Operation: Badass

"There are better compliments than being called 'sweet.' And even if I wasn't the edgiest, most dramatic person in the world, I could sometimes imagine myself being another, sharper, more powerful version of myself...But I guessed I could handle being called sweet. Sweet was a start. At least he hadn't called me 'nice.'"

-Mia, Summer of Skinny Dipping

I'm working on a project at work that involves law enforcement and may involve talking to some cops. I heard from one coworker that another coworker thought I was "too sweet and innocent" to be around so many cops.

Now, part of me would assume that "sweet and innocent" is exactly the type of person you'd want around a bunch of cops. However, not having the hangups that a lot of people have about cops due to having never been in a situation involving them, maybe the stereotypes are true and "sweet and innocent" would lead to trouble.

But that's a whole other issue. My main gripe with this accusation is that it's just that, an accusation. I AM NOT SWEET AND INNOCENT. I am 28 years old! I'm an adult who drinks, swears, wears short skirts, and jaywalks! Sometimes, if there isn't a recycling bin, I'll throw an aluminum can in with the regular trash! Because I'm just crazy like that. Rawr!

Nnow I've decided to institute at work what I'm calling Operation: Badass. That's right, no more Ms. Sweet and Innocent. (Not that I ever think I really was, but there will be no doubt after this.) After some brainstorming and then seeking suggestions from some coworkers, this is what I have so far:

• Re-enact the last scene of "Grease"
• Leather pants
• Leather mini-skirt
• Tattoos
• Chain smoke in the hallway
• Drink at my desk
• Leave work to drink at a bar
• Pick up men on the street and drink at a bar with them
• Knock down a cop in Chipotle and then run away

I welcome other suggestions. And possibly some bail money.

Creepy crawlies

Warning: I'm tired and cranky and my head hurts and this post is lame and has lots of commas. But I'm writing it anyway.

Our apartment complex has had an infestation of German cockroaches. Luckily, these aren't what you think of when you hear the word "roach;" they're more like small moths. But they are bugs and the complex scheduled exterminators. To prepare, we had to remove everything from our kitchen and bathrooms and wipe out all cabinets. One would think that two young women who have amassed two dozen moves between them in the 10 years since leaving for college would be minimalists. More nomads than hoarders. Well...

Exhibit A:

Everything from my bathroom, in the shower stall, covered with a sheet. Which is what they told us to do.

And which is all still in my shower stall, covered with a sheet, at 10 p.m., as I put off taking a shower because I don't want to deal with it.

Exhibit B:

Everything in our kitchen moved to the living room.

Everything in our kitchen moved to the living room and covered with sheets. 

It kind of reminds me of when my mom bakes bread each year and covers the rolls with sheets. Except our apartment smells like bug spray, not bread, and when we take the sheets off, it's just going to be all our stuff, out of place.


For reference, this is our kitchen, which holds a lot more than we realized, apparently.

To be fair to my roommate, the majority of this junk is mine, and if anyone would qualify as a hoarder, it would be me. But if anything is driving me to be more of a nomad minimalist, it's definitely the thought of having to put all this stuff away. I don't like being a grown up.

Bonnie Goes to the Dentist

About two weeks ago, I went to the dentist for the first time in…a long time. As in, an embarrassingly long time. As in, there's a very good chance my age had the word "teen" in it the last time I went. Now, before you start judging or gasping, let me lay out a few facts:

1. This visit only uncovered one cavity. 
2. I brush at least twice a day, recently started flossing, occasionally use mouthwash, and use white strips once or twice a year. 
3. I had braces for 3 ½ years and visited an orthodontist every month. That's enough dental visits to last most people three lifetimes. 
4. I had traumatic experiences as a child at my dentist, who I nicknamed Doctor Devil. Seriously, I don't think I ever left this woman's office without crying.

However, my goal this year was to be an Adult and make my way to all the doctors I put off. So I did. And funny things happened.

First, we'll begin with the sweet receptionist, who asked me if I was referred to them by "my husband or a friend." This, to me, is funny, because "husband" has never been a word ever associated with me. (Unless being used in the sentence "never going to find a.") And I froze. And had an awkwardly long pause while I thought.

In my head: "Oh thank goodness, I already have a husband. That's one thing I can cross of the list. Do you by chance have his number?"
Out loud: "No, a coworker referred me."

Now I'll never know if I already have a husband out there. Or what she was thinking while waiting for my answer.

