Post Grad

Jamie, my younger sister, graduated from High School a few weeks ago. My boyfriend and I attended the ceremony, alongside several other members of my family. We sat patiently, quietly, as each dignitary droned on about the importance of "seizing life by the horns," and "embracing the roller coaster of opportunity" that was surely to be waiting outside the steel doors of CCRI.

It was somewhere between the valedictorian's praise for her generation's obvious inevitability to cure AIDS and the point in the ceremony when an officer from the Naval Academy personally recognized her significance as a human that I began to feel sad. It had been five years since I sat in that very auditorium and listened to speeches of hauntingly parallel sentiments. I counted the years to sure.*

This immediately made me feel old. I turned to the boyfriend, "does this make you feel old?" His response was tinged with empathy, "no, I feel bad for these idiots because they really think this is what it will be like after tonight." He and I are no foreigners to disappointment after graduation.

I watched all those pimply-faced brats squeal and cry for one another, as if they really "might never see each other again!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" and for the first time that night, I wanted to laugh. Of course you'll see these ass-hats again. You'll see them at bars, at Kohl's, at school, at your job, with your ex-boyfriend, in the paper, even at your house. You'll see them everywhere, and you'll get very little peace from that. It's all part of that "roller coaster called life"--that never fucking stops, and is operated by the nose-picker you sat next to every day in homeroom.

However, there's always the slow creeping cliche to keep the human race motivated. Ten Year Reunion. I have exactly enough time to conceive, birth, and raise a Kindergartner, before every one from my graduating class will be doing that thing where they pretend to look just ahead of you at a friend, or prices at the bar, but really just want a look at your ass to make sure it's fat.

There are few remedies for crow's feet and cellulite in the eyes of a supercilious peer. The first, is an impressive job. If your career is worth the weight of your thighs, the fat becomes power. Sandy, will rethink that initial quick eyebrow raise of surprise, and think to herself "well, Danielle can't exercise if she's applying sunscreen for Brad Pitt on the set of his new movie, especially since she does that on her days off from being the most renowned neurosurgeon in America. I feel awful for misjudging her!" The second, if you're a woman, is kids. "Danielle can't help how gray her hair is, who has time to highlight when you're so busy tending to triplets! I really MUST send her a fruit basket."

Being that I can't afford children without a job, I've decided to look for one of those first. I graduated with a degree in English and Secondary Education. I taught for a year, and I would happily teach again if times were different but there is just something so undeniably alluring about writing and correcting my own work rather than my students'. At twenty-two years old, I sort of feel like I have to at least try a different avenue before signing my soul away to the salary steps of teaching. Especially, an avenue that I love so much.

That being said, applying for dream jobs is, as it turns out, the most progressive act of self-deprecation available to young adults. I believe this is for a number of reasons:

1. Your preliminary encounter with your future employer is virtual. You have to condense your personality, qualifications, and experience into size 12, Times New Roman font. This information must be two pages and you must fill out a series of opening and closing tabs, that ask additional vital information, and require a password.

2. The password must be eight characters in length, contain a number, a symbol, two capital letters, a blue italicized letter, preferably of Greek origin, your mother's maiden name, and the last four digits of your social, or it WILL be hacked. So naturally, you forget your password, and need to email the company six or seven times asking for new ones, and they weed you out of the masses because they honestly cannot believe you could forget something so simple. Fool.

3. You must provide your email, so that they can immediately send you a reply email, graciously thanking you for your application which will be viewed, and should your resume meet their qualifications they will call you for an interview. Should it not however, due to the high volume of applications coming in every day, they will be unable to contact you about your pending application. They hope you understand.
             3a. This is the corporate equivalent to flirting. Not only did they ask for your number, (which oh my god no one ever does anymore this must be serious!) but they called before you even left the venue. This email provides all kinds of false hope because it leaves you thinking that you stand a chance. Then a few days go by, a week, a month; that hope begins to fade. You fear what you've always known: there's someone else.

4. Experience. Experience is the college graduate's largest obstacle. It doesn't matter what the job is, or how good you would be, or how hard you would work, the unfortunate truth is that you do not have a reference backing you up. This in and of itself is enough to feel bad about, but it sneaks up on you when you're least expecting, when your hopes are high and your heart full. It is without a doubt, the very last tid-bit of information on the qualifications, every damn time. That way you can go down the list and think to yourself YES YES YES! That's me! This is perfect! And then you wince as the last line stabs your heart. It looks like this:

Peanut Butter and Jelly Maker Wanted:

Qualifications:
Must love PB&J
Must eat one a week
Must have BA in at least PB, preferably J
Full Time
Full Benefits
Must be friendly
Must be whimsical with a butter knife
Must have the drive and ambition to train others
3-5 years experience in PB&J making at a credible restaurant

5. Cover Letters. Cover letters are a trap. Everyone and their mother will tell you that your resume must be exactly one page or the proverbial "they" will write you off immediately, and yet everyone wants a cover letter. A cover letter is an opportunity for you to sell yourself in sentence form, as opposed to a bulleted list, while simultaneously conveying your unmatched love and loyalty for the organization you're applying to. It must dazzle, and excite, but you must not appear desperate or overbearing. It must outline your knowledge of the company, but also try to mention how handy you are with an iPad. It can be the same for everyone, just change it a little, but change it enough to include the philosophy of the present company in question, and also try to buff up how closely you align with their mission. I have to believe that I still do not have the exact science of this right, because I still don't have a job.

