Thursday, January 21, 2010

Life-Brain Disconnect

Memory is a crazy woman that hoards colored rags and throws away food.

-Austin O'Malley

Not to complain about my life or anything (although I’m very good at that; it’s a college student pastime), but I have recently been pondering a certain predicament, one that’s trapping me more and more frequently. Take a quick gander at the examples below, won’t you? Then we can talk about it.

What the text says: “Then in early 1979, after a year of paralyzing strikes and demonstrations by supporters of militant Iranian Shia Muslim cleric Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, Iran’s Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi fled Tehran, opening the door to the founding of an Islamic republic. As the impact of the Iranian Revolution on world oil prices began to be felt, Carter in July 1979 unveiled a comprehensive energy plan to help America Combat its overdependence on unstable Middle Eastern oil, promoting conservation, alternative fuels and higher taxes on gasoline and gas-guzzling cars….It is widely assumed that OPEC’s continued control over prices depends on whether emerging African, Caspian, and Latin American producers reject OPEC membership and create excess global supply….Mexico has overborrowed to keep production going and has more than $30 billion in pension liabilities, leaving it with a huge longstanding debt and too little money for maintaining old oil fields or finding new ones…sudden oil windfalls have also triggered what economists call the “Dutch disease”—skyrocketing currency values that depress local manufacturers’ exports and trigger huge jumps in imports. The economic paradox got its nickname from a drastic decline in economic growth in the Netherlands after natural gas was discovered there in the 1960s.

What I will retain from that after the assignment is turned in: Everything in the world is a conflict between Islam and Christianity, and I bet that Ayatollah guy is the same one Billy Joel talks about in We Didn’t Start the Fire. You know, “Ayatollah’s in Iran/Russia’s in Afghanistan”? It’s right before the end of the song, right before “Wheel of fortune, Sally Ride/heavy metal, suicide/foreign debt, homeless vets/age, crack, Bernie Goetz/hypodermics on the shore/China’s under martial law/rock and roller cola wars/I can’t take this anymore!” And that would make sense, because I think Sally Ride and heavy metal were ‘80s things. Anyway, oil prices go up and down a lot. It’s mostly because of corrupt officials. Something vague about China and Iran and that sea that has the same name as a Narnia book. And apparently that Netherlandsy, Swedeny area has exports besides, like, furniture and cross stitch. Huh.

Or what the teacher says (rather, reads off a printout from Wikipedia): The cell is the basic structural and functional unit of all known living organisms. It is the smallest unit of life that is classified as a living thing, and is often called the building block of life. Some organisms, such as most bacteria, are unicellular. Other organisms, such as humans, are multicellular. The largest known cell is an unfertilized ostrich egg cell….In cell biology, an organelle is a specialized subunit within a cell that has a specific function, and is usually separately enclosed within its own lipid bylayer. Organelles are identified by microscopy, and can also be purified by cell fractionation. There are many types of organelles, particularly in eukaryotic cells. Prokaryotes were once thought not to have organelles, but some examples have now been identified. Eukaryotes are one of the most structurally complex cell type, and sometimes include mitochondria and chloroplasts. These organelles, which have double-membranes and their own DNA, are believed to have originated from incompletely consumed or invading prokaryotic organisms, which were adopted as a part of the invaded cell. This idea is supported in the Endosymbiotic theory.

What I remember: Cells, check, we’ve all got them. Organelles are part of cells. Organelles look like jellybeans. This class is stupid.

Or what I should know: Biscuits require the oven to be at 350 degrees. And: My phone is on my dresser. And: I need to take off next Sunday, better write that on the calendar at the bookstore. And: This application is due on the 23th.

