"Do NOT Break Up With Him."

Therapist: Don't break up with him.
Me: I don't want to break up with him.
Therapist: Good. Don't.

You dump a few too many potential prospects, and all of a sudden, your therapist is constantly on your back, reminding you not to break up with whichever guy you're seeing.

I guess a reputation is a reputation.

***

Despite my affirmation that breaking up was, in fact, not on my (very long and obsessively-composed) to-do list for the week, my therapist seemed unsure.

Me: He invited me to have dinner with his mom and grandparents, but I didn't go.
Therapist: Why not?
Me: I don't know; I kind of freaked out.  Dinner with the family?  That's a big deal, right?
Therapist: Sure.  It's a good thing, though.
Me: Meanwhile, I still haven't told my parents.  I've almost brought it up multiple times.  But it never seems like the right time.
Therapist: Everything you tell me indicates that he really likes you.  I mean, he wants you to meet his grandparents.
Me: He does like me.  I know.  And I like him, too.
Therapist: You keep hesitating, though.

Before I left, she made me promise one more time not to dump "Jack."

The thing is, I really actually truthfully with full sincerity have no desire to cut things short.  I like him.  A lot.  In fact, after a week of not seeing him and only talking sparingly, I found myself last night elated to sit in his living room--belly full of overly-spicy vegan Thai food--and disagree with him about religion and philosophy.  And I hate disagreeing about religion and philosophy.  With anyone.

I'm scared, though.  Of all of it.  Getting my heart broken.  Not falling in love.  Falling in love first.  Important conversations like "I love you" ("Me too") and "Let's move in together" ("Let's not").  Committing to him when there might be somebody else out there better suited for me.  Committing to him when there might be somebody else out there better suited for him.

I suppose in the end, I just have to do it.  I didn't learn how to be comfortable traveling solo by reading destination magazines in waiting rooms or looking at pictures on the internet.  And I won't learn how to be in a healthy, romantic, loving relationship by keeping my guard up.  Or hiding him from my parents.

Finn, my favorite character in The 100 (my most recent Netflix binge), said something to the same effect in the very first episode of the show.  He and a few others had found a vine that would allow them to swing across a river and arrive at Mount Weather, a place they'd been hiking toward for two days.  The first to swing was named Jasper, and he hesitated, visibly nervous.  But Finn reassured him: "Hey, it's okay to be afraid, Jasper.  The trick is not fighting it."  Of course, two seconds later, Jasper had a spear through his chest, but regardless, Finn had a point.

When I was a kid, my family used to take long road trips out West, visiting national parks and forests and random Native American museums in the middle of nowhere.  The last of our trips out West happened when I was in college.  My dad had a conference in Colorado Springs, and my parents thought it would be nice to gather their youngest four children into a minivan and make a wandering, two-week trek from Denver to North Dakota.  One afternoon during our stint in Colorado, after my dad had finished his conference sessions for the day but before it got dark, he took my younger siblings and I out to a place called Seven Falls.  The most impressive water falls can be seen as soon as you arrive, but viewing the rest of it requires a 224-step climb up minimalist metal stairs attached to the face of a cliff.  There were no elevators, contrary to what I had been told.  And so, I was faced with a dilemma: stay on the ground and miss out, or muster up some courage and see what's at the top.  I prayed the Hail Mary as fast as I could over and over again as I climbed, one foot in front of the other, even tempo, consistent speed, hand gripping the rail.  I almost bit the head off a woman that stopped to take a picture, and I was sure each time that the stairs shook that the whole thing would separate from the cliff and bring me to a terrifying death, but ten minutes later, I was at the top.  Heart slowing.  In one piece.  I had taken my fear by the throat and by God, I'd climbed the damn thing.  And it felt good.  And after we'd hiked the upper trail, and the sun began to set, I climbed back down those stairs with the rest of my family, calmly, easily, contentedly.  "It was worth it, wasn't it?" my dad asked, as we reached the bottom.  "Yeah," I said.  "It was."

What it looked like in my head.

What it actually looks like.

How I felt on the way up.

How I felt at the top.

Where Do I Begin?

This week marks one month until I have to move out of my current house and into my new house. Up until now, I've been pretty un-stressed about it, but with the onset of this one month marker, the anxiety is ratcheting up.

While the contractor is almost done patching the cracks created by the leveling, the house still has gaps near the floorboards and along the chimney lines that need to be filled.  The interior needs to be painted.  The carpet needs to be replaced in the two back rooms.  A hot water heater and a stackable washer/dryer need to be purchased and installed (which means my current washer/dryer needs to be sold).  Fixtures need to be replaced.  This may not sound like much, but since work starts up again next week, that limits me to something like four weekends to get everything together, leaving the final weekend for moving in.  Yikes, yikes, yikes.

So, as my contractors get their final pieces done--so that I can get my final pieces done--I have been either under the new house, clearing out bricks/wood/rocks in anticipation of termite treatment, in Home Depot vacillating between paint chips, or inside my furnished house, trying to figure out how I'm ever going to fit all of my stuff into the new house.

Clearly some purging is in order, but I'm overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of things that exist in my house and belong to me.  And on top of that, there's always the question of where to begin packing so that I have what I need available, but also so that I don't wait until the last minute.

Which I would do because I hate packing.

Without fail, regardless of whether I'll be gone for two nights or two weeks, I will wait until the night before a trip to pack.  We're talking eight hours before take-off kind of last minute.  Yes, I do occasionally realize that I do not have that very important thing I need, for which I do not have time to shop (because it's midnight and all the shops are closed).  But most of the time, last-minute packing just means delaying the pain.  And as such, the cycle continues.  I'm tempted to do the same with my house.  But of course, packing for a two week trip and packing everything you own are two very different beasts.


Last night, after countless hours of Netflix finally began to bore me, I went through my normal self-entertainment option list to search for something new to give my attention to: I played piano, I read a little, I considered exercise, I thought about who might be available to hang out.  None of the above were good long-term options, though, so instead, I started making lists and brainstorming about my house.

As might be expected, the obsessive side of me came out in full force.  I became almost manic in my enthusiasm for the insane task of deciding how to set up my house.  Sure, it seems kind of normal to want to plan out your floor plan before you move in.  Responsible, even.  But I drew it to scale.  To scale.  I measured all the walls in my new house.  All the furniture in my current house.  And then I arranged all of my furniture on paper, so that each piece had a designated place in one of the new rooms.

No need to come to my housewarming.  I can give you a paper tour instead.

Then I moved on to paint colors.  I tried to create a 3D online replica of my living room (with obsessively placed furniture), but it proved to be cumbersome, and the paints didn't match what I'd seen at Home Depot.  So instead, I scoured paint pamphlets and online photos for the perfect paint color.  I made a list.  I checked it twice.

By 6pm today, I had bought and tried at least 8 different paints.  The choosing process started a little rough (read: intense colors), but eventually I figured out that neutrals were a better bet for my first house.  Also, beyond the fact that neutrals are more versatile, all of my furniture and artwork is meant for neutral walls.  So neutral it is.

The red might be too much, but I kind of like it.  Accent wall?

Nobody likes this color.  Except maybe me, and I'm still unsure.

My neutrals options.  The one on the left is a definite yes for the kitchen.

In the end, it's not obsession that's caused this weekend to be particularly house-centric.  It's necessity.  It's fear that it won't all get done in time.  It's an avoidance of house-work priority conflicts.  I'll already have a hard enough time coming off of Christmas break; no need to make it worse by spending my entire planning period calling electricians or taking days off to go downtown to apply for a Homestead Exemption.

So, with my seven days left of break, I plan on finishing the underside of my house (it will be cleaned and covered!), securing a plumber and electrician, starting the packing process, completing paperwork, and finishing the first season of The 100, the Netflix series I started yesterday.  Oh yeah, and spending a little bit of time with "Jack."  ...Who told his mom about me this week.  Her response: "Now I understand why you didn't tell me who you were dating."  My response to her response: Heightened insecurity and anxiety.  What does she mean by that?  (How could she not like me?  I'm every mom's dream!)  It doesn't help that I haven't seen "Jack" in almost a week because of the holidays and his work, either.  So until he's able to climb out of the nightmare that is his work schedule, I'll have to be content to bury myself in receipts-to-scan-and-shred, piles for Goodwill, and trash bags from under the house.  All to get the moving-in process closer to realization.  I'm unsure about it, but Ryan Gosling seems to have faith.

Bawk Bawk Bakawk

I chickened out.

