People Who Don't Love Me

On other blogs, I see people making lists all the time. It seems to be a way to get out of actually writing something, because it's a lot easier to make lists than to write in full paragraphs. Bloggers list their top 25 songs, the 10 things you didn't know about them, and their all time 15 major pet peeves. May I say, "Yawn?" While I understand the appeal of listing, I think that the list should be creative, definitely not something you would suspect. So here I'd like to list the top 5 people in this world who have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that they do not love me. Didn't see that one coming, did you?

1. Ed Giles, a.k.a., El Giles (el hee-lays), Giles, Jouse, Eddie Poop, Edward Giles IV, and so on.
As many of you know, Elliot is a graduate student in philosophy, and I soon discovered that dating him meant spending time with the other philosophy graduate students. Which is great; I liked many of them, even enough to offset my hatred for one of them. But you all know the problem with meeting your significant other's friends--they never really seem like your friends, no matter how much time you spend with them. It's very rare that you would hang out with these people or otherwise socialize with them unless you're participating as The Couple. So while I liked most of Elliot's friends, it was hard to really love them, since I could never feel they were my own.
And then, there was the The Giles. I met him before Elliot, talked to him before Elliot, knew more about him than Elliot did, bantered with him better than Elliot, knew more of his cultural references than Elliot (age difference), and spent more time at Philosophy Drinking Night talking to him than Elliot did. Finally, I felt like one of the philosophy people was one of my friends. When Elliot went to California, Ed never called him there if he had a message; he called me and had me relay the message to Elliot.
Well, you guessed it, folks: trouble in paradise. Elliot comes back, he and Ed are new roommates, and I stop existing. Now Ed and Elliot are West Wing buddies, and they have little inside jokes, and they go to see bands together, and they listen to music together, and Ed--the one philosophy dude I could claim--has been reclaimed for Elliot exclusively. Now I am not an independent human being; no, I'm just Elliot's girlfriend. Ed never calls me anymore, never emails me with funny links, and never replies to me when I post on his blog. Say it with me, church: no love!

2. Your mom.
Because I insult her all the time. Can you blame me? She's so ugly her nickname is "Damn!"

3. Vincent B. Leitch.
This one is especially heartbreaking because VBL is the man I love more than anyone in the world. He's my idol, my hero, my endless love. Why doesn't he love me, you ask? Because just as I am undeserving of God's love, I am undeserving of VBL's love, but unlike God, VBL has no obligation to send his son to die on a cross just so he can tolerate me. VBL's love can only be bestowed upon those who are worthy of it, like Foucault or Derrida. In comparison to these great Frenchman, I am decidedly unworthy (though better smelling). For three years I tormented VBL, turning in my work late, asking him a thousand questions when I know he hates getting emails, and borrowing his books without giving them back. Oh, VeeBee, if I could go back and do it all over again, I would have bought the new version of the Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism, of which you were in the editor-in-chief, instead of the used version. I didn't know that by buying a used book, I was keeping you from receiving the $4.20 that you were supposed to get for every copy sold. The fact that I saved up my spare change for weeks and left the $4.20 in an envelope in your mailbox doesn't make up for my mistake, I know. I'll try harder next time. I will! I really will!

4. Mr. Evans, my 6th grade science teacher.
This guy was such an unbelievable asshole, such a disaster as a teacher, that I actually started a petition to get him fired. I had about forty signatures before another teacher, Mrs. Schroedter, found out about it and gave me the talking-to of my life. During the lecture, Mr. Evans just sat there, not saying a word and trying to look wounded. Bastard. If you're going to gripe me out, at least have the cajones to do it yourself! Wherever you are, Mr. Evans, I just want you to know that I've intentionally forgotten everything you ever told me about electrons. Ha! Isn't it nice to know you wasted a whole two weeks lecturing on the periodic table, Mr. SuckFace?

5. Carmen Sandiego
I never did find where in the world that illusive bitch was hiding. All my friends in the Gifted Class found her, but not me. I guess the intelligence test I took to get in there was a fluke.

There are plenty of other people who don't love me, but I think five is all my heart can take right now. Pardon me while I put out cigarettes on my navel.