6. All of this, all of it, has taken place behind the screen of your computer. No one has even seen your face, heard your voice, sat you down! Therefore, you have nothing but time to question why that is. Was my font too big? Did I come across as arrogant? Did I put the wrong date on my cover letter? Do I call? Did I miss the call? Should I apply to more jobs? Did I apply to too many jobs? It goes on.

That is why you start to feel bad about yourself. Everyone you know says "you deserve this, you're so good" and yet you're still sitting behind the screen furiously typing in name, address, email, phone number, resume, cover letter, send. Over and over. No call. No nookie. Single again.

If you need me, I'll be here, applying to jobs.

*On a side note, I have two methods for counting. The first is for hours. I like to equate hours to television shows, or full length movies.
"It's a four hour drive? Okay, that's only one viewing of Titanic, or two of any normal movie, I can do that."
"Seriously, forty-five minutes for pizza? That's like an episode and a half of 30 Rock, or one of Dawson's Creek!"
The second is for months and years. I like to equate months and years to ages of children.
"I'm only leaving for nine months! That's barely time to conceive and have a baby; it'll be fine."
"I graduated five years ago? Holy Shit, that means if a baby was conceived on the night I graduated, he's going to Kindergarten this year."

And Baby Makes Three

Yoga proved to be trying on several different levels. Emotionally, physically, and even socially despite the fact that it is 90 minutes of disciplined silence. I owe you an explanation about all of this but it will have to wait for another time. Let's start today with just the social aspect of yoga. The Funky Buddha is a place of relaxation. People are generally friendly and helpful, and they swear often during instruction which makes me feel at home. It was at The Funky Buddha that I met Jacqueline. We hit it off instantly, she was wearing tie-dye and complaining loudly about the unnatural ways our bodies were being forced to bend. We bonded over this being our first month, how easy yoga seems but how difficult it truly is, music festivals, college, anything really. She divulged about her roommates, and I told her about the girls back home; we compared notes. She was apparently part of an eclectic mix of girls with different interests and personalities, who against all odds, became best friends. I knew that situation because I lived it. I assumed, if there are no limitations on personality, surely her friends would want to add one tiny, foul mouthed Greek girl to their clique. We arranged a date: coffee, that following week, before yoga. "Give me a call" she said, as we clumsily exchanged numbers. I couldn't believe it! A date! A date with a girl! It was all I had wanted for months, I had been living here since September and had failed to connect in any real way with someone, and here was this perfect opportunity to finally score a best friend.

Well, that week came and went. Unaware of how cruel and uncaring the dating world can be, I made excuses for her. She must be busy, college can be taxing, I understand. She stopped showing up to yoga. I stared at the door longingly, eyes wide and tail wagging. Nothing. It would be fair to say that I was damaged, gave up hope, whatever. I spent the next month eating my feelings and questioning this exploration all together. By March, I'd hit an all time fat. I had plans to go home in April and worried what people would think, nothing fit right, I felt sad and lonely. The frigid weather didn't help, it only reminded me of the coldness in Jacqueline's heart.

Jacqueline vs. Kara: A diagram

In mid-March I returned to Ladies Fit Zone, the gym I had half heartedly joined sometime in October, in a futile attempt to change my life. Ladies Fit Zone is a festering dump of disappointment. For every machine that works, another three are broken, the magazines are out of date, the scale works sixty percent of the time, there is never any staff around, the towels are dirty and overused, and the people are a sight for sore eyes. I don't mean that in the dazzling, perfect picture kind of way. I mean that as if you had massive pussing sores on your eye balls and sunlight had a tendency to irritate them. I'll describe them according to age.

There are the Powerhouse Geriatrics. Three to five women, well over sixty, who tough out the entire class, resting only to remove their glasses in order to wipe the sweat out of their eyes. They are pure muscle encased in wrinkles, it's both inspirational and terrifying.

Followed by the MILFabees, a group of overtly cheery cougars who attend the classes only to shout things like "TEN MORE BITCHES" and "FEEL THE BURN LADIES, YOU GOT THIS." They wear matching outfits, and sport a tan year round.

Ranking only slightly below, are the Mom/Daughter Duos. I know they're together because they stand only a body or two apart, look identical, and skip out during abs (because when you're with someone you love, you don't have anyone to impress.)

There is exactly one crazy Asian woman. She has jet black hair, a super fit bod, and perfect complexion. She is one hundred percent out of her tree. She teeters between intense and uncoordinated, and every once in a while, when the time is right, she will merge these two conditions together and jump around violently in a circle, shouting curses in tongues. 

