Archive for Travels & Other Adventures

Of personal space and pajama pants

Or, more odd thoughts, but without the f-bombs.

This whole “people walking into my room and touching my things while they talk to me” deal is turning me into a territorial little monster. Get.The Hell.Away.From my things. Don’t wash your paws off in my sink—that’s my bath towel you’re drying your hands with. Don’t help yourself to my bed—I actually SLEEP there. Don’t come over here and try to read over my shoulder while I type—there’s a good chance I’ll flip to a new page and start typing THIS IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS in 72pt font repeatedly. And can you please at least TRY not to stare so openly at my underwear on the shelf? Yes, I know it’s colorful and that the shelves are conveniently placed at eye-level when you’re sitting down (again, on my bed), but dude, that’s just not necessary. And for the love of God, can you NOT snoop through my open browser when my back is turned for thirty seconds?? See, it’s this funny little thing called “personal space.” I get that you’re living next door to the creeper or the party animal or the teacher. I get that you’re bored. I get that my door is always open, seeing as how we would all melt into the carpet if we kept the doors closed. And I’m sorry. But that’s not an excuse, nor is it an invitation to plunk down with your BUTT ON MY PILLOW and start yammering. I also get that you don’t like eating alone—but can you please try to wrap your head around the idea that I actually quite enjoy it? Because I do. I HATE having people watch me when I eat. It creeps me out.

So, what have we learned today, cats and kitties? That Inky is far more antisocial than we thought! Biiiig shrug. How sad. But holy crap, it’s like being surrounded by bored little children! I was just thinking, “Gee, it’s a shame they don’t make child-locks for teenagers” but then I realized that actually, they do. And they’re called padlocks. *Claps excitedly.*

Moving on, my poor purple pajama pants with their happy little Mutts characters have officially been dissed, so I am thinking that maybe, next time the fire alarm sounds (because there will always be a next time), I should just go out in my undies and break it down to the Heavy as I go. Oh yes, I can totally see myself flinging open my door and belting out, “How you like me NOW?” before shimmying down the hallway in only my under-things and all their glory. Hmm … *Raises eyebrows deviously.*

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Wisdom from the dorms—the ex-boyfriend edition

“And my mom is like, I worry about you and your emotional—and mostly mental—sanity, and please just delete the guy from Facebook, because, you know, he’s not good for you. But I have seriously ruined this guy’s life,” she laments, sprawled on my bed while I get ready to leave for the afternoon. “Like, he’s telling me how he’s going to feel when I start dating again and eventually marry and have kids, and he just like, totally sucked all the happiness out of any future I have for myself. I mean, his life is completely ruined and I feel bad because it’s my fault.”

“Psh,” I snort. “If not with you, he would have found a way to ruin his life with someone else, I’m sure.”

“He just knows how to make me feel bad, which is I’m sure why he does it. I think he does it subconsciously, though, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.”

“What, guilt tripping you? Yeah, I’m sure he has absolutely no idea he’s doing that.” I cross my eyes in the mirror and continue brushing my teeth.

“I don’t know. I just … I try to be friends with him and then he pushes it further than I’m ready for in a friendship [side note: what the eff does that mean?]. I mean, he just drains me. He’s so miserable, and he says he doesn’t want to be and I’m the only one that can help him and—”

“So he’s such a pansy that his happiness is entirely dependent on someone else. Cool.” I nod approvingly from the sink.

“I’m almost wondering if I should like, you know, talk to someone. Like, my doctor wanted me to see a therapist, but I don’t know. I mean, all they do is poke and prod and I don’t want to feel even worse. And the minute they start trying to medicate …” she holds her hands up and shakes her head emphatically. “I just don’t think I need to go. I mean, I’m not crazy.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s why I go … it’s that whole ‘crazy’ bit.” I make a face and add,  “It’s such a hassle, being crazy.”

She is too concerned with a sudden, distressing thought to have heard me. “And what if I see someone there at school and then start dating, what are the guys going to think? Like, ‘Oh my God, she’s in therapy.’”

“Well, yes, that is unfortunately a pretty common reaction. It’s kind of sad, but a lot of people still think you must be crazy, or that you’ll get poked and prodded—or even medicated—if you go into therapy,” I answer mildly. We’ve already touched on her understanding of people in distress, and the stubbornly narrow-minded view is beginning to bore me.