And I recall from that: A wetter biscuit makes a better biscuit…oh, drat, did we write this temperature down last time? Sigh. What’s Memama’s number, again? And: My phone? I just had it. It’s…um…well, I checked my messages when we went to lunch, and then I remember putting it in my pocket, so the bathroom, maybe? No? Bother. And: Did I remember to write that date on the calendar? Um…no. I’ll do it tomorrow, promise! And: I swear, I just looked this due date up. The 28rd? The 26th? No, I’m thinking 26th because that’s Jamie’s birthday…oh, well, I’ll look it up ONE LAST TIME and remember it this time…

Yet I can remember the names, backgrounds, exact time periods, and historical contexts of 24 dolls. I can tell you the entire history of how the English language came to be, if you’re willing to sit and listen for a day or so. I know the lyrics to hundreds if not thousands of songs. I remember precise barre combinations for ballet and pointe, and the exact jazz/lyrical/hip-hop warm-up. I can tell you the intricate details of my suitemates’ love lives, going back to first crushes, and I can tell you that one suitemate’s current boyfriend’s brother is autistic and her ex-boyfriend’s childhood dream was to be a firefighter, and I can tell you that another suitemate’s cousin’s fiancée is named Megan and comes from a large Irish family and has four older brothers who are pretty big guys with red hair.

I can recite the Gettysburg Address, the preamble to the Constitution, the beginning of the Declaration of Independence, the entire section of A Midsummer Night’s Dream which begins with “Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania,” much of Romeo and Juliet, nearly all of “The Highwayman,” and bits and pieces of dozens of poems. I know that the Wizard of Oz can be taken as a metaphor for populism and the gold rush and US economics in the nineteenth century. I know that Lewis’s Carroll’s real name was Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (and L. Frank Baum’s first name, by the way, was Lyman). I know that Michelle Obama’s inauguration ballgown was designed by a young man named Jason Wu. I know by heart large portions of Alice in Wonderland, Little Women, Dancing Shoes, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The Phantom Tollbooth, and plenty of other books. I am familiar with the intricate household routines, wardrobes, food choices, and ideologies of families in all countries for the past few thousand years. I know a lot about 1950s McCarthyism and the Hollywood blacklist.

I know a lot about North Carolina history. I know a lot about literary symbolism. I can list all the astrological signs and their characteristics (and I’m not all that fascinated by astrology), and I could tell you most fairy tales, Bible stories, and Greek/Roman myths. I know that the African-American character in Where in Time is Carmen Sandiego who helped you solve the mystery where you went into that Kimono closet and had to decode the Japanese symbols on the drawers to find out which one spelled “Rat” so you could open it and find the little gross guy who was preventing Lady Murasaki from finishing up The Tale of Genji (the world’s first novel) because he had messed with her mirrors so she couldn’t see the moon and get inspired—the character who was helping you wore green and her name was Renee.

I know exactly which dolly shoes go with which dolly outfit, and I have 115 pairs of doll shoes. I am familiar with the essentials of sewing, knitting, crocheting, tatting, embroidery, weaving, beading, scrapbooking, cross-stitching, quilling, felting, origami, dancing, creative writing, hairdressing, makeup application, photography, mental math, photoshop, moviemaking, piano playing, annotating, calligraphy, et cetera.

In eleventh grade, Ian Wright had a shirt that said “I’m a Ninja.” It was black. He wore it the day we watched Secondhand Lions in AP Language. It was a female Texas governor who said that famous quote about Ginger Rogers doing everything Fred Astaire did, but backwards and in high heels. Fred Astaire’s nickname for Ginger was Feathers. December 16th was the date of our winter formal senior year of high school. When we were decorating for the homecoming dance that same year, Lauren Hollowell had on a white sweatshirt and fuzzy red socks. Jamie’s favorite princess movie was always Sleeping Beauty; Dalton’s was Snow White. Their horses are named Freckles, Sir, Astro, and Sage, although I don’t know how many they own presently. My roommate’s bloodtype is A.

Ok, now I’m tired with this inexhaustive knowledge thing. There is obviously nothing wrong with my memory. Aren’t you impressed with my memory? Say yes. Please say yes. I need you to be amazed by my impressive intellect and memory capacity. You’re impressed? Oh, good. Thank you. You have a good memory too, I can tell. Good taste in blogs, too.