Additionally, there is a group of girls my age, who believe they are too cool for class. They also occasionally whore themselves--I mean work out, in the boys gym. Once they told me that if I stopped eating garbage my sweat would smell better, I proceeded to give them the bird and stick the upper half of my body in the trash can. I'll be a smelly goat if I want to be a smelly goat, damn it.

Finally, there are my friends. My friends, consist of Kara, Bre and Hannah, and like three or four girls who rotate in and out, whose names I do not know. They took me under their wing, and taught me that Ladies Fit Zone can be a kind and caring place, despite the health hazards and out of date inspections. They are funny, nice, and we have been compared at least once to "women at a salon who bitch about everyone they've ever come in contact with." So, I love them. 

Kara, is where this story begins:

Kara, has become both my Grand Rapids Best Friend, and my honorary mother, all in a matter of months. It originally stemmed from a girl crush because Kara is essentially everything I am not. Tall, blonde, coordinated, light on her feet, giant boobed. Basically, my dream girl. Kara is sure to include me in everything, she feeds me dinner seveal nights a week, reminds me when I need to be at the gym, asks how my day was. Sometimes I forget to call my own mother because Kara has done such a good job filling her shoes. But perhaps the best part about Kara is that she's married. Because in inheriting Kara, I also inherited Christian. 

Christian is an enormous, unrefined Belizean man, with a voice louder than thunder. He may or may not eat bones for dinner, he's that scary. My relationship with Christian is ever changing. Sometimes, he says in a voice not dissimilar to Rafiki's, "I'm happy my wife has you." Other times, he makes more troublesome statements like "every time I look at you, I want to cook you for dinner." Perhaps the most confusing of all in when he says in a voice barely audible "you could go do yoga down by the dock, that's where I'm going to drown you" but then shouts cheerfully "have fun little wizard, how I'll miss you in a few weeks!" These constant shifts are disorienting. I am never sure whether he loves me or not, and that is why he is the perfect Dad.

Saturdays with the Chan's are my favorite. When we run in the morning, Kara leads like a mother duck. I follow her steps diligently, but eventually end up lagging behind, coughing up blood, and limping alone. Around 1.4 miles, Christian brings up the rear, and gives me a good lash with the crop to remind me that I must press on. He becomes very worried, but does not refrain from treating me like cattle. Christian often reminds Kara that she has to check on me, because I could be dead back there. She rarely denies this fact. Maybe this sounds harsh, but I'll tell ya, I have seen results.

After that we normally go to breakfast before Kara has to work. When the check comes, I usually fish around in my wallet, feigning effort, while Christian takes the bill. They say things like "we're doing this because you drive" or "we just want to" which I appreciate, because what they really mean is, "you can't afford your life."

I stole this from their facebook.... what's mine is yours?

Our biggest issue right now is the soon to be separation. Much like my own parents a year ago, we are starting to have the "go if you must, but you really don't have to" conversation more often than not. I don't know that without them I'll stay as healthy or active as I have been, and I don't know that I'm okay with missing them as much as I anticipate I will. It took me nearly seven months to feel welcome here, and suddenly it's over. I can't say that I've felt at home in Grand Rapids, but I can say that I've met family and for that I am truly thankful.

My Experimental Phase

Moving 800 some odd miles away has not made me thin, exciting, worldly, or interesting. In fact, I think it has made me simple. I washed Tupperware for twenty minutes today. The highlight of my week was buying a new toaster; it's red. When checking it out the Target cashier exclaimed "Hey you only live once!" in regards to it's vibrant color and I thought to myself "if this is me 'living', I might as well take a wet fork to this appliance when I go home and end the monotony."  I'm bored shitless people, and that is why there is nothing to write about. It's not because I don't like making you laugh, or enjoy your comments and text messages, it's not because I haven't heard your pleas, it's just because I'm a simpleton now, plain as the day is long. I assume that is something Laura Ingalls Wilder (my new lady hero would say) right?

Alas, one can only spend so much time with themselves before they begin to crave company. Supposedly, Grand Rapids has much to offer outside the confines of my four walled apartment but I have not ventured far to see it. Thus, when a coworker asked me if I would be interested in trying yoga, I eagerly agreed. Now, as with most things, I envisioned ultimate perfection with little to no practice when embarking on this journey to inner peace. I pictured myself waving freely, toes wiggling to the melodic sounds of Enya. I thought about how easy it would be to embrace relaxation when I had so few worries in my quiet care-free life. Additionally, this was the description I read ahead of time "Power yoga isn’t about bending you into a pretzel or forcing you to chant. It’s about challenging you to reach your fullest potential. Basically, you're a rock star. We'll help you realize it." And who wouldn't kick farm duties and cast iron skillets aside to be a rock star?

But, as with most things, my vision was wrong. Yoga is not for pussies. I arrived at my first class fifteen minutes early full of wonder and excitement. I was shortly thereafter stripped of those feelings only to be tucked into a square no larger than my body in a room that was a stagnant ninety-five degrees. That is when the terror began. A tiny woman, with the voice of an angel cooed out a brief overview of the next hour and a half. It sounded manageable though admittedly I was clinging to the promise of ten relaxing minutes to close our session. She gently asked if there were any beginners, assuring us that we would be fine, and to take "child's pose" as often as necessary. Outwardly I nodded my head in agreement but inside my pride had taken over.

