Did I Accidentally Get Married?

I recently graduated from college, and so have the majority of my Facebook friends. What I have noticed was that before, after, or during graduation was considered "proposal season." Suddenly, after graduation either most of my college loose-acquaintances are getting married, got married before finals, or recently became engaged. These are budding adults, more like pre-adults, who just jumped out of school, have internships, or are still looking for full-time employment or grad school, but they decided to go ahead and get married, despite their crushing student debt. I can honestly say that I think that kind of stupidity shows true love.

And then there is me. I seem to be the only 20-something who, yes, did graduate and celebrated her three-year anniversary with her boyfriend, but has no plans to get married now or in the immediate future.

It's not that I didn't want to marry my boyfriend originally. The idea was really appealing while in school, spending all my time stressed about homework and exams. Marriage seemed like an ideal alternative to the real world.

Of course, marriage isn't an escape from the real world and it is a lot of work. I know this, but me and my boyfriend are often accused of being between the ages of 12 and 15, so the idea of marrying him always reminded me of playing house with the neighborhood boys when I was younger. I mean, it's not real life or real marriage unless you look and function like real adults, right? And we SO don't look or function like real adults!

Also, my boyfriend looks like Shaggy from Scooby Doo when he shaves. When he doesn't shave, he looks like what Shaggy would look like if he and Scooby were pretending to be lumberjacks to capture a ghost. So obviously, it's not a real marriage or real life if your long-term boyfriend looks like your favorite cartoon character.

Recently though, I have had the sneaky suspicion that somehow, in the last few months since my graduation, my boyfriend and I accidentally got married. In my opinion, you know you accidentally got married when:


1. You gain 10 pounds overnight.

This happened to me a few months ago, after starting my first full-time job. My job comes with an hour-long lunch break, which I use to eat more than I used to during the 15-minute interval between classes. I used to weigh under 100 pounds, which was just my natural weight because I am so tiny and childlike. Recently, I cracked 103.8, my personal best. I had never weighed so much in my life, and at first I was proud. This weight was probably healthier, right?

Except then I noticed that the weight just settled in my stomach. I decided to maybe invest in a gym membership just to trim my stomach a little without losing too much weight. My boyfriend agreed to it, and we made a plan to window-shop gyms together.

But then we never did. And my stomach kept growing. And instead of working out or eating better, I just kept eating my usual junk food. I'm sure he will tolerate me looking like those poor starving kids in third-world countries:  twig legs, tiny arms and chests, but then a giant lump the size of a bowling ball filled with water in their stomachs.


2. You and your boyfriend fight over who can take a nap while the other one promises to wake them up in time for Saturday Night Live.

I work M-F and have very little time to enjoy...anything really. I no longer have any hobbies or cherished activities, except watching my favorite TV show. My boyfriend usually sits with me while I watch this show, and just a year ago we could stay up late, watch this show, and then watch a movie afterwards with no issues. Keep in mind we live in the Central time zone, where SNL starts at 10:30.

Now, neither of us can seem to stay awake that late without complaining. Yesterday, I asked my boyfriend of three years to wake me up just before 10:30pm so I could take a 30 minute nap. He got mad because he wanted to take a nap too, but I didn't trust an alarm clock to wake either of us up because I don't hear it all the time and it takes him an hour to pull himself from bed. He argued that he was driving home later so he should nap. I argued that I was the girl so I should just automatically get my way, and this was my favorite show.

Somehow, I always win.


3. Date night means eating out before 6 o'clock. 

I work 7am to 3pm, and wake up every morning at 5am. My boyfriend decided to go back to school an hour away, and he has a part-time job 40 minutes away from my house. When he doesn't have classes or work, he picks me up from work at 3pm and instead of waiting to eat a romantic dinner at a reasonable time, we go out right away and then stare at my TV until it is time for him to leave.

Right now, we are watching Parks and Rec on Netflix, so at least it is a good use of time.

On the days he works, he wouldn't arrive to my house until 5:40pm-6pm, so neither of us bother to hang out on those days. Because I go to bed at 8:30pm and he likes to eat before 6pm.


I'm sure there are many ways that I am an old married woman. I yell at him all the time to pick up his socks. I get mad at him for not throwing away his trash (literal garbage) immediately and letting it sit there for weeks (weeks!)  Even though I never wore a white dress and don't have a ring I have to pretend is bigger than it really is, I somehow accidentally married a lumberjack Shaggy from Scooby Doo.

