SNEAK PEEK #1--How To Handle Heartache

Our tumultuous love story began in Mrs. Underwood’s 4^th grade class.  By nature, I am a go-getter and an avid planner, and this was no exception when it came to finding my soulmate before all the good ones were taken.  I meticulously browsed through the school yearbook, briefly pausing over any of my prospects and heart-circling their pictures with a metallic pink gel pen.  I only focused on my fellow 4^th graders as potential suitors—I didn’t want to risk being known as the hussy who dated up, and I definitely refused to be the desperate girl who dated down—so options were a little limited. 

At the time, I probably would’ve ranked myself as a 7, easily, on the Hot R Not scale.  I hung out with the self-proclaimed popular group and I was the rising captain to the Jr. Quick Recall team.  Almost every morning, I would steal my dad’s Jhirmack hairspray that he used on his comb over to slick back my bangs into a smooth, glossy ponytail.  I never left the house without my rainbow choker that I won at a skating party, because skating parties and chokers were definitely elementary school status symbols.  I rolled my uniform skirt and wore my socks super low, despite the fact that I was well aware of our No Ankles Left Uncovered policy.  My white Oxford, while second-hand and ill-fitting, was always pristine.  I made sure not to smile a lot, because smiling was for dweebs.  Or so I told my orthodontically-challenged, nine-year old self.  I was hot. 

In retrospect, I was a dead ringer for a shorter, red-headed troll version of Macaulay Culkin.  I was probably a 3.7, max, on the scale.  Maybe even as high as a 4 on days I ditched the Don Corleone look and opted to hold my bangs back with butterfly clips.  I had pasty little nugget legs that only looked pastier and nuggetier with my thigh-high hem line and no-show Hanes.  My parents had three girls, none of whom would ever grow past 5’4” and 120 pounds into their adult lives.  Being the youngest, hand-me-downs were a quick fix to everything, and “you’ll grow into it” was my parents’ mantra.  I still support my stance that skating parties and chokers are status symbols.

Struggles of a Right-Brained Creative Stuck at a Desk Job

Desk jobs suck for everyone, I would imagine.  But I would assume even more so for every single person who sat through parent-teacher conferences every year with the same complaint: “she’s very smart, she just can’t seem to keep her damn mouth shut and stay in her seat” (I mean, I’m sure it was a bit more sugary than that, but I can’t help the way my mind decides to remember things). 

You need to have so many different things going on at once to get anything done.
It doesn’t matter how backwards that logic sounds.  If there are not dozens of things circling around you at once, you don’t know how to function.  You think in fragments.  You juggle projects like a pro because multi-tasking is how you were built to operate.  Keeping the stimulus changing by hopping from project to project helps keep what little attention span you have from becoming completely shot.  While everyone else gets things done in a linear process that sounds more torturous than water-boarding, you’re over here with a little bitta this and a little bitta that, checking e-mail, snooping on clients, entering orders.  You’re like Emeril Lagasse of your Google Chrome tabs—BAM!  Oh, this blog post looks interesting—I’ve never thought about my risk for pre-eclampsia before.  And then a few clicks later and you’re annoying the shit out of everyone with your newfound knowledge of potential pregnancy complications before you go back to what you’re actually supposed to be doing.  No matter how painstakingly mundane your job is, you manage to get it done, even if you take a roundabout way to finish it.

You literally have no idea where the last hour just went.
You blink, and all of the sudden, it’s 9:04am and you have a few papers carelessly strewn about your desk—papers that you assume you have been working on?  You look up at your computer screen and see that you’ve gotten through quite a bit of work but have no recollection of doing it, and then you fear that in all the e-mails you don’t remembering sending, you’ve just typed “all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” over and over and over again.  What is wrong with you?  How could you have just spent the last hour daydreaming about what you’re going to write about tonight and which hobby you’re going to pick up next—oh, soap making sounds fun!—and why the countless companies with creative openings haven’t come begging you to work for them after you’ve spammed them with resumes and cover letters and haikus about your professional prowess?  You spend so much of your time thinking about things that are more exciting than your desk job—like the atomic make-up of cardboard and what packing peanuts taste like and the entomology blow flies (something you’ve actually looked into when you had your “well maybe I’ll be a forensic scientist” thought)—that you completely forget that you’re stuck at your desk job.

As soon as you get back on task you forget what you were

You’re more interested in your co-workers’ lives than your work.
You linger in the kitchen while everyone grabs their morning cup of coffee.  You perk your ears to listen to the office hap.  Oh, Jenny had a falling out with her maid of honor?  You’ll have to go chat with her later and give her your guide to best friend break ups.  Chet has a rash on his foot that he thinks might be MRSA?  You might need to take a look, since you’re basically the Google Guru and WebMD personified…and then make sure to wash your hands. Thoroughly.  You plan your day around when you’re going to talk to each of them and even make cue cards in your mind about the points you want to make, just like the speech you made in 7^th grade when you ran for middle school Spirit Commissioner.  You are so invested in the emotions of others, and nothing makes you happier than when you get to offer insight and build relationships.  To you, company culture isn’t about making numbers and then going home and forgetting about everyone you spend the day with.  It’s about making connections with people and breaking down those Eggshell-hued cubicle walls.  You get pegged as the flake who slacks off and socializes too much, and you might have a reputation as the Office Gossip, but how are you supposed to get any work done when other people have interesting stories that you’re way too eager to overanalyze in your free time?

Your desk is a disaster.
People give you that look when you tell them, “oh, just put it on my desk,” as if you’re saying, “why don’t you just burn it and forget it ever existed?”  Surprisingly though, you know where everything is.  That coffee-stained pile over there?  Orders waiting on confirmation.  That stack of files using Amy Poehler’s Yes, Please as a paperweight?  Vendor profiles.  The crumpled mountain of Post-Its engulfing your phone?  All of your bubble-lettered doodles you scribbled down while you were intently listening to a very important conference call.  There is definitely a method to your mess, and if anyone were to give your cubicle an organizational makeover, you’d be lost.  No one understands how you get any work done (and most people doubt that you even do your work), but for you, there’s an art in the chaos of everything.  Your desk reflects the billions of ideas you have bouncing from synapse to synapse, dripping with raw, creative energy.  To organize that and try to make sense of it all would almost be a crime.