I think the main problem is the infrequency with which I approach exercise. I do not build stamina over the course of several month long sessions but rather binge on it once or twice every 6-8 months. This was an example of this. I was entirely out of shape, and ready to "kick ass," which you probably know is impossible when you have the endurance of a bean bag chair. So, after about twenty minutes of up and down dogging, while holding a high to low plank in between, my limbs were shaking so forcibly I feared they would rocket off and hit my neighbor. Honestly, if you want to see your physical limitations on display, yoga is the sport for you.

 Sweat had begun to pool in every crevice, making it difficult to hold the cork block with my wet meaty palm, while simultaneously "maintaining balance and stability of the leg" as the other aims for parallelism of an unnatural degree. This idiotic pose is called "half moon" and there's nothing romantic about it. Meanwhile, the instructor, who I was cursing silently between moans, kept purring these condescending phrases like "focus on your breath" and "let all your toxins go." It was at this point that a vessel in my right eyeball popped and I had to leave the room to expel violent diarrhea in the patchouli scented bathroom down the hall, effectively ending my session. I think, out of everyone, I purged the most toxins that day.

Surprisingly enough, this did not conclude my exploration of body and mind unity, in fact it strengthened it. After the kindly receptionist pumped coconut water into my failing system and I regained the ability to breathe voluntarily, I decided I felt pretty good. Great even. And that I loved yoga. And these people. And this sweat box. And Grand Rapids. And my job. And my life. And what I'm saying is that basically I was high as a fuckin' kite off this near death experience but in my state of delirium I did sign up for a month of unlimited classes.  And that is where my story will begin.

Until next time friends.



All of my images were stolen from google.

Butter Bumpers

Hello Friends,

Almost immediately after posting about "my new life" it changed again; this time drastically. Truthfully, I had one foot in the door with the Americorp Program I "committed" to this year and was waiting on another job in Chicago, I figured it would be fine either way but I was not entirely happy with the decision I had made. Amidst all of this, I received a phone call several days before the start of school from a dear mentor and now colleague asking if, after a last minute drop out, I would be interested in an opening at The Grand Rapids Child Discovery Center in Michigan. I had visited the school in the past, and was extremely honored to be considered for the position especially because the offer was extended with blind confidence in my abilities as a teacher, which was something I had been struggling to have after failing to find work in Rhode Island. After a phone interview with my now co-teacher, and careful consideration, I felt this was the opportunity of a lifetime. My friend, and at the time team member, Andrew phrased it like this: "You can spend the next year helping out, tutoring, and wishing you were that teacher at the front of the room, or you can be her." His words sold me.

Flash forward nearly two months and I can confidently say that I am the happiest I have ever been. For starters, I live in an apartment that I pay for, all on my own, like a big girl. I have a boyfriend, who is not a cat, nor a selection of dingy canvas bags that I carry oddities around in, which is serious improvement from how I thought my move would turn out. I work with twenty-eight fourth and fifth graders at The GRCDC. My co-teacher is literally the best, we often struggle to plan in a timely fashion because we talk too much, and my students are amazing in more ways than I can count. My twenty-second birthday was spent opening construction paper cards, stuffing birthday treats from parents into my gullet, and was even special enough to include a very memorable Happy Birthday sang by the entire school at our Afternoon Meeting. If that doesn't say Welcome To Michigan, I don't know what does. Until I can fill you in more, let's leave it at my life is awesome.

These are my kiddos on a field trip, they're cuter close up.

Because that is not what this story is about.

One of the downfalls to orchestrating two major moves in a matter of months is struggling to make and maintain relationships. An even bigger obstacle is moving to your exboyfriend's hometown (did I mention that's where I'm living?) where all of your friends, happen to be his, and spending time with them means vying for rights about which days they belong to you. The situation is not dissimilar to how divorced parents work out weekly schedules, "you take them Monday, Wednesday and every other Saturday, I'll take them the rest since they were mine first." Nevertheless, I did manage to make a friend, exactly one and she's all mine and was mine first, SO THERE. And one of the activities that my one friend and I enjoy is having dinner together. At least once a week we get together and make some sort of meal, a real meal, and typically engage in a glass of wine or three with it. It is my favorite night of the week. This is where the story begins.

Last week Cassie and I decided that we would have shake and bake chicken. When you work with small children for fifty or so hours every week, and live by yourself, you start to relish things like this. We started talking about the shake and bake chicken on Monday, casually, like it was no big deal. Cassie said she was going to make it for herself and I acted nonchalant, like the chicken didn't matter to me. Tuesday came and went and she still hadn't made it, this made me hungry, I wanted it now. I was fantasizing about having a juicy, plump, shook and baked chicken (is that the past tense?) breast on my plate more often than I should have been. By mid-day Wednesday I had formulated a plan to wait out her after school program and hone in on dinner at her house. I said, "I'll bring the potatoes," as if that was some sort of consolation for this god damn shake and bake chicken that I had built up in my mind after three long days of stale cheerios and soup cans in my aforementioned "big girl apartment" that is really an empty cell of loneliness. It worked, I had a bite, Cassie agreed to host me for dinner (they have heat and a TV there, it's luxury people,) and I agreed to bring mashed potato ingredients.

