Here I am. It’s Night Three: the third night in a row of the wild swings, from giddiness to despondency in moments, that characterize my depression and anxiety. I am twisting and writhing, trying to fit myself into a world that I’m sure doesn’t want me. I am worthless, stupid, ugly. Wasted space, wasted potential. I should have been better, different. Somebody else.
The refrain from that chorus of voices, the youngest parts of my psyche: Why can’t you just be somebody else? Somebody normal? You’re broken. We’re broken.Fix us. Fix yourself. Be better. Please. Be better. Please.
Be better. Please.
I know these are defense mechanisms formed in my early years. Parts of me saw the world and how shitty and unfair it was — fuck, were they in for a surprise in 2017 — and figured the only way to survive was to internalize ALL the bad and make it my own. Make it me. If I was the bad thing, I had some control. I could improve me — the world, not so much. But I could be better — had to be better — or the world would swallow me and spit me out like so many others who couldn’t “handle it.”
God only gives you what you can handle. I don’t believe in god, haven’t for many years, but that saying still makes my stomach sink like a stone before the rage bubbles up into my chest where it burns red-hot. You only give us what we can handle? Do I look like I am handling this relatively easy life to you, you vindictive, omnipotent fuck-face, lying on the floor in a heap of tears and snot and sweat? How can I handle anything with this useless, broken brain you saddled me with? And don’t even get me started on those who have it worse. You accept their prayers while killing their kids and destroying their homes and tearing holes in their bodies and devastating their souls. Either make yourself useful for the first time in thirteen billion years, or go back to your cloud palace and leave us the fuck alone, you gossamer-winged douche canoe. Also, your wine fucking SUCKS.
Okay, that felt a little good. For a moment.
Still: four years of steady therapy and sixteen years of every medication under the sun feel worthless tonight, on Night Three. I’m exhausted to the point of collapse, but when sleep comes, I dream in rapid, flickering images, full technicolor and too well-lit. Vignettes of violence and humor and fear and love and death and that British lizard from the insurance commercials. Snippets of songs and whispers and horns and sirens and bad-movie dialogue.
I wish I could say that I had a good reason to feel this way. There isn’t, though. It’s just me, and my brain. It’s not Vegas, or the Orange Fucker, or work stress, or life stress – though none of those things help. It’s just me, and the voices.
Be better. Please.
My therapist says to be nice to these voices – they’re only coping mechanisms, after all. They’re trying to protect me. And they are asking politely.
But I cannot be better right now, tonight, or really anytime. At 32, I am mostly baked – I am doing my best, and I am not going to become a superhuman anytime soon. I also cannot control the shitty, unfair world we are stuck in. But I do have work tomorrow, so, voices, here’s my offer: calm down, shut up, and go the fuck to sleep. Be better at being my psyche, will you? Please?
I’m back in San Francisco, and, after actually cleaning my apartment for the first time since I broke my foot two months ago, I am embarking on a personal spring cleaning exercise – TO CLEAN MY SOUL. Okay, so not my soul, per se, because I think that requires you to pay an indulgence to the Catholic Church. Or can you no longer do that because of the Reformation? What about Buddhism, can I pay money to cleanse my soul in Buddhism? Any other religions I should offend in this intro? No, all religions hate me already? Okay, cool, moving on.
In all seriousness, aside from the A-Z challenge, I got behind on some of my personal goals while I was laid up, so I’m putting them down here to keep me accountable. Congratulations, you are all now my life coaches. The position is unpaid and provides no benefits, but you do get my undying gratitude and occasional pictures of my manicures on Instagram:
Goal #1: Writing
I’ve been working on a YA project for a while, but keep getting distracted. My goal is to now write minimum 2000 words a day on that project through the month of May. I’ll maybe get a word count widget going on this blog to keep myself ULTRA accountable. Yay!
Goal #2: Fitness
Before I hurt myself, I wanted to run a 5K this year. This is still my goal. I can’t officially start trying to run until this weekend, but I am going to walk minimum 10,000 steps per day until then and then start “training” (also known as jogging for a couple minutes each day until I can then jog for, like, 5 minutes without dying, and going from there). I CAN DO THIS! (Right? Can I?)
Goal #3: Career
June 1st is the anniversary of my leaving the Goog, and by this Fall I’m probably going to look into getting a full-time gig again as I continue to work on writing, because I like money 🙂 Seriously, though, I want to take one action a week to investigate what job(s) I might like to do full time come Fall. This week, I’m talking to a recruiter at a cool company on Thursday, so we’ll see how it goes!
