family portrait

"If you're going to hold someone down, you're going to have to hold on by the other end of the chain." —Toni Morrison

I've been hestitant to try acupuncture because I've never believed in even possessing a chi, nevermind displacing it, but my family is starting to make me second-guess myself.

My family is very August: Osage County. You probably haven't seen this play, unless you were in Chicago during its first run or have hit up Broadway in New York lately, but Tracy Letts' latest could not possibly be written about any family other than mine. I know that's the beauty of the play, of course. You love it so much because that's your family on stage. That's you, smoking in the attic during a desperately needed moment of solace. That's your grandmother, letting the pills excuse leaked secrets as if Moment of Truth was being filmed in your living room.

Maybe you don't do drugs, and maybe your arthritic grandmother would push through the pain to knit you socks if your feet were cold. But I bet there's a black sheep somewhere in the family who spits venom and swallows no pride. I bet there are alliances and shameful secrets and betrayals and all sorts of things you'd rather be blissfully ignorant about. I hope I'm wrong.

But every time I go home, I see a little more of my family in the Westons. I'm not ashamed by it, because that's just who they are (plus, it's like watching inbred hamsters fight over the running wheel). Each trip back, I notice a little more anger has been stockpiled in my absence, a little more hostility bubbles. I don't get it. I just don't believe in truths not told, grievances not shared, betrayals not healed. Harboring so much anger that it eats away at you. What's the problem with expelling anger, if it's only an interruption of counterfeited peace? Do it for your chi.

coming soon to a road near you

I got a bike!

It's my second official Craigslist purchase, the first being Rilo Kiley tickets from a Puerto Rican with a canary yellow belt buckle to match his cowboy boots. I've been wary of bikes—and Craigslist transactions—since a particularly bloody accident when I was 12. Seeing as how it's

1) torture to be indoors with this beautiful weather,

2) hard to defend driving 2 miles to work in a bike-friendly city, and

3) lame to be afraid of bikes,

I thought it was time to take the plunge. So watch out, Austin, because me and my Marin are about to hit the roads. And it probably won't be pretty.

p.s. This is the bike. This is not me on the bike. Hopefully I will also be able to ride on the tops of buildings while looking less ridiculous.

the mutually exclusive properties of dating

Now I just call him the Cracker Barrel guy.

Our first/only date was to get sushi, which he'd never had because farmers' kids from the Deliverance region don't do sushi. I admire him for trying. I picked the restaurant because he was a self-admitted meat-and-potatoes guy who had recently discovered Cracker Barrel and while we were trying to pick a restaurant said, "You know, it's a pretty nice place!" So it was over before it even started. Jen put it best: "The way I see it, you like grammar and he likes Cracker Barrel, and those things are mutually exclusive."

I brought this one upon myself, though.

Scene: Friday night, favorite Irish pub in Memphis, basically a meat market with a few cougars prowling the perimeter. If it's a Mean Girls jungle scene, we are the sexy cheetahs preening ourselves in the center, unimpressed by the alpha male lions circling, salivating, purring. For some reason, though, my nonchalant game is off tonight. My friends, one with the Arkansas hair poof (it was glorious) and the other with the great rack, they are faring just fine. I obviously decide I don't want to talk to these chatches anyway. Your hair gel makes you look like a porcupine, and your gold chain was a bad QVC purchase.

So I start looking. Forget fate. The guys that would approach me aren't the ones I like anyway. I like the shy ones. The ones who respect your girl's night. The ones who are out with the guys, not out to find me. I'll find you.

I spotted him immediately; well-dressed, good-looking but not hot, slightly overwhelmed by the din. Perfect. Arkansas Poof joked that I should go ask him out. 3 jager bombs later, I'm on it. He's alone now at his table, even better. But I still need a reason to go over there.

