JUST KIDDING.  The way the rest of the world feels when they get their springtime allergies is the way I feel in the fall.  I don’t have allergies, but as soon as the temperature drops, so does my body like a sack of shit.  I can’t seem to wake up before 10 AM this week, and once I have it’s all a lot of grumpy groaning and shuffling.  I called out sick from my last day of work because bloody boogers don’t add much to cinnamon lattes, contrary to popular belief.

So, even though I should be doing important things like ordering traveler’s cheques (can you believe that I leave in 3 days and don’t have a single Euro?  where was my head at?) and continual packing, I’m going to sit here slack-jawed, breathe through my mouth, and go over one of those lists I made at the beginning of the summer.

1. Go on an anti-inflammatory diet. Sort of. It lasted just probably a month, and then I got my teeth out and totally gave up, because all I could eat was frappes, and frappes are daaaamn good.  I even noticed that my mom switched back to the white bread, but pretended not to because that’s the way I like my toast, so sue me.  Now that I’m about to live on my own, with other people who probably know how to eat vegetables, I’m going to try.  Besides, I don’t think they even have Fritos in Ireland.
2. Learn to cook for each meal of the day. Ding! I understand stoves and ovens now.  Pancakes, grilled cheese, spaghetti.  Doesn’t exactly go along with the anti-inflammatory diet, but it’s a true start.  Now that I know the basics (I can boil water and make hot chocolate in a sauce pan!), I can break out this book and give it a go.
   
3. Make ginger snapsssss! Ding! Weren’t that great, and they were actually chews not snaps, but it was complex and I felt proud.
   
4. Teach myself a new instrument. Sort of. The pennywhistle is basically the same as a saxophone or recorder, but I didn’t have any time to really explore it.  I do have one now, though.
   
5. Go on a ghost tour.  Ding! This was a close call, but I got it done last night.  I was freezing and sick and spooked.  I think I may have gotten a picture of a dead sea captain, but I’m no expert.
   
6. Go to Six Flags at night. Nope. Never happened.  It’s very hard to coordinate.
7. Go to a drive-in movie.  Nope. Never happened.
8. Complete a jigsaw puzzle.  Ding! 550 pieces, took about 2-3 days.  Was very good therapy for my antsiness.
   
9. Buy new luggage and air-compressing bags.  Ding! Now if only I could buy a professional suitcase packer…
10. Have an occasion to wear a bathing suit; feel comfortable.  Nope. Never went to the beach, a pool, or any other swimming hole.  Mostly because I didn’t feel comfortable.
11. Shoot hoops before or after work, at least three times a week.  Hmm… well, although this did not happen consistently, I did keep it up for a little bit.  I kind of don’t care though, because it’s a scientific fact that a resolution to work out more will not be fulfilled by me.  Like, maybe I’ll take yoga classes this year?  OR MAYBE I’LL PLAY THE SIMS UNTIL THE CHEETOS ARE GONE.
12. Wear a dress.  Ding! And looked pretty fly while doing so.

My second list was more recent and had to do with my bad money situation.  To try to stay smart, I used Twitter to record my daily expenses (although gave up a little earlier this week).  Let’s check out how I did a month later.

1. Packed lunches, ahoy!  Ding! Done and done, did not buy food or even drink until this week, because I had a couple goodbye dinners.  Also, one Bramhall’s frappe, and it was awesome.
2. Truly analyze clothes. Ding! Only bought one clothing item–a super cool, super purple raincoat.
3. Just pay the damn wedding money. Ding! Really, really worth it.
4. (Hey kid, don’t push it if someone offers to pay. Act gracious and accept, ya feel me?)  Well, that would have been nice if someone had offered.
5. Oh, make-up, make-up, make-up.  Ding! Only $50 at Sephora, and just used a coupon at Ulta.
6. Careful with the gasoline. Sort of. Had some longer drives than expected, but I did stick to the speed limit.  And actually, do I notice more people driving the speed limit?  I think I do.  At least, I didn’t feel like an old maid on the road.
7. Gift cards, son! Ding! Old Navy and Michael’s–utilized.
8. Decide on fun activities based on whether they accept student discounts, resident discounts, or really, whether they’re under $20. Ding! Horseback riding, mini golf, and mooching off of other people’s fries = cheap fun.

