Growing Up

Not everything is nighttime pancakes when you’re an adult

/ Ashley / 7 Comments

My computer is constantly on. I think the last time I turned it off was when I flew to Oklahoma. I prefer to make it hibernate or sleep since it’s started to take longer to power up. I really just need to get rid of the files and programs I don’t use, but I never have the time for that. I have things to do – books to pretend to read, recipes to think about making, and a room to wish was clean.

I minimized all my windows earlier this afternoon because I remembered I had changed my background to a smoldering picture of Aaron Paul. To see it, I had to minimize my sticky notes which I then rearranged so his face wasn’t covered. These notes’ lifespans vary from months to days. Why I have such a hard time deleting them is a mystery. One is titled “TO READ”, a list of books I want to read. It’s only been referenced once in the last year. Other notes contain quotes intended to inspire me to write, which would probably be effective if they weren’t covered up by Facebook.

There’s one that I don’t think I’ll get rid of until my computer calls for reformatting:

“Don’t romanticize this adulthood thing just because you get to eat pancakes at night.”

Though the context escapes me, I know I heard it from a professor. At the time, it struck me as beautifully silly.  “Don’t be so eager to grow up,” it pleaded. “Stay young, silly, and still appreciative of pancakes in the dark.” It resonated well at the time –  the end of my college years was coming to an end and I desperately wanted to revert to childhood. Or at least to the point where I wasn’t realizing I should have decided on a more productive major.

When I was younger, twenty-four was incredibly mature. My life plan was basically this: Finish high school, fall in love…….retire comfortably and die in my sleep. Did I think about my twenties  the time when I’m supposed to be figuring out my life? Of course not. I just glazed over that and assumed it would all be taken care of before I got there. To be fair, for a good portion of my childhood, I just assumed I would be raptured before I turned 16, so I figured I wouldn’t have to worry about the really tough things.

(This is probably why I didn’t know what a 401k was until a few years ago. Now I have one and I’m about to change my portfolio to the high-risk/high-reward one because a six-question quiz in my 401k informational portfolio told me that because of my age and personality, I can do that. That’s probably how Donald Trump made all his money, right? His BMO Harris booklet had a quiz that told him he could handle market fluctuations and he went with it.)

So when I see this sticky note I wonder where the pancakes are. I’m only 24 and I’m already thinking about retirement –  mainly because of all the things I have yet to do. I still have to establish a career (though I think I’m on a good track). I still have to buy an appropriate car. I need to have a savings account and I should probably stop listening to Taylor Swift. I have these adult worries, so where are my nighttime pancakes?

I’d like to remember the other side of this: why spend so much time worrying about being an adult? I should be taking advantage of the freedom that comes with being un-tethered and in my 20’s. There is literally nothing stopping me from doing what I want. If I want to stay up until 1:30 reading a book, then I can. Alternatively, I can take a night drive to admire the clear sky. I can wear red lipstick all day at work and have personal victory. I can strike up a conversation with a stranger because he’s probably not going to kidnap me. I can plan a vacation with my best friend in hopes of dancing with foreign men.

Or I could just make pancakes at night.

I can have fun in whatever way I decide. That’s pretty cool, isn’t it?

Remember that, self. 

My Halloween Weekend as a Cat & Jesse Pinkman

/ Ashley / 3 Comments

I did something weird this weekend. I went out Friday AND Saturday night. This is unusual for me for a couple reasons. The first is obvious – I don’t go out very often. I’m not usually a fan of bars. I don’t have a ton of money. I like to sleep, and when I get tired, I don’t like waiting on other people to decide to call it a night. The second is that it’s Halloween, and I don’t really like Halloween.

As a child, I didn’t like the creepiness of it. I’ve never planned a costume. Even when I went trick or treating, it was always some costume my mom and I threw together before I grabbed my plastic pumpkin bucket. I was usually a pioneer girl. Why? Because that’s what I usually had on hand. As I grew up, I learned that Halloween is a time for girls to get away with wearing lingerie in public and for boys to hide their excitement beneath conveniently bulky costumes. I started to hate it because I have neither the body nor the confidence to wear a corset and tutu while ordering a 7&7 in front of a group of strangers. I did the slutty costume thing once – I was a “Sexy Camper” (whatever that’s supposed to mean) The costume cost way too much and was purposefully lost during my move from Milwaukee to Oshkosh.