You take your breaks very seriously.
Sitting at a desk and staring at a computer screen for 8 hours of the day leaves you feeling more like a hostage than a productive member of your company.  Your Spotify is blaring too loudly in your headphones and the guy who sits behind you pokes his eyes over his prison cell to see you lassoing your arms above your head while dancing to Whitney Houston.  This is your “dance break” that you take religiously at 10:42 every morning.  It falls directly between “second water break” at 10:28am and “go look in the fridge to see what everyone else brought for lunch break” at 11:17.  They’re marked in your Outlook calendar, and once you’ve made a contract with Microsoft, it’s kind of unbreakable.  Most people in the office probably think you have a perpetual UTI or chronic IBS, given how many “I’m just going to run to the bathroom really quickly” excuses you give when you leave your desk.  Being whispered about as the Office Incontinent is better than risking your skin fusing to your cheap Staples chair that doesn’t even lean back and isn’t even fast enough for office races.

You use your lunch break as your passion hour.
While everyone else counts down the minutes until lunch because they’re dying to get out of the office and decompress, you’re watching the clock because it’s the hour that you devote to the hardest work of the day—your passion projects.  (First of all, I hate the phrase “passion projects,” because it sounds like it was coined by a motivational speaker trying to sell an overpriced self-help book.  But I feel in this sense, it’s the only phrase that works.)  Your lunch hour is when your brain ignites, and you think of the endless potential for this hour to propel you closer to your dream.  You write, you design, you doodle, you watch tutorials, you read, you plan, you learn something new, you Google (or Bing, I don’t discriminate) until your fingers cannot Google (or Bing, and while we’re at it, Yahoo, as well) anymore.  Doing what you love re-energizes you more than any broth bowl from Panera or Kung Pao chicken from the questionable Chinese place up the street.  You’re content with eating last night’s leftovers and possibilities for lunch.  Leftovers and possibilities.  The lunch of champions.  This hour is what gets you through the day.  This small drop in your metaphorical creative pond is where the magic begins, and you end up being kind of grateful that your desk job sucks, because without it, you wouldn’t be so motivated to sharpen your skills in order to find greener, more creative pastures.

This is for You. All of You

I had an epiphany while eating lunch in the Kroger parking lot today.  Let’s not dwell on the fact that I’m pathetic enough to eat lunch alone in my car.  There are more important things here.  Focus. 

I popped off the top of my Baconator fries I had just ordered from Wendy’s, and opened the cover of Yes Please from Kelli, a girl in my office who has decided to do a book swap with me.  I realize it’s basically a mortal sin that I haven’t read it twice already, but life gets in the way.

I was halfway through the preface, licking processed cheese goop and bacon grease off my finger, when I felt something inside me swell (no, this is not going to turn into some weird 50 Shades of Gray shit.  Just let me be flowery here).  Amy writes,

“You just dig in and you write it.  You use your body.  You lean over the computer and stretch and pace.  You write and then you cook something and then write some more.  You put your hand on your heart and feel it beating and decide if what you wrote feels true.  You do it because the doing of it is the thing.  The doing is the thing.  The talking and worrying and thinking is not the thing.  That is what I know.  Writing the book is about writing the book.”

Writing is the thing.  Writing is the thing that I’ve been writing about and writing is the thing that I’ve been talking about and writing is the thing that keeps me up at night because I never know when I’m actually going to just fucking write.  And after reading this preface, it’s like all the clouded dreams and hopes and “I wish”s have become lucid.  Stop complaining about not having enough time to write.  Stop writing something and letting your brain get in the way, just to erase it and tamp down every seemingly ludicrous idea.  Stop making excuses.  Stop worrying, “will anyone read it?”  Just. Fucking. Write.

So that’s what I’ve decided I’m going to do.  Something I’ve been promising myself and something I’ve been talking about and something I’ve been putting off until “the right time,” missing so many other right times that could’ve been writing times.

I’m going to write a book. 

And I guess since it’s out there now, I can’t take it back.  And YOU, the one reading this. YOU have dragged yourself into this.  You have, whether by accident or completely on purpose, made yourself someone to hold me accountable.  Whether you give a shit about my writing or not (if not, you can just heckle me if I don’t finish the book. I’ll deserve it for making such a bold statement and then not following through), you have become part of this process.  But I can’t let you do that without thanking you first.

Thank you.  

To everyone who keeps up or has kept up with my writing, despite many hiatuses, frequent questionable posts and undoubtedly, sometimes failure to impress. 

To people who have written me personal messages telling me that my writing has impacted them or impacted someone else they know.  Because that’s my aim.  I write to relate.  Not to be superior or demand an audience.  I write because goddamnit, there’s bound to be someone else out there who has fucked up in the ways that I have and just needs someone to say “PREEEACH.” (I apologize for using that.  I only use slang ironically.  Most of the time.)

To people who have liked and commented and shared and Tweeted and Tumblred and Whateverelsed my posts.  Your support and motivation is greater to me than you’ll ever know.  Like, I don’t think you have any idea how many times I refresh Facebook and freak out about how many people have seen it and shared it.

To the people who have been there from day one.  When I was 19 years old and decided to start some idiotic, immature blog about ridiculous and serendipitous things that happened to me.  Looking back at some of the things I wrote, I want to cringe and hide and get into a bar fight with my former self for being so, well, ridiculous.  Between switching blog names and taking long, indefinite breaks, you still read what I write.  And that’s incredible to me.  There’s too many of you to even name.  Just know that I know who you are, and I appreciate everything.

