of my coping mechanisms:

Sometimes I just deal by not dealing. Warning: not effective.  Somehow even knowing that doesn’t seem to change things. Read a book. Get lost in someone else’s life for awhile.

I am a firm believer in retail therapy. It has gotten me through several boyfriends. Nothing like feeling hotter-than-ever to assuage any disappointment. Latest purchase: zebra print T-shirt. My mom says animal print usually looks trashy and screams, “I want attention!” but I think I just like it anyway.

With every heartbreak comes a haircut. Usually of my own hand. It’s liberating to feel like a new person. It does something to your outlook when you have a new ‘do. Last summer I cut off like a foot. Felt amazing.  This summer’s update? Sunny highlights.

I used to be a sleeper. Turns out I just couldn’t breathe.

I am usually a comfort food eater in times of crisis. Ice cream in large quantities, and only out of the carton. I can truthfully say I’ve eaten nothing but ice cream for every meal on some occasions.  One time my dad caught me eating straight out of the carton and looked at me sympathetically, “Bad day?” I had no idea he knew my make-it-better weakness…I was kind of touched. Turns out I was just in an ice-cream mood. Oops.

However- I have begun exercising.  Can you believe that? I worked out on 3 days ago and I’m still sore! I love feeling buff. I love it even more than feeling fat.  Transition time?

I read somewhere (somewhere ridiculous probably) that you should make everything you do sexy and you will feel like a million bucks. For example, watching Jennifer Anisten while in sweats, munching on salt ‘n vinegar chips will most likely result in feeling ugly and bloated. Watching her in high heels? You are so much hotter than she will ever be. And you eat too, so you’re probably happier. Yeah, I tried this. Yeah, let’s just say my teeth are whiter, my tan is darker, my hair is luscious-er, and I bought plum liquid eye-liner. Sweats and a baseball hat just means I’m Britney Spears incognito.  (That’s what my dad says anyway :) 

The Tallest Primary Teacher Ever

I taught Primary today- CTR 5/6. The lesson was about how our parents help us learn. About 20 min into the 45 minutes I had to entertain the 10 little whippersnappers, I plum ran out of things to talk about...so I just started winging it...and by the end I was playing Hangman with kids who can't read! So hilarious- I told them they were "letter detectives." Fill in the blank: MOMM__. This was a real stumper. The clue was "we talked about this person today." 

Some summer sales guys showed up at the branch today, and my wonderful mother whispers, "Hey, that one on the end has brown ey-es!" Kind of singing the 'eyes' part the way moms do at the end of a suggestion like that. I realized I must be at a point of desperation because although I was wearing my 4-inch intimidators today (putting me at a whopping 6'3''), the man was clearly not even clearing 5'8''. I remember when I was in elementary school and on all those get-to-know-you forms they ask what you want to be when you grew up. I said 6 feet tall. And I really meant it. I didn't yet fully realize the implications of being a tall girl, i.e. shortage of tall boys, but honestly I wouldn't trade it for anything. I've always been a little worked up about marrying a tall fellow, as in, it's mandatory, and short boys always have a bone to pick with that. I figure I'm still young, so I can be picky about those sorts of things. I guess if single life prevails in 10 years I'll have to re-think my priorities. I just make it a point to discuss height with any potential flirters under 6 feet. In a subtle and charming way, of course. "hahaha oh yes, you have no idea how hard it is to find long pants! Let alone tall boys! Oh the plight of the tall woman...did you say your sister is visiting next weekend...?" 

Manipulative tactic? Perhaps. Do they usually ask me out after that? Too scared. Mission accomplished. 

Smashed Sandwiches

I live the life of mustard stains, mini corn dogs on the go, "pleathe's" and "fank you's," and sunburned noses. I speak in "okey dokey artichokey's" and "holey moley's!" and "1...2...3...!'s" I knew I could officially adopt the job title as "nanny" when I found homemade play-dough in my front seat along with Curious George fruit snack wrappers, a baseball hat, my favorite sweatshirt, and always a book in case of a 4-hour excursion to a park. Wet pool towels, leftover picnic lunches, and unfinished art projects in the trunk. Babysitting has always been just the extra source of income, and this summer it has become the primary. Today was a day to remember though- I had FUN! I played the Barbie king with the awful British accent, thwarted a potential potty accident, played at the 'castle' park, made play dough cookies, did puzzles and puppet shows at the Library, taught Mister what a bookmark is, and sang really loudly in the car. It helps that one of the little guys, Mr. 2-year old is just about the cutest little man. I affectionately call him Little Man, Mister, Buckwheat, Dudeface, Goofball...and in return he calls me "ay-win." Or Poop Head. Whatever. It's a heart melter. One of my favorite Mister moments is when he bumps into walls or doors, and apologizes to them- BAM, "Oh so-wie!" Or when he pets my dog with one little wormy finger. Or when he passes the fish tank at the library and says in his highest squeak "here fishy fishy!" Or when he looks for the "dingbell" by the front door. What a good day.