Goal #4: Mental Health
I didn’t feel my best mentally this past week, partially because I got REALLY drunk on Saturday and it’s affected me for the past two days because clinical depression + wine = depressive episode. I’m in my thirties now, damn it, and I need to take better care of my brain. I talked to my therapist, and I’m going to engage of minimum 5 minutes of mindfulness meditation per day and also watch my social drinking. The drinking thing is especially annoying, because I really only drink socially once or twice a week, but when I do go out with friends I lose track of what I’m drinking quickly and then I’m screwed (this, to be clear, is my own fault, not my friends’!). Also, our overall culture has a super sick relationship with alcohol, THANKS SOCIETY. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ So I’m only going to have 2 drinks max when I go out, and if that means I have to drink a shit ton of shirley temples at the fancy restaurant then THAT’S WHAT I’M GONNA DO!
Okay, I have SHARED MY GOALS AND NOW YOU BETTER MAKE ME MEET THEM, INTERNET OR I WILL SEND THE BEYHIVE AFTER YOU AND YOUR GOOD HAIR!
If anyone has any personal goals to share in the comments, please do! I would love to return the favor with some encouragement and accountability 🙂
So, I made it to New Orleans in one piece! Today it’s supposed to rain, which is fine, because THERE IS NO HAIR DRYER IN THIS APARTMENT! Witness:
So, yeah, I had no idea what to write about for “W” in this challenge, other than writing itself, which I’ve done before and which takes time, and, BITCHES, MY FRIENDS AND I ARE GONNA GO GET BEIGNETS WE AIN’T GOT TIME FOR LONG BLOG POSTS.
I anticipate being very wet and wild today: wet hair, rain, and sweat. I am not sweating currently, but that will change because I am in the AirBNB with the AC on high blast, and it is in the ’80s here and humid AF and I am a sweat machine. IT’S BAD. That being said, I love New Orleans so far. I had my first Hurricane last night and it was amazing and I was drunk after one, which is how I like my drinks (#cheapdate). I also had fresh crab and it was great. Basically, I’m great and my life is great EXCEPT FOR MY WET HAIR. You can’t have everything, though.
I’m not going to lie: I am not the biggest fan of cats. They are kind of assholes, I am allergic, and everyone knows they will eat your face within hours if you die alone in your apartment. That being said, here is a ranking of the best cats for the April A-Z blogging challenge:
Number ∞: Cats the Musical. This was the worst two hours I have ever spent in my life. My dad fell asleep in our pricey orchestra seats, and despite being bored out of my skull I had “Jellicle Cats” in my head for FIFTEEN YEARS. Silver lining: my mom bought me M&Ms at intermission.
[Insert all cats ranked from infinity-minus-one to ten, inclusive, here. Yes, Cats the musical was really that bad.]
Number 9: Lions. Lions are great, especially when animated and singing or being portrayed by actors in headdresses who are also singing (wow, this list is becoming surprisingly Broadway themed). They will eat you, though, so also fuck lions. But they are endangered and murdered by dentists, so awww, poor lions! Lots of pros and cons here, is what I’m saying.
Number 8: Kat Graham. Kat Graham is an actress and singer who portrays Bonnie on The Vampire Diaries. I know she is not an actual cat, her name starts with K, and she is in fact a human, but, screw it, this is my list, so CHILLAX. She is pretty good on TVD, or was until season 6 when I stopped watching, but her TRUE achievement is being the artist behind the best song of all time, “Put Your Graffiti on Me (Tag Me).” If you haven’t seen it, you should be ashamed, and also YOU’RE WELCOME for me introducing you to it:
Number 7: Cheshire Cat. Super creepy and possibly high on whatever those smoking caterpillars were on; scared the shit out of me as a child. What kind of animal appears SMILE FIRST into existence to “guide” a young girl through a magical wonderland? On the other hand, it saves Alice from beheading (scariest form of death for me, not gonna lie), so he’s pretty cool. I’m okay with him.
Number 6: Feral Cats. Feral cats are pretty good! They kill annoying rodents, and are generally harmless to humans. Also, they provide volunteer opportunities for people to go out in the dead of night to capture them for spay/neutering before releasing them back into the wild, which basically makes you a literal CAT BURGLAR because you are, like, BURGLING ACTUAL CATS from their nests temporarily. Also, in some cases you get to use night vision goggles to capture these cats.
