MIA from the PTA

I have a big time major fear of being stuck. The list includes: elevators, quick sand, coffins, traffic, Chinese finger traps, on a math problem, in the middle, and ....up. But even above those (yes, even above the gut wrenching sweaty brow panic that those damn finger traps ellicit) is being stuck in one single place. At this moment the idea of marriage and a steady job and the whole shabang called being a grown up makes my brow start to glisten. Growing up a lot of us see this shining beacon of the finish line. You envision yourself at about 37 with the ass of Jennifer Aniston and the hair of...who are we kidding...you envision yourself at about 37 looking exactly like Jennifer Aniston. Ignore the fact that I did the whole highlights thing and it doesn't work for my skin tone, or that my ass doesn't look like that even NOW. It's a whole new ball game because at 37 in your fantasies you automatically get reborn as a hottie actress from Friends. Yes, I know, I will age extremely gracefully.... into a different being entirely. Your husband is dark haired and handsome with a mean backswing in tennis and you live in an unnamed suburb on a quiet street that looks something if not identical to that in Father of the Bride. Your son and daughter are active in extracurriculars and you spend your spare time working on the PTA. You also have a terrific sex life and you drive a fuel efficient SUV.

I don't really want my finish line to come yet, though. As wonderful as my life with my hot husband could be........where's the adventure???? The finish line means the race is over. You don't get to feel the rush of adrenaline and endorphins take over as you run miles and miles. I don't want my happily ever after tied up with a neat bow and a Hallmark card on the side. I want to travel and experience the world and my freedom before I'm stuck. Because maybe then stuck won't feel so stuck...it'll feel more like luck. So I'm gonna go for a run and I won't stop until I create the life I want, and not necessarily one in which I ask, why is Jennifer Aniston on my family Christmas card?

the only gut gushing post you will ever see on this blog

I've lived three very different places, each 3,000 miles away from each other or more....and thought about him. I spoke new languages and unknowingly ate blood sausage and layed on the beach and kissed boys to prove to myself that I am an independant woman...and thought about him. And I've mourned and I've partied and I've strengthened my relationships with my best friends...and I thought about him. I met people I could love and I kept my distance. Because I was thinking about him. I've been a free person wandering and learning, making it a priority to myself to stay that way. I've valued this sense of liberation from all things tying me down. I am dancing with my uncertainty. I am running around breathlessly happy, endlessly energetic, 7 feet tall! and then we have lunch. Just lunch. And I'm 2 inches again...and I'm paralyzed with the uncertainty.

I wish I could tell someone that he's just a person I barely know. Ah, yes, him...we met once or twice, it was fun. I could say that. I've even said it to myself a few times. But I can never seem to make eye contact or drown out the voice telling me I'm wasting my time with that false truth. Because that liberation?? It's really only as far as him. I don't need to find my footing with him, I don't have a rare disease of which his love is the only antidote, I don't need Webster to put his picture next to my name. I just need him. After a long time of putting myself first and figuring it out, I'm actually allowed to say that. I'm allowing MYSELF to break an uncrackable, super humanly strong image I've created for myself...to admit that I want someone...and that I'm not sure that I will ever get it. ...And in that, finding a peace with the inevitable.

go directly to jail; do not pass Go; do not collect $200

Last night my loving cousin uttered probably the dumbest grouping of words ever to be assembled and repeated by millions of pathetic guys all over the country in attempt to somehow justify their unacceptable actions. Now, my cousin is a smart man. His wisdom ages my own by a few years, and I've trusted him to give me sound advice when it comes to the wayward and illogical ways of the opposing sex. Since I suppose he was just doing his job, it was almost his duty to remind me of the key lesson they want us women to take away from their stupidity: Don't hate the player, hate the game.

I have a lot of beef with this phrase. First of all, excuse me. I can and will hate whomever I please, especially if you're absolutely deserving of it. When you're 16 and your mother disapproves of your boyfriend, do you immediately break up with him and ask your mom to become your own personal matchmaker, or do you continue to date the loser out of sheer spite? Exactly. You ignore that his band is really just a mix of random powerchords and screaming, and you love him that much more because the authority told you not to. Same thing here; I go all teen angsty and hate the player 10 times more. Besides, if you're a douche with commitment issues, just own it and invest in a sign for your forehead to spare us unsuspecting women instead of blaming some illusive game that only exists in your mind.