So, I’ve been mostly successful.  I like making lists because it truly gives me something to focus on, which is especially handy with my 10-minute “warning! warning! idle and unproductive” self destruct inner time bomb.  Mrs. Salamone told me to make a list of goals for when I go to Ireland, what I want to achieve and how I want to remember my time.  I really want to make a list like that too, but not yet.  I think my priorities will change quickly in those first few weeks, just as they did freshman year of college, and I don’t want to walk in with a notepad, making checkmarks as I go along, too distracted by my past ideals to allow new ones to develop.  For now, then, I guess I’ll just say, I want to:

1. Not be afraid of anything.
2. Like where I was and where I am.

My first article for the Heights “World Record” column is out today.  Because I’m not in Ireland, this proved difficult to write.  I’m worried I came off whiny, but honestly, if I did, it would have been an accurate portrayal, because I’ve reverted back to tenth grade mopeyness lately.

Most of my days, I’m not doing much except folding socks and pining for an aisle seat. As such, this has wreaked havoc on my inner Lisa Simpson, who cried, “Grade me, look at me, evaluate and rank me!” to my boss the other day after hours of idling. I don’t know what’s happening in Boston, I don’t know what’s happening in Ireland, and it’s almost midterm – panic attacks, commence.

Read the rest here.

I’m not outspokenly political, and every attempt at a semi-political entry has been put on hold (I have a LOT of drafts) because they just come out sounding uneducated.  But I’m not uneducated, so I’m just going to cut to the chase: I am voting for Barack Obama.  I think you should, too.

“I’m writing my article right now about all my wonderful memories from Ireland.  Except I don’t have any.”

“I bet other people have already had tests by now.”

“When I’m at work, I demand that my boss grade my promotional quizzes even though I’m the only person who takes them.”

“Have you thought about talking to Maxine?”

YES, BECAUSE THAT’S THE THIRD TIME THIS WEEK YOU’VE TOLD ME TO.  Cripes all Friday, just because I want to write a term paper doesn’t mean I’m going to kill myself.

The whole reason psychology was so successful for me is because I elected to go.  If I’d been forced into it, I could have easily lied and gotten nowhere.  And in fact, during the five consecutive years that I saw her, there was a time when I wasn’t interested one bit in sharing feelings or thoughts, and shot down every interpretation she sent my way.  Maybe I was jealous of a friend?  No, not at all.  Maybe it’d be good to look into this sort of career?  I would not enjoy that one bit, no, that’s really a terrible idea.

That’s about where I am now.  But the assumption that because someone doesn’t want to talk to a psychologist means they should is all wrong, in my opinion.  My mom says she’d like me to because she thinks I owe it to Maxine to let her know where I am going and what I am doing.  I agree, to an extent.  If it weren’t for her bi-weekly “I believe in you” presence, I might have crumpled in on myself and never fought my way out.  But at the same time, I’m not finished.  It’s not like I can just walk into her house and go, “Guess what!  I made it across the pond!  We did it!  Your, and my, work is done.”  It’s not.  I’ve got a lot left to do, and I’m not ready to talk about it.

I’m also not ready to listen.  If there’s one thing I am 100% sick of this month, it’s people telling me what I will go through, what I will feel, and what I will learn.  I’ll expound on this slightly more (and slightly less) in my article, but others’ analyses of my trip are drilling wicked fears into my chest of having the most unoriginal time of my life.  The more I’m told I’ll never forget it, the more I think there’ll be nothing outstanding to remember.  No real justification for this, but I don’t like being treated as though I’m some passive recipient of magic.  I am not being acted upon entirely.  The main reason I get to do this is because  I made it so.  (Granted, I made it so because Maxine made me believe that I could make it so, which is one of those reasons I should talk to her.  I might talk to her.  But I don’t know.)

And just because I don’t want to discuss this in a one-on-one doesn’t mean I’m crazy.

Ready?  Ready?

Now you see it.

Now just a little bit less.

My space saving bags aren’t quite the space savers I’d hoped they’d be, but on the other hand, this is 10 sweaters, which is basically all I wear.  Add in my jeans, drawers, and shoes, and I should fit all my clothes just fine.  I am telling you this because it was the second goal on my “save some money” list.  I haven’t sorted through all my clothes because my room is an absolute disaster and I don’t have enough patience, but there is SOMETHING in my suitcase now.