I’m ashamed when I think of that costume. I bought it knowing that I didn’t want to look like a slutty girl in a re-appropriated Boy Scout uniform. I really wanted to dress up like Audrey Hepburn, but I thought I would feel uncomfortable with all the other girls wearing dresses that skimmed their cheeks. But I wore it anyway, and spent the night yanking the cheap spandex down and cursing when the iron-on patches fell off the chest.

The year I dressed up like a substitute teacher (pencil skirt, vintage-cut sweater, smeared makeup, paper airplane in my hair, “kick me” sign taped to my back) was the year I decided to stop caring if I looked slutty enough. I decided to stop feeling inadequate because I had less skin showing than Bo Peep or the Sexy Clownfish (yeah, that’s a real costume). Maybe it was the women’s studies classes I took, or maybe it was because I didn’t like my thighs. The result was the same – I felt better not presenting myself like a trashy fairy tale character. So what if guys weren’t trying to rub against me? I didn’t want that anyway. I think that’s what bothers me most about teens and 20-somethings dressing up for Halloween: it brings out the desperate and animal characteristics in women and men.

Sure, the polite conventions of sexual tension are just facades, but I like them. We all have those hungry urges, Halloween just allows us to advertise them. And though I’m blatant about some things, when it comes to romance and affection, I prefer it to be a bit more subdued and eloquent. If a guy shows interest, I’m not naive to his intentions, I just enjoy prolonging the illusion that we’re self-controlled beings instead of animals.

My room is always spotless, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Anyway, I didn’t mean for this to turn into a rant on the sexual politics of Halloween costumes. It’s not exactly a unique topic anyway. I’ll segue by saying that I dressed as a sort of sexy cat for Friday night. I think the long sleeves and the fact that I wore a puffy vest most of the night negates the obvious sluttiness of the initial costume. I’m also pretending not to notice the obvious similarity to a Playboy Bunny, because UGH. I took women’s studies classes, so I can wear cat ears, but never bunny ears. Obvi. That’s what we call feminism, people.

On Friday night, Andrea and I stopped by a party in Oshkosh, then went to Peabody’s where we listened to some great live music. We had a guy introduce himself three times in five minutes. Then another guy threw a tantrum because instead of waiting for him to order me a beer, I bought my own. I’m pretty sure that’s where I’ll meet my future husband.

Bathroom pic with a Shel Silverstein book because we’re classy

On Saturday night, I wasn’t feeling the cat ears. My brother suggested I go to Home Depot and get a yellow hazmat suit, use his gas mask and be Jesse Pinkman. I didn’t want to buy a hazmat suit, so I went as Jesse Pinkman getting a breath of fresh air (and a beer) from a meth cook.

Jesse Pinkman probably has a metal sculpture of a tree above his kitchen sink, right?

Andrea lent me her leather jacket (I need to get one – the second I put it on, I felt like a badass). Corey lent me his gas mask, beanie, and big red magnet. I was hoping that when someone asked me what I was, I could point to the magnet and say, “Yeah bitch! Magnets!” and he would understand. That only happened twice. In the end, I just told curious people I was a hazmat worker and they should watch better television.

Not sure why this is the face I think Jesse Pinkman would make, but let’s go with it.

All in all, I had a surprisingly fun Halloween weekend and I went into work on Monday with my dignity in tact, which is more than I can say about the year I dressed like a scout.

The following photos are courtesy of my friends Kaleigh (the pinup Rosie the Riveter) and Andrea (the adorable kitty).

I hope you all had similar fun weekends. Stay safe and keep blooming.

In Defense of T Swift

/ Ashley / 6 Comments

T Swift came out with a new album on Monday. I’ve listened to it more than once. Since I’m not seventeen, I feel like I need to explain myself.