Trice the shots, trice the stupidity. I decide - I'll just trip. Yes, like, actually physically fake a fall. Why not? My friends were too preoccupied with Baldy McGee and Nitro to stave me off from my ridiculous-meets-desperate-meets-jager plan. Which is: I'll walk right by his table (on an unnecessary trip to the bathroom) and "accidentally" trip over someone standing next to the table....it's perfect. He can laugh at me, I can give an embarrassed giggle, insert a self-depricating joke, and boom we'll be talking.

As I'm crossing the packed bar, suddenly his tableside crowd disappears, like f-ing Moses is there to part the Red Sea, leaving a totally blank canvas for me to look like a complete ass. I realize, I don't even know how to fake trip. I don't do physical comedy...what the hell was I thinking? At this rate I might actually trip. Oh God I'm too close now...shit, when did his friend sit back down at the table?

It's over. I do a half-hearted stumble but am so embarrassed by the execution that I walk right past him to the bathroom. Shame on me. Shame on my stupid plan. Shame on not giving myself another hour of Blue Moon before deciding this was the best option.

In a totally anti-climactic turn of events, when I retrace my steps back to my poof+titty posse, his friend is gone. Farmer boy is alone. I regain enough composure to say something witty...conversation opened, invitation to sit down. Two hours later his friends are leaving, but I've got a date for Friday night.

Damn I'm good.

(Note: This was, appropriately, the worst date I've ever been on in my entire life.)

generation gap (big, part II)

The quintessential Gen Xers (you know, mid-30s to 40 somethings) treat the most mundane discussions in class like they could possibly be the only opportunity for their 15 minutes of fame. Over-eager. Talking to hear themselves talk. I mean, I can respect that if a 45-year-old with two kids and a full-time job has made the sacrifices to get her MBA, she wants to make the most of it, but COME ON*. I am not interested in why Josie Talks-a-Lot is annoyed by 2-page e-mails, nor do I want to know how many times she's willing to replay a voicemail before she gives up on trying to record the caller's garbled message. I'll admit, it's partially the professor's fault for even opening Pandora's box about personal annoyances in the workplace. But he's an aging Boomer so it makes sense that he's getting off on class participation.

For the love of God, pragmatic Gen Xers, take a seat. I'm a Millenial dammit and I want to make something happen. I don't want to be a part of your self-important circle jerk while you vie for the professor's attention. Don't worry, he's going to like you anyway. He'll appreciate your diversity and your experience. But I see through your bullshit, and I'm paying $214 a class to learn from the man up front and from you. Yes, kinky-haired hippie in the third row, I'm actually curious as to what your time in the West Indies taught you about effectively deploying a marketing strategy for a start-up nonprofit. But please, kinky-haired hippie, don't bore me with your pet peeves. You'll get your time in the limelight later. Now earn it.



*My communications professor strictly instructed us to not SHOUT via ALL CAPS in our professional e-mails. $214/class.

generation gap (small, part I)

My boyfriend, who is only three years my senior, claims we have a very distinct generation gap. This isn't the first time I've been accused of being out of the loop. Or as one friend put it, "being born from a test tube in 1994." I get it; I had my head up my ass until college. But the boyfriend doesn't think this so-called gap is marked by our personal preferences, life values, or m.o.s. Nope, the chasm between us is The Gooneys. I have no clue what this movie is about. I can't even spell it right (English-major-tick kicking in....it's Goonies).



"Okay fine, but you loved The Goonies, right?"
Blink. Blink.
Heart audibly breaking.

So okay, I guess that officially makes me a proud Millenial. Generation Y. Generation I-have-no-fucking-clue what The Goonies is about. Cinematic preferences aside, I've never been too particularly conscious of where I stand amongst the demographic makeup of my friends, family, workplace, and certainly not my school. A traditional bachelor's degree from a traditional college completed in the traditionally allotted timeslot makes me....traditionally homogenous amongst my fellow students. Attempting to catch up with the go-getters my age out there stealing all the good jobs, I started back to school for my MBA last year. A small indention in my social life should maximize my professional appeal down the road, right? Whatever. The point is, the classroom awaiting me was a far cry from my undergraduate experience. Hell, from my middle school experience.