And she's dancin' like she's never danced before

Most of your are probably familiar with Austin's (in)famous Sixth Street, that long stretch of bars, clubs, restaurants, and pool halls where everyone in the city comes to drink themselves into a tizzy. If you aren't acquainted with this beautiful road, you're more than welcome to come down and stay with me while we explore it together. Everyone should see this spectacle at least once: a thousand people stumbling drunkenly in the middle of the street at 2 a.m. when the bars close. And to what destination are they stumbling? Their cars, of course. Isn't that a comforting thought?

Last night L (old coworker), E (new coworker), and I (that's not an initial for someone's name--it refers to me) went down to Sixth Street to show E the Austin nightlife. L is a teetotaler now, but she tells us she USED to drink, so I tried all night to buy her just one little mixed drink. No dice; last time she got drunk on Sixth she had so many Cape Cods that she lost all sense of where she was and eventually ended up losing her wallet. With a monster of a hangover the next day, she had to call every bar they'd been to before giving up and cancelling all of her credit cards and getting new copies of every other random card she had. This has frightened her from drinking for over a year since, but my argument is simple: moderation. People should neither get drunk nor be afraid to touch alcohol. They should get a little buzz, have fun, relax, laugh, feel good, and then stop drinking alcohol, start drinking water, and drive home stone-cold sober. That's what alcoholic beverages are for; that's why the Bible (yes, the Bible) says that the Lord provides wine to gladden the heart of men (see Proverbs 104). The Bible also gives strong warnings against drunkenness, of course, and those of us who are prone to weeping, drunken dialing, and running into walls should heed those warnings (I'm speaking in a general way here, of course...).

So E and I had a few drinks, L had Diet Coke, and we skipped from bar to bar looking for a good time. We started off at the Library, which had incredibly loud music and a $2.50 special on Long Island Iced Tea. E took one of those, but I stuck with my tried-and-true favorite, the White Russian. The bartender was generous with the vodka and Kahlua (that's a hell of a Caucasian, Jackie). We moved on to Lovejoy's, which has some decent beer, some creepy fantasy wall paintings, and some very hip counterculture Austinites. E fit right in with her facial piercings; I looked more out of place with my denim mini-skirt, Banana Republic soft pink tee, and carefully layered hair.

[Which reminds me...I have a new haircut! That's right, all that long, blonde hair is now in the trash at Halina's Day Spa in Round Rock. My stylist, Blondie (no last name), started by slashing a five-inch-long chunk off my head and handing it to me. My heart temporarily stopped beating, but I gulped and told her to keep going. Now my hair is very short and very cute, and I think it's the reason I got hit on so much last night. Boo-yah!]

From Lovejoy's we went to Friend's and jumped up on the dance floor. We were having such a blast, dancing our little hearts out, and it felt wonderful to be alive. It's been so long since I danced, and even though I had to fend off a few would-be suitors on the dance floor (my heart and my magic dancing hips belong to Elliot), I still can't imagine a better way to spend the evening than sweating on a hot dance floor.

We ended up at Katz's for coffee and dessert to wind down before I drove L and E to their respective homes. E ended up living with a middle-aged woman in a funky old house in East Austin (read: ghetto), who spends her time feeding a thousand stray cats on her front porch. Poor E is sleeping on the wooden floor atop an air mattress that she punctured a few nights ago, but she plans to get a mattress next week. And no, she didn't puncture the air mattress with any of her facial piercings or political buttons, just in case you were wondering. I came home tired and happy, and I woke up this morning trying to remember what I used to do for fun in Oklahoma. I'm still working on that one.

Life is sweet here in Austin. I'm only sorry you poor fools live somewhere else.

Ye Who Are Weary, Come Home

You may find that one day you come to a certain point in your life where you have a recurring thought: People just aren't worth it. This is a dangerous thought, and you should know the second it starts to pop into your head that you've started down the path to neurosis. Still, it's a tempting thought, one that provides a noticeable measure of relief to your inner aches and anxieties. You find an indescribable joy in ignoring emails and answering machine messages, and you start forgetting birthdays and anniversaries by the dozen. Fantasies of a life alone in a cave with only a friendly yak to keep you company occur to you daily. You begin to think things that seem revolutionary to you, thoughts that you believe never occur to others. "What if I just didn't have a phone? What if I just disconnected my phone, sold my cell phone, and simply did not have any telephonic communication with the outside world whatsoever?"

