Given a Choice Between Buses and Magic Carpets, I'd Choose the Bus

I've been meaning to write for a long time about my trip to England. I'm not sure exactly what sparked the inspiration, but here is part 1 of what I assume will be at least 3 on my adventures in Cambridge. I went there with small group (11 women, 1 man, and our teacher) for 4 weeks for a study abroad program in August 2010. We lived in the Homerton dorm, about two miles from downtown Cambridge. This is what I remember:

Classes started at 9 or 10 in the morning, depending on whether or not we went sightseeing the night before. If I didn't wake up in enough time to grab free breakfast in the commons, I would take the bus to the Pitt building (where we conducted our studies), and before going to class I'd wait for the bakery across the street to open so I could grab an apple turnover. When class was over (at noon or 3pm, depending on whether we were watching a movie that afternoon), I’d ride the city bus the two miles back to my dorm in order to drop off my books and grab my purse. From there, I'd take the bus back into downtown and spend the afternoon in the marketplace.

I didn't mind backtracking to the dorm just to drop off my books; I was a big fan of riding the bus for a number of reasons: it made a bunch of fun clicking noises, it was always transporting interesting characters (which I will expand upon), and it was a marvel to watch the driver navigate the narrow, crowded streets. But mostly it was because it was a double-decker, and if you sat on the second floor in the very front, you could watch the bus "eat" and then "throw up" the car immediately in front of the bus as it went in and out of the view of the front windshield. Some of my best memories from England are on the second floor of those buses, sitting up at the front, joking and laughing about the events of the day, pausing momentarily to make puking noises when the car in front of us would drive away.

The most unforgettable memory I have of those buses took place on an afternoon in early August. We were off to Grantchester to enjoy tea in the Orchard, and most of the girls in our group decided to sit on the second level. In the back of the bus sat an unfortunate duo of white gangsters who were quiet at first, but only because they were searching for the next horrible song they wanted to blast from their MP3 player.

Their music was very hardcore, and it that made us tsk in protest. Just as we were about to pass the point of politely asking them to "turn that shit off or we will throw you off this bus," the mood changed very drastically. The girls and I found ourselves looking at each other, completely perplexed. And then we started giggling. The boys were not only listening, but singing along to "Beautiful Soul" by Jesse McCartney.


For their backwards hats, "wifebeater" tanktops, dolla bill bling, and pants near to their knees, it just didn't seem quite the right fit for them. But that didn't stop us all from having a singalong. The boys serenaded us, and we pretended to swoon. When we got off the bus, they blew us kisses. We blew them back.

Burying the Past

Brian: You have a boyfriend?!

Jared’s Mom: Yeah!

Paul: And I’m a great guy. I’m unemployed, but that makes her feel useful in the relationship.

Jared’s Mom: I’m gonna fix him!

Paul: Our relationship will do fine on that basis.
Jared's Mom: If he had his life together, I wouldn't be into it!
Paul: But I don't!

-Family Guy, Season 6 Episode 11,"The Former Life of Brian"

It feels silly, but I have a very difficult time finding reasons to write when my life is going well. I'm addicted to flowery language, and I don’t think “fluff” makes for the best writing; I am easily distracted by large amounts of corniness, and that’s not what I want to look back on. It’s embarrassing to reread my posts and say, “Yeah, I get it, I was happy. But this is just disgusting.” In addition, there is only so much to say: the Giant and I are doing incredibly well, I love my job, and living with my parents isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. (Obviously, communicating my happiness in a worthwhile way is something I need to work on as a writer, but I’d rather practice in my private diary than on my public blog.) So I’m sorry for the lag in posts, but I’m going to try and be better about it for my (six?) loyal fans.

Something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately are the people who no longer influence my life or the decisions I make—specifically the boyfriends who left the biggest impression on me. For some reason (I’m trying to figure this out, and I’ll update you guys if I do), it would have to be Freckled. Maybe it's because we were together for so long, and I never thought I'd have the courage to get out. Maybe it's because we were engaged and I really thought that he was going to be my life. Regardless of the answer, it’s awkward for me to think that I should be married now for just over a year. I guess it doesn’t bother me, but it’s peculiar that I don’t remember shit about my relationship with Freckled timeline-wise. I have no idea how long we were really together. My default is, “We were together for 3 years,” which is quite possibly an exaggeration. So let’s figure it out.