Next, it was time for the cleaning. It was a small room and a small chair and my legs barely fit in it. I then proceeded to gag and drool my way through the 200 X-rays the hygienist took. Surely with all the technology we have nowadays there has to be a better way to do these X-rays? Or, at the least, create a wireless remote so she didn't have to step over my feet and out the door to turn the machine off and on?

However, I'll forgive the wonderful hygienist because, in yet another example of what an epically small world this is, she was a UNC graduate AND from my hometown! And if you know my hometown, you know that no one is from there. When I said the town's name she just laughed and said she didn't believe me. She lived in the actual city whereas I'm from a rural community outside it.

After the cleaning, and general fun times with the hygienist, it was time to see the dentist. First, he looked at my X rays.

Him: "Have you ever been punched in the face or been in an accident?"

Insert another awkward pause while I try to remember if I have ever been punched in the face or in an accident.

Out loud: "No, I haven't."
In my head: "Oh my god, what is he going to do? Is this some sort of Dentist Fight Club?"

Another awkward pause.

Him: "Because you have very large sinuses."

Out loud: "Oh, ok."
In my head: "Whew, it's just large sinuses. Wait, WTF! Are sinuses supposed to be large? What does this mean!?"

But then I was distracted by the next sentence: "You have a cavity. We can fill it now or later."

In my head: "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Him: "Judging by the look of terror on your face, you weren't expecting me to say we could do it now."

Apparently I do have a terrible poker face like one of my friend's always claims. But in the ultimate Adult Move, I opted to have the cavity filled then. And because of my look of terror, the dentist was extra gentle and kept asking me if I was alright. A far cry from Doctor Devil.

So I had the cavity filled and then was on my merry way. (Well, merry-ish as he referred me to an oral surgeon to have my two wisdom teeth removed. But I'm going to have to work up significantly more Adult Courage before I make that appointment.)

And thus ends the tale of how I survived the dentist. This time.

Things That Adults Do

• Try on the next day's entire outfit, including tights and shoes, the night before at 11 p.m. (Extra points if done several times a week.)
• Zone out completely at a happy hour and accidentally yell "No, don't!" at the Orlando Bloom-lookalike waiter because you thought he was trying to take your drink. (He wasn't.)
• Fall asleep for a few minutes on the metro and get off one stop early.
• Get drunk on a Monday and spend $17 at CVS on toothpaste and toothbrushes.
• Clean spray snow off a window with a Q tip for office decorating contest.
• Cry every time you hear "I'll be Home for Christmas" even though you've been going home for Christmas for almost 10 years.

Thankfully, my friend who is a very good adult and generally a classy lady who may or may not have done these things, is going home soon and leaving all her cares and idiocy behind.

A week of being an adult

 

“Another belief of mine: That everyone else my age is an adult, whereas I am merely in disguise.”

-Margaret Atwood

As mentioned many, many, many time before, I fail at being an adult. (Just select the “adulthood” tag at the end of this post and you’ll see.) From constantly forgetting that even though I just paid that bill last month I still have to pay it again this month, to thinking I can function adequately even if I stay up until 1 a.m. reading, it’s just not what I was meant to do. But sometimes, just sometimes, I kind of rock at it. Take this week for example:

Monday: Made this black bean soup and ate off it for three days. Because it was made correctly and tasted good.

Tuesday: Booked a room at the Carolina Inn for a night in December with three of my best friends for our yearly reunion. I’ve always wanted to stay here and this just makes me feel so grown up.

Wednesday: Had dinner with my book club. (Ok, I do this every month. But I’ve been doing so for almost four years, and that’s very adult.)

Thursday:

Made this chicken taco soup in the crock pot and ate it for basically every meal for four days.

Took my first class since college. And then, after having drinks with a friend, sucked it up and took a cab back to my apartment since I was not dressed for the elements. (Yes, had I not been out past 11 on a work night I wouldn’t have needed a cab.)

Friday: Admitted I was too exhausted to function and cancelled my Friday night plans. (And effortlessly slept for 12 hours that night, thus further vindicating my lame, but mature, decision.)

Saturday: Had this happen and only mildly complained.

That would be snow. In October. I can’t promise to not move to Guam if this is a harbinger of things to come this winter, but I do promise to be an adult and at least figure out exactly where it is before I call the movers.

Also, knock on wood times infinity because I’m sure I just jinxed the hell out of myself.

Things That Happen

These are some things that happen that may or may not make me a terrible grown up.

To see if a shirt is see through, I go around to the different windows in my apartment holding a mirror in natural light to check.

Related: If I'm just running an errand, sometimes I don't care if it's a little see through.