Secondly, who the hell gets off running around calling themselves a "player"? Are you Chingy? No. Do you have grills? Not the last time I checked. Since you've been so busy playing the..."game", when was the last time you even liked the person you hooked up with? Was she sober? Does it make you feel good to know you'll die alone?

Which brings me to my last point of beef. I don't understand the rules of this game or why it's necessary. It's like I just purchased a highly complicated board game and the manufacturer left out the instructions. What happened to just saying what you really mean? Recently I have totally disregarded all traditional dating rules, and I seem to be doing just fine. Hell, I am doing great. I see no real reason for them other than maybe as means to hide behind and avoid your own insecurities and fear of rejection.
Since when am I more of a man than most I've been meeting these days?...playa please.

not so silly putty

Last night I had a discussion with someone about my readability. This wasn’t the first time that someone has told me that when it comes to talking, I can do some damage. The only problem is that I somehow defy all logic and never say anything during my ramblings. I am the master of taking the simplest sentence in the world and caking on the foundation and false eyelashes until it’s so fancy that its original identity is unrecognizable. That sentence could have started as a boy and ended as a…well…a drag queen. The point is, even getting to my point has taken me 7 lines and an unnecessary reference to a group of men who embrace self tanner and panty hose. I always mean what I say, but I rarely actually say what I mean...excluding my dreaded Napoleon Complex under which I am plagued with asserting my assertiveness on anyone who’s done me wrong, perceived or otherwise. But when it comes to the real stuff…that ooey gooey part inside of me that laughs when you tickle it and cries when you abandon it…I keep that behind a brick wall.

The ooey gooey is just that…it’s soft and vulnerable and I can’t just put it out there on its own! I bring along my padding of words and jokes to ensure my ooey gooey’s safety. I like to call this technique self-preservation, but maybe a better term would be stupidity.

I’ve always thanked my parents for allowing me to be whomever I wanted. When I was 3 years old and watched Aladdin for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, my mother hand sewed my Princess Jasmine Halloween costume. When I was 12 and convinced I would someday be a scientist, my father drove me all over 2 states to find materials just so I could go on to win the 6^th grade Science Fair. And when I was 18 they let me move across the country on my own to continue creating myself ... Not as a scientist due to an acquired allergic reaction to math, but whatever else I wanted. I haven’t been giving myself the same opportunities or credit by over protecting my feelings. Sometimes ya gotta risk it to get the biscuit and let your ooey gooey do the talking, or people will never know you. Taking down my brick fortress may prove to be difficult … and maybe I’m still not exactly sure what I want to be when I grow up… but I sure as hell know that I don’t want to be a chemist OR a wall without windows. Princess Jasmine still sounds pretty good though…

my life as a socialite...very lite on the social

It's 9:00 on Friday night and I'm sitting on the couch with a bowl of mac and cheese that I can't taste thanks to a week-long cold, surrounded by tissues, my laptop weighing on my stomach, and a 10 page research paper weighing on my conscience. Instead of starting said paper and mulling over the implications texting has had on teens' social skills in APA format, I've opted to mull about topics closer to my own life...like how does Carrie Bradshaw afford that apartment on the Upper East Side and how does Samantha not have every STD in the book? This relates to my life because I will be living in NYC in 2 months and I must take note of how little sex I'll be having in the city, but what it might look like if I could afford Manolo Blahniks. Let's not skirt around the elephant pooping in the room. My life is less than glamorous. I'm in sweats eating an overload of carbs debating with myself the sexual health and footwear of fictional characters.
Often on Facebook on a Monday afternoon, you can see the photo reels of the previous weekend affairs featuring girls wearing dresses that highlight and flatter their vaginas more than any other body part, and guys oggling said girls...er parts. Call me old fashioned, but I like to keep the privates private. However to document this night in photos might be just as embarrassing. I'm freshly showered with full make up on, Kardashian style, but it somehow doesn't make up for my sheer lack of polish and friends currently. In the end, I am at least considering being studious while all others on campus are preparing to go out partying. This is the fasting of fun for the benefit of education...or thoughts of education. I am like a monk during Ramadan. Am I mixing religions? Is my consumption of cheesy pasta from the microwave while talking about Ramadan disrespectful? I hope not. The point is, I like to think of myself as staying home on a weekend night as a symbol of my life as a beacon for higher education. Now I gotta go because the Soup is on and I've got to catch up on what I've missed in reality tv this week.