A few years ago, a boyfriend asked me if I thought T Swift had staying power. I tried to think of a way to say, “Yes, you moron.” What I did say was something along the lines of “Yes, she does. She sings the songs that every girl can sympathize with.”

There are some musicians I really love (Esperanza Spaulding, Broken Social Scene, Bon Iver, Santigold). And there are other musicians that just entertain me (Kanye West). Taylor Swift is somewhere between those two places. I don’t think that T Swift makes complex and challenging music. I don’t think she claims to do that. But she does make damn catchy pop songs.

I started listening to Taylor Swift during the disintegration of the “Scott” saga. At the time, I was still driving my family’s Geo Tracker. I remember driving home on the highway, sing-screaming You’re Not Sorry (He wasn’t) and Picture to Burn (I tore up them up because I didn’t have a fire pit) while the wind kicked around the vinyl top. I was relieved nobody could see my sob-screams, because I was 21 and convinced that T Swift made teenage anthems that were the epitome of commercialized carp.

It was obviously therapeutic. I had finally found music that was reflecting exactly what I was feeling, but with this air of empowerment. While I was feeling shame and embarrassment about the breakup, she was embracing the feelings unabashedly. She was hurt. She was pissed. And she was making a lot of money off of it.

For the last few months, I’ve been brainstorming an essay about my transition from a girl to a woman. I’ve felt a pressure to be mature and womanly from a very early age. I don’t know why and right now, I don’t care to speculate. The point is  that I never felt comfortable embracing my girlish feelings. I didn’t want anybody to know that I could be insecure, the victim of unrequited love, or feel like that crazy girl who wanted to humiliate her ex-boyfriend. Listening to T Swift is how I reconnect with the part of myself that I feel like I didn’t allow to surface when I was a teenager.

This isn’t to say that I was a cool, mature teenager. My diaries from that time eliminate any possibility of that. I just didn’t want people to know about my craziness, which is probably why I listened to a lot of emo and wrote about it all in notebooks.

What I’m trying to say is that I’m enjoying Red. It’s annoyingly poppy and catchy, but I love it. It doesn’t make me think deep thoughts about the intricate feelings of love and longing, or the quiet intimacies that happen in my head during a crisis.

But it does allow me to connect with those emotions that occur so obnoxiously that I don’t care to examine. They’re those universal emotions that feel unique, despite that they’re anything but. It’s what I hate and what I love about pop music.

Pop music is not for the cynical or skeptic, which is probably why I don’t listen to it much. Though it’s my default setting, it can be exhausting to maintain. T Swift gives me a break from that.

Alright, girls. Go find your new anthem to sing into a hairbrush. We’ll be here when you stop dancing on your bed and decide to put on something more than a cami and undies.

To 21-year old Ashley, Love 24-year old Ashley

/ Ashley / 17 Comments

I started writing a post last night, but then I remembered the vice presidential debate was on, so I felt obligated to watch it. I watched for about ten minutes before I figured I had enough of Joe Biden’s goofy grin and Paul Ryan’s kindergarten hair. Then I decided to read my xanga. You know, like a sane, self-actualized person would do.

I would post a link to my old xanga, but I’d rather not invite further embarrassment.

I read a lot of posts from my 20-21ish years. My middle years of college, when I was dating Jon. Here I thought I had lost a big chunk of time because I couldn’t find (or remember) any journals from that time. But I did actually journal. On my xanga.

This is not shameless twitter self-promotion

That pretty much sums it up.

Since I can’t go back in time and slap myself across the face, I decided to write notes to myself. Because 21-year old me reading these notes is more plausible than 24-year old me slapping 21-year old me.

Also, I’m on nyquil. Well, not nyquil. Generic nyquil that I took from my dad. I’m not drinking it recreationally, you prudes. I’m sick. I’m on my couch in sweatpants with Netflix (Mike Birbiglia’s special) playing in the background.

Yeah, Ashley. I guess that’s one way to spend a Friday night.