Knowing that my sister might meet "Jack" at my birthday party on Saturday, I had planned on preempting her potential secret-leaking by telling my parents about him when I went over to their house on my birthday.  But then "Jack" had to work the night of the party and wasn't going to make it or meet her, and as I sat at the table--just me, my mom, and my dad around the cake--I couldn't think of a smooth transition to sharing the news.

I see that you put an extra candle on the cake to grow on.  ...Speaking of seeing, I've been seeing someone for the last six weeks or so.  Would you like to hear about him?

So, in the absence of good timing, I just didn't tell them, and they're still in the dark.  I did tell my youngest sister about him tonight, though.

Me: So, I was shopping today for a present for this guy I've been dating--
Her: You're dating someone???  Where was the text?  Where was the phone call?
Me: You're hearing about him right now.  What did you want me to do, text you after the first date?
Her: Yes.

She didn't ask for the scoop on him (apparently that's not important), just to see a picture.

Her: He has weird bangs, but otherwise he's cute.
Me: He doesn't have bangs.
Her: Huh.  Maybe it's the lighting.


I decided today that I should buy him a present for him for Christmas.  I wasn't going to, but then he got me something thoughtful for my birthday, and now I'm terrified he'll get me a present for Christmas, and I'll be empty-handed.  A friend of mine, who is like my little brother, was hanging out at my house this afternoon, and we ended up driving out to Elmwood to wander the stores there, looking for just the right thing.

Friend: Why don't you get him a shirt?
Me: A shirt?
Friend: Sure, guys are simple.  He'll like anything you get him just because you got it for him.  I bet if you bought him a button-down shirt, he'd wear it the next time you saw him.
Me: But I don't know what size he is.
Friend: Is he bigger or smaller than me?
Me: I don't know, bigger?
Friend: He's probably a large, then.
Me: I don't know if he'd like a shirt.
Friend: I'm telling you, he'll like anything you get him.
Me: But what kind of shirt?
Friend: You're not listening.

Eventually, after combing the aisles of World Market (where I managed to knock over half a display of magnetic containers) and KMart (where I tried not to touch anything), I finally came to a decision: Jenga and a contour pillow.  Neither of them were in the stores, so I had to order both online later.  The pillow is to help with neck pain he's told me about, but the Jenga game has a story.

The first people that "Jack" ever met from my group of friends were guys from volleyball.  We were all hanging out at Shamrock and playing ping-pong, as we are sometimes apt to do, and after a while, we decided to play large Jenga.  This is sort of a talent of my friend Chris and I; the last time we played at Shamrock, we got the tower high enough that I had to get on my tiptoes to place the removed blocks on top.  So, in an attempt to include "Jack" in the fanfare, he joined in the game.  Chris went first.  He chose a center block from the fifth level of the Jenga tower and easily placed it on top.  "Jack" went second.  He chose a right block from the fifth level of the Jenga tower and it was like slow motion.  Everyone was watching as the tower began to fall, but no one said anything to stop him, dumbfounded that he would take an obviously off-limits block and on the second move of the game.  The tower fell.  We all stared.  And then a half-second later, the other men broke into raucous laughter.  "That is the shortest game of Jenga I have ever played," said one.  "I can't believe you just did that," said another.  Meanwhile, I'm shooting daggers at all of them with my eyes as I help "Jack" pick up the blocks from the floor and reset the tower.  When he went to go get his drink from the other side of the room a minute later, I punched Chris.  "Stop being an asshole," I insisted.  "But it's so funny," he countered.

Needless to say, they did not let him live it down for the remainder of the night, and that singular moment is the only thing that they ever talk about when I bring him up.  It's probably one of the only things that they honestly remember, besides his baby face and his lack of ping pong skill.  In other words, they're not convinced about him.  I think a lot of that has to do with insecurity on his part.  When we talked about the Jenga incident later on, he said that he was trying to be cool and (obviously) wasn't paying enough attention.  And my male friends can smell the blood in the water.  Normally, they'd make fun of me (I can take it; I know they love me), but instead, they've shifted their sights to him.

I'm trying not to let their current dismissal of him affect my view of this budding relationship.  And I'm trying not to let his insecurities get in the way, either.  While his desire to impress me and do the right thing is often cute, it's also mired in potential disingenuousness.  Is this what he wants?  Or what he thinks that I want?

Me: So, you remember when you brought up the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing last week?  I feel like you wanted to talk about it, but I sort of shut down the conversation.
Him: It's okay.
Me: Did you bring it up because you want to use those terms?
Him: Well, I just thought it was an appropriate time to bring it up, you know, with you being a teacher and responsible and [mumble mumble mumble].
Me: Teacher?  Responsible?  What does that have to do with anything?
[pause]
Him: I just mean that I've never dated a girl like you, so I thought it might be appropriate to bring it up sooner than normal.
Me: Okay...
Him: Plus, I thought I might be going to your party, and I didn't know if you wanted to introduce me that way to your friends.
Me: It's not a big deal; I would've just said, "This is 'Jack.'"  People would've figured it out.
Him: True.  [pause]  What do you think?
Me: Well, I don't feel like using the word "girlfriend" or "boyfriend" would change what we have here.  But I wouldn't be offended to be your girlfriend, either.
Him: We can do that.

We can do that.  He told me about an ex-girlfriend that made him meet her family on Christmas within a month of dating, and so I didn't want to force the conversation and be that girl, but I also have no idea what "we can do that" means.  It doesn't build a whole lot of confidence, that's for sure.  When I had this conversation with my college boyfriend, his response was "You're making me the happiest man alive."  Of course, College Boyfriend also admitted a year later that he thought I rushed things and that I made it harder for him to convince his ex-girlfriend that he hadn't cheated on her (he broke up with her three days before our first date).  So, I guess if I had to choose, I'd rather "Jack's" genuine uncertainty over College Boyfriend's false enthusiasm.  But I'm not a big fan of either.

Him: I don't really know how this goes.
Me: Well, I don't have a ton of relationship experience, either.
Him: Shit. How are we going to know what to do?
Me: We'll figure it out.

Despite our uncertain status and the anxiety that this particular conversation has left me with, I had an amazing weekend.  There is something perfect about a birthday and all of its surrounding celebrations.  I truly do not understand people who ignore or forget their birthdays.  I literally start counting down the days in June.  It's my half birthday!  Only six more months!

Thursday morning, the whole school sang me Happy Birthday.  My students asked me how old I was all day long.  Parents stopped by to give their well wishes at dismissal.  That evening, my mom made my favorite food (crawfish etouffee) and cake (angel food), and I sat at the table with her and dad for hours, just talking.  I got dressed up afterwards and met up with some girlfriends for drinks and "Jack" joined later.  We ended up taking over Delachaise's stereo system around midnight and proceeded to have a dance party with the other four people still in the bar.  TSwift, Beyonce, you name it.  We stayed out way too late, and by the time my head hit the pillow, I realized there were only two and a half hours until my alarm would go off for work.

Probably a terrible decision, but what a perfect way to enter the last year of my twenties.

The weekend went much the same way.  I worked feverishly Friday to get as much done as possible at work before leaving at 2:30 to take a nap, shower, and head to a Christmas party at a coworker's house.  I stayed until 9pm, went to see "Jack" despite being over-tired, and went to sleep too late.  The next morning, I played terribly at volleyball (I blame it on the cold and sleep deprivation), and that afternoon, I cleaned my house top to bottom in anticipation of my s'more-themed birthday party, which was a complete success.  There was food, drinks, and fire.  And friends, of course.  What more could a girl want?  By 12:45am, most people had left, but I stayed up another two hours talking with a friend before finally getting into bed.

It's Sunday night, and at this point in the weekend, I'm exhausted.  Normally exhaustion on Sunday night would be a terrifying thing--an omen of a tough Monday and a therefore long week--but thanks to a little thing called winter break, I've got time to recuperate.  I can sleep late, watch movies, read books, write posts for this blog.  I was hoping to spend some time working on my house and hanging out with "Jack," but the holiday season is kind of a minefield in both respects.  The workers are taking most of the week off and I can't start anything until they're finished, which means I'm on hold for DIY projects like painting and soundproofing.  Christmas and New Years, meanwhile, are weighty holidays.  Family- and friend-oriented.  He and I won't be meeting family this early on, so most of this week is out of the question, but New Years seems unlikely, too.  He'll probably be working that night, but even if he's not, there's the question of whose friends we go with.   This is one of the few times when I wish I was still single so that my feelings were the only important feelings.