Number 5: Your cat. Your cat (“you” being the people reading this on the internet) is usually fine. I cannot snuggle it because I am allergic, but you generally have it up to date on its shots and it is fairly well behaved. Its main positive attribute is the fact that you put really cute pictures of it on the internet and I enjoy those.
Number 4: Garfield. I don’t think this cartoon is particularly funny, but my childhood dentist always had clippings of Garfield strips on the ceiling of his exam room, and so they always entertained me and kept me calm when I had mad dentist anxiety. I have fond memories. Thanks Dr. C, and Garfield!
Number 3: Catwoman. This requires a sub-ranking, obvs…these are the only catwomen I am familiar with, I know there are others from other movies and cartoons and shit BUT I AM NOT ORTHODOX DC SO BACK OFF, OKAY?
5. Halle Berry: Oh, Halle. This was just bad. Unwatchable really. I’m so sorry.
4. Anne Hathaway: Did a pretty nice job!
3. Julie Newmar: Classic ’60s, icon!
2. Eartha Kitt: HOTT.
1. Michelle Pfeiffer: YAAAAS KWEEEN!
Number 2: Tie between Scout, Maya, and Malcolm. These are the names of the cats of two of my best friends. Scout belongs to G, and Maya and Malcolm, for whose rescue I am partially responsible, belong to T. These are some very cute cats who behave like dogs, which I really like. I can go to my friends’ houses to see them and then immediately wash my hands so I don’t have a reaction without my friends being offended, which is great! Wonderful cats, really.
Number 1: The “Fuck Everything” Cat. This cat is a .gif cat, and may be dead by now, I dunno. All I know is I like his style. He is my spirit cat, if I were to have such a thing. He had my heart at “Fuck this thing in particular!”
Oh, and an honorary shout-out to Dogs! Dogs are, I think we can all agree, the best cats, in that they are not cats and are better than cats.
HA I HAVE MASTERED CLICKBAIT! You KNOW you only opened this post because of BEWBS. Tee-hee YOU READ THE WORD BOOBS AND YOU LIKED IT!
Seriously though, I have some thoughts on boobs, in particular because I have a pair of them myself. You WILL find them enlightening, OR ELSE.
Boobs are great. Boobs really don’t get enough credit other than as, you know, a turn-on for (mostly) straight dudes in Western culture. Sure, many humans find them sexually appealing, and that’s wonderful, but for a good number of us they also were our primary food source for, like, the first 1-3 years of our lives! That’s INSANE. Like, women can literally just feed their kids from their own bodies in many cases! FUCKING WOW! They also give nice shape to dresses, and if you wear the right bra you can sometimes store stuff in them, like IDs and cash and full-sized margaritas. Very useful.
Boobs are terrible. As a 36H sized person, sometimes boobs SUCK. Really big ones can get in the way of things like crossing your arms, wearing certain clothes, walking down the street without hearing uninvited gross commentary, and not having back and shoulder pain. Small boobs often provoke teasing because people are shitheads, and ones that are in some way prevented from or incapable of feeding children as described in the first bullet point are often shamed (or their owners are). And when they ARE able to feed children, their owners are shamed for doing this in public, because alsdjgnpwoe[awh]e9faw #ragetyping. Boobs are also the fixation of some really weird (and thankfully unsuccessful) politicians who are desperately afraid that someone might see a woman’s nipple in public and, I dunno, die or something? They can also get cancer, which is awful and scary and a big problem 😦
Boobs are not a big deal. People should get over boobs because they are just a normal part of women’s (and some men’s which is cool) bodies, and bodies are normal and cool. So we should chill, and definitely not read click bait-y blog posts about them.
Boobs are a huge deal. Due to aforementioned awesomeness and terribleness of them. You should read and share my click bait-y blog post about them.
Implants and reductions and mastectomies are fine. Do what you want to or need to do with your boobs to make yourself feel better and/or treat serious illness because it’s your body and who gives a shit.
You should pay no attention to anyone else’s opinion on your boobs in particular or boobs in general…
…Except my opinion. My thoughts are the best and only useful thoughts on your boobs in particular (I think they’re GREAT) and boobs in general (I think they’re GREAT and TERRIBLE for the above-mentioned reasons).
In closing, I will only add:
Like boobs or this post? Please drop a line below!
