Decade, the Third

Today is July 1st. My birthday month has come to an end. Yes, happy birthday to me.

I am now an entire THREE. DECADES. OLD. Yep, it was the big 3-0 for me. What an incredibly daunting yet mind-blowing sensation! People often ask "so, how does it feel?" Well, allow me to try to articulate all the ideas running through my head eloquently.

Our World's Expectations for a Thirty-Year-Old vs. Reality

1. HAVE A CAREER! You go to college, you find what you're good at, and then you make a man out of you by being successful in your field, so that when you go to your high school reunion thingy you can tell people "yeah, I work in finance" or "I work in education" or "I'm a doctor" and then when you are inducted to the hall of fame or given a life-time achievement award, they make a video montage where people say things like, "yes, ever since she was a little kid, she used to say she would be a neurosurgeon". Amazing! People cheer while simultaneously weeping because of your moving story of passion and drive.

Reality: at this point, I am lucky to have a job. You know what happened as I was writing my master degree dissertation? I said, "shit, I should have listened to my parents. Chemistry really was my thing". AFTER SIX BLOODY YEARS OF STUDYING LITERATURE YA'LL. I cannot emphasize this enough, kids: maybe your parents are right. I mean, maybe they are idiots, but if they are like mine, they are definitely right. Always. All the time. GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!

2.  HAVE ECONOMIC STABILITY! By 30, everyone assumes that you have been working at least the past 5 years, so you should be able to afford expensive vacations, a nice car, pedi/manis, yoga classes, Salatta.

Reality: cheese quesadillas for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Look, STUDENT LOANS. Enough said. "But Cris, what about all those trips?" Yes, Carol, it's called Income Tax money and  "credit cards" that you will "eventually" pay off. If I sat here waiting to pay off all my debt, I would literally never do anything. Let's face it, Patrice, this blog ain't gonna pay por nada.

3.

This one is a no-brainer. The world says your twenties are the time when you get hitched. I mean, the prospects from when you're 26 to when you're 29 shrivel twice as fast as your eggs. Who wants to show up to their ten-year high school reunion looking to see if the creepy teen that used to follow you around in high school has turned into a version of Steve Carell? Nope, I didn't do that.

Reality:

"Cris, if you don't meet someone in college, it will be really hard to do it once you're out in the real world."
"Cris, you should join a young adult group where you can find a nice guy!"
"You are too picky!"
"You are too shallow!"
"You need to be more feminine!"
"Guys find you intimidating!"
"You're too much!"
"He will come when you least expect it!"
"He will come when you stop looking!"

Shush please! You are not helpful at all. Unless you are personally acquainted with Chris Evans and can somehow hypnotize him so he will marry me, you are useless to me.
Also

4. BE A MOTHER!

Once you have your career, your money, and your Jim Halpert husband, you are expected to multiply. It is part of the circle of life, young friends. "Oh, you're wrong, Cris, our modern-day gives women more options now". Ha. Ha. Ha. First, try telling that to a Mexican mother. Secondly, untrue.The reality is that in our world, everyone has to criticize the fact that you are not an omnipotent being ala Wonder Woman (the real Gal Gadot) who should have a career, money, an amazing figure, a doting husband, and perfectly behaved children that gently slipped out of your va-jay-jay because you do  underground Pilates or Aquayoga or something. The world is a lot more hypocritical now than it was when it expected women to only be wives and mothers.

Reality: "Well, I suppose you don't really have to get married... just get pregnant. I want grand-babies. Go to confession later."

5.  FOUND YOSELF!

More than anything else, you are supposed to have this unwavering, focused sense of purpose, belonging, and being. You need to have, plainly stated, your shit together. You need to know yourself, know what you want out of your life, have 5, 10, 20-year plans, and work hard to get there. Hell, you are supposed to be thinking of your retirement already. That is insane, and intense.