Time off from seeing each other isn't a great thing for me.  It means extra time to over-think the relationship.  To wonder if the grass is greener elsewhere.  To fall back into my commitment phobia.  Luckily, I've got an appointment with my therapist tomorrow, and she can remind me how much I like "Jack" and why I need to stick it out.

Either that, or I'd better start looking into holiday specials for cats at the SPCA and old lady sweaters at Goodwill.

Practice makes perfect.

Warning: Do Not Daydream and Drive

Him: So, how many dates have we been on?
Me: Um...I don't know.  There was kickball, and then that movie...
Him: Kickball, movie, putt-putt...
Me: Yeah.  Wait, no.  Kickball, movie, lunch, and then putt-putt.  And then...
Him: Ethiopian food.
Me: Right.  Ethiopian food makes five.  Then hanging out with my friends at Shamrock makes six.
Him: So, seven.
Me: Yeah, I think tonight makes seven.  I've started losing count, to be honest.
Him: Seven is a good number.
[long pause]
Him: You know what makes me more anxious than text messaging?  The whole boyfriend-girlfriend conversation.
Me: Really?  It's not that big of a deal.  There's no rush.
Him: This is me barely scratching the surface of that conversation.
Me: Is that why we're counting dates?
Him: I don't know.
Me: You know what we used to call that in college?  DTR.
Him: DTR?
Me: Define The Relationship.
Him: [laughs] I've never heard of that.


I am an idiot.

I literally almost get into a car accident every day thinking about "Jack."  My mind simply cannot be bothered with both thinking about him and watching the road.  And here I am, sitting on the couch with the man that has managed to make driving a hazardous activity for me, and instead of engaging in a serious conversation about us, I shrug off what is both obviously important and nerve-wracking for him with some stupid acronym.

In the moment, I took what he said for face value.  I thought to myself, if this makes him anxious, let me make him less anxious by taking the pressure off.  It's no big deal.  I like him; he likes me.  Why rush into labels?  I mean, when he told me that he didn't like texting, I just started calling him instead.

Looking back, I'm not sure it's that simple.  He brought up the number of dates out of nowhere.  And then he brought up the relationship thing immediately afterwards, also out of nowhere.  I'm beginning to think that it was his way of asking me to be his girlfriend, and I completely missed it.  I mean, completely.  There is a high probability that I am over-thinking it and adding intent where none was intended (I'm very good at this), but there's also a chance that I am incredibly obtuse and missed it.  Aren't women supposed to be the intuitive ones?  Clearly I suck at this.


Prior to the conversation on the couch, we were at his holiday work party.  I changed at his house right after school, and we drove together to the bar, where I was characteristically quiet at first and then loosened up as the night went on.  Maybe the shot and three beers I consumed on a mostly empty stomach helped with that, but either way, by the end of the night, I was petting the accountant's dog and accepting compliments from a gay patron that wanted me to come drink champagne with him at his nail salon. (I'm not even joking; I can't make this stuff up.)  I met the boss.  I took a shot with the team.  I commiserated with one of his coworkers about unpleasant nicknames.  And meanwhile, "Jack" introduced me to everyone with a "This is Rebekah," the ambiguity of which no doubt induced the couch talk.


With all of this serious almost-discussion about relationships, I decided sometime in the last 24 hours (probably while driving) that I'm going to tell my parents about him this week.  I'm a little nervous.  I haven't told them about a guy that I was dating since college, and that was only because that guy stayed at their house on a service trip and they already knew him.  Also because he and I dated for a year and a half, and it becomes difficult to hide a boyfriend after a while, especially when you live at home every summer.  But I'm also nervous because he doesn't look great on paper.  My sister is marrying a guy with what seems to be a stable, well-paid job, and I'm dating a guy that has yet to finish college.  But to quote Selena Gomez--something I never thought I'd do--the heart wants what the heart wants, and mine wants him.  I suppose that they will come to see that.  Or maybe they'll just be excited that their daughter isn't going to be single (and therefore childless) forever.


Luckily, my house renovation eats up most of my nervous energy, and so time that may have been spent harping over when to break the news to my parents and whether or not to tell them about Tinder is instead spent on the phone with contractors, trying to get the house into shape and managing tenant concerns.  Or spent trying to remember why in the world I ever thought being a landlord was a good idea.  And when I get too stressed out from all that, I fall back into daydreams about "Jack."  The concurrence of my house closing and first date--within a day of each other--was a brilliant coincidence; I am so regularly engrossed and preoccupied by both that I can't be overwhelmed by either.  Well, not too overwhelmed, anyway.


Thursday marks my 29th year on this planet, and the new year brings all sorts of possibilities.  Last year at this time, I was unhappy with my job, single, feeling "stuck" in my social life, and planning on staying in the same house for the foreseeable future with my then-roommate.  Life feels different this go-round, and it's the good kind of different.  I feel better.  I feel more me.  My new gay, salon-owning friend said as much last night: "I was way happier at 30 than I was at 20, and at 40 than I was at 30, and at 50 than I was at 40.  I wouldn't go back; I wouldn't go any younger than 45."  Who knows?  Maybe this time next year, as I'm days away from my thirtieth birthday, I'll be even happier, even more myself.  I have no idea what my house will look like, or whether my male friend "Jack" will still be in the picture, but time will tell.  And personally, I'm looking forward to seeing how things play out.

Not that I'm in love.  Seven dates?  That would be ridiculous.

Sticking With It

My therapist loves "Jack."

I guess I should've mentioned at some point in the last couple of months that I have a therapist, but people get really weird about that sort of thing.  And they look at you weird.  And they talk to you weird.  And they get nervous around you when someone brings up mental health during a dinner conversation.

To be clear, I am not less mentally healthy than anyone else I know.  In fact, I think my therapist would argue that I'm actually fairly stable and healthy in the cerebral department.  But I have one very large psychological flaw, and that is that I am a huge commitment-phobe.

I'm not exactly sure when it started.  I always assumed that people with commitment problems were immature men, or women with daddy issues, and I'm neither.  Definitely female.  Probably too mature for my own good.  And my father is one of my favorite people in all of the world.  In fact, we had dinner together last night, just the two of us, soup and sandwiches at a restaurant near my house.  It was so pleasant and reminded each of us why we're each other's favorite.  Not that he's told me I'm his favorite, but my siblings and I have discussed it and come to agree that it's probably true.  Then again, my name is never used as part of the Netflix password like some other siblings I know.  So maybe not.

This whole therapy and commitment issues thing began a little more than two years ago, when I was dating a really nice lawyer.  Things were perfect when we were together, but he was busy, and so over the course of our relationship, there was a lot of alone time for me to over-think things.  After three months of exclusive but sporadic dating, I felt myself getting quiet and detaching emotionally, resenting the little effort he seemed to make in order to see me.  We probably could've solved some of our problems with an honest heart-to-heart, but instead, I silently hoped and wished that he'd figure out what I was thinking and that things would magically resolve themselves.  As I felt myself withdrawing, I contacted a friend's therapist and got on her schedule.  I think we only met once before I broke up with him.  He and I had just spent two hours at his apartment, eating a pasta dish I'd cooked and talking and laughing, and I broke up with him at the end of it.  In hindsight, it doesn't make sense that I let him go after all that, but at this point, it really doesn't matter.  I think he got married a couple of weeks ago, and I've moved on anyway.

Therapy was the best thing to come out of that relationship.  My therapist and I spent the first year helping me to get to know myself better and encouraging me to be proud of who I am.  Within the last year, we've worked on bigger-picture things: dating, career moves, personal challenges, house purchases, and the like.  You know how girls in movies always have that aunt that they can tell anything and who always has the best advice?  Well, I'm pretty sure my therapist is only like 35, but she's my super wise aunt.  She is the only person I can be completely honest with, and she is my advocate in all things.  Which is why, when she tells me not to break things off with "Jack," I know I'm letting my commitment issues get in the way of a good thing.

I told her the concerns I have about him, most of which I wrote about yesterday, and she listened to all of them.  And then she said, "You haven't told me anything yet that actually worries me."  Instead, she encouraged me to talk to him about some of the differences I'm worried about.  I have to clarify for him what being Catholic actually means to me.  What career ambitions mean to me.  What drinking responsibly means to me.  The good news is that he's really easy to talk to.  We've already unloaded our fair share of confessions, and the two of us have been really open to respectfully hearing out the other person: our concerns, our insecurities, our passions.  The bad news is that I'm a wimp, and I don't like putting myself out there.