To avoid going to the grocery store, I will walk to a restaurant almost at the grocery store to buy dinner.

Related: I won't make a grocery list but will make a Sephora list.

Instead of hanging up clean clothes after wearing or trying them on, I pile them on the bed to hang them up, and then move them from bed to floor and back for days on end.

Related: Since I wear skirts every other day in the summer, instead of hanging and rehanging, I've been keeping them in a pile by the bed.

Deciding at 9 a.m. that I'm going to have champagne and a cupcake for dinner and being really excited about that choice.

Related: Worrying that outsiders don't understand that I love my life and the choices I've made and that even though it's never pefect, it's where I want to be. And that champagne and a cupcake for dinner is fucking awesome.

Two years

"[Patti] Smith was 29 when she recorded Horses. Joan Didion was 29 when she wrote her first novel. Tina Fey was 29 when she was named head writer of SNL. bell hooks was 29 when she published her first major work. Oprah had just turned 30 when she got her first local TV talk show.

There is a reason "boy genius" rolls off the tongue more naturally than "girl genius." By the time most of us accept the fact that we have earned this label for ourselves, we are most decidedly no longer girls."

-Ann Friedman article on Patti Smith's "Just Kids."

I know I've been heavy on the quotes lately, but there have just been a lot lately that have spoke to me. And now there's this one. This one I just love so much. 

An inordinate amount of my time is spent worrying over the fact that I haven't figured out what to do with my life yet. Panic attacks because my calling hasn't been found. Anger at working myself sick in high school and college, and still somewhat now, all with the goal of being something when I grow up, and having no idea what that is. Tears because my passions can't pay the rent. 

But, it turns out, I have a little time. I'm 27 years, 2 months, and 22 days old. So I've got two years. I have two years to figure it out. No problem.

Also, must add this. I read Smith's "Just Kids" last month and it's the best book I've read thus far this year. And Tina Fey is my idol and Joan Didion is just brilliant. I read some bell hooks in college and should read more and Oprah has an empire. All are most definitely geniuses.

Choices

"Adulthood is nothing but a series of choices: you can say yes or no, but you cannot avoid saying one or the other. In the end, those who are successful are those who adjust and adapt to the decisions they have made and make the best of them."

-Grant Hill in his New York Times editorial

I'm such a history dork that just about any kind of history intrigues me, including sports history. So ESPN's "30 for 30" series is fascinating to me. Though I have to admit to not yet seeing the Fab Five documentary -- though it is on my DVR -- I have been following the controversy with the remarks the Michigan players made about Duke players. Hill's letter to the editor was eloquent, well-written, and had a lot of good points that apply to far more than just basketball. This point in particular jumped out at me. As I still struggle to get the hang of this "adult" thing, it's nice to get some concrete advice, wherever it appears.

Go to hell Duke, ok?

Occasionally I'll think that maybe, just maybe, I'm crossing over into adulthood. I'm never happy about it and I immediately try to counteract it by putting my hair in pigtails or watching a Disney movie. (Both of which, in my opinion, are still acceptable adult behaviors, as long as done in the privacy of your home.) But then, someone says something derogatory about UNC, or worse, something derogatory about UNC and something nice -- shudder -- about Duke, and I feel my grasp on maturity slip away. And all I want to do is kick them in the face. Twice.

And in the mental list I keep in my head of "things a grown up would do" and "things a grown up probably wouldn't do," I have to say that a kick in the face is probably in the latter. I'm also sure it does not qualify as a classy thing to do, and since I endeavor to always lead a classy lifestyle, I guess I can't just go around kicking random people in the face. Even though they really, really deserve it.

Which leads me, finally, to the point. To quote Jay Z, as I have before, "you can pay for school, but you can't buy class."

I am of what I consider to be a rare breed of someone who was a fan of the school before she was a fan of the basketball team. Seriously, little ol' six-year-old me, playing on the elementary school playground*, talking about going to UNC one day, didn't even know what basketball was. But damn if I didn't know that early that I was in love.

Keep on paying your hundreds of thousands for that education, Dookies. It doesn't equal class, no matter how much you think otherwise. And for the record, my Carolina degree doesn't equal class either; no degree does. I just wanted to hate on Duke for a bit.

*True story.

On growing up

"We're adults...when did that happen?
And how do we make it stop?"
-Meredith, Grey's Anatomy

The second frame pretty much sums up my philosophy as an adult:

"Because we're grown-ups now,
and it's our turn to decide what that means."
-XKCD

I've made it my mission as a grown-up-type person to do everything I can to not ever actually be a full-fledged grown-up. It doesn't mean being immature or stupid, it just means reminding myself to not take everything so seriously. It means embracing the possibility that one day I could fill a room with playpen balls. (Dare to dream, Bonnie, dare to dream!)