I found out, a few days late, about this April blogging challenge called the A to Z challenge, where you do a blog post every day about whatever as long as you do it alphabetically by topic or title (thanks to TheLonelyTribalist for sharing the idea). So now I am doing it to up my spontaneous blogging skillz game, HA, and you have to read all these posts now, HAHAHAHA. So basically everyone wins. Or…loses.
As this is Day 1, we are dealing with the letter A. I therefore present a DEFINITIVE and IMMUTABLE ranking of APPLES for your perusal. You may certainly add your opinion of my list in the comments, but remember that whatever your differing opinion may be, you are WRONG and I am RIGHT because this is the INTERNET and that’s how it works.
10. Crabapples: What the fuck are these, even? As a kid, adults would point out crabapples to me and be like, “That is a crabapple tree. I know I just said ‘apple,’ so you will try to eat them, but don’t because they are super bad for you and you will die.” I, of course, was like, “Well, if they are bad WHY DID YOU NAME IT A CRAB-APPLE tree when apples are delicious?” I never ate one, and now it turns out that they are NOT generally poisonous, but do taste gross and sour, so the takeaway here is adults are the worst and I knew it!
9. Fuji apples: I had one to eat once because I thought it was a Macintosh apple and it was waaaaay too sweet. Also it is from Japan, and when I think of Japan I get mad because I was supposed to go once for a work trip but it was canceled due to giant, tragic earthquakes. Fuck you, Fuji apples.
8. Apple muffins: A terrible idea. Almost every other fruit is better in a muffin than apples. I’d rather just eat a plain muffin, or an apple, but not an apple muffin with weird apple chunks in it. I’m not a monster.
7. Apple the Tech Company: Cons: giant evil corporation whose overpriced. products are manufactured by poor, suicidal workers in Asia. Pros: I love my MacBook Air and am a hypocrite, so…yeah.
6. Apple crisp: Apple crisp is just lazy apple pie. If you’re going to make an apple pie, don’t half-ass that shit and just dump some ice cream on it, GO ALL THE WAY AND MAKE A CRUST, or just buy one or something. Also, it has the word “crisp” in it and “crisp” is the second-worst word in the English language, right behind “moist.”
5. Apple Vacations Travel Agency:Got my family a good deal on a trip to Tulum, Mexico about five years ago. We were upgraded, too, because there was a Swine Flu outbreak and everyone else canceled. The resort was empty and the bartenders LOVED us. That may have been luck but, whatever, I’m giving a major travel agency credit for it.
4. Macintosh apples: Best and most delicious eating apple–suitably tart and sweet at the same time, also available for picking all over my home state of New Hampshire. Much better than that golden delicious crap, which is like apples for weaklings who can’t handle A LITTLE FLAVOR.
3. Apple pie: Unlike stupid muffins and crisps, apple pie is a real gorram apple dessert, with a crust and apples and everything. Also, don’t you dare put any whipped cream on that. That is for pumpkin pie. Get with it.
2. Apple-tini: Has alcohol in it. Is good. Much drunk. Very apple.
1. Apple cider: Clear winner of apple category. Hard or non-alcoholic, you can’t go wrong with a mug of delicious apple cider on a chilly fall day while wrapped in an alpaca sweater in front of your fireplace.
Oh, and an honorary mention goest to:
Starbucks Apple Latte*: A delicious blend of apples, coffee, cinnamon, and joy. A great way to spend six dollars every morning on your way to work. Will soon outpace the PSL as the go-to Fall drink, I guarantee it.
*PS: To my knowledge, there is no such thing as a Starbucks Apple Latte. I bet you thought there was, though. HAHAHA I GOT YOU**.
**PPS: Seriously, though, Starbucks, I want in on that now if you’re gonna do it. I better get a cut of that shit.
Yesterday, it was twenty degrees out and snowing (IN EFFING APRIL), my broken foot was aching from the cold, and I was stuck in my parents’ house. I tried writing and failed because my head was foggy from weather-induced depression. The family dog, also suffering from cabin fever, was determined to spend the entire day either licking my nose or biting my right forearm (not sure why my arm and nose are yummier than other parts of my body) in spite of every treat, game, or other scheme designed to distract her. I was PMSing and on the constant verge of tears. So, after a few hours of trying to be productive and positive, I gave up on and decided I was going to bake an AMAZING and BEAUTIFUL chocolate cake with cream cheese icing from scratch, because IT WAS AN APRIL SNOWSTORM OF DEATH, SCREW EVERYTHING.