She likes him because he likes me and he's respectful, and because I clearly like him.  And because his weird obsession with nutrition and his love of alternative music/philosophy/world religion and his affinity for drinking when he goes out might just be the kind of thing I need in my life.  To balance the hyper-responsible, sometimes uptight, mostly-mainstream woman that dominates my personality.  As she said, "Maybe he can help you be more like the 'vacation you' that comes out every time you travel or play volleyball in Florida."  If that's the case, he'd better watch out.  Because vacation me is awesome.

So I don't know, maybe this relationship will last yet.

Where'd You Meet?

It hasn't happened yet, but it's going to happen.  "Jack" and I haven't discussed how to respond to the question yet, but I feel like that conversation is coming soon.  Personally, I don't mind that much that we met on Tinder.  I mean, everyone who's read this blog already knows, and on top of that, it's not that big of a deal.  If we'd hooked up a bunch before we starting going out, that would be a big deal.  But it didn't happen that way, so I suppose there's not much to worry about on that front.

I think he feels a little weird about it, though.  Yesterday, I met up with his friends after a kickball tournament they played, and one of the guys (who "Jack" told about the Tinder connection) came up to me and said, and I quote, "I think it's f***ing awesome that you subbed for our team on your first Tinder date."  I must've looked shocked because he followed up with, "this guy (pointing to "Jack") told me not to say anything, but I think it's f***ing awesome."

I mean, it is pretty awesome.  Not how I'd plan a date and certainly not like any other date I've been on, but it worked kind of exceptionally well.  It gave us a third party to interact with and fill awkward silences, and it gave us something to talk about until we figured out other things to say.

"Jack" wasn't a big fan of this grand announcement by his friend, but it did start an interesting conversation about that first date.  "I was kind of intimated by the fact that you were actually good at kickball," he said.  "And then I kept worrying because you were playing right in front of me but you weren't looking back.  I thought, 'She's not looking back; she doesn't like me.'"  In truth, I tried to look back, but it felt stupid.  I didn't know how to look back casually and I couldn't think of anything to say when I did look back, so I gave up trying.  Plus, it was ridiculously cold, so I had most of my attention focused instead on jumping up and down to keep myself warm.  When we came off the field, I did my best to stay beside him and make conversation, but it took thirty to forty minutes of stilted small talk before things became more natural.

And we're not out of that awkward, getting-to-know-you phase just yet.  We went out to dinner Friday night at an Ethiopian restaurant, and there was one point when we talked about the etiquette of keeping your elbows on the table because I didn't know what else to say, and silence felt lazy.  We're still getting comfortable with each other physically, too.  We've started greeting with a kiss, but there are times when he puts his arm around me and it's weird so he stops, or I go to kiss him and miss his mouth a little.

Meanwhile, I'm trying not to be intimidating, and he tries regularly to impress me.  We've played multiple games of pool together, and while I have no doubt that he's actually pretty good, he ends up letting his nerves get to him and he barely misses shots.  He does martial arts, too, and has tried to flip me a couple of times.  I am less excited about this.  On the flip side, I am trying not to over-impress.  I have a tendency to play the strong woman in all facets of my life, but men tend not to be too excited when you offer to try your hand at opening that water bottle he can't get open.  Or when you offer to pick him up in your car because it's more efficient that way.

I love my mother, but between her practicality and stereotypically confident and strong presence, she has not prepared me well to let men take the lead.  I generally assume that winning everything and being the strongest will impress everyone.  While this does occasionally work in general life, I have realized that it is a disastrous approach on dates.

After dinner at the Ethiopian restaurant, we went to bar and met up with a bunch of his work friends.  I didn't spend much time talking to anyone of them in particular, but they all seemed pretty nice.  With the exception of one guy who I think was trying to seem cool.  Alternatively, he may just be an idiot that drinks too much and likes to put people down, but I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt.  Everyone else was friendly and engaging, and seeing him interact with people he works with gave me a better sense of what he's like when I'm not around.

The biggest take-away for me from the night, though, was the realization that while I have met most of his friends, he has met none of mine.  Not a single one.  Part of this is a conscious decision.  One segment of my friend group also knows his mother, and I don't really want it getting back to her just yet.  Part of it is only somewhat conscious.  I don't know how serious this is going to get (if it ever gets serious), and I'm weighing the costs and benefits of introducing him to a group of people whose opinion and friendship means a great deal to me.  Introducing "Jack" to my friends means identifying him as a viable choice for a boyfriend, and I'm still nervous about our differences.  It's been fun, but how serious can I get with a guy that's still working out what he wants to do with his life, drinks a lot, views religion in a completely different light than I do, and is generally functioning at a different level of maturity than me?

Tomorrow, I'm meeting up with a very wise friend of mine who always has good advice in this department.  I'm hoping she can help me shed some light on where to go from here.

And for those of you interested in the never-ending saga that is my homeowner status, my tenants are considering moving out to avoid the inconvenience of construction (I'm okay with this), new problems arise every week (not so keen on this), and it looks like I'm going to be house-poor for a while (still very uncomfortable with this feeling).  Retirement contributions might be on hold this year, and I'm cutting back on personal expenses as much as possible.  The silver lining to all of this is that when the house is finally done, it's going to be beautiful and wonderful to live in.

Also, today marks 11 days until my birthday.  It will be my 29th birthday, my final year in the third decade of my life.  I'm pretty conflicted about the whole thing.  On the one hand, I hear that the thirties aren't bad: you know yourself better, and you know what you want.  On the other hand, I'm not quite ready to let go of the freedom of my twenties, or the amount of time I currently have before I need to make some real decisions about my personal life (marriage, children, etc.).  Fortunately or unfortunately, time will pass whether or not I like it.  I may as well embrace the slow march toward age (and wisdom, I hope).  I hear that optimistic people are happier, anyway.

He Likes Me, He Likes Me Not

He likes me.

It's a weird feeling, being liked--romantically-speaking, that is.  I'm so used to flakes and douche bags who care more about their schedules and themselves than me that it almost shocks me when a man wants to spend his entire afternoon with me.  When he wants to see me one evening and get breakfast the next day.  When he asks when my birthday is, and then pauses and looks away for a second, as though trying to commit it to memory.

I saw him again Friday night.  We played putt-putt in City Park (I won by a lot) and then walked over to a  bar and played pool (he won by a little).  In the meantime, we talked about life and work and religion and family.  And when we got back to my house, he hugged me and told me that he liked me.  I realize that that sounds really corny, but as Kate Winslet says in The Holiday, "I'm looking for corny in my life."

It's the first time in almost eight years that I've heard "I like you" without a "but" following it.  Part of that is my fault; I like to go for guys who are "carefree" and unattached, both of which are euphemisms for "won't give a damn about me" and "will tell me I'm pretty and then not call for a week."  And that shit will mess a girl up.  I find my past bad experiences already affecting my not-quite-relationship.  I find myself focusing on all of the things that distinguish us, stacking them fact by fact, as though building an emotional brick wall.  He's a vegetarian.  He's not a Christian.  He smokes on occasion.  He works nights.  He's a child of divorce.  And I wonder, each time I hear something new and different from me, if I shouldn't just cut it off now.  Before we fight over his smoking habits.  Before we argue over whether or not God is God.  Before I start to resent the fact that he won't eat anything I know how to cook.

I know it's kind of crazy.  Not only is it impossible for me to end up with someone exactly like me, but it's impossible that that would be a pleasant experience anyway (there do not need to be two of me).  And it's crazy to worry about all of our differences now, only two weeks in.  Maybe we won't argue over religion.  Maybe I'll learn how to cook vegetarian dishes and save my chicken fajita soup and barbecue pork for meals when he's not around.  And the truth is, we're already learning about each other and adjusting.  He promised not to smoke around me.  I'm already keeping his off-nights as free as I can.

On top of that, we have a lot in common.  We're both kind of wusses (we don't like scary movies or roller coasters).  We're both athletic.  We're both from New Orleans.  We've both had our awkward phases and managed to survive them.  We both like outdoorsy things and traveling.  We both like listening to live music and watching movies and reading.  We both like each other.

In the end, only time will tell how things play out.  Sure, there's a significant chance that things will end, and we'll both get hurt.  But that's the chance you take, right?

For the time being, I'm going to force myself to live in the moment.  I'm just going to enjoy the experience.  I mean, he likes me.  What's not to like about that?