For the Neglected Best Bestie Ever

Reasons why a boy can never really replace a girl best friend:

1.You don't ever complain that we don't watch enough ESPN and too many chick flicks.

2. You understand what I mean when I say I'm having a "fat day."

3. You are okay with me taking an hour to get ready.

4. You know when I say I want you to be honest with me, that I really want the absolute nicest version of that truth.

5. You don't fart on me.

6. You support having comfort foods and embracing them when necessary.

7. When I wear your clothes in public, people don't think I'm a hussy.

8. You don't judge me if I order a salad. You also don't judge me if I supersize my Big Mac.

9. You recognize emotional instability, that not everything must be because I'm PMSing. 

10. However, you can identify those days, and you don't hold them against me.

11. You never touch my fat.

12. You understand why I still facestalk ex-boyfriends. 

13. You are gentle with my ego.

14. We can listen to Josh Groban together.

15. We can talk about how hot Matthew McConagahy is. 

16. You understand why I have 8 eyeliner colors.

17. We never have to have DTRs. 

18. You understand why I can't stand the thought of being a career woman, but also why I couldn't be a baby-making homemaker machine.

19. We cry at tender love scenes and wedding receptions just because we love love.

20. You love all the knitty gritty details. Or maybe you just know I love telling stories, which is even more sweet.

21. You always know where we're are.

22. You let me stop to go to the bathroom on road trips as often as I want.

23. You value the end transformation more, because you saw me when I woke up this morning. And before I went to bed. And after I cried for and hour. And after I threw up. 

24. You NEVER mock how I feel.

25. I always know where you stand. We are always on the same team.  Nothing jeopardizes that. 

26. You know to laugh at my quirks and not my insecurities.

27. You don't get frustrated that I don't care about cars or sports.

28. It doesn't matter if you call when you say you will, for some reason it's fine when we do this, but boys are jerks when they do.

29. You hate anyone that's hurt me. I hate anyone that's hurt you. Even if they are actually nice people. It's understood. 

30. I don't care that I'm like a foot taller than you.

31. You let me curl your hair when I need to de-stress.

32. You can't  swear even when you try. 

33. When I'm dressed like a hoochie, you accept that I'm probably just getting hot and not trying to lure you in with my long legs and bare shoulders.

34. When I'm dressed like a hobo, you accept I probably just need to be comfortable for awhile, not that I've totally given up on myself.

35. You still like Disney movies.

36. You don't expect me to wait on you.

37. You have no problem committing to me in the future, nor I to yours.

38. IIII MIIIIIISSSSSS YYYYYOOOOOOOOUUUUU!

Crazy in the Head

So I've read about a billion books this summer- some have just been brain candy, fluffy stuff to keep my mind busy, and some have turned out to be really good. Right now I'm re-reading The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. I have no idea why I decided to read it the first time, I'm a little bit of a book snob, so I probably found it on some classics list somewhere and wanted to add it to my literary trophy collection. I got the audio version from the library and I remember listening to it as I was weeding. My memory is generally terrible, so the fact that I have any recollection of this at all is simply astounding, but I remember being truly fascinated. Plath has a quirky writing style that sucks you in- she describes things in a way that makes your brain wander off to determine if you really believe her, then you decide after riding the mental subway for while that she has in fact described so perfectly what you have been attempting your whole life. For example, I have tried to think of the most accurate way to describe the feeling when you recognize something- rather, when your soul recognizes it. When someone asks you what you are going to do with the rest of your life, and you say, "travel the world," and you know that even though it's the first time you ever said it, that it's true, and you have no real reason or evidence, it just IS. See? I can't describe it. In the book I have this passage marked with "YES!!" written by it: 

"It sounded true, and I recognized it, the way you recognized some nondescript person that's been hanging around your door for ages and then suddenly comes up and introduces himself as your real father and looks exactly like you, so you know he really is your father, and the person you thought all your life was your father is a sham."