The cake itself turned out beautifully; the icing was easy to prepare and tasted great. Then I tried to put the icing on the cake, and it turned out like this:
I don’t know what happened, but every time I tried to apply icing to the surface of the cake, it, like, tore the top of the cake up. I tried a knife, a spatula, a spoon, my fingers–it was all a bust. So, after mangling my beautiful cake with ill-applied icing for ten minutes, I gave up and began to cry.
Now, I realize that crying over a badly-iced cake is…not rational. But I was SO tired of the day, and my aching foot, and my foggy winter-in-April brain, and all I wanted was to PRESENT A PRETTY CAKE TO MY FAMILY AND EAT IT FRONT OF THE SAD-EYED, HUNGRY DOG AS RETRIBUTION FOR HER NIPPING AT ME ALL DAY! WAS THAT REALLY TOO MUCH TO ASK, UNIVERSE?
My mom, engaged in reading on her Kindle, basically rolled her eyes at my temper tantrum, and I snapped, “OH, FUCK IT!” and spooned a glob of cake-and-icing into a bowl and took a bite.
It was delicious. My parents had some for dessert and loved it, and the dog looked at us all as we ate with a satisfying mix of envy and yearning in her eyes (HA, DOG, THAT IS WHAT YOU GET).
As I sit here typing this and eating more of my leftover mangled cake, I realize that yesterday I WAS this cake: messy and ugly, but yummy inside. I took a useless, gross, bad-mood day and tried to make something good of it. We all do this–some of us more often than others–and the results are mixed. Sometimes we rally and create a beautiful masterpiece, complete with vanilla fondant and sugar roses. Sometimes, our best achievement is a shower and clean pajamas, and store-bought cake if we’re lucky. Most often, though, we end up somewhere in the middle, with a delicious chocolate-and-cream-cheese glob of almost-but-not-quite greatness to show for our efforts. All of these outcomes are okay, because despite the messy icing, we are all sugary goodness underneath.
Today, the sun’s out, and the cake will be gone soon if its current rate of consumption continues unabated, as will the snow. I hope you make the best cake you can today 🙂
I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post; please leave a comment below, or share or like if you’re so inclined!
You know that feeling when you wake up after a week of being sick and stuffed up and achy and the cold or flu or whatever the hell it was that was making you miserable is just GONE and you feel fabulous? That just-after-sick feeling? Well, that’s similar to the way I feel when the veil lifts after a depressive episode. After the crapfest that was the past few days, that’s how I feel right now. Flyin’ high, and also motivated as hell. I’m ready to kick depression and anxiety’s ass and take some names. I’m gonna get in shape and heal my foot and write thousands of words a day and learn to grill fish and take a multivitamin and be a movie star. I’m high and I’m singing to my mental illness, adapting the words of the glorious Tay-tay:
Hey depression: Remember when you tried to write me off? We used to be mad love, but after what you’ve dooooone, NOW WE GOT BAD BLOOD (HEY!).
This feeling won’t last, of course–that’s the thing about feelings, they never last. But it’s an important feeling. It’s an anchor, a dock I can tie my boat to when the waves get rough. It’s a third nautical metaphor I can’t come up with right now.
It’s a high partially fueled by the amazing support I got in the comments on this blog, from facebook posts and texts from people I haven’t spoken to in years. It’s from knowing I’m not alone.
I wrote that post the other night in the aftermath of despair, wanting desperately to connect and pay forward the kindness my mother shared with me to the internet at large. I wanted to see if I could help others and let them know they aren’t alone. I did, to a certain extent, but those same people made me realize that I am not alone, too. Really realize it.
So depression and I may have some bad blood, but you guys and I? Y’all, we got MAD LOVE.
Would love to hear from you! Leave a comment on this post, and do share and like, too.
God, I’m so mean to Rory* AND I LOVE IT (steeples fingers, laughs maniacally, paces around evil lair).
Before the credits, Lorelai paints Rory’s toes red in preparation for Chilton so she can be a “bad girl” underneath her uniform and saddle shoes. Slow your roll, Lorelai, it’s not the end of season five yet, Rory’s got plenty of time to go bad!
After the credits, however, it’s Monday morning and Lorelai is the bad one, having overslept and apparently left all her profesh-looking clothes at the cleaners, so she has to drop Rory off at her first day of Fancy School looking like a rodeo queen, which, depending on whatever fetish the headmaster might be into, might actually give Rory an advantage over her fellow students.