Short Blog: Fighting the Perverted Voices In My Head

Girl, Interrupted was published the year I was born.  Coincidence?  Maybe.  It had to be a coincidence for at least some of the thousands of girls born in 1993.

But for me, I don't think so.

I don't understand people's obsession with seeing inside those hospitals, even though I am reading the novel right now myself.  I also read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, but the only part of that story I thought related to me was the lead's reaction to her boyfriend's penis.  Yes, they do look like turkey gizzards.  And it never stops looking like that, our expectations just adapt!

Or maybe it's just my Sylvia Plath-crazy eyes!  I mean, if that is really what a male's "love organ" looks like, why would we put that in our mouth without cooking it for Thanksgiving dinner first?  "Where is the gravy?" I thought the first time I let my boyfriend take his clothes off in my dorm.  Luckily, or unluckily, it seemed to make its own white gravy, enhancing the illusion.

This is why I believe I have crazy eyes.  How is this belief reinforced?  Because I work at a design company, and I see things in my clients' ads that my co-workers don't see.

Today, I was working with a company that has a unique animal logo.  Their logo is all over their current website, and it is of two large animals, lets call them a lion and a horse, fighting each other.  The lion hovers over the horse, but not in victory because there is a look of determination on the horse's face, like he is ready to strike back.

Or, that look of determination can be for something else, like that fact that the lion is hovering over the horse's crotch.  And I wonder if there is something wrong with me for seeing animal porn in my clients' designs as I read this book about McLean Hospital.

A Record of Things I Have Peed In

            Yesterday I peed in a building with trillions of dollars worth of objects in it.  I pointed this out to my mother after we left the Ladies Room because I thought she would find it amusing.  It was like when I studied in London for two weeks in college, and my London roommate and I liked to count the number of castles we had peed in.  I think I have a complex where I like to mark my territory, but only on expensive things.  When I got my first full-time job, so far my only full-time job, I immediately went to an art gallery to buy my first major piece of artwork.  She cost me about $1900 with tax, more than I make in a month, and I keep her in my childhood bedroom at my parent's house, where I am staying.  Because I have no money, but I have a $1900 piece of art.

            This piece of art, which I call Natalie because at first the woman depicted looks like Natalie Portman, hangs in the same room whose door is still guarded by a poster of Jacob from Twilight.  I took my old Nick Jonas poster down before he grabbed his crotch for a photoshoot.

            Anyway, I'm side-tracked.  I like to mark my name, or bodily functions, on expensive things.  Only I can now see the Natalie Portman piece of art, and while at the Art Institute of Chicago yesterday, I peed twice.  The first time I didn't even really need to go, but I went because I was so allured by all the Greek and Roman statues they had.  So priceless, yet so broken.  The only other person I have seen who was missing a nose was He Who Should Not Be Named, and he was clearly so shamed by it that he became an evil wizard dictator.

            I knew I would pee in this building when we pulled into Chicago after a 3-4 hour bus drive.  Porta Potties lined the streets.  This was the first sight I saw of the greatest city near my house.  The other bus riders assumed this was due to an outdoor concert the next day, but to me, it was a sign.  I would pee all over this city.  I had too.  It was already filtered with Porta Potties anyway!  Mom and I got off the bus, dropped off at Macy's, and walked to the museum.  The streets even smelled either faintly or strongly of urine, depending on which street it was.

            This city reminded me of London, except London didn't actually smell like pee.  While I was in London though, there was a musical going on called Urinetown,  I didn't get the chance to see it, but I imagine now that it was about Chicago.

            It's funny that I like peeing in expensive places, but I shouldn't be surprised by how territorial my pee can be.  In Kindergarten, there was a bathroom directly in our classroom just for the sticky Kindergarteners.  One day, I sat on the big toilet, but I was always such a little child, that I at first sat tilted to steady myself. 

            That was when I began to pee.  I was amazed by how far my pee arched, and how it landed gracefully on the floor by the far wall.  I didn't even think of tilting my vagina the correct way, because I didn't know girls could even aim.  I thought that was a boy thing, so I just sat there, tilted, until I stopped peeing.  Then I got up, washed my hands, and left the bathroom.