Reality: Look, I don't even know what I will be doing in six months... let alone five years. Every time I ask myself that I picture a huge cloud of nothing. Fog. I know myself enough to know that I have no clue of what I'm doing, and that I am taking one day at a time because that is all that my mind and soul can give at this moment.

You might be thinking, "yikes, maybe I should send her a bouquet from Edible Arrangements... she really is not great..."

Well, do send it please. I've always wanted one. But listen, I know all of this sounds rather depressing... I mean, on paper, I am one big, hot mess. It seems like I've accomplished little, have worried lots, and have messed up constantly. But, you know what? This might come as a surprised to everyone, but...

BEING THIRTY IS AMAZEBALLS.

First, I am a full-fledged dysfunctional adult! I have crazy flaws, and anxiety, and worries, and what not, yet I manage to do all the things necessary for me to survive AND a bunch more. I have a balcony full of living plants. I book trips by myself and show myself around cities. I tell people what to do nicely enough that they actually listen! I pay a crap load of bills, always on time. I COOK AMAZING FOOD without any sort of training.

Second, I feel SO YOUNG. I feel strangely rejuvenated, especially as people I love get pregnant and have babies. I am a cool aunt! It is so surreal to know people younger than you who are soon-to-be mothers, but I guess the anticipation of a new life forming has the power to infuse energy and life in those who eagerly await to meet this tiny creature face-to-face. I suppose love, in its purest sense, does that.

Third, I know myself pretty good. Good enough to know that, despite my lack of direction, despite my anxiety, despite the obscure matter that envelops my heart at times, I am actually pretty bloody great. Like... genuinely awesome. Or at least I feel that way because I am loved and accepted just the way I am by such a diverse array of people. So many people cannot be wrong, amIrite? Moreover, I am loved infinitely by my dearest friend and Creator.  So BOOM!

Of course life gets really hard (like, all the time) and many times I want to figuratively grab the entire world (particularly the male species) and shake it by the shoulders and say "REALLY? I AM AWESOME, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?" And sometimes it can get very discouraging. But if turning 30 has done anything for me, it is to show me how much greatness there has been in the last three decades, rather than depress me about the things that never happened, that broke, that washed away.

PLUS, I AM CONVINCED, ABSOLUTELY CONVINCED THAT THIS IS MY DECADE YA'LL. Shit's gonna get gooooooooooooooooooood. Like, real good (that is assuming, of course, that there will be no World War III. If WWIII happens, then no, I think it will be horrible).

So, for those of you who are afraid of aging--stop being dumb.
For those of you who are skeptical of this broke spinster/plant lady/ deranged teacher-- you'll see.
For those of you still reading this nonsense faithfully--thank you for loving me.

Happy thirtieth, ya'll. Actually, happy thirtieth, Cris, my love. Bring on the taquitos.

A very awkward train ride, written in novel form (to practice) but with GIFs!!!!

A very windy Tuesday night in March, after seeing a Russian ballet performing Swan Lake, three attractive young women in their early twenties get on the train from Newcastle back to Durham. They find three seats that are close enough together, one right behind the next. Across the narrow hallway sits a middle-aged man who smiles politely at them as they are seated. One of the girls, the one sitting closest to the man, continues to be on a reverie about the muscular legs of those strong Russian men, who were totally wearing make-up. The girl in question, Elizabeth, thus smiles back at the balding man as she asks herself why did she always think that ballets had speeches. The man takes the smile as an open invitation for conversation and begins uttering what can be considered as either drunken remarks or regular Geordie speech. 

'Oh, have you had a lovely time today, love?' he asks, or at least that's what it sounds like. Elizabeth engagingly answers in the affirmative, while her companions look at each other with worrying looks. Ria, sitting on the last seat of the cart, stares intently at Cristina, who only shakes her head and sighs. 

'Do you study in Durham? What do you study? What?'