He and I met in mid-November of 2006. I was a freshman in college. I had a boyfriend, he had a girlfriend, and both of us knew that our relationships weren’t going anywhere. Eventually, near the end of the school year, we both broke it off within a week of each other. We didn’t plan this: it just happened that way. Seeing as I am a combination of both hopeless and romantic, I must have taken it as a sign that he and I were meant to be together for however long. He proposed three months after we officially started dating (overall, we’d known each other 11 months), which was a few days before my 19th birthday (October 2007). The reason I didn’t say "No" was because I didn’t know how to refuse someone who wanted to give his life to me. Instead of saying, "I don't think this is a good idea," I said, "Yes."

Well, more accurately I said, “Okay, sure.” For those of you who are wondering why I complain when anyone says “sure,” “fine,” or “okay” to me, imagine the following scenario: You’re kneeling before the love of your life. You’re asking them to marry you. You hear the word “sure” come out of their mouth. From the most extreme to the piddliest of examples, “sure” is a cop-out. It says to me, “I don’t really want to, but you asked and I don’t have anything better to do.” It is a horrible excuse for a solid answer. I know that’s not fair and it’s just me, but it’s there in my mind as that. 

Eventually, I broke off our engagement only a few months before I officially called it quits on the whole shebang in November of 2009.

And it hasn't just been Freckled who has been on my mind. Lately, I've been musing over what I’ve put myself through, what men have put me through, and how stupid it all seems once you find a person who’s good for you, good to you. These men weren’t predominantly bad, but the last few months of every relationship were sour ones. Those are the last moments I went through with these men, and these memories overshadow everything that was good. I forget what I ever even liked about them.

The trend that I’ve picked up on is that I’ve always dated men who can be aptly termed "nothing special." I could have had good relationships with them had they not possessed one of a vast variety of major faults; I can put up with a lot, but manipulation, a lack of motivation, a short temper, or any type of abusiveness are deal-breakers to me. All the men I’ve been with have had one fault that they really, really needed to fix, or I needed to get out.

Obviously, I’m not impressed with my past behavior. Like the above-mentioned Family Guy quote, I seem to gravitate toward men who need to be fixed. I’m your typical woman in that I want to be the one that saves you, the exception to the rule, and all those other drab cliches.

So I'm happy to announce that, with the Giant, it’s not work anymore. We’re open and honest with each other, and especially with ourselves, and we realize that we do have issues we need to address if we want to make this work. It seems an oddity to me, but we’re both pitching in—there is nothing one-sided about this relationship, like so many have been in my past. We’re balanced, and our issues aren’t the overwhelming type that keep you up at night. We’ll cross those bridges when we come to them, and not a moment sooner.

Jigsaw Puzzles

“It was about as effective as repeatedly running into a brick wall to try and create a door.” -Jigsaw

Let's get something straight. Not all my past boyfriends have been a complete waste of my time. Take Jigsaw for example. While we did have our differences, he was, for all intents and purposes, a very good man, and worth a little recognition. So here it is, an article I meant to post a few months back, but completely forgot I had:

I remember one morning during my relationship with Jigsaw when I called him a bad boyfriend. He might have been displaying poor boyfriend qualities at the time, but calling him a bad boyfriend was a little dramatic. I was just being an emotional basketcase because we were talking about money again. Or, rather, I was borrowing money from him. Again.

I had plans to go out with my coworkers the next night and, being the kind man that he is, he offered to let me borrow his money so I wouldn’t have to stop at the ATM on my way to work in the morning. I didn’t even need the money, he was just making my life easier. So it could have been simple: I could have taken the money, kissed him on the cheek and said, “I’ll pay you back.” But instead I stood in the bedroom doorframe and bit my lip for a moment, trying to fight back the tears. I didn’t like talking about money, mainly because I was bad with it and found my terrible habits incredibly embarrassing. I’ve gotten much better over the years, but I've had to admit too many times to my parents that my credit card had reached the max limit. Of course I’d never offer this information freely, but they know I’m bad with money, so they’re inclined to check in on me every once in a while and ask what my bank account looks like.