Happy Writing

There's a reason why most great writers were miserable human beings, and at least if we're speaking about Great American Literature, why most great writing is pretty damn depressing.  It's really hard to write well about happy things.  In fact, I remember listening to an NPR interview earlier this fall with a songwriter who said that in order to ready himself to compose a song, he has to first settle into a melancholic mood.  For most people, writing usually comes from a place of confusion, sadness, or anger.  The same is true for me.  A couple of days ago, I tried to write a blog post about my date on Friday (which went pretty well, as you might be able to infer), and the sentences that came out of my fingers were terrible.  Juvenile at best.  Literally, I feel like a twelve year old girl when I try to write about something great that happened to me, especially when it's related to the male species.

Dear diary,

Today a boy held my hand.  Eek!  I wonder if this means he'll kiss me soon.  Maybe I should practice on my mirror, like my older sister told me to.

Just kidding, he already kissed me.  Also, I have no older sister.  And as the oldest sister, I would never encourage using a mirror for that sort of thing.  I would recommend the back of your hand, right behind the webbing between your thumb and index finger.  It's warmer and also more life-like.  Personally, though, I prefer to practice on men.

As I said before, the date on Friday with "Jack" went really well.  The movie was weird, but good fodder for conversation later on, and when we went out to Finns afterwards to get a drink and talk more, we ran into some of his friends.  This gave me a significantly better sense of him as a person and as a date.  Not only did he not ignore me in favor of his friends (100 points), he also didn't turn into a douche bag trying to show off how manly he is (1000 points).  In fact, he sat beside me the whole time and told me interesting and vulnerable stories about why he became a vegetarian and how he got into Tibetan meditation.  For all of you who have met any guys I've ever been out with, this is very unlike my usual type, which I consider to be a good thing, since I tend to go for flakes and douchebags.

Yesterday he called me (again, on the phone!), and we talked for a little while about dried tears and coconut oil (long story) before settling on Cafe Minh as our lunch date locale for today.  Before hanging up, we pretended to set a time earlier than the actual meeting time (him: 12:00, me: 12:13) so that neither of us would be late.

I got there at 12:21.  In my defense, I didn't realize that parking on Canal Street in Mid City is so hard, and so despite arriving to the general location on time, I had to drive around a while in order to find an open space.  Nonetheless, I felt terrible.  When I got into the restaurant, he was in the bathroom, and I had to wait.  Serves me right.

Lunch was really delicious (I got a pork Banh Mi sandwich.  He got some tofu thing), and afterwards, we took a walk down the street, which led us to the cemeteries and mausoleum at the end of Canal.  Which I'd never been to despite my twenty plus years in New Orleans.  He hadn't either.

Don't worry, we didn't make out in the cemeteries.  We thought about it, and then we decided that in addition to likely being disrespectful to the dead, it was probably bad luck.  So we just walked around and talked.

He did hold my hand at one point, which I was pleasantly surprised by because it was only our third date.  While sex on the third date seems to be a common landmark in American relations (didn't happen), for a lot of people, hand-holding doesn't become part of the equation for a while.  It's kind of an intimate gesture, I guess.  Anyway, he reached for my hand early on, and then later, I initiated more hand-holding.  Our hands were kind of sweaty both times, but we held on anyway.  Maybe when we're less nervous around each other, our hands will be less sweaty.  Or maybe we'll start wearing gloves.

A little while after we parted, he texted me to thank me for lunch (I paid this time because I'm weird about the whole who-pays thing).  I vacillated on how to respond in a way that (a) was cool and casual, (b) indicated that I wanted to see him when he was off next, and (c) was cool and casual.  I settled for a text sandwich, following the very format I just described.  So I typed:

You're welcome!  Maybe we can hang out on Friday, if you're not busy.  Have a great time with your family tomorrow!

And then I died a small death because I am insecure enough that I assume men have other, better things to do than hang out with me, and am therefore terrified to put myself out there.

A couple of days ago, my roommate and I went out to breakfast/lunch together on a whim (it was lunch time but we ate breakfast food), and during our conversation over omelets and crawfish, we ended up talking about a website called Barking Up the Wrong Tree (bakadesuyo.com), which has science-based posts about a wide variety of things.  Upon returning home, I found the website and read their article on flirting.  It states that eye contact, smiling, and touching are the three most effective tools for flirtation, and that you have to go out of your way to make eye contact or smile for a longer period of time than for many of us is normally comfortable.  In other words, you have to be kind of obvious when you flirt.  This is, obviously, why I am a terrible flirt.  I make eye contact and hope that the other person will look at the same time.  But on the rare occasion that they actually do, I tend to look away quickly before my cheeks turn a solid shade of pink.  The problem with being obvious about flirting is that you're obviously flirting and therefore obviously setting yourself up for potential rejection.  Of course, as we've established before in this blog, you can't win if you don't play the game.


Oh wait, he just texted me back!

Yeah, I'd like that.  I'll call you Friday afternoon.

The Mental Games (Know Your Role)

This game is 70% mental and only 30% physical.  You can't let stuff get to you.  Everybody gets frustrated, but you've got to take a deep breath, recover, and focus.  I was playing a game with a guy recently, one of the kids I teach, and he kept hitting the ball in the net.  I...

This is what my coach was saying as I was standing on the court with two other players, willing the tears welling up in my eyes not to fall.  I was frustrated, and I was angry, and my coach had been telling me over and over to move and square up with the ball, but I was always a step or two away from where I needed to be, and it was wearing on me.

I'm frustrated, and I don't handle frustration well, I told him before he began his speech.

I was passing at the time and consistently bumping it too far above the setter's head, but I wasn't mad about the passing.  I was frustrated with setting, and it was creeping into everything I was doing by this point.

I've been training with my coach for the last four months, and my hand sets are still just as bad as they were before.  I have made huge leaps and gains in everything else, but this one important skill continues to evade me.  The worst part, the thing that bothered me most, was that we hadn't been spending any time on it during training.  How in the hell am I supposed to get better at this skill if I never get any reps or instruction in it?


...So let it go and give me everything you've got.  I was still simultaneously tearing up and scowling when he ended his speech with this line, but I managed to get it together long enough to finish out the drill.

I brought him money to pay him, and he stopped me.  Are you okay?  Is something going on? he asked.

I'm just mad because I'm a terrible hand setter.  I can't seem to get the hang of it, I said.

So we sat down, and he told me straight up: You're not a setter.  You're a hitter and a blocker.  You need to focus on your offensive strategy: your hits,  your shots, and your court IQ.  You don't need to be a good setter.  You can incorporate that into your game slowly.

We talked about it for a little while longer, and I felt better.  A lot better.  See, I keep forgetting that--despite being good at a lot of things--I am not ever going to be good at everything.  I think I know it deep down, but I'm still haunted by that horrible, well-intentioned saying we used to hear all the time as kids: "You can be whatever you want to be.  You can do whatever you put your mind to."  In a sense, it's true.  If I really put in the time, I could be at least a halfway decent setter.  But why?  Why take away from time I could be spending working on passing and hitting and blocking?

It reminds me of a training that I did with the Archdiocese of New Orleans for extraordinary ministers of the eucharist (also known as people who give communion).  The training was four hours long, which I thought upfront was a ridiculous amount of time to spend at church just to learn how to say "The Body of Christ" and place a wafer in someone's hands.  But instead of spending four hours practicing a simple gesture, we spent most of that time talking about the doctrine behind communion, as well as what it means to be a minister.  And one of the big takeaways that the priest focused on was: Respect your role.

Not Respect your role like be grateful for it or something, but in the sense that as ministers, we have one specific job, and we need to do that one job well.  We need to leave the other jobs for the other ministers who are meant to do them.  I loved this.  It runs counter to most of what we experience in life, where the ability to multi-task is an advertised skill and being able to wear many hats is an expectation.  Some may interpret the point as a ploy to keep people down or exert undue authority, but the fact of the matter is, we do one thing better than we do ten things.  And in a church that considers mindfulness and meditative prayer highly valuable, and which aims to help people refocus on the essentials of life, it seems only right that we should be expected to contribute one role and to contribute it well.

So, I'm not a setter.  I'm letting go that piece of the game, and I'm letting others more equipped for the job take over.  I will step in when needed, and I will probably bump set the whole time so I don't double everything and lose all the points, but I won't let it get me down.  Yes, I still envy the people who can make the ball float perfectly through the air to exactly the right location, but I will have to keep envying them.  Nobody ever said jealousy got you what you wanted.