            At the time, I thought it was ironic that a boy student should find my pee puddle.  That day at Kindergarten, we were scheduled to eat popcorn and watch a movie, but the teacher said no one would eat popcorn or watch the film until someone confessed.  I tried to call her bluff, but I saw that it was not working, so I raised my hand and called the teacher over.

            I had been too embarrassed to raise my hand right away about the pee, but I remember being vaguely proud, whispering my deed into my teacher's ear.  I was sure that she hadn't suspected a girl of this act, and that made me happy.  I had surprised an adult, and done a boy thing.  I had an eventful day, with popcorn and a movie to top it off.

Six Conversations That Start When You Work for Your Grandma At Her Store And How You Shut Those Conversations Down

As a business graduate, most of my fellow students were products of family-owned businesses. It's the great American dream to avoid a job by being your own boss, and then avoid child labor laws and wage laws by breeding your own employees.

If you are the product or grand-product of someone living the American dream, you are not alone. 

Fear not those awkward conversations with the owner-relatives and customers, because with my 11 years of experience working for my grandma, I have some sample conversation-stoppers that may just save your life (or your sanity.)

1. Your Grandma Telling Customers Your Long-Term Goals

Customers says, "What do you want to do when you graduate?"

Grandma says, "She's going to be a nurse."

Granddaughter, "I never said that."

Grandma (to customer), "Oh, she's going to be a nurse. She's so good with people."

Granddaughter, "No, I'm not. Patients make me sick and I want to burn the ill to preserve the healthy. (Pause.) I wrote about it in my thesis."

2. Your Grandma Trying to Text Your Cousin On Her New Cellphone

Grandma asks, "How do you text someone if you don't have their cellphone number?"

Granddaughter answers, "You don't."

Grandma, "What if you have their home number?"

Granddaughter, "You call them."

Grandma, "But what if I use my cellphone to text Lindy's home phone?"

Granddaughter, "It doesn't work like that. Call her."

Grandma, "She never picks up!"

Granddaughter, "Then leave a message."

Grandma, "Oh! I'm just going to text her."

Five minutes later. . . .

Grandma, "It didn't work!" Turns to granddaughter. "How do you text a home phone?"

Granddaughter, "With another home phone, duh! You have to wait until you get home tonight. And if the phone starts beeping and making funny noises, that means it's working."

Grandma, "Oh. . . ."

3. Your Grandpa Anytime

Granddaughter, "Grandpa, I need your (mouth words) for (mouth words) and I just can't figure (mouth words) life (mouth words) Grandma said (mouth words) (place laugh here). (Mouth a lot of words for a long time until he talks to a customer instead.)

4. Your Grandma When She's Making Inappropriate Halloween Costume Suggestions

Grandma asks, "What are you going to go as for Halloween?"

Granddaughter, "A zombie."

Grandma, "No! You should go as something sexy, like a Lady of the Night."

Granddaughter, "A what?"

Grandma, "A prostitute."

Granddaughter, "Oh, but Grandma, if I go as a prostitute, my pimp will forget that it's my day off. And he gets violent when he sees his girls not working the streets. I could lose a hand!"

5. Your Grandma When She Finds Out She Is Shrinking Because You Are Now Taller Than Her

Grandma, "How tall are you?"

Granddaughter, "5' 1''."

Grandma, "No! You're 5'6"."

Granddaughter, "No, I'm not, I'm 5'1"."

Grandma, "But I'm 5'3"!"

Granddaughter, "You use to be 5'3"."

Watch Grandma throws a fit in the back.

6. Your Grandma Comparing Your New Boyfriend To the Ex-Boyfriend She Never Even Met

Grandma says, "But you don't love him as much as you loved Billy."

Mom, "Mom, stop."

Grandma, "She doesn't, I can tell! Every time she talked about Billy her face lit up!"

Mom, "Mom, stop. Leave her alone."

Grandma, "What else would explain that glow?"

Granddaughter, "I was knocked-up."

Grandma turns to granddaughter and crosses her arms. "Then where is the baby?"

Granddaughter, "The baby wasn't paying rent and was eating all my food. It had to be evicted."

Is My Unibrow Bushy Enough to Distract From My Adult Acne, & 6 Other Ideas For Hiding Zits

If you're like me, you just turned 22, have graduated from college, and moved into an adult 9 to 5 job. Yay, congrats, your care-free live is over! On top of that, remember when you stopped being a teenager, but you kept getting zits? And you didn't really mind because you thought it was just stress from finals and internships and guys?