This, my friends, is the dark path your dear Muskrat has been trying to keep herself from following for the past few months. I remember a time when the thought of meeting new people, going to parties, etc. was incredibly exciting. But now people, at least these days, seem to me more than anything to be exhausting. I can hardly work up the enthusiasm anymore to take on the Sisyphean task of mapping out the labyrinth of quirks, neuroses, prejudices, and pet peeves that come tied up with every new person I meet. Case-in-point: our future co-worker that I met last night, E, was obviously an incredible person, but we at the office had to spend the entire next day deciding how F (boss) was going to react to E's various facial piercings. F is not positive on facial piercings; in fact, she once rejected a person from a VISTA position because she thought the parents of our students would react badly to her nose rings and tattoos. But F has never met E in person, only over the phone, so this visual prejudice will manifest itself too late to keep E out of the classroom. It's all quite the drama, and it bores the living hell out of me. In these moments now I actually hold my palm to my chest and feel my heart beating, and I think about how it will only beat a certain number of times before I die, and how a thousand of them will probably beat before I'm done talking about a piece of sterling silver in someone's eyebrow. And I have to tell you, people, it makes me want to cry/take a nap.

Fortunately, I still recognize that my way of thinking is unhealthy, and I hope to change my attitude soon. That's the good news. The bad news is, in the meantime I'm an AmeriCorps VISTA, and the motivating center of my life is supposed to be Helping People. In one moment I scream and rage against conservatives who don't give a shit for the poor, the black, the Latino, the undereducated, the gay, the anyone who isn't already white and privileged. In the next moment, I can't even seem to find enough rage to yell at my case worker for not giving me enough food stamps. I feel like I'm ready to take what anyone will give me as long as they just leave me the hell alone for five minutes.

Yes, perhaps that's what's really bothering me: DHS. For let me assure you, there is nothing more depressing than a trip to the Rutherford Lane Texas Department of Human Services. The whole place is filled to the brim with blank-faced women holding unwashed babies and toddlers, waiting hours in an uncomfortable plastic chair for five minutes with a disillusioned, soul-numbed case worker who has 1,000 other people waiting on her to help them, meaning this is your last chance to get help unless you want to wait another month, and wait you will, because there is no listed telephone number for this office and even if you find one, you can be sure that no one will answer no matter how long you let it ring. Poverty, from the short glimpse I've had of it so far, overwhelmingly appears as a long, tortuous, bureaucratic nightmare. I won't bore you with the endless details of my run-around with DHS, but suffice it to say I've lived here almost two months and only today did my food stamps come through. No, I'm not starving, but my rent alone eats up over half of my monthly income, and I don't have a lot left over for groceries after I pay my bills and put gas in the car. My case worker had a hard time believing me, of course; I was the only white person in the entire waiting area, and there were no holes in my clothing. (For those of you who know me well, you're probably surprised to hear that, come to think of it.) When she came out to call my name, she tried to pronounce my last name as though it were a Hispanic name, even though it sounded ridiculous. When Whitey McPrivileged walked up to her instead of another breastfeeding Latina mother, she raised an eyebrow, let me tell you.

I did realize during this experience, however, that I still care about hungry people in the world. The nightmare that I've had to go through, even armed with official papers from a federally-sponsored organization, reminded me of how difficult life must be for those who have faced these challenges every day for their entire lives. And I ached for them, just as I used to do at night in my bed when I couldn't sleep because I knew people were starving all over the world and they needed me to help them. During a time when my own apathy towards other people seems insurmountable, it comforts me to know that I haven't lost my greatest gift: love. It's in there somewhere, and it may take just one moment of beauty in this tragic world to bring it all back to the surface. I'm keeping my eyes open.

Hopped up on Goof Balls

I am incredibly energetic right now, not because I'm on any drug, but because I had a two-hour nap. Let me tell you all you pathetic, dark-circled, ulcered freaks out there who believe in the idea of a "power nap" that you need a good, hard slap in the face. If you honestly believe that 15-30 minutes of half-sleep on your made bed is good for you, then you might as well give up on sleeping at night, too. Just power nap every few hours until you die at 40 years old because the shocks to your system from being pulled from blissful sleep just a moment before it really does you any good will cause your heart to stop beating. You bastards.