So you’re probably pretty well qualified to help me answer the question currently consuming my life:

WHY CAN’T I REMEMBER IF I TURNED MY ALARM CLOCK ON OR OFF, OR MY BANKING PASSWORD, OR THAT IN ORDER TO NOT PULL AN ALL-NIGHTER, I HAVE TO WRITE THE PAPER IN ADVANCE?!?!?

It really is a mystery, I know.

A brain racking, egotistical mystery.

Maybe I should go ahead and start on those puzzle books meant to sharpen elderly minds. Heh. Oh, wait, I got one of those for Christmas, didn’t I?

Now, if I could just remember where I put it…

Monday, January 18, 2010

Sexiled, Part II*

*This post was written over a year ago, but I just found it. It's a sequel to Sexiled, Part I, which you might want to look at first as a refresher. Enjoy!

Sex is God's joke on human beings. ~Bette Davis

Especially if you're the roommate, Ms. Davis. So, to let everyone know a bit about how my sexile turned out (I've been terribly busy since, and haven't had a chance to update except for my incredibly long 16 things list), I thought I'd post.

I ended up sleeping on the floor, in the smaller classroom (my dorm has two classrooms connected to the lobby). I had my backpack, which contained a change of clothes. I had a towel, because I snuck in to the shower at 7am through Kate and Natalie's room and had known I would need to bring my towel. I had one blanket. No pillow. It was cold, for the record. I used the kitchen sink to wash my face and brush my teeth, put my towel on the floor, put my head on my clothes, put on all the socks I had with me, and curled under my blanket to try and sleep. Sleep is a bit of a misnomer, actually. My feet were too cold to sleep. So instead, I sat on my towel and listened to my iPod and thought dark, bitter thoughts towards Lora and Blake, who I'm sure were quite cuddly and cozy and nobody wants to know what else, and thought longing thoughts about my bed. Which has a comforter. And blankets. And a mattress. And things to eat and drink. And non-fluorescent lights. Siiiiiigh.

Anyway. I got up early--rarely have I ever been so happy to get up--snuck a shower in my own shower, called my family and--thank heavens--LEFT. So Saturday and half of Sunday I spent Whitevilling with my family and driving (pretty easy road, really) and such. But I had to come back eventually, and I was NOT going to spend another night on the floor, so I sent Lora a message from the hotel letting her know that I would be back Sunday night, and she messaged back saying that was fine, and I went back and intruded.

Now, I love Lora, and I like Blake pretty well. I mean, they're engaged, so I might want to at least try to like my roommate's husband-to-be, right? He's a nice guy. Shorter than me, which is a bit awkward, but then, I'm taller than two of the guys on my hall and also my boyfriend's father, so I guess it's a common occurrence. Anyway. Well, it's a little awkward to be the third party even if you like the first two parties, especially if they're having a ticklefest on Lora's bed and I'm sitting over by my desk with my headphones in, humming and staring at the wall. The room was a disaster when I got back in. Like, disaster as in there were wrappers and water bottles and rumpled stuff all over MY side of the room...I walked in and calmly started to set things to rights. They're a disaster, the pair of them. If they ever breed, they'll have the sloppiest children ever. But I digress.

The main thing that got me was that Blake didn't go anywhere on Monday. No. He stayed Sunday night. And he stayed Monday night, too. In fact, I left for Thanksgiving break before he and Lora went home. And I really didn’t appreciate that, because you can’t clean and feel as if you’re thoroughly prepared for a vacation when your roommate’s boyfriend is snoring on her bed wearing nothing but orange boxers and making you feel generally uncomfortable because your roommate is in class all the time and it’s mostly just you and The Awkward Snoring Heap. But, you know, I could deal with that, really. It’s irritating to be trying to work on your Global project while The Gooey Lovebirds talk baby talk to each other and sit all over each other. Kind of breaks your concentration, you know? But it wasn’t that big of a deal.

The shirt thing, though, that irritated me. That REALLY irritated me. Oh, you’d like an explanation of what “the shirt thing” was? I’d be more than happy to oblige.