Before I close this post, I want to add a prayer that I found inside the packet given to us at ministry training.  I was surprised that I'd never heard it before, or that I didn't remember it, but I read it for the first time the day after I closed on my house, and it seemed to fit into my life perfectly at that moment (and continues to feel that way, even as I read it again now).  I hope you get something out of it, too.

My Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
Nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think that I am following
your will does not mean that I am actually doing so.

But I believe that the desire to please you
does in fact please you.
And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything
apart from that desire.
And I know that if I do this,
you will lead me by the right road
though I may know nothing about it.

Therefore I will trust you always
though I may seem to be lost
and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for you are ever with me,
and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
-Thomas Merton

Vacation is Underrated

One more day of work before Thanksgiving break.  I can't wait.  It makes me think back to when I was a naive college student just beginning my studies in the education school, at which point I sincerely thought that teacher breaks were a pleasant but unnecessary part of the job.  Ha!  Had I only known the heartache that is the fall stretch or the sudden increase in gravity that happens every year on the first morning back after winter break (keeping me in bed, of course), I may never have finished out my years in the Curry School of Ed.  They tell you teaching is hard the way a doctor tells you a shot will sting a little.  It doesn't matter how many times they say it, it's not real until you're passing out in one of their exam rooms and nurses are swarming you with water and cool towels to try and get color back into your face.  Not that I know what that's like.

As many of you have heard, the house is officially mine now, and the reality of homeownership is beginning to sink in.  This week, I wrote the largest check I've ever written in all my life (times like 10 or 15).  I've also stood outside of my house every single day this week just admiring this bit of mine.  The way my neighbor used to admire his rose bushes with a glass of wine every evening.  The way I'd stand outside of my parents' house my fourth year of college and admire my first car, a 5-speed manual, back when I didn't know how to drive stick shift.  With love and an overwhelming desire to give it back.

My premise for today's visit to the house was to make sure that the contractor had picked up the spare key I left by the back door last night, so he'd have access to the bathroom.  I recognize that putting a key in an envelope next to the door it opens is probably a fairly unsafe and potentially stupid thing to do, but I figured that no one would bother trying to hazard their way past the leaning metal fence and strewn trinkets on the side of the house.  They would likely get tetanus from an exposed chain link, and all they'd be able to do inside the house is wash off the wound.  There is nothing of value in that house right now, unless they were planning on stealing a shower curtain or the refrigerator.  Good luck with that.

Anyway, as I stood outside of the house this evening, hoping my tenants hadn't noticed this weird daily ritual, I began to notice things I hadn't before and began to dream dreams.  Of the Home Depot variety, that is.  Wouldn't it be nice if I had a screen porch?  If there was a shed in the backyard?  If the siding was repaired and painted?  If I added soundproofing to the walls inside?  If I got one of those cool fans (haha, get it?) whose blades retract every time you turn it off?  I suppose that's one of the upsides of getting a fixer-upper.  On the one hand, there's always something.  On the other hand, there's always something.

My Tinder life has been slightly less active this week.  I find myself apathetically left-swiping most of the people that show up, and the conversations feel a little forced.  I'm not sure why, but I imagine that this app fatigue has something to do with the increase in scheduled activities and my various new adult responsibilities.  Also, I think I'm still a little pissed that a guy I was supposed to meet up with last weekend went completely dark on me 15 hours after convincing me to get drinks with him.  We set a time, we made a plan, and we said "See you then."  Then the day of the date, he didn't respond to any of my texts.  Almost a week later, I still haven't heard from him.  I also haven't tried to contact him...it's his loss, after all.  I can't help thinking that maybe I'd been catfished and the other person felt bad.  Maybe I could be on that MTV show!  My little sister would be so proud...

I do have a date this weekend, though, with the guy I went on that kickball date with last week (the one I made out with in the Shamrock parking lot, "Jack").  He texted me on Sunday (does this mean he abides by that stupid 3-day rule?) to ask how my weekend had been thus far.  We exchanged a few more texts back and forth before he wrote: Well, I'll give you a call later this week and see what your schedule is like.

And then, get this, he called me.  Like, on a phone.  He didn't facebook me, or email me, or text me.  He actually dialed my phone number and then proceeded to have a 25 minute conversation with me about horror movies, cable, work, and family.  We decided, based on our conversation, to go to the movies tomorrow and see Birdman.  I feel that my want-to-seem-intelligent side was the determining factor in deciding which movie to watch, despite the fact I really probably would like something less critically-acclaimed better.  But I didn't want to seem like a dolt on the second date.

I'm kind of excited about the date.  I mean, I'm trying to be very reserved in my excitement.  After all, how much do I know about this guy?  Maybe kickball was a great first date, but what if he turns out to be a dud?  What if the things that seem endearing now are actually red flags?  And what were we thinking, choosing a movie as a second date?  You know what happens between two people during a movie?  Absolutely nothing.  No talking.  No flirting.  No endless discovery of mutual friends (because that's what happens when you're both from New Orleans).  Maybe we share popcorn.  Maybe our hands brush against each other at one point and there's the briefest of eye contact (which is worthless anyway because it's dark).  In movies, interacting is actually literally frowned upon.  People frown at you.  And there are numerous ads before the movie begins telling you not to interact with other people because it bothers everybody else.  Sure, the movie will give us something to talk about if we decide to get a drink afterwards, but is it worth it?  I guess we'll find out.

Also, a cute side note.  I checked, and kickball guy hasn't checked his Tinder account since the day he asked me to play kickball.  I'm either that great, or Tinder hasn't been working out for him.  I suppose neither are bad news for me.

Saturday drinks guy ("Sean") turned out to be kind of a bust.  He was very nice, and I enjoyed talking to him, but in the way that I enjoy talking to pretty much any new person I meet.  It was friendly, and I'm glad I went, but I just wasn't feeling it beyond that.  Plus, and I hate to be a Tinder stereotype when I say this, he's short.  Like, a good few inches shorter than me.  And as much as I have dated and appreciated attractive shorter men in the past, I'm getting kind of tired of feeling like a giant.  So, I think I'll stick with guys at least my height from this point forward.

One of the other reasons I think I'm getting Tinder fatigue is because I'm having a hard time figuring out how to set up dates, knowing that my schedule doesn't give me a whole lot of time for cavorting with potential suitors.  This upcoming week, I have a date Friday night, volleyball on Saturday, a party Saturday night, volleyball on Sunday, drinks with coworkers Sunday night, a date Monday night (maybe, different guy), and a host of family activities and house-related phone calls over the course of the week.  I'm also trying to fit in an extra volleyball training session while I'm off.  Basically, I'm returning to the good old days of wearing myself out by doing way too much all the time.  Hopefully it won't last too much longer, and I can get back to reading, playing piano, and watching TV until bedtime every single night.  Maybe I can even do it in my own little piece of mine by the bayou before Mardi Gras hits.  Start brainstorming your house-warming gifts!

This Would Only Be Better If It Were My Birthday

This has been an exhausting but equally awesome week.  I don't know how to reconcile the extreme tiredness and stress of it all with the number of smiles that have graced my face, but it doesn't really matter.  Joy is welcome at every turn.

This week, I got to do some of my favorite things:

1. Hang out with kids

2. Make out by my car

3. Play kickball

4. Eat roasted marshmallows

5. Read a Malcolm Gladwell book

6. Invest in Mid City

7. Celebrate someone's birthday


Last weekend, I spent four days and four nights in the woods on the north shore with 25 fifth graders and six parents.  We took part in a science education program called Sunship Earth.  The kids absolutely loved it.  They came nervous (at least one cried), and at the end, those same kids asked if we could miss the bus and stay longer.  They laughed, they learned, they sat around a campfire, and I got to make really bad puns with them over dinner.  Of course, I also missed a weekend off, which technically means that I worked twelve days in a row.  So despite sneaking off into the woods to read at certain points, and sneaking off into the bunkhouse to get an extra nap at other points, I returned home Tuesday completely obliterated.  I went to bed around 7:45pm and slept until 6am Wednesday morning, when my alarm went off.

At school a couple of hours later, you could see it in the faces of the students in my homeroom: they were exhausted, too.  Before they went to their first class, I gave them the option to spend ten minutes talking quietly at their table or reading silently.  Not a single child talked.  Some read.  Some stared at the wall.  This is a class of children who never stop talking, not even when there are other people talking to them at the same time.  But not one of us could sustain the energy to have a conversation that first morning back.  It's the quietest my classroom has ever been with students in it.