I'm also in a liberal rage, which always gives me a blast of healthy hate comparable only to my disdain for the Atkin's diet. Jefe's blog just featured a litany of idiotic comments from people who have their panties in a bunch over Mexican immigrants, who for some reason they can't understand, don't speak English. Aaaagh! Also, my friend Tiffany sent me a borderline racist forward detailing a plan to kick all immigrants out of the U.S., especially Arabs, since we "don't need anymore cab drivers or 7-11 cashiers." When I immediately responded with an enraged reply, she managed to turn me into the bad guy, because I was too "mean" in my honesty. Rather than apologize for mass-emailing racist propaganda, she tried to make the issue about me and our friendship. It's human nature, I suppose, and we've all been guilty of this kind of misdirection, but frankly, I don't have the time in my life to humor people who support racism even in the smallest way. Everyone has their "filters," those things which automatically disqualify people you meet from ever having your respect or friendship, no matter what other saving attributes they might have. For my mother, it's people with tattoos. For me, it's racism. Show me that you're a racist, and you're blacklisted, at least until you make an effort to educate yourself and get rid of whatever prejudices you were raised with.

Alright, I've got to stop. Let's get back to Highlights from Love Week. I took Elliot to see Esther's Follies, a variety show that Z and I attended as part of our scavenger hunt. I knew Elliot would like it, but I was stupid enough to forget how they interact with people on the front row. They seated us right in the middle of the row in front of the stage, and they kept after poor El the whole time. Between being forced to grab an actress' fake breasts (and then berated by the magician for it) and being called "Cueball," El was the star of the show. Fortunately, he was a good sport about it, which is one of the reasons I love him so much. I have endless respect for people who can laugh at themselves; it reminds me that we all take ourselves way too seriously most of the time. Like all you fucking racists out there who think that the reason you're poor is because Mexicans are taking money of your taxes for welfare...whoops, lost control there for a second. I'm back on track now, don't worry.

One of the coolest things we did during El's visit was go see Li'l Cap'n Travis, a band which defines cool in the Austin sense of the word. They are the only non-country band I've ever seen that features a pedal steel guitar in every single song. And believe it or not, it works. We saw them in a place called the Cactus Cafe, which is an actual bar inside the UT student union. I don't know why UT gets to have a bar in their student union while OU doesn't even serve alcohol at their football games, but it seems ridiculously unfair. All of you folks who still live in Norman...move here to Austin. But if you can't do that, check out LCT's show this Friday at the Opolis. You won't regret it.

I can't wait to fall asleep soon. There's nothing like the feeling of sleeping only a few hours after you've woken up from a two-hour nap. It's like eating chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. Yes, oh, yes.

Highlights from Love Week

I warned you that the love-cocoon might swallow me for this week, and indeed it did. I had trouble returning my calls, answering my emails, and updating el bloggo. There's no easy way to sum up everything Elliot and I did this last week in Austin, so I'll just have to hit the highlights. I can't do it all at once, so we'll start with our good times at the pool for this entry and I'll keep posting as the days go by:

Swimming at Barton Springs. Remember when Z and I took this 68 degree natural spring inch by freezing inch? Elliot's not that kind of guy, and of course I won't let myself be a wimp in front of him (the old tomboy in me), so yes, I jumped right in. Okay, okay, maybe I danced around on the edge of the pool for a good ten minutes, whining, wringing my hands, and trying to force my shaking legs to propel me into the Arctic. But in the end I did it, and you know what? It was every bit as horrible as I had imagined. Courtney used to do this to me at Grand Lake; just like Elliot at Barton Springs, she'd dive right in, surface with a smile, and tell me the water felt great. Then I'd jump in and scream profanities for a few minutes before crawling back to the warm deck and rolling back and forth in an attempt to defrost my cold, sluggish blood. Court and El would be a great match; they both love cooking, cleaning, and hypothermia.

While we were lying on our towels after the swim, E-licious and I had the dreaded Marriage Conversation. It all began the day before he arrived, when Z and I were walking around South Congress for the monthly First Thursday event. She asked what grad schools I wanted to go to, and I listed them dutifully: UC Santa Cruz, UC Irvine, UC Berkeley, Stanford, NYU, Duke, Cornell, and UNC Chapel Hill. After I rambled on and on about literary theory, cultural studies, and Vincent B. Leitch (que Dios le bendice), she had to be a pest and ask WHEN I was applying and WHEN I was planning to take the GRE. I then had to tell her that I didn't know quite yet. You see, Elliot and I decided that we really couldn't do a plane-ride relationship; this Austin-Norman thing is hard enough, believe me. This means I'm forced to choose between love and grad school, at least for now. The first one I know I want, the second I'm less sure of, but both are potential futures, and it seems at this moment in time those futures might be mutually exclusive. I don't mind waiting for grad school, especially since I feel I'd like to live and work in the real world for a while, but should I calculate that beautiful blue-eyed boy into my future plans if this relationship isn't going anywhere?