I got back from Whiteville Sunday evening, brought my stuff in, dealt with a little awkwardness, did homework, showered, slept, awkwardly did my thing in the morning while Blake slept, went to my religious studies class, stayed for ethics, went to Elon 101, lived through the rest of the night, woke up at 7am, went to my 8am International Studies class, came back, ate breakfast, ran down the hall to Global, came back feeling intellectually stimulated as usual, walked into my darkened room, and saw a men’s collared shirt messily folded over my laptop. This confused me. Not being a man, I do not generally wear men’s clothing. However, I attributed it to the messiness of my roommate and my temporary roommate, draped the shirt over the back of my chair and, turning back to open my computer, came face-to-face with a small sculpture composed of a white button sitting atop a nickel on the corner of my desk. This confused me more. I spent several minutes pondering whether or not I had left this arrangement for myself the previous night, and after a quick survey, concluded that no, I had nothing that buttoned with a button of that size and color, and thus the button was most assuredly not mine. Granted, I like buttons as a general rule, and upon finding one lying about would probably pick it up, but, having no recollection of finding a button for quite some time, much less balancing it upon a nickel and putting it on my desk, I rejected the idea that I caused this scenario entirely.

However, I was hungry, and eventually going to Octagon for lunch seemed much more important than pondering the mystery button. I left it there, and went and got a BLT.

When I came back, Blake and Lora were sitting on her bed in the semi-darkness (Lora and Blake are big fans of keeping the blinds closed. I am a big fan of keeping them open. When Blake’s around, I usually lose.)

“Hello,” I say.

“Oh, hi!” Lora says.

Silence.

I sit down at my desk and again encounter the coin-button formation on my desk.

Blake clears his throat. “Lora told me you could sew.”

“Yes, I can.”

“So I was hoping you’d sew that button back on for me.”

Lora, with a disgusting, adoring, babying look at Blake: “I told him it didn’t matter, it’s the one at the very top. You know, the one you don’t button anyway? But he’s all fastidious and stuff, and just insisted. Soooo…I told him you probably wouldn’t mind.”

Are. You. Serious. WAIT. Seriously? Really? They make my week really awkward and then tell me to sew the stupid button back on the stupid shirt? AND PAY ME A NICKEL????

“Um, no, I don’t mind. Just, um, a minute.”

And I got out scissors and thread and a needle, and sewed it back on—at some point, they left the room—and neatly folded the shirt, slipped the nickel inside the breast pocket, and placed it on Lora’s bed. Then went to fume. It wasn’t the fact that they asked me to fix the button, that’s fine. A bit irritating that they expected it, but fine, really. But the paying me a nickel to sew on a button? A dollar, sure. I’d even take fifty cents. Actually, I wouldn’t, because there are some things you do because you’re a nice person, and you don’t require payment for those things. But a nickel? That’s like, one-fifth of a gumball. It’s far more of an insult to expect somebody to do something for a nickel than to expect them to do it out of the goodness of their heart, because it cheapens their labor significantly.

It was like the Watergate of our relationship. Buttongate. I mean, we get along now, but not exactly fantastically. She drives me nuts, frankly. And I’m still kind of resentful about that nickel.

So, the moral of this story: Do not sexile your roommate. And if you do, do not expect her to happily sew a button back on your boyfriend’s shirt. And never, never allow nickels to enter the equation.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

It's Been Awhile

There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature. A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed, done with.
-Harry Crews

This post has been a long time coming. I wrote an extremely long post back in October, but never posted it. If anybody ever wants to read it, they can, but you'll have to ask me about it; I’ve decided not to post it here.

Confession: I creeped on my ex’s Facebook profile last night. I really don’t creep very often at all. Once every few months, I guess; it used to be when I was feeling down, and now it’s mostly when I’m feeling curious. Granted, he’s recently changed his privacy settings, so I legitimately had to creep this time (by signing on as my brother, who’s fb friends with him—hey, you have to have a spy somewhere, it’s a rule of feminism or something), whereas usually I just have to do a quick search for his name. New profile picture, but mostly same old, same old. He’s had a new girlfriend for some time now. It’s interesting: She looks quite similar to me. About the same height, about the same build, hair about the same length and parted in much the same way I used to part mine. Maybe that’s an egotistical observation, but it’s also true, and I’m not the only one who noticed it. My friend Kristen wanted to know what “your ex-jerk” (as opposed to hers—we all seem to have one) looked like, so I found his pics for her (that’s not creeping. That’s being cooperative for a friend. It’s different), and the first thing she said was, “She looks like you. Was he seriously that pathetic?”