You know what this is, I'm not telling you again.

That night, the plan was going off without a hitch, the chicken was shook and baking, the potatoes were on the oven, everything seemed great until I realized there was no butter. No butter, no sour cream, no nothing in her whole refrigerator to make these potatoes worthy of my company. "Fuck," I thought. Determined to be the bread winner of this scenario, I said I would go get some, five minutes tops. Cassie reluctantly agreed. I say reluctantly because for the last four months I have been perpetually lost. I have been lost on the subway, lost on my street, lost in my car, lost on the way to school, lost on the phone, lost on the highway, lost in every single state in the Midwest, and lost in a fucking paper bag if I could be. I have literally no sense of direction, sometimes I spare myself from being lost because I deliberately go the opposite way that I think is correct.

The grocery store is a straight shot from Cassie's house. It was 6:30 when I left. There are five gas stations before that and one Rite Aid. I stopped at all of them looking for butter. Not a single one had it, not butter substitute, not sticks of butter, not margarine, not nothing. All they had was unfriendly Indian cashiers who shared a unique hatred for small women asking for butter. Rite Aid had sour cream. It had been forty minutes by the time I went insane and spent three dollars on sour cream, which I hate, for my stupid mashed potatoes, which I also now hate. I was starving, and sad, and short tempered. I am sure you can guess what happened next, but while on the phone, in a town I'm unfamiliar with, I found myself lost. Surly I went the right way? All I had to do was go straight? I don't remember passing this? Then it was dark, it had been an hour and a half, and I had managed to be on a dirt road that passes between two farms in Hudsonville, Michigan. I was totally fucked. I used the GPS, it read: destination 35 minutes away, and I realized I had driven god knows how far into Dutch Country where there is absolutely nothing but grass, corn stalks, and barns. I thought about screaming, or crying, but mostly I thought about eating. I would have given anything to be in my cell with a soup can in that moment.

Slowly, I made my way back following the bastard blue dot of doom on my GPS, turning left, right, left, left, one mile, two, three. It was torture. Suddenly, I realized I'd gone too far, I missed my turn, I MISSED MY TURN. WHAT THE, DAMN IT, NO NONO Noooo, WHYYYYYYY WHYW HWY WUlsajdf. The preceding sentence is almost an exact replica of what the inside of my brain looked at the time. Mush. Defeat. I thought to myself: "fuck this, I'm turning around."

This is a candid of the blue dot in New Zealand, ruining someone else's life.

This is the moment in any story, where the reader knows that this is a bad idea; it's like that scene in every horror film where the girl goes up the dark stairwell alone. I was the girl.

About three quarters of the way into the turn I found the car at an unnatural angle. I looked around to see that the left side of the car was vertically aligned with the right side. I was airborne. It occurred to me that I was going to die, hungry, alone and with nothing to show for it but a large tub of sour cream. Slowly, I crept forward. Upon doing this I realized this was the dumbest thing I could have done because now the car was stuck, at less of an incline, but at least partially elevated in a half ditch dyke hybrid designed to fuck up my day, or maybe drain water, its purpose was unclear to me at the time. I tried to reverse, nothing. I tried to move forward again, nothing. At this point I resolved to call Cassie and admit defeat, it had been close to two hours, and I clearly was no longer coming over for dinner. I also resolved to call AAA, they know me there, this is not the first time they've fished my car out of a ditch as I watch, shivering, ego wounded.

This is a close up of my bumper being crushed into the ground.

As I waited for the tow truck, no fewer than twenty locals stopped by to ask if I was alright. This would have been charming if I had not been thinking about dipping their limbs in sour cream eating them for survival. These locals included the county sheriff, one religious man, his bible studying son, and a strange stocky man who essentially repeated everything the other three said. These people stayed until the tow truck arrived. As a result, I know about their families, moving history, sports team preferences, and former colleges. And I know that if they had a truck, by golly, they woulda pulled me out by now.

This is the improved angle, which is clearly still terrible.

Finally, the tow truck company arrived. They rescued the car and no damage was done. I was ten minutes late picking Frannie up from dance, which ended at 9, and I went home to the comfort of my cell, which is located at the intersection of two busy streets, far, far away from corn stalks and hay barrels. I had eggs and toast that night, the finest luxury my refrigerator could afford.


The sour cream is still in my car.







Stay tuned for an upcoming post detailing my first experience with yoga! And thanks, for allowing me a two month hiatus to adjust, I needed it.

New Life

For those of you who are blind and unobservant, I've moved to Chicago. I live here now. It is taking some adjusting, but I'm learning. Here is a list of things I've learned so far: 

Wisdom on Food: Please note, if you need to get a snack, now's the time. 