I knew that if I didn’t get it together they were going to let me sink, and it would only be right. Honestly, I think I’m on the right path. Thankfully, my new job and this blog are keeping me afloat, because I’ve got plans, and I’d very much like to be able to afford to travel. It’s a travel blog, after all. Plus, I'm not only making money, but I'm learning things at Wells Fargo. For instance... did you know that keeping a balance on your credit card of more than 30% of your available funds (so if you have a $1,000 limit, we're talking $300), your credit score is negatively affected?

You're welcome.

At any rate, that afternoon Jigsaw was sitting on the bed, listening to me cry, trying to coax and calm me from afar. After three minutes of stifled sobbing and awkward buzzing around (I don’t know where it’s appropriate to stand when I’m in distress), I said to him, “Why aren’t you holding me? Get over here! You are such a bad boyfriend!” It was meant to be a joke, I meant to laugh when I said it because it’s so obviously not true. But it didn’t come out as intended; it sounded like I actually might have meant it! I said this to the man who waited patiently for a year and a half to date me; to the man who spread cream cheese on my bagel with the finesse of Duff Goldman frosting a cake because I’m incredibly picky; to the man who welcomed me into his life, his family, his home; to the man who would buy me video games because I mentioned in passing that I’d like to play them sometime. Do you see what I’m trying to say here? Jigsaw was anything but a bad boyfriend. He needed a little direction (of the "get over here and hold me" variety), but he was as good to me as he could have been.

And I remember back when I started dating Jigsaw, a friend of mine told me that I was overdue for some awesome. When I called things off with the Woman (the boyfriend before Jigsaw), my friend said to me, “Your next boyfriend is going to be amazing.” I asked how she figured that. She responded, “Think about your last couple boyfriends. There’s no way your next boyfriend is going to be a douche, too. Karma owes you.”

How I Like My Porridge

In lieu of a quote, I have a link, because sometimes it's just much easier for you to see it: 
Castle: How do you know when you're in love?

Two and a half months ago, I was having a lunch date with the Professor, my neighbor across the street. He is a retired professor, and I the original intent of the luncheon was to discuss my potential plans to attend graduate school at some point. After about ten minutes of chit-chat, he said to me, "You're not an academic, Kelly." That was as far as that conversation needed to go. Now, I don't just take the Professor's advice without questioning it, but at this point in my life he is right. I have no desire to go back to school, nor do I have the funds. Maybe someday in the future, but not right now.

That covered 15 minutes of our 3 hour chat.

We moved on to Friday (the nickname I gave my ex mentioned in the last post), who, at the time, I had only been on two dates with. I told the Professor that for our second date I had cooked Friday dinner. The Professor looked at me, smiled his sweet, all-knowing smile, and said, "Don't be so nice."

I was absolutely confounded. I had no effing idea what he meant by, "Don't be so nice."

I asked sarcastically, "Meaning what? You want me to save my niceties for marriage?" But he didn't elaborate. Frustratingly, he left it at that, and it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that I've thought about it once per day since he dropped those words on the table.

Guess what folks? I figured it out!

Instead of just telling you, I'm going to launch annoyingly into another story that will help you appreciate the weight of my lessons. Or something.

The day it ended with Friday was the day I met my new addiction, the Giant. (He's 6'8"; do I really need to explain the nickname?) For some people that would be too soon, but I am what my father calls a serial lover. I'm rarely ever single, which means that most of the time I end up with men who aren't worth my time and money. At any rate, I never was very attached to Friday, which should be evident in my three attempts to break up with him within a two-month time span.

I never should have dated him, because I knew that relationship wasn't going anywhere, but I talked about him to my friends anyway. This action unfortunately sullies everyone's outlook on what has the potential to be an amazing relationship. Meaning, in the past three weeks, when I tell my closest friends about the Giant they say, "This is great. I am happy for you. But...." The "but" is often followed by, "take it slow."

For once, I'm taking everyone's advice and doing just that.

We have been seeing each other for three weeks, and we are making sure that the other is worth our efforts. It's a bit of drive between his house and mine, and we've both been burned pretty badly in the past. In light of this, we're not labeling ourselves, making plans beyond a few days out, or expecting anything of each other until we're certain that the relationship is worth the time, the gas money, and all the work that accompanies a happy, healthy relationship. In the Professor's words, we are "not being so nice."

And I will be honest: I am very happy. For the past three weeks I have woken up smiling, spent the days feeling amazing, and fallen asleep excited to find what tomorrow will bring.