To my ex-boyfriends and past frenemies who have supplied me with endless fodder over the years.  Shout out to you.  Didn’t anyone ever warn you not to clash swords with a writer?

To my high school English teachers Kelly Kirwan and Diane Darst, who both taught me there shouldn’t be any shame in writing something if it’s honest and beautiful.  Who constantly encouraged me to write past formulaic academia and let me find my own voice.

To my high school speech coaches Daniel Hamm, Woody Zorn, Jenn Watson, Bill Thompson, and Jeff Mangum, who all embraced (and put up) with my inappropriate humor and pushed me to find the persona that I put into almost all of the essays I write.

To my college professors Bill Bettler, Kathy Barbour and Kay Stokes who let me grow into myself as a writer and saw my potential to do something with it (and didn’t mind having a drink or two with me after graduation).

To Laurie Notaro, who was my first serious writing influence.  The first person who actually made me laugh out loud while I was reading, and made me say to myself “that’s what I want to do.” (I realize Laurie Notaro will probably never read this, but thanks, homegirl.  Without you, I would be hesitant about accepting my inner Idiot Girl).

To all of my close friends who have the privilege (burden?) of talking to me on a daily basis, and who make this interesting life possible.  Your friendship has been invaluable to me.  But you already know that.

To my parents, obviously, for having me.  But on a serious note, you’ve put up with a lot of shit.  I mean, a lot.  Like, day after-eating-Chinese-food shit.  And you’ve supported me in every single move I’ve made (except for all the times I got tattoos, which I’ll forgive you for).

To my sweet, patient Pat who has had to and will have to put up with my neuroticism long into the future.  For you, I am most thankful, because I couldn’t imagine what you have to endure.

Sorry for the Oscar speech.  It seems like I’m getting ahead of myself.  Now I’ll look like a HUUUUUUGE ninny if I don’t write this book.  But I just wanted to lay all of my “thank you”s out there in advance, because honestly, without a lot of the help and support and encouragement I’ve had,  I wouldn’t have had the courage or motivation to do any of this.  So I mean it.  Thank you.

With that being said, to focus on writing this thing, I will be uploading on here a little less regularly, and the articles won’t be of much weight or very personal (think BuzzFeed lists or things of the like—maybe a few funny poems or quote lists).

I will also be deactivating my personal Facebook account to put more time toward writing—but never fear!  I will be creating a Kind Of An Adult, But Not Really page so you can keep up with any updates, send messages, all that jazz (or I could create the page and absolutely no one could “Like” it, that’d be totally cool, too).

Like Amy said, I’m off to do the thing.  But I had to say ‘thank you’ first.

Dear Applicant: It Doesn't Fucking Matter

Dear Applicant,

We figured it would be best not to use your name, because that could lead to some sort of emotional or personal connection, which we truly believe is not in your best interest at this point. We never plan to have any relationship with you, whatsoever, just so we’re clear. It’s misleading and things could get kind of messy or confusing and that would just turn into an HR nightmare. So, please, let us reiterate that we only have your best interest at heart. Please keep that in mind when you go to rate us on Yelp or if the Better Business Bureau contacts you in the future. Oh, and don’t forget to Like us on Facebook!

We are contacting you to let you know that we have received your resume and application for our open position. Unfortunately, we must inform you that you do not fit the requirements for this position. You actually didn’t meet, like, half of them, so we kind of laughed amongst ourselves before we sent your materials to the head of the department. We know you had a very valid rationale for applying, and a rebuttal for any argument that you’re not qualified for the position. Actually, we don’t know that, because we didn’t read your cover letter, which you probably slaved over and worked unnecessarily hard to make as eloquent and memorable as possible. Well, that was our bad. Sorry. I guess we’re kind of too far into this rejection letter to dig into the recycle bin and retrieve it and reevaluate your credentials, and I think our pick-up was yesterday, anyway, so it’s long gone.

Your resume was very impressive! We see that you met our first requirement: a Bachelor’s degree. Not only that, but a Master’s degree—going above and beyond, that’s what we like to see. Half the people here don’t even have a bachelor’s degree, but you know, they’ve been here forever so they’ve been grandfathered in. We also see that you graduated with honors on both occasions. You must be some kind of hoity-toity bigshot, huh, trying to show everyone up with your gleaming GPAs? Just because you had stellar grades from renowned, private institutions doesn’t mean you have an advantage, okay? Slow down, kemosabe.

We noted that you spent a semester abroad, as well. Very cultured of you. But we must stress the fact that we aren’t looking for culture; we are looking for experience. On top of studying abroad, you spent a summer in South America helping build houses for the impoverished. What a great personal accomplishment! But you have to understand that you forfeited a valuable opportunity for work experience in this field—we had to mark you down for this. It looks like you were heavily involved in campus activities and community service. Well, you know, uh, that’s great! I’m sure those will come in handy somewhere. You have listed several great internships that seem relevant to this position, but again, these were merely internships, and you couldn’t have possibly learned much from them, especially in just a semester, so we don’t really count that as ‘experience.’

For some reason, you have included ‘related coursework’ on your resume? It’s nice that you felt the need to tell us that you took upward of 10 classes that directly relate to the work this position requires, but we’re just a little confused as to why you’ve involved them in this application process. You may be a bit disillusioned if you’ve been led to believe that these make a difference. Though you think that these are tantamount to a few years’ experience, you’re wrong. There’s just no possible way that semester-long research projects, case studies, in-field simulations, work-study and senior or graduate theses could be anything like the real work you would be doing for us. The idea of it is just absurd.