They drive off to Chilton, and while Lorelai is perfectly happy to let Rory go in all alone, Rory insists that she come in to meet the headmaster. Of course, Lorelai can’t step three feet into the courtyard without immediately getting hit on by a Divorced Hot Chilton Dad, who, while ogling Lorelai, promises Rory that he’ll have his daughter look her up, which I’m sure won’t be awkward for Rory or his daughter AT ALL. Rory finally extricates her mother from her meet-cute and they go find the headmaster, walking by some snobby-looking girls who have apparently just finished a movie night marathon of Mean Girls, Heathers, and all the Amber scenes in Clueless.
Once at the headmaster’s office, they make it past a secretary who is most likely Norman Bates’s mother, and go in to find Headmaster Charleston, and…EMILY!
Lorelai is not thrilled, especially when she learns that Emily and the headmaster’s wife, Biddy (FFS people is this a real rich person name that exists?), are BFFs and the headmaster plays golf at the club with Richard every week. Emily and the headmaster are both, of course, EXTREMELY insistent that Lorelai take her coat off and sit down, so she is forced to reveal herself as the Rodeo Queen and neither Charleston nor Emily love her look.
After Lorelai reaches peak embarrassment, she and Emily leave Rory with the headmaster and go to argue about Emily wanting to be involved in Rory’s schooling. Lorelai eventually is like, FINE WHATEVER DO WHAT U WANT I’M AUDI 5000, but it turns out that she’s right to think that Emily’s interference is unnecessary, because back in his office Headmaster Charleston is being a grade-A dick to Rory. Don’t get me wrong, in later eps and seasons I LOVE people being dicks to Rory, but in this case it’s not cool.
After asking Rory about her aspirations (Harvard, then journalism, specifically Christiane Amanpour, because Rory doesn’t know what a shitshow CNN will be by the time she enters the workforce), Charleston basically tells her that he doesn’t give a fuck who her grandparents are and that because she’s a month behind and comes from a small town that she’ll probably fail(?). And while I personally think a hint to Rory not to expect special treatment because of her family name would be appropriate, telling a kid on her first day of school that she is likely to FAIL is not the best plan for any educator who wants to keep his job. It’s not the last time Charleston is an asshole, though, so at least his character is consistent.
Rory goes to the office to complete paperwork, where a student assistant steals her file and passes it out the window to Paris (yay!) and her crew, Madeline and Louise. Paris, worried about potential academic competition, devours Rory’s file and immediately hates her, since, as an aspiring journalist, she’ll probably be going out for the school paper–which is Paris’s bag. Paris laments the fact that they’re letting new kids in and wonders why they would bother. I have an answer for ya, Paris, it’s called MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY HEY HAVE YOU HEARD OF THIS THING CALLED MONEY? WE HAVE HERE AT CHILTON AND WE WOULD LIKE MORE PLEASE THANKS BYE.
Back in Stars Hollow, Lorelai gets made fun of for her Rodeo outfit by pretty much everyone, and then once at home Emily calls to offer to buy Rory the entire Chilton merchandise store. It’s cute, but the action is mostly at Chilton, so I’m making a u-turn back to Hartford!
Rory’s in her first class, where Paris knows the answer to every question, making Rory feel like a N00B. Class is interrupted momentarily by the entrance of Tristan Dugray, who’s coming back from a visit to One Tree Hill seeing his sick grandfather. Next…oh, wait, I know that teacher! The teacher is Dr. Phlox from Star Trek: Enterprise! I KNEW I knew that guy!
Ahem. Sorry. Extreme geek moment over.
Anyways, Tristan is intrigued by Rory, asking the forty-year-old man posing as a student in the seat in front of him about her.
Tristan calls her a “Mary,” because she looks virginal, because…sure, ok, whatever.
A note: at no point in the entire episode do I see a non-white student at Chilton, which I guess is not a shock but pretty sad. Even in the early 2000s schools like Chilton made some kind of effort to admit a more diverse student body! Later on in the show I think we meet an Asian student who gets a crush on Lane, but right now I’m having trouble remembering any other non-white Chilton kids. Come on, Hollywood, I know it’s 2000 but you could have done better than this!
After class, Rory gets a ton of study materials (and the shit scared out of her about her workload) from Dr. Phlox the teacher, and is then promptly accosted by Paris in the hall. Paris informs Rory that this is her school, and the Franklin (the school paper) is her thing, and she’s going to be valedictorian, and they’re never going to be friends and live together at Yale AT ALL NAH NAH NAH I DON’T LIKE YOU! Rory, understandably, is like, -_-, but I giggle because in one of my head canon timelines Rory and Paris end up together lol.