In an attempt to explain to him exactly what this means to me, I tried to think of the last time I felt this way. I thought about all my past serious relationships and how they made me feel. Skipping Friday, I thought back to an 11-month, long distance relationship. I cared much more deeply for him than he for me, but I was never truly able to invest every ounce of my available excitement because I was too focused on the distance between us. Because I was so torn between my emotions, it became more of an obsession than a love. The relationship before that was Freckled, and he was much more in love with me than I ever was with him.

I've been on both sides of the spectrum, too hot and too cold. But the Giant is just right. I thought back, beyond all my relationships, trying to find a similar feeling, and I was finally able to pinpoint the last time I felt this way: seven years ago in high school. Until now, I was beginning to wonder if I would ever find another man that would make my stomach flip when we kiss. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever find another man whose existence turns my crabby ass into a morning person. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever find another man who makes me feel beautiful with a single "wow."

Plus, all the songs are starting to make sense. I've got a good feeling about this one, so keep your fingers crossed for me.

Clicking into Place

Don't sweat the little things. There are more important things in life to enjoy. Cleaning your car? Open trunk, put stuff in trunk. I think that is what they are really for. Relationships? You're the girl. The guy should be sweating keeping you happy. If he isn't then he needs to meet your Uncle.
-My Dad's Brother


I did it again! While two weeks ago it was pictures from eight years ago, today I was looking at five year old pictures thinking to myself, "Oh my God, I was beautiful then, too!" My immediate follow-up response is, "I would do anything to be that weight again." Okay. Obviously not. I have an inhaler, and all I would need to do is take two puffs, throw on some running shoes, and get to getting. But here I am, having a meltdown over a messy room.

The only thing I'm not stressing over right now is my job. Work is easy. I wake up early Monday through Friday, I do my job, and then I come home. Nothing else makes sense. From my messy room, to my wreck of a love-life, nothing is the way it should be.

I had a painful falling out with the "special someone" I mentioned in my last blog. The situation only took me a few days to get over, but I wasn't prepared for the way it ended. We were having communication issues, and since we were only two months in I found that to be a good enough reason to move on. I tried pulling the plug in a civil manner last Saturday, but he managed to talk me out of it. Well, I really wish I had just walked away, because it would have saved me from a barrage of spiteful texts consisting of, "I used you, I cheated on you, and you're fat." He knew exactly what to say to hurt me; these were all fears I had expressed multiple times. Which is why it was so easy to move on. GFK calls this "The Flail." My ex took everything he knows I'm insecure about and ran rampant with it. He said these things to assure that I would hurt more than him.

I know he cared about me. I know he didn't think I was fat. But the cheating part is really up in the air; I'd always suspected he might be. I mean, come on. If you leave at 5pm, it doesn't take three hours to get home from downtown Chicago taking the I-55. In addition to his late nights, he had insight into my life that I never gave him.... For instance, I opened his fridge one night and there was a Twix bar on the shelf. I said, "Oh, I love Twix! How did you know?" He laughed and said, "You told me they're your favorite."

Funny story: No I didn't! We had never talked about candy, and Twix is not my favorite. I laughed and said, "Maybe you're confusing me with someone else." This was probably two weeks into our relationship, and it was at that moment that I thought to myself, "Maybe he IS confusing me with someone else. Maybe he has a girl in the city." So the fact that he told me I was "too stupid to see the signs" was completely inaccurate. Remember how I mentioned he and I had communication issues? They were of the "dude doesn't listen" variety.

Because I can't think of an appropriate segue, I'll just give you a heads up:

I'm changing the topic now!

I had a phenomenal birthday. I walked in last Thursday morning and my desk looked like this:

I was touched beyond words. Especially when my entire team came to my desk at 2pm with a cupcake and a candle, a birthday card, and a gift. It was the best birthday I've ever had, and I'm so grateful for the people at Wells Fargo.

Porch Talk with Mama Bear

Newsflash! [Alexis] already has body image issues! It’s an intrinsic part of being a woman. Every woman in the world has some part of herself that she absolutely hates. Her hands are too small, feet are too big, hair is too straight or too curly, her ears stick out, her butt’s too flat, her nose is too big. Nothing you can say will change how we feel! What men don’t understand is that the right clothes, the right shoes, the right makeup can hide the flaws we think we have. They make us look beautiful to ourselves. That’s what makes us look beautiful to others.