I've spent the last couple of days feverishly grading, writing progress reports, and creating lesson plans to get myself back on track.   Between Wednesday morning and this afternoon, I graded 120+ assessments and wrote 150 progress reports.  That doesn't count regular teaching or paperwork.  I'm not sure how I made it in time to hand out the reports today at conferences, but I'm just really, really glad to have it be the weekend already.  It also helps knowing that Thanksgiving break is only a week away.  I think I can I think I can.



I closed on my house today.  After two weeks of uncertainty and hundreds of emails/texts/phone calls, I finally got to sign a ton of papers and, along with the keys to a fixer-upper double shotgun in my favorite neighborhood (mid city, duh), I also received a massive amount of debt and responsibility.  Yay adulthood!

Don't get me wrong, I'm glad I did it.  In addition to these daunting adult burdens, I also now get to invest in a real way in an area that I love.  I get to to avoid dealing with terrible-to-mediocre landlords and their penny-pinching.  And I get to be able to fix things in my house that I don't like.  That's right.  If I don't like the cabinets or the wall color, I can change them.  Well, maybe not afford to change them.  But I'm legally allowed to.



The remainder of my energy this past week has been focused on Tinder.  For all of you wondering what Tinder is like now that I've been on it for a week, the answer is that it is a hilarious, highly addictive game of Hot-or-Not coupled with text-like chatting with strangers.  I recognize that may not sound appealing to some people, but in my mind, it combines two beloved pastimes: looking at attractive people, and talking to attractive strangers.  It's also a ridiculously great way to waste time.   Can't sleep?  Tinder.  Nothing good on TV?  Tinder.  Having a boring conversation?  Tinder.  (Okay, maybe not that.)  I have spent an embarrassing amount of time on the app in the last ten days, and I'm only now starting to slow down on the whole swipe-left/swipe-right thing.  I've been a little too busy recently with house and work stuff to swipe swipe swipe swipe swipe damn, where's the unswipe? swipe swipe.

Tinder poses an interesting ethical dilemma for me, though, as a female that considers herself strictly monogamous.  Not in the sense of serial monogamy; if anything, I'm a consistently single person.  Instead, I consider myself monogamous in the sense that when I'm involved with someone, even if we're just talking or it's a first date, I tend to devote all or most of my romantic energy in that one direction.  Tinder doesn't work that way.  At any given moment, you could be chatting with three, four, ten different guys.  Sometimes I forget their names.  Sometimes I mix up who really likes dogs, who works in the film industry, and who's from Texas.  It can be kind of overwhelming, to be honest.

Last night, I went on a sort-of-date with a guy that I'd talked to on Tinder the week before.  We'll call him Jack.  During our online conversation, Jack and I figured out that we grew up in the same part of the city, went to school down the street from each other, and had multiple friends in common.  He invited me to play kickball with his team, and benefiting from the very low expectations men have of women in kickball, I earned an invitation to play on the team in the future.  I also earned a make out in the parking lot at the bar we went to afterwards.  I have not yet earned an invitation to see him again, but he did text me later to say he had a great time and was glad I came.  I'm kind of dumb when it comes to men, though.  I have no idea if his text is a face value statement (I like you) or a blow off (It was nice kissing you but no thanks).  I guess we'll see.

At the same time, I've been texting another guy--also from the metropolitan New Orleans area, also from Tinder.  We'll call him Sean.  From our text conversations, Sean seems to be honest and charitable and funny with a healthy dose of nerdy.  We also have friends in common.  I'm having drinks with him tomorrow evening, and I'm interested to see how the date turns out.  I had absolutely no expectations of "Jack" last night, and I was surprised by how much I enjoyed myself.  I have pretty low expectations for tomorrow night, but this time, I'm a little nervous.

What worries me most about tomorrow is not the date itself.  It's my emotional reaction to going out with two separate guys over the course of three days.  Can I juggle more than one man?  I feel like I'm cheating on someone, even though they're first dates and at worst lead to some innocent PDA.  On the other hand, it's kind of empowering.  I get now why some men hop from girl to girl.  It's kind of thrilling being wanted by more than one person.  Egotistical, maybe, or pathetic, but thrilling all the same.

This man-juggling also includes multiple other guys that I haven't set up dates with yet.  One of whom wants to get drinks on Monday or Tuesday.  Another who asked me to dinner next weekend.   Another still who wants to know what kind of music I like.  As I communicate with all of these men, Tinder poses a judgment challenge for me as well: which of these guys is actually interested in getting a drink and seeing where things go, and which of them is interested in, you know, more.  Some of the men on Tinder are very upfront about their expectations.  I have made a point to message all of the people I match with (because otherwise, what's the point?).  In one particular case, grasping for something to say about his pictures, I messaged one man: "You seem feisty.  Is that a fair assumption?"  He responded that he was a feisty f***er.  As you can imagine, my face turned bright red, and I immediately unmatched him.  I have been called many things in my lifetime, but comfortable with overtly sexual talk is not one of them.  Looking back, I realize that I set myself up for this sort of response; I'm still uncomfortable with it.

The judgment challenge comes into play during the swiping part of the Tinder game, too.  As I look at a man's pictures and blurb, I routinely ask myself: Am I attracted to him?  And then, Does he seem like a douchebag?  Douchebags generally get left-swiped (rejected), while non-douches pass on to the next round of inspection.  Does he have interesting things to say?  Do we have things in common?  Can he keep the conversation going?  Some guys stop responding, disqualifying themselves from the running, and I stop responding to others who seem to have nothing to say.

While Tinder could very well be a viable dating site, my favorite thing about it is that it does not take itself seriously.  It literally calls itself a game.  This takes some of the pressure off.  I don't feel the need to get disappointed or scour someone's background to see if he could be my soul mate.  If he can sustain an hour or two of interesting conversation, then it's worth it to me.  Sometimes, you gotta do things in life for the stories you'll get to tell later.  I think this is one of those times.

I'm a homeowner. It's kind of terrifying.

Swipe Right If You're With Me

I realized yesterday that all of my recent posts have been about how stressful and terrible buying a house is.  In fact, I'm pretty sure all of my posts this month have been able that.  Well, that and my apparent fascination with twenty-three year old men.  But I digress.

Last night I was texting a friend of mine who had also had a pretty shitty week, and we determined that more fun is needed in our lives.  Frivolity and whatnot.  This lined up spectacularly with the fact that today was a professional development day, and therefore no children would be taught and I would get to wear jeans and curse in the hallways.  Unfortunately, I made the mistake of treating today like a vacation day, and therefore ate too much chocolate and watched too much TV last night.  Which gave me a headache.  Which required Excedrin migraine.  Which has caffeine.  Which kept me up half the night.

Somewhere around 11:30pm, I gave up on ever actually falling asleep, got out of bed, and searched for diversions.  I read two chapters of Malcom Gladwell's David and Goliath, scrolled through Facebook, checked my email, and joined Tinder.

Yes, I am aware that Tinder is the slut of the online dating squad.  The format alone reinforces that reputation: lots of pictures, very few words.  But I couldn't sleep, so I thought it might be fun to swipe through hundreds of photos of more (or less) attractive men in the New Orleans area in the middle of the night just for kicks.  Looking back, this was a terrible idea on so many levels.  The screen brightness just made me more awake, I'm pretty sure I have carpal tunnel in my thumb now from all the swiping, and I don't think late-night perusal on a site known for hook-ups probably sends the right signals.  Well, I'm not really trying to send any signals, but I'm definitely not trying to send those kinds of signals.

However, I will admit that it was intensely fascinating/entertaining seeing what people choose to put on their profiles.  For example, "adventure" has got to be the most-used word on the site, and selfie has to be the most prevalent picture format.  There are also lots of pictures of men with dogs.  Men traveling.  Men with women (are you trying to preemptively make people jealous?).  Men with fish.  Lots of men with fish.  So many men with fish.

I also found that the number of attractive men on the site was significantly higher than on any other dating site that I've seen.  I'm pretty sure that this positive correlation between Tinder profiles and attractiveness suggests that a large percentage of attractive single men in this city are not interested in settling down (well, not all of them are single), but that's an in-depth social experiment for another day.  Of course, it wouldn't be the first time I'd heard it suggested.  A woman at a Catholic function here in the city once told me that her brother wanted her to move to Texas because men in New Orleans are players.  She'd never find a husband here, he'd said.  I think I might have accidentally scoffed out loud.  Texas?  "Players"?  But maybe she was right.