I thought of a few of these things at work while I was impressing my new coworkers with the volume of my snot-expulsion, but most of them I’m coming up with off the top of my head. Yeah, I’m just riffing, people. I’m funny. Why don’t you follow me on twitter? Retweet me or something.

Anyway.

Taking out the nose ring you got the second week of college does not make you mature. It just makes you employable. 

You don’t have to put up with that asshole boyfriend. Seriously. Just dump his ass. What do you see in him? He constantly makes you feel inadequate and insecure. Don’t be a moron and mistake constant inner dissonance for passion. It’s not passion – it’s letting someone treat you like garbage. So stop that, seriously. And don’t tell me everything was sunshine and roses, because I have proof, in all of your PRIVATE and PROTECTED posts on xanga, that you were frequently miserable. Yeah. You documented that shit. And thanks for that, it’ll make writing about about that period a hell of a lot easier. 

You know how you really like Sutter Home’s white zin? You’ll get sick of it. Yeah. I know. It’s really unbelievable, but eventually you’ll get to a point where you walk past the $5 bottles and go to the (shock!) $8 and $9 bottles, and you’ll have much better evenings. 

Stop bingeing on Radiohead. “Why is Thom Yorke so good?!” you ask. Because he has unnecessary letters in both of his names, that’s why. And he’s not that great. He’s okay. You’re really moved by some of his songs (I know, I know, How to Disappear Completely brings you to a weird sort of teary nausea), but it will pass and you’ll find there is better music out there, so don’t go around preaching the Radiohead gospel. 

Save a pack of cherry cloves for me, will ya? Eventually Barack Obama will be president and you’ll blame him without knowing if he’s actually responsible for making the flavored ones illegal. You’ll still be able to buy the black ones, but you’ll never really like those, even if you try to tell yourself clove cigarettes are to cigarettes the way chai is to coffee. 

On that note, save your damn money. Seriously. Don’t spend all that extra loan money. You don’t need a Nintendo DS and you certainly don’t need to buy the 007 game just because the character sort of looks like Daniel Craig. You’ll never get past the second level, either. You’re just not a gamer. You know what you really need? A CAR. I cannot stress this enough. YOU NEED A DECENT CAR. 

Take advantage of those cute writers in  your English classes. I don’t mean like rape them, just get out of your shell and say hi. What is the guy gonna do? Seriously. He’ll probably talk and compliment your work, then you can have him over to drink some white zin because you’re a classy broad. 

Actually do your homework. Study. Learn things. Don’t just breeze through college. Really experience it and take advantage of EVERYTHING on campus, including the planetarium. 

Good job working out. Seriously. You were dedicated for a while there. You’ve inspired me to get back to the gym. 

Stop eating bagels.

In the near future, you’ll have a professor tell the class, “You will never be prettier or skinnier than you are right now.” I know, he stole it from Gossip Girl (which is an entirely different issue), but he’s right. At least as far as I can tell. You’ll gain a little of that weight back and your skin will start do weird things like be irritated for no apparent reason (the inside of your left elbow will itch, inexplicably, ALL THE TIME, and your eyelids are sometimes dry and red), and you’ll feel like your body is falling apart at 24. Hopefully 28-year old us will be able to shed some light on this. 

You should somehow display that one letter from your friend when he told you “Love hard. Dance with grace. And don’t forget about the little black dresses.” Interpret it however you wish, instead of being constantly aware of the fact that you’d feel more confident in an LBD than in your sloppy barista uniform (lol, I still can’t believe you worked at a coffee shop that had uniforms) the university makes you wear. 

I’m starting to lose concentration (because I had to be really focused to write this post) and I’ve spent the last two minutes yawning, so I’m going to call it a night.

Edit: After (very briefly) reviewing this before publishing, I just want to note that it took me several tries to spell “presidential” before the little red zigzag disappeared. Also, it’s kind of weird that there are two ps in disappeared. Not sure why I called you guys prudes in the nyquil paragraph. Am I calling you prudes for being shocked by the idea of drinking nyquil recreationally? Because that insinuates that I drink nyquil recreationally, and I don’t. I said “seriously” a lot. Don’t really care.