-Meredith Castle, season one, final episode

Considering tomorrow marks day two of my on-site training at Wells Fargo, with my first “welcome call” to come later this week, now is a really bad time to feel the urge to get my thoughts together. 

Earlier tonight I was feeling the need for some girl chat, so I called the neighbor who happens to be Bear’s mom/owner, so I think it’s only fitting that I call her Mama Bear. On my parents’ front porch there is a swing that oftentimes collects our neighbors when one of us is sitting outside alone, and I wouldn’t put it past them to converge even without our presence. It’s kind of nice to hear people chatting on the porch, and to wander out and find one of the neighbors keeping my father company.

To the point: I needed porch talk with Mama Bear tonight. Including a wide variety of other girly topics, we covered body image. After masterfully displaying my inability to gracefully receive a compliment or speak favorably about myself, Mama Bear asked, “Why are you so hard on yourself?”

Immediately I began to blame it on other things, other people. Excuses ranged from “monkey see, monkey do,” to “I put a negative twist on things that people say.” While these things may to some degree be true, there is no viable explanation for the magnitude of my negative self-image, which at some point consisted of some vicious comment about being past the “muffin top” phase and onto something more like an inner-tube.

After many failed attempts to justify my cruelty, Mama Bear stepped forward to save me. The comment that had the greatest impact was this: “Did you ever think that maybe you shoot yourself down so no one else gets the chance to?”

At the risk of appearing simpleminded, I can’t think of anything to say other than: That is SOOOO true.

Doesn’t it hurt less when I’m the first to admit that my calves are thicker than they used to be? Doesn’t it hurt less when I call my rolls an inner tube? We live in such a judgmental, image-conscious society that it's sufficiently less embarrassing to call yourself out than to risk someone else doing it for you. Hell, even Obama did it! He dug up his own dirt by admitting his past drug addiction during his 2008 campaign. How could McCain negatively use anything that Obama already put on the table? Though this has nothing to do with body image, it’s the same self-defense mechanism that I can’t believe I didn’t pick up on before.

Mama Bear then told me a story of when she was sorting through pictures taken ten years ago. At the time the pictures were taken, she harbored the same low self-esteem I’m struggling with. Today, she looks at those pictures and thinks, “I was nowhere near as fat or ugly as I thought I was. And the same thing will probably happen to me ten years from now. I hate my body, but in ten years I’ll look at the pictures from today and ask, ‘Why was I so hard on myself?’” I certainly can't figure it out. To me, Mama Bear is one of the most beautiful women I've ever had the honor of sharing my porch with.

Although I didn't get a chance to discuss this with Mama Bear, I started these musings last week after I misplaced my makeup case. After I finally found it and applied my makeup for the first time in eight days, I had a thought very similar to Meredith's, but much more simple: "Makeup doesn't make me more beautiful. It just hides my flaws and accentuates my natural beauty." In addition, I spend way too much money on hair-care products. And bright colored, well-fitted clothes. And ridiculous heels that are rarely worn but make my calves look more toned than chubby. But when you throw all of these things together, they make for that remarkable woman whose confidence gives onlookers whiplash.

And if that's what women need, I say unto my fellow girls: Have at it! Go nuts! Find what it takes to make you feel pretty and for God's sake, feel pretty!

Being Honest With Myself: Part II

Making a change begins with the decision that it's time to move on. In this sense, I was a classic hypocrite for quite a while; I would complain till I was blue in the face, but I never attempted to change it. Since second semester freshman year I was made terribly aware that Oshkosh is a dead-end town for someone like me. I thrive in big cities with millions of people and thousands of jobs. The Fox Valley area was never going to make the cut.

Conveniently, the end of my lease was coming up, and being a temp made saying "I'm outtie!" a lot easier. Plus, my parents have been living in the suburbs just outside of my favorite city for the last four years. While I was dreading moving in with them, it was a much better situation than where I was. Bruce Brazos (John Malcovich's character in the third Transformers movie) said it best: "First job out of college is critical. You either take the step down the correct career path, or you fall into a life-sucking abyss."

Since graduation, I'd had two jobs, both of them temporary and neither having anything to do with my major. As a side-note, in the 9 months I spent in Oshkosh after graduation, I was only employed for five of them. Rather than getting stuck in Oshkosh, I decided to pack it in and start over.

