Glue and me

I didn’t need to look down at my feet to know what had just happened. There’s no sensation more distinct, or worse, maybe, than being stuck—not the stuck-at-the-train-station-because-my-friend-forgot-to-pick-me-up stuck. The sticky kind of stuck.

The day before, I had arrived home to find evidence of two horrible pieces of information:
1. someone had been in my apartment.
2. my building has a rodent problem.

The evidence was four MouseCatcher sticky pads placed throughout my apartment, mostly in the kitchen and bathroom, and one mysterious black box with a hole in it, wedged between my refrigerator and cupboards, which I guessed was placed there for the same reason as the adhesive sheets. Other than a shudder that I might have to find these pads occupied some day, I didn’t yet think too much of these methods of rat-killing.

Sure enough, while rushing to grab a glass of water during a commercial break from "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" a day later, my bare foot made contact with one of these pads. After a moment of panic that I was going to lose a 3 x 4 rectangle of skin, I discovered that these things peeled off of human skin without too much trouble. “Hmm, I hope that mice stick better to these than I do!” I thought.

As I imagined some little mongrel immobilized on my kitchen floor, I began to realize what a horrible way to die this would be: starving to death, unable to understand why your feet just wouldn’t move from the floor, maybe with a corn flake just inches away. I feel panic and terror when I wake up with a numb arm, and I can explain that feeling. Suddenly this seemed the most inhumane way to kill a creature, albeit an unwanted roommate.

I reluctantly placed the sticky pad back under my sink, thinking how the old-school spring traps, a quick blow to the neck as you taste your last meal of cheese, were a much more humane option to intruding mice. “Yet,” I thought, slipping on flip-flops, “Not quite as humane to my toes.”

Independence day

In high school, I had something of a reputation for being a feminist. Particularly clever students would subtly coax me into an angry soapbox rant and finally laugh, revealing their mocking intentions, once I had worked up a sweat. I would say things like, "I'll never get my ears pierced; why would I puncture my body for the sake of society's idea of beauty?" and "Mr. __, why didn't you ask any of the girls to help you carry those heavy textbooks?" I wanted a career and no kids, travel, cultured friends, and respect, maybe a husband, as an afterthought. I was so confident in my future and in my ideals.

I think 17-year old Allison would be a little disappointed in her future self. There's still plenty of that feminist-minded self in me--I still prickle at the phrase "career woman"--but the dream has changed, of course. I try to remember what I wanted to be when I was a teenager: was it a writer? a curator? an editor, maybe? What would "Alli" think of Allison-as-receptionist, I wonder. And what would she think of my paycheck, especially if we were to compare it with that of her boyfriend's, who made at least twice as much at his first real job. What a rude awakening to the feminist dream.

I can't really blame society. I could have been a software developer. But I wanted to "be whatever I wanted to be," that old promise of youth. I should have made up my mind that what I wanted to be was rich and successful and necessary in comtemporary America. America doesn't need any more writers or art museum staff, and they especially don't need inexperienced college graduates being whatever they want to be.

When my boyfriend takes me out to his friends' parties and weddings, I already feel myself morphing into the little housewife. His friends have learned not to ask me how work is, because they know I will look down awkwardly and murmur "it's fine," my cheeks burning because I don't have my career yet and I'm not really pursuing it and shouldn't I be ashamed of that?

So Alli has that to look forward to: learning that it is difficult to get her foot in the door, that networking is a necessary skill, that she's going to have to slave away for at least a few years before her dreams start coming true. Alli also needs to be aware that she will fall in love, which is 95% a wonderful thing.

Last week, with boyfriend out of town for work, I expressed my loneliness to my mom, who responded, "Yeah, when Dad and I lived in Ann Arbor [while Dad was working towards his PhD] I really didn't have any friends there. I remember feeling lonely, too." My sister went through this phase, as well. Seems like a lot of people deal with this I-have-a-boyfriend, I-can't-make-friends problem. What an unexpected feminist bump: social dependence on a man.

On day 4 of boyfriend withdrawal, I was so antsy I finally did something I didn't think I was brave enough to do: I went to a movie, on Friday night, by myself. Appropriately enough: Sex and the City, a flick I wasn't really dying to see, but I needed something fun to do. I thought I might be depressed by the sea of girlfriends surrounding me in the theater, but it was the opposite. I felt contented, at peace, happy to have found the courage to do something without a friend or boyfriend on my arm. It reminded me of that joy I discovered my year in Boston, taking a train by myself to a museum, or in Spain, er, also taking a train by myself to a museum. I love the freedom that having 20 dollars and a decisive mind can bring me. I'll make friends, eventually. Right now I'm enjoying my own company.

Crank it

While observing the crowds at a recent Friday night punk concert, I was overcome with dueling emotions: a longing for that teenaged joy of defiance, independence, and staying out late; and, of course, a contented relief that I'm done with that phase of cocky ignorance. I now know that I would much rather know how little I know about the world than be foolishly arrogant with my opinions. Still, those days were fun while they lasted...