We must admit that your portfolio really dazzled us. One of the most impressive we’ve seen in a while. I mean, we skimmed it, but just by the amount of big words you used and the way you organized and executed your thoughts, you seem very brilliant and serious about your work. Unfortunately, all of these pieces were accumulated while you were still in school, so technically, we can’t really count them toward your work experience. In fact, we didn’t really see much work experience on your resume at all. Just a few jobs while you were in high school, some on-campus jobs from college, a few graduate school assistantships, and a starter job just doing some clerical work here and there. You seem to have such a rich and eclectic background with your schooling and all of the opportunities you pursued in between. And you must be very bright and ambitious to have accomplished many of the things that you have. We really don’t mean to discredit any of your past endeavors, applicant, but we must be frank: it doesn’t fucking matter.

We realize that you might be a great addition to our team. But here’s the problem: you’ve never worked in this industry. See, if we give you a chance to interview, we could end up really liking you and completely recognizing that you would give our company such an advantage by offering a young, cultured and tech-savvy point of view, and we could risk compromising our archaic idea that even without the required experience, you could be just as capable as someone who has been in the game for years. If we hire you, how are we even supposed to begin explaining to everyone that our new employee doesn’t have 3+ years of work experience? From a business standpoint, that just reflects really poorly on us and could create a breach in our credibility. Work experience that is specific to this position is really the only thing that matters here. We hope you understand and respect our decision.

So please, let us reiterate: we are well aware that you could be very intelligent, with great capacity and eagerness to learn this trade quicker than many other applicants. We even see the possibility of you being a joy to have in the office and your ability to really propel our company by offering your generational perspective on things. We understand that your educational background, personal experiences, and well-rounded nature could prove to be an asset. Regardless, applicant, it doesn’t fucking matter.

Thanks so much for taking the time to send us your resume and application! It’s common practice and good for our public image to tell you that we will keep these on file in case anything pertaining to your qualifications becomes available in the future. But to be honest, your submission materials are sitting in the “to shred” pile on Angie’s desk in HR.



Have a wonderful day,



“A very inspirational Ghandi or Steve Jobs quote that no one takes too seriously.”

No Crying Over Wet Laundry

After finishing my fluffy, private-school, graduate program, I moved back home to Louisville.  I had secured my first real job and an apartment with my boyfriend, and I was ready to start adulting.  I immediately began working nights at a news station—a lonely and depressing job, most likely responsible for breeding serial killers and magicians.  Most days, I spent my mornings sleeping until 1pm and dreading the prospect of teasing another murder for the 11 o’clock news or highlighting another vigil for a child gone missing.  But on the days I dragged myself out of bed early, mainly due to the whines of a needy dog pawing at my face, begging me to play with whatever piece of clothing she got out of the dirty clothes basket, I decided it couldn’t hurt to be productive.  Work had been slowly eroding my sanity, and as I saw myself beginning to unravel, I had to find some way to reassure myself that I was still capable of functioning as an adult.

[I’ll preface this by saying that I have never been good at doing laundry.  I would drive my laundry home during college so my mother could do it for me, and when I went away to Boston and Los Angeles, I invested in strong perfume so I could spray many-a pants crotch and blouse armpit.]

On this particular morning, I had looked at the crumpled piles spread about our room.  When your co-habitant equally inept at mastering the whole “like colors” and “tumble dry” thing, laundry for two becomes more than a small household chore.  I had two and a half hours before I needed to shower and get ready to leave for work.  I had this in the hamper bag.

***

As soon as I moved home and started making my own money, it was clearly time to cut the cord.  And by cord, I mean credit card.  My parents had opened a credit card in my name and linked it to their bank account when I was a senior in high school.  “For emergencies,” they said.  Just like when they bought me a cell phone in eighth grade, “for emergencies.”  Ignoring the messaging fees to text Stefanie about my newly-purchased polyphonic ring tone to “Sugar” by Trick Daddy and Ludacris was obviously an emergency.  That definition has always been a little liberal for me.

I called my mother and let her know that I had just cut up my credit card.  Honestly, I always used it very sparingly and hadn’t used it in months, save for a few drunken Uber rides and nights when I got a little ambitious and slurringly promised all my friends: “next round is on me” (irrefutably, these events coincided more often than not).  I was more than surprised to hear that she wasn’t ecstatic that I had snipped the MomNDad Support Hotline.  “What if you have an emergency?  What if something comes up and you don’t have the money?”  Relax, mom.  I’m an adult, remember?  She also reminded me that my HSA card was about to expire, which then reminded me that I was still under the sovereignty and protection of my parents’ health insurance and planned to milk it for all it’s worth until the eve of my 26th birthday.  Okay, so I’m kind of an adult.

***

Slinging a laundry bag over my shoulder and stacking two, full baskets on top of one another, I precariously waddled across the parking lot to the laundry room in our neighborhood’s clubhouse.  I had pre-sorted everything, and even wrapped my unmentionables up in a towel to prevent any mouth-breathing creep lurking in the laundry room from taking a sniff (I’m a lady).

Our washers and dryers are card operated—not even a slot for quarters (which I’m totally fine with, because who collects change anymore, anyway).  Sometimes the connection is shoddy, so it takes a few swipes before the card is recognized and authorized, but still easier than carrying around a sack of silver.  I loaded up five of the eight washers.  One of the eight was out of order, so that makes me a bigger asshole, but it was mid-morning on a Tuesday and I was pretty sure most normal people were at work and not concerned about snagging a prime spot for the spin cycle.  I threw in a few Tide pods, swiped my card a few dozen times, and heard the water begin to fill each machine.  My work here was done.

***

At the same time my parents got me a credit card, they also thought it wise to open checking and savings accounts for me, as well.  I had just started my first job: a barista.  I came home each night with dry milk crusted into my arm hairs and I reeked of 2-day-old mop water, but I was making money.  Money that needed to be deposited somewhere to save me from cashing each check and blowing it “just because.”  Since I wasn’t quite 18 yet, I was given a custodial account, which meant my parents would be there to monitor every move and inspect each purchase, and also reap the benefits of having accounts in good standing.