'Chemistry, she studies Chemistry,' Cristina replies on behalf of Elizabeth, who always enunciates her words properly so the only reason why someone would not be able to understand her is because he is drunk, deaf, or--in the case of England--both.

'Oh, that's great! I have a son who is around your age who is going to XYZ Uni. What about you?'

'Liter'ture,' replies the big Texan, who had thought about taking her heavy black coat off--the train being so warm and all--but didn't want to give the chatty chap the wrong impression. Feeling torn between wanting to talk to Ria behind her and attempting to save Elizabeth from her own clueless self, Cristina attentively listens to the man as he interrogates her friend.

'Do you like Durham?'

'Yes, it's lovely.'

'What about you?'

'Yeah, I love Durham, a lot.'

'But isn't it like too quiet?'

'No, it's fine. It's nice.'

'Do you girls party on the weekend? Do you go to clubs?'

'No, not really.'

'You can't really talk to people in clubs.'

'Well, I was at Klute's the other night...' the man states with an air of pride. 

Cristina quickly turns to Ria, who is witnessing the oddest conversation in history from the commodity of her seat. Elizabeth attentively listens to the man's story.

'I don't understand half of the stuff this guy's saying, Ria.'

'He's crazy, mon,' says the Trinidadian. 

'So you girls don't drink?'

'Once in a while, but don't get drunk.'

'Yeah, it's very expensive.'

'Well, do you smoke?'

'No.'

'No, it's a dirty habit.'

'Do you like to dance?'

'Yeah, sure.'

'I suppose...'

'But you must have some bad habits, right?'

'Hmm...' Elizabeth replies as she begins an intensive search of her memory for a habit that would make her sound less of a normal person and more like a naughty girl.

'No, we don't,' Cristina interposes, losing her patience.

'Ah, well, you are going to make a very fine wife,' the creeper says--exclusively to Elizabeth--as he smiles.

'Oh no...'

'Yikes!'

'Well, tell me, do you have boyfriends?'

'No,' Elizabeth answers bluntly. Cristina, meanwhile, is figuratively hitting her head against a wall in despair because Elizabeth could have totally saved herself from this borderline sexual harassment if only she would have lied and said she has a hot atomic-physicist boyfriend who looks like Mark Ruffalo waiting for her in her flat with a beautiful homemade five-course dinner.

Why does Elizabeth have to be so honest all the time? Cristina doesn't understand this, but she manages to blurt out 'oh no, no boyfriends, we don't have time for that, too much studying, too much.' Cristina cannot take it anymore: the train feels like it's a pot full of water and they are just a bunch of helpless lobsters slowly boiling in misery, regretting all their bad decisions, and thinking of all their loved ones they never said "I love you" to. Is this a terrorist attack? No, but it sure is making everyone as uncomfortable as when they show you that footage of childbirth in Health class or when your supervisor at work audibly farts because he has his headphones on and doesn't realize how loud he's being.

By this point, Cristina has turned to Ria to converse. But the conversation revolves around the eeriness of this whole ten-minute episode. Why did God allow that horrifying man of bad teeth near them tonight? Why was the train so smelly? Why--by Jove--has Adele not released a new album? All these questions assault Cristina as she catches a snippet of conversation that turns her blood cold.

'Yes, I haven't seen my little girl in over six months now!'

'Oh no, why is that?'

'Well, I have been busy taking a class.'

'Oh, what kind of class?'

'It's a class for... err.... management.'

'Oh, that's great! But I don't get it, why would the class prevent you from seeing your daughter?'

'Well...because I can only see my daughter after I've taken it.'

'But, like... I don't get it... why?'

Cristina closes her eyes slowly and sighs. Why, oh why. God Almighty save us all. Please, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. No. 

'Well', the man breathes heavily, defeated, 'a few years ago I had a problem with my ex-wife. Her boyfriend tried to prevent me from seeing my daughter, so I almost beat him to death. I was in jail for four years. This class I have to take is an anger management course.'