Cheese Curds, despite their unattractive name, are the superlatives of all cheese. They are small balls of heaven. Do not settle for ones that don't squeak, apparently that means they're bad. People from Wisconsin take these very seriously, and will literally force them down your throat if you don't try it on your own. So try them, or face inevitable death.

Chocolate shakes from Pot Belly's have little shortbread cookies stacked on the straw. As a result, I now have cookie shaped cellulite and constant cravings. 

Hot Dogs are a big deal here, but ketchup is frowned upon. To me, this falls somewhere between sacrilegious and unethical. If one more Midwesterner gives me shit for liking ketchup on my hot dog, the over-sized pickle hogging my bun space will be crowding somewhere else.

Jam can be eaten for all three meals if you do it right. That means, paying six dollars for a jar of jam is worth it, because it makes you feel good about supporting local farmers, and because it makes you physically cracked out on sugar, so you saved on real drugs for that day. This also makes for a decent story to tell your friends at work the next day. No it doesn't, I lied about that.

If you eat three personal pizzas at Camp Duncan you will get diarrhea on the ropes course. It will be embarrassing for two reasons, one: you'll have to ask your team leader to take you to the bathroom as if you are in preschool, and two: your team will know you're shitting liquid based on the color your face turned before you asked the question. However, extreme vulnerability makes for better team building than any ropes course.

At Bacci's you can get a piece of pizza the size of a lunch tray for five dollars and it comes with a drink. If it's too big for you, well then, you're a pussy.

 My new chins and I out on the town.

The Damen stop has a donut window. It's called Glazed and Infused and they have the most deliciously disgusting donuts imaginable. PB & J, Maple Bacon, with A REAL STRIP OF BACON on it, Red Velvet, Creme Brulee,  and more. This is dangerous for me because for the last three years I've celebrated something called Donut Monday. Donut Monday is a day I've created for myself that allows me to eat a donut because it is Monday. It originated when I was working in a kitchen that gave old people the option to eat a donut on Mondays. It continued after I left the kitchen.

Wisdom on the CTA:

The aforementioned Damen Stop on the blue line is where all the good looking people are. If you want to meet someone attractive, tatted up, and extremely educated on various types of coffee beans, go there. Note, talking incessantly about the Damen stop is something you should not do at work, or ever. This is because it makes ugly people mad, and unless you are at the Damen stop, you are talking to someone ugly.

The Red Line is scary, your chances of being murdered are higher, but they have the best subway musicians around. Prioritize accordingly.

The Irving Park 80 does not make a turn when it gets to the Lake because the Lake is in the way of your street, it makes that turn because you've been riding the bus twenty minutes in the wrong direction and its route has ended, and it is now looping back. I learned this the hard way.

Leave roughly an hour to do fucking anything or go fucking anywhere in this hell hole, because it will take you at least that long.

The Green Line toward Cottage Grove is a nice ride with a great view. It's like being Spider Man because you get to ride in between the tops of buildings at great speeds! It's a little less like that, but I swear you'll like it. Unfortunately, if you didn't plan more than an hour to get there, you'll be cursing silently and looking at your watch instead of mentally spinning your spidey web.

If you're getting on the L during rush hour, don't. Wait for three more trains to pass and then it will be empty. I learned this tip from a wise black man who told me his daddy told him that in 1950 one of those rush hour street cars caught on fire and all the people inside burned alive packed in there like sardines. He said you could smell the flesh in the street and we both agreed it was no way to die.

There is a portion of every car that includes one seat behind a little wall. This is called the hobo car. Sometimes people do weird things behind that wall, like pee, and have sex, and change diapers. Don't go back there, every weird smell you've smelled on the CTA is likely to be generating from that area.

This brings me to the smells. WHAT THE FUCK ARE ALL THE SMELLS? Garbage, feces, eggs, farts, urine, cologne, body odor, burnt air. It's constant. If I smell a good smell on the CTA like laundry or someone's shampoo, I instantly get a headache. My body can't handle it anymore, so it rejects it, like a disease or an STD.

Any line when the bars get out is fun and crazy and loud, don't feel bad about screaming or being alone, there's at least four people within an arms length of you doing the same thing. Do stand near a door if you can, because you want to get out of the way when the drunks decide they are hungry and storm the doors.

Wisdom on Living With Married People:

Married people love TV, especially if they have children, this is because they can never leave their house. Thus, HD television is a new "luxury" I have.  Unfortunately, I hate it. HD does nothing but make eyeballs shinier than they have to be. What is with the glossy eyed celebrities!? Why are their eyeballs so fucking wet? This is not natural, nor is it something I wanted to experience. I would also like to mention here that because I never wear my glasses, the other effects of HD are lost on me. So this is what they call a slanted opinion.

One of the benefits of having 800 million channels for your HD TV is that it enables you to watch way more wives shows than everyone else. This means, when people are talking about last night's Desperate Housewives, you can chime in by updating them about Army Wives, Prison Wives, Basketball Wives, Sister Wives, Mob Wives, Baseball Wives, The Good Wife, and Wife Swap. You'll never be out of the loop again, because you created it, with your DVR.