Up until recently, I had used the same custodial account I originally opened.  To write rent checks.  To pay the electric bill.  To pay the water bill.  To purchase all my school supplies.  It didn’t really bother me that my parents could see my purchases (all the adult stores along I-65 preferred cash, anyway).  But now with a new job and a new life, I needed to open my own account, and probably get my own credit card.  I applied for the credit card first. I waited.

I seethed when I read the letter from PNC.  Despite my sterling credit score of 778, I was denied.  All the credit I had established and all my account activities over the past 6 years were pointless, because they were reflected on my parents.  I tore the letter up and decided I would try Chase in a few weeks.  I could survive for while without a credit card, anyway, and why start racking up more debt right away?

***

I returned to the laundry room to switch my loads to the dryers.  The complex still seemed abandoned as I scuttled across the parking lot again, wallet, keys and phone in hand.  I struggled moving all of our sopping wet clothes to the dryers.  Mainly because I had been skipping arm day for the last 6 months (and leg day, and back day, and gym day altogether), but also because whoever laid out this laundry room did not take into consideration that stacking dryers on top of one another really puts hobbits like myself at a blatant disadvantage.  I tossed in some dryer sheets, shut all the doors, and began swiping.  Swipe swipe, swipe swipe.  Swipeswipeswipe.  I knew these things were temperamental, but this was just obnoxious.  After the twelfth “DECLINED” message, I figured it had to do something with my card—probably because the several $1.50 purchases in a row sent up a red flag.  I would just call PNC, get my account unfrozen, and I’d be good to go.  12:33pm.  I definitely still had time to shower and have these dried before I had to leave at 1:45.

After waiting on hold for what seemed like an eternity, I was connected with Cheryl, who sounded like she didn’t completely hate her job and genuinely wanted to help me.

Name.  Social security number.  Birthday.  Address. Account PIN.  Recent purchases. Blood type.  Dental records.  Family medical history.

Finally.

“Um, Ms. Hines, it looks like your account has a hold on it…”
“Yes, yes I know.  Our laundry machines over in my apartment complex get crazy sometimes, and I’m doing a bunch of loads at the same time so I’m sure that caused some sort of…”
“Ms. Hines, were you in Oak Park, Michigan mid-January?”
“Um, no?  I don’t—“
“Has anyone from PNC contacted you about this recently?”
“No…”
“Your account has been marked for suspicious activity.  You did not make a $52.70 purchase at a 7/11 in Oak Park, Michigan, correct?”
“No, no, that wasn’t me.  I was just calling to hopefully get the hold taken off my account so I could finish doing my laundry because I really have to be at work soon, and I have wet clothes just sitting in here.”
“Ms. Hines, I understand.  Unfortunately, your account has been compromised and for your safety, we have to close your card and send you a new one.”

My face got hot.  I begged.  Come on, Cheryl, woman-to-woman, domestic goddess-to-domestic goddess.  Just take the hold off my account for like 3 minutes, and I promise I’ll tell you when I’m done with the dryers and you can go ahead and shut ‘er down.  I won’t tell anyone. If PNC calls asking me questions, I don’t know nothin’, didn’t see nothin’.  My voice began to crack and I could feel the tears slowly creep into the corner of my eyes, just waiting for the dam to break.  Cheryl apologized again, and repeated that Gold Star in Customer Service phrase, “I really wish there were something I could do.”

I burst into guttural sobs, my mouth flapping like a baited catfish’s—the ugly cry that is only reserved for karmic misfortunes and pet funerals.  I opened my wallet and looked at the empty slot where my credit card used to be.  “What if you have an emergency?” my mother’s voice rang in my head.  In desperation, I grabbed my HSA card—that’s linked to an account, right?!  As I swiped it, grasping for straws, the expiration date glared at me.  It was now 12:57 and my face was salty and sticky and I still needed to dry these clothes and take a shower and I was stuck on the phone with Cheryl who was trying to get information on where to send the new card, pausing to let me weep after every answer I gave.  I sunk into a corner of the room and let out a visceral wail. 

“Um, Ms. Hines, are you alright?”
“I just...ssft ssft sssft...I just have to get to work and…sssssft…I hate my job and it’s awful and I was just trying to do some laundry today…ssssssft ssft…everything is just going so wrong right now and my clothes are wet and now I don’t have a debit card…ssftssftsssssft...no, it’s not your fault Cheryl, I know, girl, I know.”  And just then, a woman cheerily walked into the laundry room to see me puddled on the floor, regaling Cheryl with the events that led up to this quarter-life crisis like she was my high school guidance counselor.  I scooped myself up and wiped my eyes, muttering some unbelievable explanation, “ugh, allergies.” 

Cheryl had gotten all the information she needed, and I headed back to my apartment to get a few baskets so I could retrieve my wet clothes and my dignity from the laundry room.  I called my boyfriend and cried.  I called my mom and cried.  I sat in the shower and cried like an angsty teenager in a John Cusack movie.  And I decided that sometimes, trying to be an adult is weird and complicated and sometimes you’ll crumble like a child who just received news that Santa isn’t real and oh by the way, we’re not you’re real parents because we kidnapped you at birth from a gas station in Hoboken. 

Wet laundry and cancelled debit cards are trivial, at most, in that grand scheme that everyone always refers to.  But subconsciously, it was more than that.  I was trying to navigate this new life and prove that I could be a certifiable adult, and I was trying more than anything to convince myself of it.  In truth, we all need that metaphorical breakdown in the communal laundry room to really move forward, right?  That moment when we confront one of the greatest fears of most 20-somethings: trying to be kind of an adult, but not really.

I'm Not A Quitter

Pin-pointing the exact moment I knew I wanted to be a writer is kind of fuzzy for me.  It’s kind of like puberty: the awareness that all these weird experiences are adding up, but you don’t fully realize it until you look down one day and your C cups are busting out of your training bra and it’s excruciatingly difficult to do any sort of physical activity without sweating profusely, making your face a most heinous battleground that your bottle of Clearasil clearly can’t cure.