 'Oh...' is all Elizabeth can manage to say, after inadvertently pushing the man to make a full confession. Cristina, meanwhile, is regretting not having gone to confession before being murdered by a middle-age British ex-con. But that thought passes quickly to propel her into action: she calls one of her flatmates to have one of them come to the train station to duel with the almost-killer to protect them (or to just come to pick them up). But her flatmate never answers the phone. They are on their own.

At this point, the train has begun stopping. They are in Durham. Time to flee! The man, unfortunately, is also getting off at this stop and motions Elizabeth towards the door. Cristina pretends to be moving right behind them and, when the guy begins walking, grabs Elizabeth and takes her (and Ria) out through the back door of the cart. When they step out into the platform and feel the chill of the mid-March wind, Cristina--with freakishly large fear eyes-- commands the other two to wait until the man walks away. Then they begin the journey home, walking in their high heels as if they were avoiding land mines (they had walked a lot in Newcastle and their ankles were very tired). 

As they stroll along the quiet streets of Durham, Cristina can't help but to sarcastically scoff 'well, that was not creepy at all!'

'What do you mean?' Elizabeth wonders.

'WHAT? That man was hitting on you!'

'No he wasn't. He was just being nice.'

This is what Cristina would have done to the man if she had a phonebook close by.

It was then that Cristina and Ria realized that they should not let Elizabeth near the stove at home and should have 'the talk' with her--you know, the one about not accepting candy or cookies from strangers. 

My life is a Sitcom called I LIVE WITH FIVE MEN

Well, I have not been writing as much. I thought that it was a good idea to write shorter blog entries because I was losing my readership. It turns out that, according to my very lazy source, the blog has become less interesting since I stopped writing as much--which is crazy, because this guy hates to read.

Anyway, this brings me to today, when I, instead of doing my homework, am here, staring at the screen. Let me tell you, then, about how my life has turned into a sitcom because...


I LIVE WITH FIVE MEN.

Yes, it seems that God thought it funny to play this prank on me, knowing how I always preferred to hang out with my boys when I was a child/teenager. Being a tomboy, the whole girly thing didn't quite suit me, so I always found myself playing football (or hockey with brooms or basketball without a hoop or baseball without gloves) with my guy friends. I was the faithful friend who held the bad guy as my buddy beat the crap out of him. I was the gentle soul who punched a kid in the eye because he was trying to grab my little cousin's leg under the water at a pool of the hotel we were staying for vacation. Yes, I was that marimacha, with the long t-shirts, the football jerseys, the baggy shorts, the pony tail, the sweaty face ('big cheeks' should have been my nick-name--but it was just Cris, which is manly enough and has stuck with me ever since).



I knew how to dribble a ball, ride a bike, spit, build a treehouse.  Of course, that included never EVER admitted you liked boys (to be fair, I didn't like boys until I was old as hell).

However, I was never boyish enough to join the torturing of small animals, pick my nose, or scratch my---well, you get it.

Anywho, so it seems that after I bloomed (late) into womanhood, I had stirred away from so much masculine company and had preferred "the ladies." This "blooming", by the way, took a whole ovary removal surgery, which is also quite the humorous joke from God. I was seventeen years old when I FINALLY started moving into some kind of semi-girly stage, mainly because I couldn't do this anymore without my knee going crazy:

Of course this was always the question:

BLA BLA BLA, YEARS PASS. THEN BOOM--God's like "LOL, YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD BE FUNNY? IF I GET THIS FEMINIST/ OLDEST SISTER/ RECOVERING TOMBOY INTO A FLAT WITH FIVE GUYS. YES, THIS SHALL BE FUN..."

Now, that I finally shop in the women's section--by myself. Now, that I buy shoes that are not sneakers. Now, that I do crafty things! SERIOUSLY?


The results? Disastrous, at least for me.