She once again misses the point, which is truthfully half the fun of the conversation, and instead nods seriously. “I’m just not ready for that kind of label.”

That’s okay, dear. “Dumbass” fits you much better, anyway.

In other news, I am a terrible person. Story at eleven.

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Odd thoughts, and lots of f-bombs

First of all, I’m not dead (just floating … bonus points to anyone who gets the lyric).

I have been dealing with the fallout of the self-injury episode (yay!), plus the dog drama, plus finding out that my brother somehow got a hold of the blog address and has been having a field day with it while I’m over here. On the one hand, I don’t care because I don’t go to any particular lengths to hide who I am. On the other, I do because once cornered, he said he’d stay the fuck away and yet our IP still showed up on my IP tracker yesterday, the IP tracker which I installed just for the occasion. Motherfucking fuckity motherfucker … have I mentioned lately how much I detest my family? Yeeah. CAN I NOT HAVE FIVE WEEKS WITHOUT YOUR FUCKING BULLSHIT FOLLOWING ME ACROSS THE FUCKING POND? Please, and (obligatory f-bomb) thank you.

And now Louis is limping and oh, what do you want us to do about it? Um, three guesses, dumbfuck. God. At this point, I just want to go home and verify that my dogs are, in fact, still alive.

So, that bit of fun aside, I have a crap-ton of photos to show in the next few days. I do have a paper and a speech to knock out first, though … then I’ll resurrect the Puddle from it’s neglected state of near-death and go back to our regular programming. The dorms are continuing to provide endless entertainment in the form of the resident teenage girls, and I might actually miss the petty, air-headed drama when it’s all said and done. Might. No guarantees. They’re kind of like real-life soap opera stars, though. Or train wrecks, one.

Anywho, I’ll return soon enough – and in the meantime, can someone please explain why I am always naked when the fire alarm goes off? This makes Event #3 during which I was insufficiently clothed when the sirens started blaring. I am beginning to feel like a closet nudist, and not just a sweltering college student in a dorm without air conditioning, who is caught between wardrobe changes at extraordinarily bad times.

And on that wonderfully awkward note, I am off to research a paper.

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Social stigmas, misconceptions, and the trouble with dorms

“What’s on your arm?” She’s standing in my doorway, clearly expecting a detailed account of the previous night’s happenings. We’ve taken to leaving our doors open for both socialization and air circulation purposes, and it seems that someone got a little curious. I forget that something that’s so routine for me, and only mildly distressing to most level-headed adults still potentially offers a tabloid-level of fascination for certain other people.

“An iodine patch.”

She rolls her eyes at my response, but presses the issue.

“So they found out.”

“Actually, I told them,” I correct. I’ve been in it long enough to know when to call in the reinforcements.

“Oh. Well, we all knew already so, yeah. This is kind of an awkward conversation.”

“Huh. Not to me, really,” I shrug, opening a document on my laptop. “But you can change the subject if you think so.”

Apparently, she doesn’t think so. She flops onto my bed and leans against the wall.

“Well, honestly, I think it’s good that they know about it. I mean, everybody has stress. And that’s just not, you know, a good way to deal with it. I mean, you’re doing it the dangerous way too—like, you could actually die doing it that way.” She keeps the corner of her upper lip raised slightly in a knowing smirk.

Um, no shit Sherlock. And who asked you, anyway? I tend to be an open book about this kind of crap, but c’mon. Really?

“My aunt was raped,” she says, as if that proves that she knows anything at all.

“Sucks to be your aunt then,” I say absently, not turning from my computer screen. She, of course, misses the sarcasm and is thus not offended by the remark. Instead, she keeps talking.

“I have a lot of friends who’ve done what you do. Like, two of them used to do that.”

“Oh,” I nod, still looking at the screen. “That is a lot.”

“And my dad used to hit me. I mean, he actually left a bruise on my face once. You could barely see it, but that was humiliating. But you know, I never mutilated myself because of it. There are other ways to deal with things. Like, you couldn’t just, read a book or take pictures, or eat chocolate or something?”

I try, oh-so-patiently, to explain the process for the umpteenth time but give up when she asserts that it really is just a matter of choice and that I just shouldn’t do it again because it “isn’t good.” Yeah, okay. Save it ’til you’ve done it, airhead.