People who know me intimately may be raising their eyebrows at the notion of my rebellious past. While there have been some debatably punk-rock moments (I swear, dying my long blond hair magenta days before my cousin's wedding was an ACCIDENT), overall my teenaged years were tame. What did I have to fight against? My parents nearly always encouraged independent thinking, my teachers generally adored me, and society had no qualms with allowing an upper-middle class white girl to go to college and pursue her red-white-and-blue dreams. I had nothing in common with the rebellious voices other teens enjoyed, needed to identify themselves with. The most I had struggled with in my life was an episode or two of unrequited, undeveloped love. Why wouldn't I, even now, be more interested in the lyrics of Kelly Clarkson than in those of the Clash?

I do hit those days, though—those kill-me-now, I'm-on-the-edge days when my blood boils. Today was one of those days. I was inexplicably fixating on everything wrong with my life: I have no money to buy a gym membership, my boss makes me do stuff, I have to go to Planned Parenthood and I don't want people to think I'm poor or getting an abortion, the wind is messing up my hair, and so forth. I was pissed off and in agony. Walking to my car after work, stepping in puddles and getting my pant hems wet, I could feel the anger just rise higher and higher, my face was getting warm, and I knew I had to release some of the emotional pressure somehow. Immediately after I closed myself into the car, I grabbed the steering wheel and screamed.

As soon as it had happened, I regreted it. No one had seen or heard me—that wasn't the problem. I had heard my yell, and it sounded, even reverberating against the confined glass surfaces, stale. Contrived. Embarrassingly dramatic. The silence that followed seemed to hold an eternity of judgment on my moment of ridiculous anger. I thought of the mowhawked, chain-ladden children at the punk concert, throwing their beers at the stage, screaming obsentities senselessly, thrashing their bodies against each other—and why? Because they hated social norms? Because life was unfair? Because they had a curfew?

I hung my head thinking how similarly juvenile I could be, needing to scream my anger at nothing. Then something remarkable happened. I turned my key in the ignition, and as my engine sprang to life, so did the cd of "Rock Band" songs compiled by my boyfriend for me. The bass line throbbed, drums pounded, vinyl scratched, and Adrock SCREAMED:

I—CAN'T STAND IT
I KNOW YOU PLANNED IT
IMA SET IT STRAIGHT
THIS WATERGATE
CAN'T STAND ROCKIN WHEN I'M IN HERE
'CAUSE YOUR CRYSTAL BALL AIN'T SO CRYSTAL CLEAR

I can't say that the lyrics were a comfort to me. Honestly, after singing this song numerous times for our virtual band, I still can't say I know what the Boys were after with these words. I will say this: the mere presence of angry-sounding language, noise, pacified me. What I was lacking in the car before I turned on the music was a justifying response to my outcry. And perhaps that's what punk rock is to kids: it's a companion piece for their annoyances, something to share the dialogue, nod along and add a "Yeah, life sucks" where needed. People want their music to respond to them, not the other way around. No wonder people categorize their music in mood-based playlists.

Or maybe I just can't express myself without an audience, even one that can't really hear me. (Note that I've never kept a personal diary, but a blogger apparently I am.)

House style

I've been an editorial intern at the Museum of Contemporary Art for three days. I'm quite astonished that no one has come to my desk to critique my unconventional use of proofreading marks (my scratches lack the delightful grace of the real editors), or to correct my insistence on deleting the serial comma ("oh, that's ok here!"). Little by little, I am discovering the right way to edit, the house style according to the MCA. Though having the freedom to make mistakes and the trust of my supervisor ought to be self-assuring and exhilirating, a large portion of me pines for a boss who explains everything I'd ever need to know...no. I don't need anyone holding my hand. Shame on self-doubting me.

My background in writing and editing, instead of granting me the confidence I need, seems to spotlight my inferiority. I fear that with every mistake of mine the head editor finds, she and the rest of her staff will mock me, my school, my degree, my home state. I know that it's extremely egocentric to assume everyone is both noticing and judging my every move. It's just easier on yourself to assume that you're being judged instead of ignored.

And I'm honestly less concerned about my abilities as an editor (I just graduated, how much am I supposed to know, anyway?) than I am about my appearance, my wit, my knowledge of what is and isn't cool. I'm probably the youngest person in the office at 23 (or possibly tied with one other person), and yet I feel the most removed from what is and isn't the appropriate speech and dress of the young and hip. I'm the only one in the office who will wear dress pants (though less and less frequently), and even with my boyfriend's sloppy hoodie thrown over me, I'm still the preppiest person within sight. By far. A much more MCA dress would be an ironicly ugly grandpa sweater over pencil-thin denim (the staff actually had the second annual "ugly sweater day" the week I started). I sense myself as out of place as those serial commas.

My friend Ann, working in a posh independent advertising office, told me a similar story of how much more sophisticated and witty everyone who works with her is. But I would be wise to take her optimistic viewpoint on my own workroom situation:

"I mean, what if I looked around the office, and I was obviously the coolest person in the room? How depressing would that be?!"