And thus, the Marriage Conversation. El was squeamish because he's managed to avoid marriage for 33 years (much like Jesus), and I was squeamish because I don't feel I quite fit into the role of the "what are your intentions" girl. I've never been foaming at the mouth to get married, as many of you know, and since my introduction to feminism, marriage seems less about love and more about consumerism and compulsory heterosexuality. At the same time, I don't see how living with someone is much different, except you get no federal benefits and your mom disowns you, plus it seems pretty daft to start planning your life around someone who won't even share a bank account with you. The point is, while I see that marriage is problematic in many ways, I know that I'll never rearrange my future plans just so that I can date someone for 4 years and then break up. In this cynical time, I find myself holding on to that outdated notion of unconditional love, and for better or for worse [wink], I won't settle for less. So...we had the talk. And it went surprisingly well. Don't worry, we're not engaged, but let's just say after our conversation I told him I'm going to wait to apply to grad school. Call me a Third Waver and a pathetic fool, but I'm not willing to just give up the one person I love more than anything else in the world for something I'm not even sure I want to do with my life. After we finished the Marriage Conversation, we walked back down the icy depths to take another plunge. This time, we held each other's hand and I said we would jump in together. "Are you serious?" he asked, remembering my previous water-splashing-cursing-screaming-shaking pyrotechnics. "Yup," I replied, looking into his eyes. "This is symbolic." Splash!

Long Train Runnin'

Well, cats, things are looking up for your Muskrat Lover. Elliot is coming in on the train tonight at 8:20, sans beard/mustache, wearing new clothes, and laden with gifts for his lovin' lady. Let's hear it for the boy! My apartment is nearly clean, I have all the dishes done, and I'm getting off work at 3:30 instead of 5:00. Life is grood. (Grood = Great + Good)

I regret that it's been so long since I've posted, but I don't really like it when the only thing people post on their blogs is "Nothing much is happening. I took a looong nap today, which was kewl. Other than, just chillin' and watching Gilligan's Island reruns. Call the cell if you want to chill this weekend. In the meantime, read this pointless quiz I took that reveals what Saved By the Bell character I am. Peace out." So I went ahead and abstained from boring you. It's been hard for me to get motivated to write on this thing because I'm worried that no one really reads it. I think each entry from now on I will reveal some dark secret of a friend of mine. If that person calls me up to scream at me, I'll know they read my blog.

This week the dark secret will be about Akbar Siddiqui. It's not that bad because it involves me. I want to confess to everyone whom I was friends with in high school--do you remember that night everyone in our group of friends got toilet-papered? Well, Akbar and I lied when we said our houses were rolled, too. We actually did everyone else's; it took us hours and tons of toilet paper, but we got every single one of you. Terry Tidwell was spared because he helped us near the end. Ha-HA!

Ooh, this is fun. I almost can't wait until the next posting to reveal more secrets! If Akbar leaves a comment or calls, I'll know he's reading this.

If any of you are addicted to blog-reading, I have some recommendations. The first is Girl With a One Track Mind. This is a blog by a complete nymphomaniac, and I mean that quite literally. This girl is either a) having sex, b) thinking about sex, c) masturbating, d) hitting on someone, or e) blogging about all of the above. Why am I recommending this site? I know that all of us uptight folks like to live vicariously through the fascinating sinners of the world. If you're not into reading about anonymous, voracious sex, then check out voracious drug use at El Bloggo del Jefe. This is a friend of Rachel's, and he is highly entertaining. I recommend you start reading the Sketchy Bill story from beginning to end. When you finish, you'll feel like you just completed a long adventure, like the way you felt the first time you saved the princess on Super Mario Bros.

I'll try to keep you updated, but El and I may be in a love-cocoon for the next week. Leave a comment, if only this once, so that I know people are actually reading this and I'm not just writing it for Ed, Cathy, and Todd Murray.