While my inception story typically begins with Lisa Frank notebooks and my penchant for soap operas as a child, I think the real tale began when I was eight years old.  As a mandatory assignment for third graders at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel, we had to participate in the city’s Young Authors competition.  While other students complained and made up excuses to go to the principal’s office during writing time, I pulled my finest No. 2 pencil out of my Spacemaker and began to pen a work of brilliance.  In my best cursive, on my extra-wide-ruled paper, making sure not to make any mistakes (because everyone knew even the lightest eraser stroke would tear that paper in half), I eloquently put my vision into words.  “The Blue Goo,” a poignant mystery/suspense story with themes of friendship and personal hygiene, was about Bridget, a young girl who becomes friends with a glowing-blue-glob-turned-alien that her father accidentally created in his science lab/their basement (admittedly, an idea taken by mashing up Flubber with a Goosebumps book I had recently read).  On the day of The Big Announcement, I sat on the edge of my seat, nervously jiggling my feet against the tennis balls on the legs of my chair.  The PA system crackled.  This was my moment.  I waited, clutching the straps of my purple L. L. Bean, pulling them closer to my chest.  And then there it was.  “And the winner of this year’s Young Authors Award is Jessica Hines for her story, “The Blue Goo.”  I awaited the applause.  I awaited the glorification.  And just as I was about to smooth my brown plaid jumper in preparation to stand and curtsy, the kid sitting next to me puked.  All over his desk.  All over the floor.  And just like that, my crowning moment was soiled.

And I think that’s when I looked down and realized my dream was to be a writer.

***

It's an amazing thing to realize a dream and vehemently pursue it.  For me, this dream has driven me for two-thirds of my life.  Not only to be a writer, but to be known for my writing.  Known for entertaining with my bold and questionable observations.  Known for inciting stifled snickers at my wild inappropriateness.  Known for bringing people together through painfully honest humor.  I was destined to be a sitcom writer.

There’s a rush in it all.  Recklessly doing everything you can in order to fulfill what you truly believe is your calling.  Constantly composing yourself to say “fuck you,” as politely as possible when people tell you to look at things realistically and more responsibly.  Reminding yourself that you’ve hyped this up so confidently, and if you fail, everyone will be waiting to say, “I mean, I’m not going to say I told you so, but…”

“Well, I truly appreciate your concern.  That’s sweet.  Fuck you.”

***

I had my dream tucked in my back pocket—where my wallet would be if I hadn’t spent all of my money on this crazy dream.  Ironic and fitting.  I firmly planted my feet in every step I took forward, no matter how big the risk, because my goal became tangible.

I found a graduate program that seemed surreal—classes for spec scripts, classes for pilot scripts, classes for sitcoms and dramas and TV movies, classes in development and production, classes in everything I once thought was just a distant thrill, but had now become so real.  I was going to make it, because there was no other option.  Over a hundred thousand dollars in debt, because I was going to fight until I wrapped my fingers around that dream and felt it squirm in my palm.

I landed in Los Angeles for my last semester of school; it was the pilgrimage to my Holy Land, the mecca for TV writers and producers.  I was convinced by all of my professors and all the people who supported me through the entire process of my graduate program that it was a done deal: I would write something brilliant, graduate, send it off to every small production company and big network and talent agency in Los Angeles and immediately land a job in a writer's room somewhere.  It was that easy.  It had to be that easy if I worked this hard, right?  I had been busting my ass to crank out new ideas and new writing over the course of a year and a half.  I had received so much positive feedback and so much encouragement and felt that I had prepared myself for success.  Effort and persistence are the things that get you somewhere, right?

***

Los Angeles was a country of its own.  Everyone you bumped into on the street was trying to be "in the industry," as everyone refers to it.  Everyone had some sort of connection to a cousin’s friend’s dogsitter’s step-uncle who was the CEO or director or producer or sound guy who’s still working his way up the chain.  I went into it bravely, knowing no one except the 8 other girls in my graduate program who also made their pilgrimages, in hopes of similar dreams.  I loved the work I was doing: assisting a small production company in their development department, reading freshly churned scripts from budding writers, just like I hoped to be, and deciding whether or not they had potential, and passing them along to the higher-ups if they did.  Kind of like a guard to the Pearly Gates of Hollywood, except less glamourous than it sounds.  I learned what companies were looking for.  Who they were looking for, rather.  Most of these writers were fed through the weeding out process by that weird-but-reliable, several-degrees-of-separation step-uncle, and here were their scripts, sitting on a desk in front of me at a REAL production company.  I would be lying if I said more than 5% of them were even worth the snide comments I jotted in the margins.  But they had made it.  So why hadn’t I?

I networked. I made connections.  I had talent that I was waiting to share.  But the thing I quickly learned was that seniority and ass-kissing beat talent, 9 out of 10 times, and that 1 remaining time?  Fucking step-uncle.  I had planned to job hunt in preparation to stay after my semester was over, in case by miracle, someone had seen my potential.  All the open positions that I could have realistically been offered were for production assistants (imagine your version of The Office Bitch, and multiply it by 72, and then add the irrelevance of your existence, and you’ve got the picture).  Making $11 an hour to get 17 coffee orders, and then having to go back to Starbucks a second time because you slipped and fell carrying the first 17 drinks because no one in the entirety of Los Angeles County has the decency to lend a hand.  I started to envision my future.  Coffee carrier for 3 years, mail sorter for 2 years, assistant to the CEO for 3 years, and then if someone happens to stumble upon one of my scripts, writer-for-hire for 2 more years, and then I’d be 33 and goddamn tired of pursuing this fucking dream and living paycheck to paycheck, only to be defecated on. Every. Single. Day.