Yeah, those zits graduated WITH you (totally thought we would drift apart like other college acquaintances.)

And this sucks because I work at a web design company, where I meet with clients on a regular basis. My skin, being incredibly sensitive, gets very irritated with products over time, but obviously, there has to be a solution for on-the-go women like me! Luckily, I have come up with 7 (count them, 7!) fool-proof methods for sensitive-faced working girls who are suffering from adult acne.

1. Grow out that unibrow you have been shaving since middle school. I know, it got you made fun of-BECAUSE it automatically sticks out from the rest of your face!

Also, Frida Kahlo had a unibrow. She was beautiful, right? WWFD (Besides steal someone's man, paint images of her tormented body, and sleep with everyone she knows, unless you are into that.)

2. If you want to keep others from seeing the zits and the unibrow, wear a monkey on your shoulder like in the photo above.

No monkey for an illegal pet? Bring a Cute, Distracting Puppy to Work Day! Celebrate this new holiday every week day!

3. Inappropriate use of costume at an adult age.

Image found on http://giphy.com/gifs/star-wars-30-rock-tina-fey-exUQNd5H3fDu8

And, like the great Liz Lemon, OWN IT.

4. Or better yet, Cousin It that zit!

5. The cute puppy (or illegal monkey) in solution #2 led to our solution #5: cute puppy droppings for co-workers and clients to step in (and therefore not notice your hideously-adolescent face.)

6. Face tattoo.

Especially if it's of a skull and cross-bones. 

Or a flower.

7. No solution. Just eat your feelings. You'll be too happy to care about a few small zits.

And again, OWN IT like Liz Lemon!

How an Awkward Outsider Viewed London

The Day I Hung Out With George Eliot and Robert Browning

            With one foot on Lewis Carroll and the other on Henry James, I stared up at Geoffrey Chaucer. I was in Westminster Abbey, and after having sauntered through most of the church, I finally reached Poets' Corner. Here, starting with Chaucer, is where 40 writers are buried, along with memorials for important British writers resting elsewhere. Combing the floor by Chaucer's tomb, I began looking for familiar names.

            Before me was the memorial for George Eliot, really Mary Ann Evans, nestled snug between the stone commemoratives for Dylan Thomas and W.H. Auden. Her stone was a perfect little square and a shade between black and gray, fittingly the exact color a regular number two pencil would produce. In white lettering, the craftsman made "George Eliot" the largest print, with her real name underneath. Running clockwise around the perimeter of the square was a quote from her first novel, which I then read by turning round and round.

            Elated and motivated to keep searching Poet's Corner, I was ready to find another name. Scanning the neutral colored plaques, I met Robert Browning two tombstones down and one to the left. This was his actual grave, with his skeleton deep under the church's floor. His gravestone was designed with a white marble frame on the outer edge and an inner frame of brown and cream marble. The center of his stone was a red rectangle with slightly curved top and bottom edges. Written in gold, his name shined with a flower perched above it. While reading on the tomb that his wife is actually buried in Florence, a large black sneaker marched across the flower. Stunned, I reached to pull my glasses' cleaner from my coat pocket and wash the wet mark. 

America in London

            I look down and my phone does not believe that I am in London. The time in the corner is correct, 9:40am­­­, but most of the screen is trying to tell me that I am at the airport, and it is ­­­­­3:40am. I try to assure my phone that I actually got on a plane and left for somewhere, but refreshing the screen does nothing. I curse my phone, muttering that I did leave the country, and put the technology away.

            I look up and see a statue of President Abraham Lincoln. For a split second, I wonder if my phone was right. The first sign that I could still be in America should have been coming across a small, circular billboard of American actor Ben Stiller while looking for the tube the day before.

            Or maybe I am just in England. America would not have been possible without England, since England is what our ancestors separated from. It never occurred to me, though, that tour guides in England would know of historic Americans who attended their churches. I am in London specifically and looking at Southwark Cathedral where William Shakespeare worshipped and his brother is buried. When coming to London, you expect to see the cathedral Shakespeare attended, but you do not expect to hear your tour guide announce that John Harvard, the founder of Harvard University in America, also attended that church. As the bus rolls on, I hear that Harvard's parents owned a pub in London back in the day. They raised their son and that son grew up to open one of the largest Ivy League schools in the United States. I am shocked, but know that I should not be. The United States is a baby country, compared to England and many others. We were founded when we separated from England, therefore our founders came from England and England is in our blood.           