Otherwise, it’s been all packed lunches (except one expensive trip to Bramhalls, but it was awesome, blended, Phish-Foody goodness), small necessary purchases like foreign outlet adapters, and checking out sales sections only.  I strolled around Michael’s to see if I could come up with anything super creative, but I’ll end up saving that for yarn.  I’m almost done paying my share of the wedding check, with one last alteration payment to be made tomorrow, when I will also make a loooong pitstop at Wrentham Villages to peruse the outlet stores.  On the menu: a raincoat/windbreaker with a hood (the past two months on my weather app have yieled about half a dozen not-rainy days for Dublin), possibly rainboots but only if they’re not ugly as sin and cheap as hell, maybe a cheap pair of black everyday shoes.  Who knows, I’m feeling sort of frivolous.  And they are outlets after all.  I’ve also been good on the fun time front, such as Jenna’s and my discovery of the Style Network bus, which gave us free mini makeovers, or next week’s horseback riding.  The only bummer has been gas, but I’ve been driving the speed limit, which is both lawful and frugal.

It’s two weeks to the day today.

Bits has been my cat for fourteen years now, which means I was six years old when we got her.  She was my second cat, and a great partner for Kibbles.  There are plenty of pictures of the two of them draped over our sleeping bodies, stretched out on couches, and cuddled inside boxes.  She’s always been a princess in her mannerisms–paws together, crooked nose stuck in the air, coy looks at anyone who’s available to open the front door.  She’s been a solid part of this family for the majority of my life.

And for some reason, I still cannot stand her sometimes.

Lately, I’ve attributed this to something I’d like to call Little Sister Syndrome.  She’s wayyyy too into whatever I’m doing, at all times.  Wherever I am, she’s there.  Whenever I have something to do, she has something she needs, mainly, human contact.  Whenever I’ve achieved perfect quiet, she interrupts with that sad, creaky meow.

It’s always been that way to a certain degree, but it’s heigtened this summer.  Ever since Moses died, Bits has become THE CAT.  Not just one of the cats, but the cat (Tub doesn’t count in this case, because he lives in a separate world downstairs, does not sleep with us, and anyway Tub is a bear).  It’s gone from, “No, Bits, please don’t sleep on my neck,” to “What the fuck, you’re ALWAYS HERE.  Every time I go to my room, you’re there!  Why are you always in here?!  Get out!  Stop sleeping in my bed, ew, were you on my pillow?  Jesus, Bits, why do you roll in dirt?  Now there’s dirt on my pillow.  No, it’s TOO FUCKING HOT, don’t touch me!  Don’t touch me! Jesus Christ!  Ow, your claws really hurt, don’t DO THAT.  Get out, I mean it.  Stop coming in my room, stop borrowing my clothes, stop touching me and my things, and go get a life.”

I’ve never felt such animosity towards her before, and at first it really worried me.  I worried that now that Moses was gone I was having those “why couldn’t it have been you” feelings, that I had truly picked a favorite, that I was becoming the mom from Ordinary People.  In my better moods, I would sit with Bits and pet her and tell her how pretty she was and how much I loved her, just because I worried that it wasn’t true.  But it is true, because how can I not love the Kittumest One, the cat so maleable that she earned a new nickname for each new shape we could mush her into?  It’s impossible. More likely, I think the loss of Mo meant the loss of a creature so totally devoted to me, with no apparent ulterior motives.  Instead, every night I had a cat who wanted warmth for herself, who seemed totally unaffected by the disappeance of her brother.  It was unnerving, which distorted every other clingy aspect of her.

But the fact is, Bittums, you haven’t changed a bit since the day we got you.  If I have known you for fourteen years and the only thing that has changed is the health of your hips, then I love you still.  And anytime I flip my lid just at the sight of you snuggled under my covers after frolicking in mulch, it’s just because you’re my little sister.  Yeah, you’re always fucking there and it gets wicked annoying and you get way too close to me and sometimes you just better not touch me or else, but if Tub comes to beat you up?  I’m on your side.  Or if it’s almost dark and you’re still outdoors?  I’m the one calling you in.  No wicked animal of the night is going to get you, and most importantly, no one else gets to call you a stuck up bitch.  Just me.