                                                                              

Even if I had wanted to grit my teeth and get through it, my student loan money had dwindled by the end of the semester, and I had less than $1000 to my name.  Well, if I’m being honest, I actually had -$123,000 to my name, but let’s not dwell on the deterioration and ruthlessness of the American higher education system.  My bank accounts were empty, my motivation was thwarted, and the dream I had held onto for so long had been unmasked and revealed for what it really was: just a game of luck.  And I refused to be the joker.

So I left, and moved back home.  And it was the best decision I’ve ever made.

***

I am not a quitter, if that’s what you’re thinking.  I played the game and went all in, but I guess my hand for that round just wasn’t good enough.  I wouldn’t trade any of the experiences I had, because I would not have ended up here: at home in my comfortable, slow-paced Kentucky, with the love of my life who supported all of the endeavors that went along with this unpredictable journey and our obnoxious dog who has a proclivity for dirty socks and underwear, at a job where I get to work with my mother every day and make a livable salary that allows me to put a small chink in what I owe the DOE every month, and with the pride to admit that I put my dream on hold because I wasn’t ready for it, and I don’t think it was quite ready for me, either.

It's an amazing thing to realize a dream and vehemently pursue it.  I know my love of writing started somewhere among vomit-covered linoleum, and my desire to pursue it went on hiatus somewhere around empty pockets and the fear of perpetual Office Bitch-dom. I'll never give up writing.  It's become part of me, and a gift I'm thankful for every day.  The ideas for sitcoms still swirl around in my head, infesting my right-brain in totality.  Sometimes I'll scribble them on pieces of paper or type them out as notes on my phone, just as little reminders that the embers of my dream are still burning, should I choose to breathe life into it once again.  And there’s nothing wrong with that.

8 Changes You Go Through In Grad School

When people ask me, “how was your first year of grad school,” I typically illicit this maniacal giggle that completely gives away the fact that I lost damn near all my sanity, as I feel most graduate students do at some point. 

To anyone considering graduate school, good luck, and to those of us in the muck of it, hats off to the size of our balls.

You literally have no idea where your money went.
When you started the year, you had mounds of funds just sitting in your checking and savings accounts, and more to come with those hefty student loans you applied for.  But you promised yourself only to use your checking account; savings was money for ‘the real world.’  Like, putting a down payment on a house or a boat or adopting a kid from Cambodia.  All of your money from summers of nannying for 5 days a week and sacrificing the week-long benders of most of your friends who work in the food and retail industry started to accrue, and you’re ready to be an adult and invest in your education, but also live comfortably (i.e. going out for drinks on the reg and splurging at Sephora occasionally).  Fast forward to the end of the year as you’re looking at your bank statement and laugh-crying, because you halfway think this is some cruel prank that a friend pulled on you when she talked you into giving her your PIN number when you were drunk, but you halfway know it’s because you’re inescapably financially irresponsible, just unwilling to admit it out loud (or to your parents).  You contemplate becoming an Uber driver to make some money on the side, then realize you have no car.  You settle for a waitressing job, because you’re 90% certain that your Masters of Science in Television will land you a great career as a food service industry professional by the time you’re 30.

You lose your shit. A lot. Especially in public places.
Your tear ducts get more action than the Boston Fire Department (and probably more action than you, if we’re being honest).  There’s something about grad school that rips away anyone’s dignity in the ability to stay composed.  And you always feel it coming.  It’s always right after a week when you’ve had 10 cumulative hours of sleep, maybe had time to shower about once or twice, and watched too many episodes of New Girl to procrastinate on loads of work that was all conspiratorially due the same day.  That lump creeps up into your throat as you quietly sit on the train.  You think about all your student loans and the fact that you’ll forever be deemed a poor ‘starving artist’ and then you think about the people who fall for poor starving artists, and the options are so slim that you see yourself settling for a guy named Chad or Todd, who will most definitely have a bald spot or an ugly soul patch he refuses to shave and his favorite show will be Family Guy and he'll say things like 'okey dokey', but you can’t give him up because you never know if anyone will love you, and oh, your poor children, who will most likely hate you, because starving artists can’t afford to send them to nice schools and buy them nice things, then they’ll take up prostitution and drugs and get tattoos, oh god, NOT TATTOOS.  And suddenly, you realize you’re doubled over and sobbing on the guy next to you in the Red Sox hat as he eats a burrito and manages to drop a few pieces of mango salsa into your hair.

Your skin reverts to its pubescent ways.
Remember that unflattering yearbook photo of you in 7^th grade?  The one where you had a huge zit on your chin, but you were so cosmetically inept because you hadn’t really gotten into make-up yet, (apart from those N.Y.C. colored mascaras and unhealthy amounts of tinted Bonne Bell), so you used your mother’s foundation, which was CLEARLY not the right undertone?  You ended up looking like someone rubbed Cheetos all over the lower half of your face.  Yeah.  You know the photo I’m talking about.  It was totally acceptable back then.  Your body was doing weird shit and your face became a breeding ground for more weird shit.  No one blinked an eye at the 12-year old with skin problems.  As a 22-year old, I can’t say there’s much sympathy.  Who actually has time to maintain a Clinique facial care regimen when you’re ass deep in assignments, too exhausted to take off your make-up at the end of the night, and only find happiness in consuming all the pizza and beer because it provides a solid coping mechanism?  Your face definitely pulls an America and declares its independence, as you’re left excusing yourself with the line that generates the most compassion from female audiences, “oh, you know, period breakouts.”  And then people start to wonder why you have your lady time 4 weeks out of the month.