Considering I'm no stranger to relocation, I started making mental lists of things to do, and I also prepared myself to tell my friends and then-boyfriend, who I call Jigsaw. I wanted to call him Cowboy (he was raised on a ranch in the boondocks of Winchester, and he came to me fully decked out in a cowboy hat and boots, and he had that irresistible Southern gentleman charm), but I found Jigsaw more fitting (punny!) because he truly completed my life at that point in time, and calling him Cowboy didn't quite have the affectionate tone I was grasping for. I was 5-months graduated, and I had finally found a long-term (albeit temporary) position. In my three-part life, (consisting of a steady income, shelter and love), I was only missing someone to share my success with. Jigsaw pulled everything into place.

However, not very long into our whirlwind romance, major deal-breaking disagreements began to surface. As I've previously stated, I had no interest in staying in Oshkosh, the college town of 67,000 inhabitants. Completely the opposite, Jigsaw had no interest in ever leaving Oshkosh. At least not for a bigger city. He pined after the life his newly-engaged sister was building with her fiancé. They had just purchased a house in the boonies where their nearest neighbor was a good ten-minute walk. It came fully equipped with a barn, a few acres of land, an above-ground pool, and the peace and quiet that only the country can offer. In addition to this, we couldn't come to an agreement about religion. I had no problem going to church on Sundays with him and his parents (I even went once without him!), but we had vastly different views on how we would raise our children. It became clear very quickly that, while Jigsaw may have been "fun for now," neither of us were willing to budge, and there can be no future without compromise.

Clearly, Chicago had big plans for me; it had made everything so easy. I had a place to live, family to take care of me, and nobody holding me back. Within three weeks of moving I had found a job, and a special someone to spend my time with. Hopefully within six months to a year I'll make enough money (and build up enough job security) to find my own place. Not that living with my parents is nearly as horrible as I thought it would be, but after 5 years of independent living, it kills me to have to pick up the phone and say, "My plans changed. I won't be home by 9, so please don't assume I'm murdered when I don't show up."

Being Honest with Myself: Part I

I wrote this post in June or July during my 4-month stint at Kimberly-Clark, where I worked as a Consumer Services Specialist. I took calls from concerned consumers about the quality of Huggies Diapers and Pull-Ups. A lot has changed since then and I'll be more than happy to catch you up. But here it is, as it was written in it's original form:

According to Big Boss Lady, it’s okay that I’m not happy taking diaper calls. I am a temp, and it’s okay if I’m only here because I need the money. Considering how miserable I’ve been, this is great news. I was to the point of chanting in the mirror every morning, “It is my job to answer the phone and I love my job.” I think it was Abraham Lincoln who said that we can control our emotions? Allow me to enlighten you: This is codswallop. Well, maybe you can to a point, but the statement is a relatively large amount of steaming crock. You can abate your anger, but you can’t really make it go away. You cannot convince yourself to love someone or something. You can blink back tears, but you can't help what brings them to your eye.

Let me break my situation down for you: I’ve never lost a close family member. I’ve never lost a friend to suicide. No one in my immediate family is suffering from a serious illness. I have a roof over my head and food in my fridge. And yes, I'm incredibly aware how fortunate I am. Someday I’m sure I will get a reality check, but until then, this is my life, and these are the things that are important to me and have the ability to upset, fascinate, bewilder, and intoxicate me

So far, I’ve had 9 jobs that I couldn’t stand and I’m beginning to lose hope that there’s anything out there that’ll keep me happy on the regular. It’s unrealistic to think that any job I have will make me happy daily, but I would like to go home at the end of the day and not think, “Only four more hours till I fall asleep and do it all over again,” which leads to stress and tears.

I've decided to be honest with myself: I was never meant to answer phones. I have no patience for people who think they have problems and really don’t. One faulty diaper out of a box of 174 isn’t going to break your bank. I assure you all: I'm aware times are tight. Additionally, I actually don’t need a life story and a printout of your financials to justify sending you coupons.