1. Pirate mouthiness.

2. Grotesque understanding of double meaning.

3. Anything you say can be used against you because

4. Housewife slavery without the benefits of five men's incomes.

5. Mrs. Pattmore duty all day e'eryday.

6. Unleashing of my political incorrectness.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8FPZxBRWnjM

7. Even less patience--if that's possible.

8. Everybody and their mamma knows when I am on my period.

9. Colitis.

10. Zero girl talk--zero obsessing over Danny Castellano/John Thornton/Mr. Darcy/Bradley Cooper and, of course, zero telenovela talk.

I spend half of my day cleaning the filthy-ass kitchen, washing dishes, sweeping, and moping. These pigs can leave a plate out with food residue for A WEEK--yes, yesterday I just decided to throw away a bowl that had sweet potato leftovers instead of washing it.... F*** that. See? And I'm turning into a worse cursing machine that I already was! And, because of my stupidity, now everyone says "that's what she said" about EVERYTHING! Like, seriously, none of them had watched The Office... I could have been so happy, untainted innocence and all.

ALAS! 'Tis too late.

I am a mother of four grown-ass men and the other one is too terrified of me to ever do anything wrong. I get texts like this:

This is from a man who is doing a Masters. Imagine when his future wife's water breaks. WEKJASEKFJASFJASDLFJASDFJAS;DFKASDKLFJADFGVADVJ *FAINTS*

Naturally, this situation translates into:

Shall I introduce the protagonists of my sitcom to you?

BHANU
a.k.a. Jerk

Need I say more? There's a whole blog entry about him in this blog. Poor thing is very proud of his calzones with the map of London on them. Smart, business-oriented (heartless) Indian guy who is trying to turn me into a salesperson for his business endeavor. Begs others for food. Doesn't shower enough. But he was the only person to come to my football game (even though he was taking pictures of the grass and the football all along).


RAJA
 a.k.a. Lampshade

Bhanu's BFF and potential new housewife. Ever since he arrived, they seem to have more arguments than Bhanu and I ever did. Nice, polite, all-loving dude. Just very cheap. Very appreciative of when I make something vegan. Sometimes talks too Indian to be understood.

RIDWAN

 the alias is too vulgar for here.

don't know how to turn the photo.

Nigerian guy who questions everything in an attempt to make something double meaning. Example:
me: eeew, it smells like ass here!
him: hehe, how do you know what ass smells like?

Need I say more? He is a gentleman of sorts, though, as he offered to pay for my fish-and-chips once.


STANLEY
a.k.a. "Stanny" because he can't pronounce the L.

I am sorry. I don't even have Stanny as a Facebook friend.

The only thing I know about Stanny is that he leaves a mess in the kitchen. He's not the most talkative guy.



KONRAD
a.k.a. Connard, according to Raja (deaf much?)

don't have a photo either. And he's not Irish. But kinda looks like this.

He's afraid I will scold him for making Mexican food wrong. But he is God-send because not only is he super nice, but he has a car!!! YAY! He just took me to Tesco and he just moved in like two weeks ago so I can't say anything bad--yet. He also cleans after himself.


Since this is a blog about viewing everything in a positive light (yeah right), let's draw the advantages of this situation.

1. No girl drama!!

2. Going back to being one of the boys!!

3. I am suddenly an amazing cook! Everyone loves my food that I just learned how to make five minutes ago.

4. I'm never the most politically incorrect person anymore.

5. The guys suddenly feel the impulse of making me tea or cooking for me and things like that. BRB, Bhanu just made me pasta (that I had to explain to him how to make).

6. I have fun.

7. There ain't no competition: I'm the Queen of this house, hommies! And that's my kitchen. And yes, I will make you a sandwich....

8. It's always awesome to tell people "I live with five men." That wins you hearts.

9. I got a gang protecting me. Don't worry dad, I'll be safe.

10. It brings out my feminine side even more. Somehow. I feel like I have to claim my femininity and cling to it desperately. Don't wanna go back to the spitting days.