            I feel resolved, and settle myself back in my seat to enjoy the churches. My guide talks some more as we pass the Tower of London. Apparently, William Penn was baptized in the church overlooking this great tower before founding our state of Pennsylvania. 

Londoners and their Royalty

            The swarm of visitors crowding around Buckingham Palace’s black gates did not surprise me. Peering in, everyone was trying to get a closer look at where the Queen of England lived. Across the road, hundreds of people stood around the Victoria Memorial, waiting for the ceremonious changing of the guards.

            What I was surprised by, however, were all the British accents. Pushing through the horde of people, I heard a mother and her daughter talking about the palace in distinctively native voices. I saw a man hold his son above his head, telling him in a chipper English tone that this was where their queen lived. Pulling myself along, I perceived a few different accents, most of them the various British accents of London. Why would people native to England line up an hour early to see this reoccurring formality?

            I shook my head as I walked back to the Victoria Memorial. This large marble statue has their former queen's depiction on the front, with angels and people surrounding her. A golden statue that seemed to catch all of the light in its polished paint stood on top in a victorious stance. Britain made this for Queen Victoria, which forced me to realize that I didn't know the last time America designed a statue for one of our presidents.

            I've always known that we Americans complain about our elected officials more than other countries criticize their rulers, and perhaps England truly loves their royalty. In a culture rich with history, it's understandable why their traditional ceremonies would still get them animated and waiting out in January's chilly wind. Sitting back on the bus, I jotted down these notes. Maybe we Americans are too harsh on those with power, and we need to consider all that they accomplish.

            As we left Buckingham Palace, our tour guide informed us of King George IV and how he was voted Britain's most useless monarch. Possibly, I was too quick to judge the Londoner's enthusiasm for their current queen as unconditional loyalty to all kings and queens. Londoners are human like us, after all.

Global Modern Art

            Cardboard boxes spray-painted in blue, orange, red, and gray formed the shape of a mountain with one shoe precariously climbing the stones. Then, about eight fish tanks with gold rims were stacked together in two rows. Diagonal from these pieces of art was an old car engine bedazzled in shimmering blue, placed on top of a dusty shelf. This was London's Tate Modern exhibit on Energy and Process: Contemporary Sculptures, and that was not all.

            Walking into this exhibit of assorted objects, I met a colossal silver platter with stainless steel kitchen instruments piled on one half. I wondered if these pots, pans, buckets, and spoons were glued to each other, or just thrown to the side. Trying to see the thought behind this piece, I moved in closer, but all I saw was what I would imagine finding in a giant's pantry.

            I don't know what I was expecting to stumble upon inside Tate Modern, but I was not anticipating being reminded of America's depictions of modern sculpture art. Our television shows poke fun at this so-called "junk art," and I have seen characters just dig through the trash and glue a cluster of items together for an art exhibition, ultimately winning for their genius designs.

            I turned towards the corner of the room and found a man sitting and reading between two of Tate Modern's pieces. Since I had seen men and women sitting in boxes for modern art on American television shows, I was not sure if this man was an art piece as well. I made sure to pop by this exhibit later, and mystifyingly observed that he was still there.

Church Service to an Atheist's Daughter

Because they gave me a script—

lines to say, stage directions to perform—

sit stand listen read

these words in St. Paul's Cathedral,

in Southwark Cathedral,

in Temple Church,

it wasn't strange.

Pretty stained glass props

enclosed the platform and beyond—

set the scene for Jesus' passing,

tell tales with the actors.

Light Act I with their candles and flames.

The audience was all thespians, all

an old school Greek chorus, in unison, monotone,

interactive musical.

We recited after the organ whined,

sang its own sad lines,

and no one knew I wasn't

ChristianCatholicProtestant,

a Luther-man.

The play wasn't

alien or foreign or off

until everyone but me knew

to sing verses not written in the

pamphlet handout script—the lines

artistic directors in red bathrobes passed around,

and it became improv. I

don't do improv,

and it was time to turn in my script,

exit stage left,

out the wooden

theatre doors.