What I do need is to discover what I’m passionate about, and I think it’s long past time. For years I have been adamant about not having much skill… I love to sing, but I’m no Xtina. I love to write, but I’m no Rowling. I love (judging the director’s decisions in) movies, but I’m no Christopher Nolan. I love cars, but I'm no Jeremy Clarkson. And I love to travel, but I’m no millionaire. Last time I checked, I was just Kelly. But that doesn’t mean I have nothing to offer society. I need more than to just be passionate about these things; I need to find a way to incorporate them into my life. But nothing is that easy. Who is going to let an English major with no minor (and serious delusions of grandeur) into their office based solely on the amount of passion I exhibit? No one. Which makes me not want to try.

I can't let that get to me, though. I’m breaking the cycle. I won’t let me bring myself down. I’ve got to try, and I need to start somewhere.

GFK 101

GFK was once asked what he doesn't do well. After a momentary pause he responded, “Humble.” Clearly stated and understood by all who know him.

So if you guys read The 411, you might have said, "Ummm... GFK?"

GFK is my best friend of four years. Defining our friendship, or even writing about it, might prove to be one of the most difficult challenges I'll ever set for myself. However, no matter what I end up saying about him, the story always starts the same:

It was my first day on the job at Reeve Memorial Union and someone was supposed to train me. I found my manager and she said, "I'll be right back. I'm going to get GFK." I immediately thought, "Oh my God, here we go." Because you always get stuck with this crusty old dude who's been with the company for way too long. Very boring.

Well, not so much. GFK walked out. I looked at my engagement ring (I'd been wearing it a solid 3 days) and groaned, "Oh, shit." Out comes this tall, gorgeous young thing with sparkling blue eyes and one hell of a swagger. The flirtation was heavy, but we were both very dedicated to our significant others (he had a girlfriend of over a year). We talked at work, but never really hung out outside of it, talked on the phone, texted or anything else that might suggest something outside of a normal coworker relationship. GFK and his girlfriend eventually did break up, but I remained tied down by the ring on my finger. (I'll explain in a later post why I can't seem to mention my engagement in a positive manner.)

The moment I stopped working for the Union (May 2008), GFK and I stopped talking. Whether or not we made contact outside of work, my engagement was in serious danger with him around: my imagination would wander constantly--what would it be like if GFK and I were both single? Awesome, probably.

It wasn't until 9 months after I quit Reeve that I ran into GFK at the library. We got to talking, exchanged numbers, and started hanging out pretty regularly, mostly consisting of visits to the library to do homework. Except you couldn't get us to shut up, so nothing ever got done.

My next vivid memory of him takes place in my kitchen during my junior year. He was cooking for me--pan-seared tilapia, asparagus, and mushrooms--and telling me I needed to end my relationship with Freckled. (He didn't have freckles or anything, but every time I think of him, I think of my engagement ring, which had pretty poor clarity. It was freckled and dirty, like our relationship.)

At any rate, GFK was right. I wasn't in love with Freckled anymore. Little did I know, this was GFK's way of throwing himself at me. Had I dropped Freckled, GFK and I likely would have started dating not too long after.

Long story short, it took me about 6 more months to actually end my engagement. GFK and I finally had the chance to test the waters and... nothing happened. We questioned the possibility of this being a fluke for quite a while, but were able to put our tensions aside and settle into a comfortable friendship at this point.


My favorite memory of GFK is the day I graduated college. My family was in town and we were out celebrating at the bars the night before. It was looking to be a late night, so I asked GFK to make sure I was up on time in the morning. I said nothing more than this. He showed up at eight on the dot, wearing his best suit, with a coffee and doughnut in-hand to make sure this graduate was prepared to walk across the stage. He drove me there, and when I dropped my tassel without noticing, he backtracked the three blocks in the snow to try and find it.

Four years and countless trips to Starbucks later (before I graduated we had given up lying to ourselves about going to the library to "study"), I questioned him about the origins of the nickname "GFK." I'll give it to you in his words:

“It wasn’t made up. It already existed and we discovered it. It’s like that debate Aristotle had with that other guy, you know who I'm talking about. The debate was about whether or not math existed or was made up. Was it always there? Or did we make it up to explain a natural occurrence? They uncovered math. We uncovered GFK. I don’t remember the situation exactly, but I know that one day we were talking and you were telling me how something I wanted to do was going to be impossible. And I laughed and I said, ‘Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m Glen Fucking Kowalski.’ And by the grace of God, it stuck with you, and you alone. You kept it alive.”