With Easter rapidly approaching I started thinking about Easter baskets today. And then I started thinking about dyeing eggs....and as a side note I thought a little bit about how I only ever eat the chocolate bunny's ears and then give up before I lose a tooth. When I was little we used to have Easter egg hunts at my grandparents' house with all the little cousins. Every year at least one child spilled their basket of eggs all over the driveway, sending nickels and chocolates everywhere. Yes...nickels...we're a very monetarily motivated family at a young age. Anyway, it got me thinking of how what a pain in the ass it is to have to go around picking up all those damn nickels and how the chocolates never quite taste the same after they've hit asphalt. Why do we give these little kids baskets in which to put some fragile, cheap plastic eggs full of tasty treats and financial opportunity?? These children are unstable, wabbly little humans barely able to keep their balance, and then we add weight to one side and over they fall.

I hate cliche sayings. I mean what the hell does "a bird in hand is worth 2 in the bush" even mean? Is that a dirty reference? Are we talking about badminton? Just say what you're actually thinking!!! But the whole "don't put all your eggs into one basket" adage kinda came together for me today while pondering all this Easter insanity. Is it really all that different? Aren't we just as wobbly in our daily lives trying to make the right decisions, plagued with insecurities and fears and holding onto our basket trying not to fall. One day we meet someone and start filling up our basket with them...adding in the commitment egg, the trust egg, the warm fuzzies egg, the promises eggs, ....and one day the basket finally gets too heavy and we fall, except this time it's not just your chocolates that were ruined. So what are we supposed to do? Where are we supposed to put our eggs if not in our basket? I don't have that kind of cleavage. And when do you know if that person's going to be there to catch you when your balance is lost? Following this old saying has made me a fearful and cautious individual. Don't give me your eggs, I have a hard enough time standing on my own. But has any of that fear slowed my little cousins on Easter Sunday? never. They collect what is salvageable from the ground and carry on, because it's Easter and an overgrown rabbit has just left a small miracle of hidden colors in the backyard.

Maybe putting all your eggs in one basket isn't such a bad thing. Maybe we're just participating in a game that no one wins or loses, but one that always has the potential for a fun surprise.

who lives in a pineapple under the sea? my neighbor...

It wouldn't be a day in the life of Caitlin Skelly if I didn't make a complete idiot out of myself, right?! Exactly, so sticking with tradition I had a complete moment of crashing and burning today.

Every few days since I have arrived in Paris I have seen a particular guy in various parts of the city on random occasions. He's exactly my type...hopelessly nerdy. Although my mystery man and I run into each other without warning, we do have one habitual place we see each other: line 4 at the Saint Michel station at 2:11 PM Mondays...I mean...roughly. When I see him on Mondays I think of myself as Sandra Bullock in While You Were Sleeping...except I hope to God he doesn't get hurt rescuing me from the metro tracks. I leave in 3 weeks and I'm fairly sure he wouldn't be out of his coma by then. Besides, if he doesn't have a brother I'd be screwed. Anyway, today I decided that enough was enough, and I needed to talk to this guy or I'd always regret leaving Paris with unfinished, although somewhat creepy, business. I worked up in my head what I would say, and I turned on my iPod to some motivational tracks...you know you're usual "I Believe I Can Fly", "Eye of the Tiger" and..."Party in the USA". As soon as I saw him approaching with his gang of World of War Craft playing friends, I started to doubt Miley's ability to give me the boost I needed. I went from Sandy Bullock: strong woman and Oscar nominated actress to Sandy Cheeks: underwater dwelling squirrel and confidant to Spongebob Squarepants. But we got on the same train and I knew I had 5 stops to make my move. I decided to go with "Pardon, ,Pourquoi j'ai l'impression que je te vois toujours?"

Oh my gosh he's looking at me. Oh my gosh he's looking at me like I'm certifiable. Oh my gosh he's looking at his friends like I'm certifiable. Oh crap he just said something to me in French. Something about seeing me on the platform. I think.
He smiles at me like how one smiles at a vicious dog to keep it calm, and just like that all my hopes and dreams of us exchanging nauseatingly cute glances over a croissant and listening to accordians under the Eiffel Tower vanished. The moment passes as his friends exchange confused glances and continue talking, most likely about that strange American who's still staring despite their friend telling her he's never seen her in his life. As I pretend to text, I can't help but laugh, probably furthering the impression that I belong in a straight jacket. So much for my Hollywood ending, but hey, I did something today that scared the begeezus out of me and tested my confidence. I'd say that's a success...while actually just highly embarrassing...but let's call it a success, eh?