“Well,” I say mildly, with a tone bordering on disinterest. “If it were that simple, I’m pretty sure I would have ‘made that choice’ somewhere along the last eight years. But,” I add, brightening. “I guess you can think of it however you want to. No skin off my —” I suppress a completely inappropriate giggle and stop. “Well, it doesn’t matter to me.”

“Yeah. I just feel like being so abused made me have, like, a lot of wisdom and stuff that other people my age don’t. [Note: she’s nineteen] So if, you know, you want to talk to me or anything, then like—”

“Cool, thanks. I’ll holler,” I interrupt cheerfully, squinting my eyes closed when I yawn so she won’t see me rolling them. “Night, dude.”

I am thinking that my door will be staying closed tomorrow evening, lack of air conditioning be damned.

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On loving London

God, but the sirens are loud tonight. I kind of like them, though. It’s a busy, busy place. And I find the constant motion energizing. I leave my dorm room window open to let in the city as much as possible.

Admittedly, the first few days were hell. I relapsed into dysfunction in every possible way. It wasn’t pretty. And I thought I was doing okay, too … but between the dog drama and jet lag and culture shock, and I don’t even know what else, my resiliency just went kaput. I wanted to go home. HOME. Where there are fleas and ticks, and spiders, and most recently, a cranky-ass little snake from the woods hiding somewhere in my bedroom (yes, my BEDROOM). That’s sad, y’all.

But things have steadily turned around. I had the good sense to make connections with other people from minute one in the airport, and lucked out to be rooming next door to a really sweet girl I met at orientation a month ago. Additionally, my psych professor is kick-ass awesome. And the sun came out and the rain stopped (in London? Unheard of!).

Oh, and here, you’ll appreciate this. Out of all the professors for my second class that I could have possibly landed, I managed to get the one whose wife is involved in dog rescue back home. Seriously? How does this happen? Apparently, the powers that be do sometimes have a sense of humor.

I am very much in need right now of a piano—or a dog. But I’ll find a way to remedy that without too much trouble, I’m sure. In the meantime, I can walk everywhere here—and I do so, with great satisfaction. I’m falling in love with the city and the people—and well, with everything, really.

And some photos from a recent evening excursion, because it wouldn’t be me without some picture play.

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So some questions are better left unasked

“Can anything else go wrong today?” I asked, laughing, at the pub. Laughing because, barring the major life stuff, I tend to find derailed plans entertaining (if not a teensy bit aggravating) and see Plan B as just a slightly more adventurous, albeit inconvenient, variation of Plan A. Roll with the punches, right? Anywho. Today, despite a morning of good humor, was one of those days.

There was the part where my class group spent five hours walking through London and I discovered I had left my bank card in my OTHER purse on the OTHER side of the city when we decided to stop for lunch. And then walked another three hours without food. Refer to recent low blood sugar fun to understand how much joy this brought to my afternoon.

There was the part where half of the underground trains we needed were closed for Olympics-related improvements, resulting in more walking, stop-shuffling, etc.

There was the part where I left the schedule I needed to make plans with my sister in the dorms and realized it only after we’d arrived at the pub.

There was the part where the pub’s reader denied my card, and the part where the ATM around the corner was closed. There was the part where I left my receipt in the ATM that did work.

All minor irritations that I just chalked up to bad luck and shrugged off. Whatevski, deal with it and move on.

But then—THEN—there was the part where I came home, got online, and found an icy message from my other sister, who is supposed to be taking care of the dogs, saying that on second thought, she can’t do it and that I need to make other arrangements for them. While I’m eight hours away and five hours ahead. It seems that she just doesn’t see how they’re going to fit into her schedule after all—with a few utterly unconvincing sad-faced emoticons thrown in as an extra slap in the face. London, meet panic attack.

So now I am going to sit down and pull my hair out while I try to figure out what THE FUCK to do with a pit bull and a presa at the peak of boarding season back home. Because honestly, I don’t have a clue.

And I really thought I could de-stress a little over here—ha ha ha. God, my optimism just slays me.

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And then there was London

Load the car and write the note
Grab your bag and grab your coat
Tell the ones that need to know
We are headed north
I and Love and You, The Avett Brothers

Well, technically, we headed northeast, but whatever. I’m in London, and hoping that a little distance (okay, more like a lot of distance) will have an impact.