At the Independence Inn, Jackson and Sookie are arguing about produce (peaches, specifically) and it’s cute and I can’t wait for them to get together! Lorelai comes in to bitch about her less-than-impressive Rodeo performance at Chilton, but Michel interrupts to tell Lorelai her mother is on the phone. Emily has bought Rory a parking space at Chilton and wants to buy her a car. Lorelai is like, UGH, so Emily backs off, but I’m sure Rory would be pissed to know her mom is turning down the offer of a car on her behalf.
At Chilton, Tristan introduces himself to Rory in the douchiest way possible, by offering to share his notes from their literature class, and then backing her up against a wall and being skeezy and offering to help her “study.” Rory is icked out, and so am I. I was never team Tristan, he was gross.
Meanwhile, Hot Divorced Chilton Dad has shown up at the Inn to ask Lorelai out. Showing some good sense, she declines, realizing how bad it would be to immediately date one of Rory’s classmate’s father. Not that the day could get any worse for Rory, who, at that moment, pulls too hard on her faulty locker door and knocks into Paris, who drops some sort of model on the floor, destroying it. Rory just went from a bug for Paris to squash to Paris’s Enemy No. 1.
Of course, Rory’s next class is with Paris AND Tristan “Harasser” Dugray. Paris was due to present her busted model to the class, but since she can’t the teacher wants to give her an incomplete. Rory tries to help out, saying she accidentally ruined the project, but Paris doesn’t want her help, which is…dumb? I get Paris wants to be independent, but, girl, Rory speaking up gets you an extension to fix what she accidentally broke. That’s gotta mean something!
Lorelai heads to Luke’s to fuel up on coffee before picking Rory up from school, and of COURSE mentions that Hot Chilton Dad showed up to ask her out because she’s definitely not interested in Luke’s reaction to this information, oh no, not at all! Luke makes this face when she tells him she turned the guy down:
This interesting moment is interrupted when Lorelai receives a call from her neighbor Babette, and goes home to find Kirk (ugh), except he’s calling himself Mick(?) because I guess they hadn’t figured out Sean Gunn’s character/presence on the show yet. Anyways, Kirk-Mick, or Kick, as I’ll call him, is there to install a DSL line at the house, which…did they not have that before? I feel like DSL was ubiquitous in 2000, right? No? I mean, it’s hard to remember as I’ve been personally plugged into the internet via telepathy since 2005. I am one with it. IT FEEDS MY SOUL.
Anyways, Emily has ordered the DSL, and Lorelai goes off to confront her, while at school Rory tries to pass Paris an “I’m sorry, let me help!” note, which, you’ll be SHOCKED to find out, Paris does not accept. Realizing, rather cleverly, the only way to deal with Paris is by blunt force, Rory instead begins calling out correct answers to the teacher’s questions. Paris is not happy to be beaten to the punch.
Lorelai confronts Emily at her hair salon to tell her to butt out of their lives. “I decide how we live, and not you.” As with all Emily/Lorelai scenes, it’s great, and made even greater by Kelly Bishop in a showercap:
Lorelai picks Rory up, and they commiserate about their mutually shitty days. After some pizza with Lane, who then has to go home to endless tofu from Mrs. Kim, Rory rather maturely tells Lorelai that she doesn’t need her help with Paris; she’ll deal with the problem on her own. This just makes me sad, because later in the series Rory seems to lose this ability to figure shit out on her own. How is 16-year-old Rory so much more mature and reasonable than 21-year-old Rory? Did I get stupider from 16 to 21? I feel like I got sort of smarter, though…not by much. I dunno.
They pass Luke’s, and Lorelai asks Rory if she thinks Luke is cute. Rory says Lorelai can’t date Luke because when they break up they won’t be able to eat there anymore. This is prophetic, but it doesn’t detract from the sweet last shot, which is of Luke gazing longingly after Lorelai in front of the diner before closing out as we are la-la-la’ed into the credits.
That’s episode 2! Next week, Rory and Richard go golfing and I die because I love Richard! TTFN!
*To be clear, while I have issues with Rory, I think Alexis Bledel does a great job playing her, in all her incarnations. Any faults with the character are with the writing, not the execution.
Occasionally, despite my college education and now 31+ years of experience living as a Human on the Planet Earth, I make a Life Error™ so gargantuan that it shakes the very fiber of my being and makes me doubt whether I am worthy of success, happiness, or love.