I love Kristen. She has a knack for pointing these things out. (She’s also a little bit bitter about boys in general, and likes to say things like “Katherine, hon, don’t you just love to look at them [her ex and my ex] now, and look at us now? We are hot and smart and talented, and they are ugly and probably dating really pathetic people. We just win, that’s all there is to it!” Kristen is a very competitive person. But sometimes I really like her mindset.)

Back to topic. I mean, I’m certainly not saying that he did start dating what’s-her-name because she looked vaguely like me. That would be petty. I will say that he transferred his “undying” affections pretty darn quickly, and I’ll admit that that really ticked me off, and was one of the things that kept me mad for perhaps longer than I should’ve cared. But you know, really, I hope they’re very happy together. They can talk about social status and insult people and toss around racial epithets and generally act like pretentious snobs together. Maybe she likes being treated like a second-class being for being female! I sure didn’t, but, you know, to each her own. (And I refuse to believe that he’d cut out any of the above behavior. As Carrie Underwood put it in one of the best songs ever: Now you only have yourself to blame/For playing all those stupid games/You’re always going to be the same/Oh, no, you’ll never change. Seriously, listen to the song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=waVCBdMI5Fg. It’s awesome.) I do apologize; that sounded a little hateful. If it wasn’t completely true, I might feel a bit ashamed of myself.

As it is, I haven’t liked Connor for a very, very long time now. It’s been…let’s see…a little over eight months since we broke up, and I stopped liking him somewhere around the two month mark (which was when I unfriended him on Facebook and shortly before he started dating the new girl). I started hating him, instead. And frankly, there was a lot to hate, even if it took me a while to see it. He was mean to me. He always, always put himself first. He flirted with other girls in front of me. He blamed me for things that weren’t my fault. He insulted my family, my college, my friends, things I cared about like dolls and dance and traditions. He was sarcastic, and while that was initially funny, sometimes it really burned. He repeatedly implied that he was smarter than I was, that his family and friends and school and lifestyle were better than mine, that he was somehow dating down. If he wasn’t getting his way, he called me names and told me I didn’t love him; if I was winning an argument, he pouted like a toddler and would throw a minor tantrum. I was less of a good North Carolinian because I thought it was great that restaurants and bars were going smoke-free, and I was somehow less of a southerner than him because I don’t have a noticeable drawl—which yes, was an insult.

Honestly, a lot of that is extremely illogical. Let’s go through some of them. Connor and I tied for the same spot in the top ten of our graduating high school class, both spoke at graduation, both were active in community programs, and both got scholarships. Throughout high school, he only received one department award, for AP Chem. In comparison, I received eight: Honors World History, Speech and Debate, Honors Civics, Honors English 10, Creative Writing II, AP Government, AP Literature, and French IV. He was on academic probation by the end of our freshman year of college, and I had a 4.0. Obviously, then, there’s no basis for him thinking he was smarter. And my family is a well-respected, long-time part of the Outer Banks community, whereas his had only moved there shortly before his birth, and frankly, is more corrosive to others than mine. So who really belongs? Only his father’s family is from North Carolina (and I’m related to that side, to boot), while both sides of my family have been in NC for well over a hundred years—I’ve done the research. So who’s more North Carolinian? His mother’s from Ohio. So, who’s more authentically Southern, really? Whose friends are out drinking tonight, not giving a thought for the future, and whose friends are having plenty of (legal) fun while still making legitimate plans for law school, med school, and grad school? (Hint: My friends are in the second category.) My college completely outranks his in just about every scholarly comparison you can find. His parents divorced while I was dating him, and the housing market crash was hard on them—both of which are horrible things, and I’m not glad they happened—but seriously, how am I in a lower class when my family is better off financially, emotionally, etc.? And lastly, I did love him, and he knew it.