Operation: Amuse Bear

My current occupation? Dog-sitter. It sounds great, and it is great, because the dog I'm currently sitting is not only one of the greatest dogs ever, but he also has some weird quirks that make my time with him very interesting. His name is Bear.

Operation: Amuse Bear is going well so far (e.g. the water bottle hasn't had to act as mediator). The first morning during our walk Bear was being a little difficult... stopping a lot is what I really mean. After a while I got pretty good at getting him to keep the pace. Until... SQUIRREL! He moved at the pace of about 2 feet per minute, and eventually (because he doesn't like being tugged), he sat right in the middle of the street. So I waltzed over, picked his butt up and put him on the grass. He looked at me, looked toward where the squirrel had been, looked back at me and went, "Oh yeah?" And plopped his butt down in the grass. I sat in front of him, gave him some loving, and then we had a talk.

"Bear. Bear? Are you mad at me?"
"I can't even look at you right now."
"I'm sorry about the squirrel, but you can't just plop down any old place. People are leaving for work and need the street."
"But the squirrel!"
"How about a cookie?"

Conservation over.

I was determined not to make the same mistake the second day. I grabbed his toy and, because it's too big for my pocket, I unzipped my jacket and stuffed it in there. After he had done his business, I squeaked the toy. I had his attention. He jumped for me, tail wagging. A toy in his mouth makes the walk much smoother; he's so occupied by the object that sometimes he forgets to sniff around and pee on everything.

At one point, pretty early on in the walk, he dropped the toy and it rolled to the side. He went after it quickly, and shoved his nose into three times. I heard him saying, "This is my toy! I love my toy! I will not abandon my toy!" So he picked it up, but after that his efforts to hold on were pretty half-baked. His will is only as strong as the nearest scent trail. About halfway through we came to a scent that was much more interesting, and the smooth walk we'd been having turned into Chicago traffic: start, stop, are we go--oh! Nope. False alarm!

I guess now would be a good time to interject that Bear is relatively skittish. If we're laying on the floor, sometimes I will set down the remote control in what I believe is a gentle manner. But Bear's head shoots straight up and he looks toward the source of the noise. It takes him a bit, but he eventually decides the noise is non-threatening and will resume laying half on top of me.

Well, this particular morning was Friday, which means garbage day. Let me put it to you this way: Bear-1, Garbage Truck-8 (+~3?). While Bear did eventually succeed in passing the garbage truck, the noises coming from it (the squeaking wheels, the hissing noises, the general rumble of the engine) made him look at me like, "Seriously? You want me to pass that?" He walked across the sidewalk in the same line 6 or 7 times, unable to get himself to move closer to the green monster. He didn't want to get closer, but it was approaching him, and he didn't want to turn his back on it either. Eventually, the monster was only two houses away on the opposite side of the street and Bear decided to get brave. He walked quickly to my right side, putting me between him and the truck, and snuck past it. Let the smooth sailing commence.

After running into some friendly neighbors there was an extra bounce in his step. I wish it hadn't been so short-lived.

GASP! School bus, lady taking in garbage bins, bunny, children on sidewalk, dog barking at next corner. So what did Bear do? He started hyperventilating and plopped his butt right down, naturally. SYSTEM OVERLOAD. What to do, what to do? Chase bunny! Which is equivalent to dragging me across the street. I could have controlled him, but the school bus was getting closer, and I figured it was safer just to cross than to risk him laying in the middle of the road in defiance. He quickly lost sight of the bunny, so he looked across the street to the lady with the garbage bin, whose two dogs had wandered out after her. Bear immediately resumed stalking position, which gave me a moment to assess the situation. Up ahead, the way was clearing: the children were loading onto the bus, and the dog up the street was being guided away. In a fit of impatience (a little at Bear, but mostly at garbage-bin lady who chose an untimely moment to perform chores), I took the abandoned toy in my hand and started using Bear's head to squeak it. This got his attention. He looked at me as if to say, "You are such an embarrassment." We got up, and to the promise of a cookie, we (mostly) trotted home.

Standing at the crack between the driveway at the garage door, we had one last conversation. No matter how much I patted his butt or said the word, "Cookie?" he just sat there. Finally, he made a jump for my jacket.

"Collateral, please."

I gave him the toy, we walked inside, and he would not give me that stupid yellow toy until his kong was filled with dog food.