I want to be the type of person who never forgets how freeing it is to have popcorn for dinner and M&Ms for breakfast. Who finds Disney TV shows a guilty pleasure. Who can be mature and driven, but buys a Barbie doll every now and then to help relieve stress. I want to be the type of grown-up who plays on a slip and slide, dances in a fountain, plays hopscotch, and jumps rope. I don't ever want to forget the beauty of imagination and creativity. I want my heart to always skip a beat when it hears that unmistakable sound of an ice cream truck. If a kid shows me a boa constrictor consuming an elephant I want to recognize it! I will never call my father anything but Daddy. I can travel all over the world, I can watch the news every night and cry at the state of affairs, but then I can put on a song I loved in high school and un-rhythmically dance around my room. I will grin every time I look at the Paddington Bear my Mom bought me in London...when I was 22. I'll vacuum around the piles on my floor instead of picking them up. I'll have piles of stuff on my floor! I'll set aside money each month for savings, I'll pay my bills (reasonably) on time, but I can have a Magna Doodle on my wall and a tiara on my desk.

I can be a grown-up who doesn't forget that a grown-up was once a child, too. And that life is entirely too short and too hard to never jump on a trampoline or skip in public after the age of 10.

"All grown-ups were children first.
(But few of them remember.)"
-Antoine De Saint-Exupery

Day 365: Scoot scoot

Hooray for young people in the family with new toys! Today I rode my niece Jordan's electric scooter, my first scooter ride. I have grand plans for finding one that folds so I can zip around DC and Old Town. Watch out.

Day 344: Oh adult life

I have client meetings today and tomorrow for work, which means I have to look nice and presentable, i.e., no jeans and no wrinkles. Thus, ironing. Oh the ironing. But this morning when I tried to iron my nice white dress shirt, I got black gunk on it. Not good. Thus I had to clean my iron tonite with a special cream thing. I don't know why it seems strange to me that irons get dirty. I mean, they're just hot things getting the wrinkles out of clean clothes. I don't understand it. Anyway, I had to use way more than the recommend dosage on the back but I finally got the mysterious black gunk off. Now I don't have to worry about looking like Cinderella at my meeting tomorrow.

And, not related at all, but more decorations.

Day 321: Who needs to grow up?

I am definitely paying for yesterday's jaunt in the rain, today, with a head that feels like it's in a vice and a blocked nose. But needing to eat, and remembering a "recipe" I saw last week for making a pancake in the microwave, I made a pancake cake in a bowl in the microwave.

It tasted about as appealing as it sounds. I used a Hungry Jack complete mix, which only requires water, so maybe that was the problem. Or my not being able to breathe and thus not able to taste anything, could have been the issue. Or maybe just the whole making a pancake like a cake in the microwave for 2 minutes was the problem.

Whatever, I'm going back to bed.

Day 310: Just for today, be happy

The order of the day was to smile and be happy. And that I did. And what's happier than maybe another Obama Poma, and hopscotch in your living room? I made a mini-hopscotch grid with duct tape and did a few hops in my living room.
Unfortunately, I made them a bit too close, even for my freakishly small feet, and it was a bit tough. And in lieu of a rock, I had to use my gnome, Pedwick. Yeah, I just realized exactly how sad this post is, in the pathetic sense, so I'll just end it now.

Day 301: "How do I look?" (Holly G., Breakfast at Tiffany's)

As usual, the weekend went by far too fast. Back to the grindstone today, and back to an accidental nap when I got home. (It's getting harder to call them accidents when I take one everyday.) Anyway, I attempted to rejuvenate myself with silly internet distractions, including playing with virtual Audrey Hepburn paper dolls. I love Audrey, and I used to love paper dolls, so playing with them online - which instantly makes it mature - was a great combination.

Day 252: Perfect 10?

The apartment has a long hallway that is just asking for rolley chair races or my as yet fleshed out sport involving my mini baseball bat and mini basketball. However, so far the roommate has not been very open-minded about either of these ventures. Ugh. So tonite I made my own fun and attempted cartwheels in the hallway. They ended up as roundoffs, and not very good ones. My legs are just too long and I'm too afraid of death on the hardwood floor to commit myself to the execution and landing. And, of course, the possiblity of a broken limb that I have to explain to a doctor as a 24 year old doing cartwheels in her pajamas. And now my hip hurts.