If they are trying to feed you, and you are not their child, let them. If you don't, or if you hesitate, this could cause a fight. One person feels the need to host, while the other thinks that hosting is synonymous with suffocating.
"What do you want to eat tonight?"
"Let her make her own fucking food she's an adult!"
"Um, are you upset about something?"
"I'm upset about the fact that you always feel like you have to feed her!!!"
"Well if we're all eating then she should eat too!" If you so much as teeter to either end of the argument, there will be both hostility and anger. This will result in fear and hunger for you, or fear and over consumption out of cordially. Mostly fear. Also fat.

Offering to babysit their child is a must if you are freeloading. This does not, however, mean that they will let you. In fact, it will take months to earn their trust, and even then they will wait until the baby has fallen asleep and they have checked on him several times before they leave to walk to Walgreens and back. This is because you cannot handle watching the child when he is awake, both because he doesn't like you and because that would mean they trust you with something that is alive and not just sleeping.

Wisdom on Working for an Education Non-profit That Provides You With a Living Stipend:

Don't do it.

An Open Letter to Baby Joey

Dear Baby Joey,

I know what you're trying to do; it's called playing hard to get. What you don't know is that I thrive on rejection. See, I've been training for twenty-one years to meet a man like you. You're the ultimate challenge.

Firstly, they say the way to a man's heart is food, and yet despite your enormous girth, you won't eat. Salty num nums make you gag, cheese balls disgust you, even cake baked with not only love but also four solid pounds of confectionist sugar cannot sway you. I am at a loss. Today I shoved a puff in your mouth, four minutes later you vomited up everything in your stomach. If you think you're the first man to blow chunks upon contact with me, you are way out of your league brother. But maybe you're right, maybe I shouldn't force you. Alas, I try another route.

This is a cake that took 36 hours of my life to make, he didn't eat it, and I can't ever get that time back.

These aforementioned experts also say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Thus, when you deliberately "E I E I" and ditch the "O," I try to be trendy and original as well. I "E I E I" until the cows come home, literally. I'm on that farm Joey, it's me, not Old McDonald and I don't know why you can't see that. I'm the "ut" to your "oh." I'm 7 letters away from that Duck you keep babbling about. I try to be just like you, and mimic you even when you aren't around, and yet still, you reject me.

Recently, you've begun to exert your dominance. You march around the house like a drunken Nazi, Heiling anyone who will look at you. But will you let me join your superior ranks? No. You won't. For God's sake you even Heiled The Appraiser who was here for twenty minutes-- I've lived here for a week!

You give me this look that's rooted in anger. It happens after your naps and when you are in your high chair. You gawk at me like an intruder, like I've stumbled into some private party in the middle of a congratulatory speech. I try everything, silly noises, funny faces, injuring myself, even defeat. I look up slowly, hoping to see a trace of hope on your chubby cheeks, but it's always the same, it's always that icy glare staring back at me.

But what's worse Baby Joey, is that you're fucking with me. Sometimes you have this massive smile on, it's so big your eyebrows bend in and your teeth gleam wildly. You come charging toward me, like I am the only woman for you, and then just as I put my arms out, you bang a hard turn and go straight for whatever lifeless inanimate object is lying on the floor. AS IF IT'S MORE FUN THAN ME. You play with this thing for hours, you treat it like I treat you, softly cooing it's every utterance, one after the other, in perfect harmony. I'm left to watch, like an ex-husband through a frost bitten window.

I thought things would change once we moved in together. We had met once before but it was brief, my knowledge of you was entirely crafted out of hearsay and tear-stained photographs I'd saved. I would keep you in my phone, quietly dreaming up our lives together. I thought we could stay up late, watching Dora, while your parents went out on the town. I would let you have an extra cookie and play Mother May I, and you'd love me, like the kids back home did. Boy was I wrong.

(These are not the only photos I have of my new nemesis, but they all look like this, for obvious reasons.)

I try to communicate with you, I ask "what can I do to make you love me?" You just scowl back, muttering something, speaking in tongues. Well Fuehrer Joey, challenge accepted. High Chair, tomorrow, same time. I'll bring the rattle.

All the love in the world,
Cousin and Roomie Danielle

Mother Nature Is Out To Get Me

My life before The Biggest Lavoie consisted of diligently avoiding any and all physical activity. I was never one for sports, I chose to be artistic instead. That's the choice you get as an adolescent, either you can be athletic and coordinated, or you can be chubby enough to eat your own finger paints using glitter glue as a condiment. I chose the latter. That was until the truth teller showed up in our living room. This addition to our home made me painfully aware of exactly how much glitter glue I had been eating all these years--numbers don't lie, if you know what I mean. This was when we decided, as a family, to exercise regularly (two words I've never used in company with one another.)