But when you hear those sorts of things a lot, you almost believe them. That’s not a nice feeling. And when you’re constantly being put down, and shut down every time you disagree with your boyfriend…well, that’s not healthy. Yet somehow I managed to cover up for all of that, because he loved me, and, frankly, that was very attractive. That was new. I liked it. And he could be sweet as pie. But it’s like my Mama and my friend Kate both said: “Katherine, ALL boys can be really, really sweet when they want to be.” I’m not saying he played me, because he did care about me. But he was definitely manipulative and unkind. And I really, really didn’t want to see that, no matter how much my parents wanted to point it out to me. He made me mad—furious—but I could justify it. All couples irritate each other sometimes. They say love’s a lot of work, right? Right. I sat in my car and cried after we finally broke up, and I don’t cry much. Then I missed him for quite a while after that. He had sobbed all over the place about how we had to stay in contact, had to stay friends, he loved me so much…blah, blah, blah. And I tried to stay friends. I tried really hard. I had never done this before. He had, but he didn’t try. He called me only to cry on my shoulder about this, that, and the other. I was sympathetic, I was sweet.

Took a while before I realized that I was being used like a Kleenex.

Took a while longer before I realized I always had been, and had just been making excuses for it all along.

Yeah, I was mad. I was spitting, clawing, irrationally angry, because it seemed an awful lot like I’d been hurt and I had suffered, and it was his fault, and he came out unscathed. I was pissed. (Excuse the language, but it's true.) It’s fun to have something to be angry about, to be honest. I like angry music and making angry videos and sharing unflattering gossip about Connor. It renders your life more interesting by default. And it allowed me to get away from the fact that I was also really, really upset with myself for PUTTING UP with the put downs and the condescension and the manipulation for a year and a half, for allowing him to come between me and my family, for allowing him to get me in trouble, for allowing him that much space in my mind. That was my fault. I did that. And I’m still a bit dismayed that I let that happen. I’m smarter than that.

It’s taken until now to get over that. It was not okay. It really wasn’t. It was dumb and naïve. But we were very young. I was just seventeen when we started dating…I’ll be twenty this year, and somehow it feels as though much more than three years has passed. He was stupid. I was positively retarded. We hurt each other. But you know what? That was a long time ago, and it’s time to forgive him for being a jerk and forgive myself for being stubborn, and get over the whole thing.

And so I was happy when it came to this: I creeped on his Facebook, and I honestly didn’t feel upset. I’m not mad. I’m not really bitter. I really just don’t care. And in all honesty, I feel kind of sorry for him. Because I know better than just about anyone what an insecure, unhappy person he is, and I know that that is probably never going to change. Content, confident people don’t have to bring other people down. They don’t have to make you feel small so they can feel big. I doubt Connor will ever be a content, confident person.

But I will be, even if I’m not quite there yet.

Now, I don’t know if he ever thinks about or misses me, and I don’t really care. But I don’t miss him, or even think about him very often. I don’t care if he’s dating another girl. Seriously, whatever. Granted, if somebody brings the subject of Connor up, I think it is very enjoyable to bash him a bit. It’s recreational. But it doesn’t happen very often, and it shouldn’t happen very often. Out of sight, out of mind; it’s been a long time. But I don’t think that I should keep ignoring the fact that, honestly, we did have some good times together. I loved senior year, and it was partly because of Connor. Times change, and people change, and we both did, and that’s just the way it is. We’ll never be friends, and I don’t want to be. But I’m through being upset about the whole thing. It just takes up time and energy that could be used for better purposes. Let’s let the whole thing assume its natural place and patina as a bit of personal history.

I don’t wish him well, but I don’t wish him ill, either.

And next time, I’ll do better. Then maybe it won’t end up with this sort of post. And that would be good.


*By the way, the title of this post is the name of a Staind song; in proper English, it should be "It's Been A While," but that's not the song. I just thought it was appropriate, since a) I haven't posted in forever, and b) it's pretty much the topic of this entry. However, you don't need to listen to it, because you won't like it. And by "you," I mean Mama.