Perfect. She has an uncanny knack for doing just that through the book. Perhaps it's creepy and a bit macabre that I relate to a somewhat-autobiography about a woman who you are watching slowly descent into madness. The real life Sylvia had a pretty rough go- She had a history of mental instability, her poet husband had an affair with another poet's wife, they had a kid, meanwhile she and Ted the Jerkface Poet split, leaving her with 2 little kids, and she ended up committing suicide by gassing herself via head in the oven. Mistress To Ted killed herself and her daughter the same way a few years later fyi. Very tragic all around. So...it seems even worse to like the book knowing that the descent was actually lived by the author. But I do. I like it a LOT.

A few more bell-ringers that have spoken to me:

"There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, especially when you are the only extra person in the room."

"He was the type of fellow I can't stand. I'm five feet ten in my stocking feet, and when I am with little men I stoop over a bit and slouch my hips, one up and one down, so I'll look shorter, and I feel gawky and morbid as somebody in a side-show."

"I thought it would be the way I'd feel if I ever visited Europe. I'd come home, and if I looked closely into the mirror I'd be able to make out a little white Alp at the back of my eye. "

"There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them. Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.'"

"Then my ears went funny, and I noticed a big smudgy-eyed Chinese woman staring idiotically into my face. It was only me of course."

"There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you old friends."

Later today:

Just finished it. I cruised through the beginning, but the 2nd half I really had to push myself through. The big red sign in my brain kept popping up, "Trespasser-Private Property." I felt like an undetected voyeur to this woman's life, and as I was watching her mind disintegrate, I wanted so badly to slowly slip away before I witnessed any more damage. I thought maybe I should put it down and come back to it later, but it's like driving by a car accident. It's absolutely horrid, but curiosity pulls in every passerby as gawking traffic slows down. It's a sickening reminder of the results of a few choices made in split seconds especially when life is on the line. The 'crazy' part of the book exposes thoughts that people aren't supposed to have, which made me very uncomfortable- but in the way you know your brain is stretching. I don't mean to say I want to get comfortable with suicide, but rather, the concept of grappling with the gross underbelly of our thoughts and feelings that inevitably exist. I think the repulsion or attraction we find to perceived unpleasantries forces us to ask questions of ourselves- which makes us acknowledge and deal with reactions or responses outside the realm of simple emotional hierarchies. Bla bla bla blabla. Excellent read.

Just Send Me to the Nursing Home Already

I'm a loser. I lose things. Everything. If it's been in my hands at one point, I've put it down somewhere and will not remember where on earth I put it. I have a lot of those special spots where I know with a certainty that I will remember the spot. (That's the craziest thing that I fall for over and over again.) Or I put it somewhere that I would think to look when I think I've misplaced whatever it is. I have the ever-so-coveted 'losing touch'- everything I touch wanders off! My phone is often misplaced as it changes locations frequently. This is a problem when it's on vibrate. Luckily Dana will call it a billion times until we feel our butts vibrating on the couch cousins. Keys are always going missing. I developed a trick when I began driving- it involves a long very bright lanyard that can hardly be missed anywhere. However, this summer as multiple people have entrusted me with keys to their homes, I have had to be neurotic about putting them all back in the same spot. I am hesitant to put them all on the beacon lanyard for fear I will lose them ALL. Putting them in the front purse pocket doesn't always happen, and I have been late to work and had to clean up dog messes and was very nearly pulled over because of all the time it took to find the stinking keys. Purses are usually bigger, but in a messy room, a large brightly colored bulge is actually very well camouflaged. Pencils and pens I buy in bulk. It's not worth chasing after those guys. Cash just permanently disappears, it's the oddest thing...My planner disappears and all heck breaks loose, an absent minded woman with no reminders? Disaster. All important things generally have a knack of getting lost- passwords, codes, checks, library books, ipod, sunglasses, hair ties, bobby pins, jewelry, pants...

Friends and family have expressed significant worry over this dilemma. Finding the parked car on a busy saturday can be nothing short of a day-ruiner if you don't have a clue which of the 5 lots you picked. Imagine me having children! Little Johnny...now where did I last see him...?

Addendum: I forgot to include what I lose most- myself. I add this the day after the post because of an incident involving the doctor's office...after wandering around the wrong building and up and down the street, I ran through the parking lot to suite 200 (which didn't exist in building #1, first clue), I showed up winded and sweaty to sign in. The secretary was so nice telling me it was ok I was so late (I apologized and was obviously frazzled) and she informed nurse Amy her 11 o'clock was here. Miss Uptight Amy says, "Oh. You failed. You'll have to reschedule." You can FAIL an appointment?!  Grrrrrrr. Losing myself has frustrating consequences.