My dad and I's exercise routine includes the following:
25 minutes of uphill walking on the treadmill, sweating like a trucker in July and cursing the high heavens for the incline setting.
10 minutes of what feels like sprinting until my lungs explode, which is actually just a 10 minute mile for normal humans.
This one is followed by many minutes of repeating the mantra "don't puke pig" while slowly walking, hunched over.
15 minutes on the bike alternating between spikey little cliffs of doom that mean "hill" on the random mode.
Exactly one set of 12 reps on any given machine. (I don't have the heart or will power to tell my dad that this one is doing nothing for us.)
20-30 minutes of congratulatory boasting to one another. "Awesome sweat ring! It almost connects!" "Did you notice my RPMs on the bike? KILLED IT."

In addition to that I also attend The Way in Cranston (cue shameless advertising here) once a week. Here the workout is different every time, but what is the same is that a man, not much older than me and often times cripplingly handsome, yells at me for a solid hour while I do a variety of strenuous and exhausting tasks literally holding on by my fingernails to the time when they call "water." At that point, like an animal drinking from a trough, I gallop over to the cooler and gulp as much water as my fat little cheeks can store. Usually, around my third cup they start to glare at me, because of course I'm stalling, and I crawl over to the next station beginning the torture anew.

But last week was different. I wanted more. It was beautiful out, I hate the gym, and I suggested the unthinkable: change the routine. My dad, flabbergasted, fought tooth and nail for our normal regiment, but reluctantly gave in when I said we could do both. The alternative? Kayaking. Hard.

(This is him doing his impression of Aziz Ansari on the kayaking commercial)

Now, I should explain here that everything with my father is a project, but that post would take all night. Let's just say after roughly one hour of planning, we were in the car headed to Big River at Rt. 3, because it has two separate paths and it's his favorite.

Everything started out dandy, we were winding along, admiring the scenery, checkin' out lily pads, and tut tutting about the weather. It was leisurely at best, not at all the rapids I had envisioned myself kayaking through. My outdoors experience is about as limited as my history with sports; so, to someone who's normal idea of "wild life" is confined to dryer lint particles and the occasional bug graveyard collecting in their light fixtures, this place was outstanding. Breathy and panting every few seconds I would shout something like "Dad, LOOK AT ALL THESE ANIMALS, AND WATER BUGS!" "What's that bird called?" "DO YOU  THINK THERE'S FISH IN HERE?" He would ignore me. I blamed it on the fact that he was ahead of me, but I really think he was just choosing not to respond. Later, when he spotted a lump on a log and I had a mini-stroke he sighed "at least we saw a fucking turtle." 

That was until we entered a deep, dark, tunnel...

At first glance, the other side of the tunnel seems fine. But in reality, it was forbidden territory. Like something out of a horror film, the beast emerged from his cave, he scaled the hillside and leaped into the water, pistol loaded. "WHAT THE MOTHER FUCK IS THAT!?" I screeched as the monster stalked toward me. "TURKEY? DUCK? DINOSAUR?!?" At this point, my dad is fumbling for his camera, and I am paddling away as fast as I can. I've tried to save my father once before, I was not risking my life for him this time. "It looks like a damn chicken!" He calls from behind the lens. What it looked like, was a gang member. If a bandana had been tied to his head and a teardrop tattooed to his face, this thing could have passed for the most deadly of gang luminaries. And we were on his turf! If there were more of these misfitted crossbreeding chuckdurkies living in these woods, I was leaving. Fast.

Thank my father for this photo because blog worthy or not, you're fucked if you think I was gonna snap a candid of Chachi the Chicken while he was inches away from my jugular, knife between his beak.

Perhaps you're rolling your eyes right now, and you think that this hybrid monster is not so bad and I am being a yellow-bellied sissy, well, you're wrong. And if you want to be right, start your own blog elsewhere. 

Naturally, due to my agility and swift kayaking skills I survived this attack.

However, only a few short weeks later, I had yet another close call. Minding my own business, looking forward to the beach, my cousin and I ventured down the back roads hoping to avoid traffic. Unfortunately, we failed to factor in suicidal deer, and were granted access to a prime specimen in a near fatal collision. The deer sprang from the thicket, I don't know what a thicket is really but I think this is what it was, and went straight for the passenger side door. At this point, a normal person's fight or flight reflex will kick in, I'm sad to report I do not have this. I slammed on the breaks, white knuckled the steering wheel and howled a low guttural noise, much like this, only not in slow motion. Luckily, the deer missed my car by a few inches and rolled under another car driving in the opposite direction, he then did a tuck and roll type action and sprang away into the woods. No obvious injuries to speak of. After that, I began to question what I have done wrong to deserve these vicious attacks. I came up with nothing.

Please note that had I written this in the timely fashion that I had intended to, it would have been posted before YET ANOTHER mother effing deer ran into the road and at my car. This happened on the drive to Chicago mere minutes into our journey. The bastard lurched into the middle of the highway and then gave us the stereotypical deer-in-headlights-look, because deer really are extremely unoriginal and pointless. However, I did learn that I most likely inherited my slug like defense from my father because he too, slammed on the breaks and braced himself for the attack, rather than hitting the bitch or running away, like our hunter-gatherer ancestors would have known to do.

More on this road trip later. For now, I'll leave you with this adorable cartoon that I stole from the interweb when I searched "deer getting hit by cars."