You get fat.  Like, really fat.
This is the point in your life when “sweatpants are the only thing that fit me right now” is your anthem. After months of stress, sobbing into slices of pizza, consoling yourself with a 3 a.m. study break for Thai food delivery, and putting off all responsibilities until after you devour a whole half-gallon of Edy’s, you’re a bit touchy about your new waistline.  You have had nights you refuse to leave your shitty, overpriced studio apartment due to the inches separating you from buttoning your jeans that you bought while you still had your undergrad body, but now resemble overstuffed sausage casings as you make a futile attempt to do the jump and wiggle (you know what move I’m talking about).  Spanx cannot fix this.  All of your clothes are a smidgen too tight, but not so tight that they don’t fit, just tight enough to be in that awkward well-I-guess-I’ll-just-throw-a-boyfriend-cardigan-over-this-to-hide-my-muffin-top phase.  You refuse to get a bigger size in anything, because you say it motivates you to go to the gym.  Spoiler alert: you’re not going to go to the gym. Seriously, WHEN is there time to go to the gym?  You spend at least an hour commuting to and from class daily, you have hours upon hours of class that are usually prime for Snapchatting, especially when you have to watch films you've 17 times, and then let's not forget about that job that you have that helps pay for graduate school.  The fact is, the last thing you want to do when you get home is change into a pair of yoga pants that don't fit your ass anymore and take another commute to the gym where you'll be taunted and ridiculed by all of the undergraduate varsity soccer girls because you can't go 5 minutes on the stair stepper without falling off.

Your boobs get HUUUUGE.
Not like the, I-want-to-motorboat-the-shit-out-of-those huge, but like, she-looks-like-she’s-fed-a-whole-village-in-Africa huge.  This is most likely a symptom of the weight gain that you would think bodes in your favor.  Well, it doesn’t.   It prohibits you from wearing any sort of A-line dress or a belt around your waist, because it only highlights the ill-fitting bra lines that start to create back boobs.  Your cups runneth over, and there’s really not a damn thing you can do about it.  You still have all the bras you wore in undergrad that made your boobs look perf, especially for all those frat parties you now reminisce about, mainly because in the real world, no one hands out shitty, heavy-handed mixed drinks for free, even if it is Karkov, for having a nice rack.  You’re too poor to have the luxury to go out and buy the right size for your girls, so you’re stuck being nostalgic with your old titty tamers that give you a mean case of the quad boob.  And don’t you dare even think about going braless if you’re bigger than a B.  You put everyone at risk of being a casualty to your nip-slip.

You become a functioning alcoholic.
Monday?  Margs.  Tuesday?  More tequila.  Wednesday?  Wine.  Thursday?  Anything, just because.  Friday? Was that called a Scorpion bowl…?  Saturday and Sunday?  I’m not going to drink today, really.  Just a Mimosa or a Bloody Mary.  Okay, well maybe two.  But I stop at three. 
This type of bargaining goes on every week.  It’s that voice inside your head telling you that maybe you should let your body have just one day without an elevated BAC, but then you look at your to-do list for the week, put on a bra, call up your girlfriends and say, “let’s just take a really quick study break at Yardhouse.  Oh, yeah, definitely.  Just one beer.”  The next morning, you find a half-eaten, open jar of peanut butter next to your head, mascara stains on your pillow and 37 outgoing calls to your ex-boyfriend.  But you still pull your shit together enough to take a shower, albeit, you vomit into the drain a few times and cut yourself with a shanty armpit-shaving attempt.  The motion of the train makes you sick, and you almost lose your skimpy breakfast of half a container of Chobani (they were on sale at Stop N’ Shop) into your backpack, but you’re successfully on your way to class.  Totally functional.*

*alcoholism is a real thing and I don’t condone it.  I had to put this disclaimer to make it seem like I’m not insensitive.

You nap an unreasonable amount.
You wish you could go back to your childhood and add up all the hours you refused to nap, no matter how much your mother implored, because let’s be honest, you were probably a little terror as a child, and stash them in your sleep bank.  You. Need. All. The. Sleep.  And you take it, unapologetically.  Huge script due tomorrow?  Let’s nap on it.  Thesis proposal?  I should probably nap first.  Production packet that counts for half of your grade for the semester?  I think a nap will clear my head.  There is seriously not enough sleep in the world for you, you determined, worn-down, soul-sucked graduate student, you.  You nap with vengeance.  Even when you’re not tired (but when are you never tired?).  When you’re overwhelmed, the only plausible thing to do is overwhelm yourself even more by taking time to nap and putting off any sort of responsibility whatsoever.  You have missed several outings due to their infringement on your precious nap time, and you’re notoriously known for missing calls and not returning them, because you checked them in your misty-eyed state and then passed right back out.  People probably argue that you’re depressed with the amount of sleep you need.  Depression and sleep deprivation are just side effects of grad school.  Just like student loan debt and superiority complex.

You learn to just go with it.
Yeah, you’re emotional and you can’t afford to feed yourself occasionally, and yeah you’re probably a little pudgy, and yeah, you probably haven’t been sober in about 8 days. But you’re in fucking graduate school.  You’re getting a degree in something cool as hell, and when you finish and get through all of this, you’ll hold a shiny Master’s Degree in your hand, and think, “damn, that wasn’t so bad after all.”  All of your complaints seem silly and so surface level when you think about it.  You realize that you have to be poor to experience how incredible it feels to make money and really earn it from doing what you love.  You realize that emotions shouldn’t be tamed, even if the whole transit system probably thinks you’re on the verge of a mental and emotional meltdown and threaten to pull the emergency break, because feelings are meant to be felt and expressed.  You realize that the way you look is so infinitesimal on the Grand Scale of Things That Matter, because your ideas are what will continue after you, not that goiter of a zit you had on your forehead during finals week or that pair of fat jeans you wear after you indulge yourself in a night of gastronomical debauchery.  You realize that getting drunk and rowdy with friends will always be a perfect pastime, and you’re probably not as much of a lush as you think you are, because you managed to get through a rigorous grad program, which is pretty fucking valiant.  And you realize that you can sleep when you’re dead, because there’s too damn much to see and experience, and it’s better to go through life happy and a bit haggard than to have your eyes shut completely.