I order self-assembly furniture online.
I know, I know, but it wasn’t my fault! I am A WRITER, DAMN IT, and writers need desks. I could write while sitting at my kitchen table, but it’s cold in the kitchen. I can also go to a coffee shop, but a coffee is two bucks MINIMUM and it’s much cheaper to just make coffee at home. The obvious solution was a small-ish desk that fits into the bay window nook in my warm-ish bedroom with the cheap homemade coffee only feet away!
So I went on Wayfair and ordered a desk. Five days later, the desk arrived. And thus began my descent to the ninth level of hell, where I joined Brutus, Judas, and…Cassius (is he the third guy? too lazy to google) in being chewed in the giant maw of Satan.
The process began auspiciously when the FedEx guy cheerfully offered to haul the giant desk-containing box up three floors to my apartment. I immediately set out to assemble the desk, whereby I rediscovered Jackie’s Foolproof Process for Furniture Assembly and Losing Your Soul:
Using a knife, cut through the tape along the edges of the box.
Attempt to open box, and discover that there are apparently three more layers of taped-up cardboard between you and the desk.
Hack through these layers while dripping sweat everywhere. Finally remove all the cardboard to discover the furniture is encased in a sarcophagus of styrofoam, which is all stuck together with a kind of tape that is probably used to seal airlocks on the International Space Station.
Hack at the styrofoam, getting bits of it all over your apartment and inhaling a good 20% of it into your lungs.
After 30 minutes of chopping at styrofoam, reveal the desk. Take a water and stretch break and realize that if you can’t open a box without getting breathless that you might want to sign up for the gym.
Using the included mini toolkit, attach the four legs to the desk. Easy peasy! You’re 90% done- the last step is attach the knobs to the two little drawers that are built into the desk.
You go to pull out the drawer. The drawer falls apart in your hand:
Ok, you can fix it! Get out your hammer and nails to see if you can cobble the drawer back together.
OH MY FUCKING GOD HOW DID I HAMMER THREE FINGERS ON MY RIGHT HAND ALL AT ONCE OH GOD OH GOD IT HURTS AGHHHHH!!
Breathe through the pain, breathe through it. Ok. You’ve got this.
Go down the block to the local hardware store and buy superglue. Return home, glue the drawer back together, let it set for 20 minutes per instructions. Huzzah! It looks great! YOU ARE A GODDESS!
Lightly touch the drawer with one finger to test the strength of the superglue. The drawer explodes.
A single tear escapes your right eye. You remove the drawer and put the desk right-side up. The desk leg lands awkwardly and stubs your right toe.
You burst into tears because ARE YOU KIDDING ME I WENT TO YALE I SHOULD BE ABLE TO PUT TOGETHER A FUCKING BUCK FIFTY DESK AND MY HAND HURTS AND MY FOOT HURTS AND I’M SWEATY AND IT’S RAINING AND THERE’S STYROFOAM ALL OVER MY APARTMENT AND I’VE BREATHED FIVE POUNDS OF IT IN AND NOW I’M GOING TO DIE OF STYROFOAM LUNG CANCER WHY AM I EVEN TRYING TO BE ALIVE IF I’M TOO STUPID TO SCREW TOGETHER A FUCKING WAYFAIR DESK sob sob sob.
Call your mom, who is bewildered but manages to calm you down.
Ashamed at your outburst, you try to go online to request replacement drawers for your desk, only to discover that the new Comcast set-top box that Infinity made you install earlier that day has DESTROYED THE INTERNET and the only network in range is called “We Can Hear You Have Sex” but it’s fucking PASSWORD PROTECTED.
Remember that your phone has internet, and use that to request the parts. Ok, they’ll be here in a few days. It’s all good.
Go out to a friend’s open bar birthday party to destress and consume three of these:
Go home and vomit up everything you ever ate or drank, but because you’re an IDIOT you throw up in the shower and not the toilet, and so when you wake up at 3 am and go in the bathroom you discover that you have to clean up a hell of a mess. You go back to bed and at 6 am you clean up and hydrate and go to the laundromat when it opens to wash your vomity clothes. Call Comcast, fix the internet, and wait for your replacement drawers as you recover your dignity.
A few days later, the drawers arrive, in perfect condition! You replace them and the desk looks GREAT! HUZZAH! WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS OF THE WOOOOOORRRLD!
Decide to take a walk to celebrate. Pull out your headphones so you can listen to some TUNEZ while you traipse through the park.