(As a side note, if you want to read something hilarious, check out the posts on the meaning of the word "player" on UrbanDictionary.com.  These are not definitions.  These are angry women.  And they are awesome.  This one is my favorite:

A male who is skilled at manipulating ("playing") others, and especially at seducing women by pretending to care about them, when in reality they are only interested in sex. Possibly derived from the phrases "play him for a fool", or "play him like a violin." The term was popularized by hip-hop culture, but was commonly recognized among urban American blacks by the 1970s. 

A certain class of low-rent, slack-jawed f***ups has decided that backstabbing and misogyny are totally radical, so the word is sometimes used as a compliment or term of endearment between male friends, as in the greeting "what's up, player?".

Gina thought she had found the love of her life when she met Sean, but after she found out he had slept with three of her best friends, she realized that he was nothing but a player.)


My favorite Tinder discovery, though, actually came this afternoon when "Pierre, 29" showed up on my screen.  Like Pierre Thomas, New Orleans Saints running back.  I stared at the screen, frozen.  And then I laughed.  And then I came up with multiple theories/thoughts on the subject:
1. Pierre Thomas is a real human being.  Real human beings sometimes use Tinder.  Maybe he really uses Tinder.
2. Someone created a false Facebook account for Pierre Thomas and creepily added pictures of him, his friends, and his dog.
3. Andrea Williams is going to sign up for Tinder as soon as she reads this.
4. "Pierre, 29" has not signed into Tinder since the beginning of October.  Maybe he found a nice girl.  Maybe he gave up on the site.  Maybe Sean Payton told him to stop f***ing around on the internet and run the damn ball.  We are only 4-4, Pierre!  Do you want another Superbowl ring or not?

In sum, Tinder is serving its purpose well.  It has made me laugh.  It has given me the opportunity to mindlessly waste time.  It has let me people-watch via the internet.  I don't expect that it will amount to anything on the actually-dating-people front, but I didn't really join for that.  Swipe right if you're with me.


PS. In case you were wondering, I did swipe right on Pierre Thomas.  I mean, come on.  It's Pierre Thomas.

Why's It Gotta Be So Hard?

That's what she said?

The past couple of days, my life has felt like an episode of The Office.  Not like final season of The Office, when everyone gets their shit together.  We're talking Season 3 level of incompetency, miscommunication, and confusion, when Dunder Mifflin Scranton wasn't sure if they were going to be shut down or not, and Michael Scott was saying all the wrong things and generally f***ing stuff up.  My lender is without a doubt the Michael Scott in this equation.  (Personally, I'd like to be Pam.  Not because I like her.  Just because she gets Jim.  Who doesn't want to be with John Krasinski?)

Let these texts and emails speak for themselves:

Title Company, Wed Oct 29 via email
"Good afternoon, we're tentatively scheduling the closing for this Friday. Was there a specific time that would be convenient for everyone?"

[We eventually agree on 1pm, but then realize that no one talked to my realtor, so then we have to reschedule for 2:30pm]

Title Company, Wed Oct 29 (later in the day) via email
"Great!  I'll forward a settlement statement for review tomorrow."

Me, Fri Oct 31 (am) via email
"Hi, I never received a settlement statement for review yesterday.  Also, where are we meeting at 2:30?"

Title Company, Fri Oct 31 (am) via email
"Rebekah, I reached out to the lender again this morning.  I still don't have instructions to prepare a settlement statement.  As soon as I receive them, I will begin working on it for you.  Our office is at..."

[My realtor and I go to the house for a final walk through.  Afterwards, we call the lender.  She has no concrete information to give us.  So, I go home and wait.]

Title Company, Fri Oct 31 (pm) via email
"Good afternoon, everyone.  I apologize for the last minute change, but it doesn't look like we'll be getting the package in time for the 2:30 closing.   Would it at all be possible for everyone to come in at 4pm?  Sorry again, and please let me know."

My Realtor, Fri Oct 31 (pm) via email
"I can do 4, but will you be able to fund the loan?  Did the lender get the clear to close?"

Title Company, Fri Oct 31 (pm) via email
"Not yet.  That is why we were requested to push it back.  I believe the wire is initiated when we receive instructions."

Lender to me, Fri Oct 31 (pm), via text
"I'm working on getting this to close today.  Please know that I'm doing everything I can!! Thx"

[more back and forth emails that I'm too frustrated to even include...mostly from my realtor fussing at the title company and lender (Thank God for her!)]

Me to lender, Fri Oct 31 (around 3:30pm), via text
"Is it going to happen today?  We're only 30 minutes from when we're supposed to close."

Lender to me, Fri Oct 31 (around 3:35pm), via text
"No.  I'm sorry!  The appraiser sent them something that is pretty confusing.  Gurtler [the engineers who inspected the property] is working now on getting foundation report clarified.  Realtor is helping to get your power of attorney set up for Monday."

Lender to all, Fri Oct 31 (around 3:35pm), via email
"We cannot close today.  I am working on a Monday closing now.  Apologies to all parties.  The appraiser messed up."

Lender, Today (am) via email
"Rebekah, I'm very upset that I could not get this done for you this way.  Unbeknownst to me, the appraiser gave my lender the structural report from your inspection.  The report is something that no one is privy to normally except you and the agents.  The lender has requested a new report stating that the foundation is sound or a report from the present structural engineer stating the same.  I have requested this, but I am not hopeful that they will do it.
Our options are limited at this point.  We can do the renovation loan as quickly as possible, you can pay for a new appraisal which doesn't mention the foundation (there is no certainty), or you can pay cash for the property.
Please call me with any questions, or to let me know what to do, as I'm not certain when you will be out of class.  Once again, I am sorry that this did not go more smoothly, as I in no way benefit when I'm not able to close my loans."

Me, Mon Nov 3 (pm, pissed because who the f*** cares about your commission at this point) via email
"I'm not sure why I'd pay for a faulty appraisal.  Seems like someone else should absorb that cost.
As for renovation loan,  how long would it take to complete that process?  The sellers have a backup offer.  I might lose the house if it takes too long.
I'm pretty disappointed in Essential Mortgage and the way that this process has been handled.  It seems like we should've had this whole thing completed weeks ago, considering the 60 days originally given to close.  I'm not sure what to do.  I don't have that kind of cash, and I'm going to be pretty frustrated if I lose this house because your company and the appraiser you chose messed up.  Please advise."

Realtor, Mon Nov 3 (pm, trying to salvage this deal) via email
"Does Essential Mortgage have a relationship with the bank such as home bank that will house an in-house loan for a short amount of time and then y'all can refinance the loan once the structural work is done?"

Lender, Mon Nov 3 (pm, as though this isn't her fault) via email
"Let me call a friend of mine at another bank real quick.  I've spoken to the listing agent, and she says if we can give her a commitment letter, she will get us an extension."

Realtor, Mon Nov 3 (pm, pretty frustrated at this point, too) via email
"What did the bank say?  Sometimes you can use all the documents you've been preparing to close real quick?
How long would it take to close the construction loan??  Since we were going that route originally, it shouldn't take that much longer?  Can we call the president of the company like you said you did today to get it through quickly?"

Lender, Mon Nov 3 (pm, I don't know what to believe...everything from her sounds insincere to me at this point) via email
"I've called on some favors.  Waiting for answers back.  Everybody hold tight.  I'm determined to fix this for all parties."

Lender, Mon Nov 3 (pm, see comment on previous email) via email
"Okay, I just got word from my friend at another bank that they will do it.  Rebekah, I need your permission to talk to them on your behalf and send them your file."

Me, Mon Nov 3 (pm), via email
"Sure."


So, that is where we're at: "Sure."  I'm so fed up with this process right now,  and if it didn't mean starting all over again, I'd just write it off and give up.  The problem is, I'm a couple of thousand dollars deep into this now, and, if I'm being honest, I've gotten attached.  Not so much to the house--it's a good one, but nothing incredible.  Rather, I've become attached to the idea of having a house.  Of being able to paint my walls, fix up my backyard, invest in a property.  Of being able to live alone without bankrupting myself.  But I may need to resign myself to the possibility that things may not go my way.  I might have to buy a different house.  Or rent forever...in which case I'm glad my roommate and I have been sucking up to our landlady recently (we'll have to keep including nice messages and Halloween candy with our rent checks).

As always, I'll keep you posted.

How I Feel

What I Want To Do To My Mortgage Company