I left Elsie’s ashes to be picked up by my mother. It seems a little ridiculous that I could bring her this far but couldn’t be the one to bring her home. But somehow, I just couldn’t. I feel like something broke. My resolve just shattered; I took it as far as I could take it and then stalled out. So my mother took over the final leg, and for that I am grateful.

In other, less disheartening news, I am settling in over here and currently plotting (and yes, plotting would be the correct word here) the best ways to spend the next five weeks, outside of class time. My younger sister, who is already over here somewhere for her own purposes, is supposed to swing by tonight both to help with the plotting and to explore the local pub scene.

I’m heading out in five for some class photography project … oh, gee, twist my arm. When I finally have more than three minutes to post, I’ll toss up some pictures, and also get back to the comments on my last post, as I really appreciate the encouragement and positive vibes everyone offered up.

Back in a few …

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Tallulah Gorge: the Picture Post

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Weaknesses, risks, and rather happyish things

I don’t talk about the psych stuff much anymore, aside from a mention of the PS here and there, as for the most part, the madness is cleaning up well. I haven’t cut, I haven’t been entertaining food demons, and I haven’t thought (seriously) of checking out in several months. I am holding on, and holding on well … and yes, I’m proud of myself for it. My scars have remained scars. After eight years of holding onto a blade as a coping skill, having so many months without the stainless steel painkiller is huge. I refuse to count the weeks or the months for various reasons, but I’m holding on, and I’m glad to be doing it.

I was recently going through bookmarks and came across a post I’d saved a year ago (go read it, I’ll wait). And I questioned why I’d saved it, when I was drinking more responsibly then at twenty (and nineteen, before that) than I have in the last six now-legal months. Did I know then that I’d lose my grip? Who’s to say? But back in the fall, I knew exactly when things turned the corner, and I knew why. I also knew it was going to get a whole lot uglier before it got better. And it did. I coped, but I coped with a bottle in hand. Some people may be comfortable drowning their malaise in half of a bottle of wine on a regular basis, but I have never been one of them.

I didn’t miss the stuff when I didn’t have it. It was habit. If I was sitting on that couch, or reading that book, it was a natural part of the equation. Get lost in the drink to get away from reality. But where to go when I wanted to get away from it? I was slipping, but mired in humiliation and determined to claw my own way out.

It’s been an interesting re-training process, and one replete with “Hey, dare me not to drink ’til we meet next week?” texts to the PS. As with everything else I’ve ever used to torment myself, it was only a matter of finding a decent alternative. I still drink amongst friends, and I don’t ever see myself being a teetotaler, but I indulge more as the semi-sane nineteen-year-old did—with a healthy moderation. I don’t go at it to get away from anything these days, and yeah, I’m happy about that, too.

And Thursday, I took the 20-odd bucks I’d ordinarily put into a bottle of vodka and put them instead into a tank of gas, a cup of coffee, and a $5 parking permit at a state park in the mountains, in the company of someone I had only just begun getting to know. I left the leashes at home, took my camera—and also took a leap of faith. It was not unrewarded.

It was an hour-and-a-half trip there, three hours to hike, and the same ninety minutes back. If we didn’t know each other that well when we started, we’d certainly made a dent in the gap by the time we returned. (And before anyone goes all “mother hen” on my ass, my younger sister and I had pre-arranged times to check in, and she had a code phrase to watch for if I ever felt iffy about Mr. Dude).

We chatted and exchanged cameras with passers-by, ventured off the beaten path a few times in the name of curiosity, and talked of our summer travel plans; two different countries, two different objectives, but for the same length of time, and both trips discussed with the same nervous laughter skirting the edges of the conversation.

I let myself feel everything, nothing muted or tamped down by the latest preferred method of self-abuse, and everything seemed ridiculously vibrant and alive. We hunted skinks, counted pennies in the calmer waters near the waterfall, and commented aloud at the sun’s backlighting of the leaves. We hiked in the sunlight, lunched with the breeze making its lazy way through the shade, and sang along to the radio on the way back.

We weren’t anything at all, other than two people navigating each other’s car space and enjoying the random company.

We weren’t anything … and that in and of itself was everything.

(Pictures to follow—as usual).

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And on the day after

So the 25th wasn’t so much about joy to the world or peace on earth, goodwill toward men. But then the 26th happned.

The day after Christmas, and I was to finally meet a guy who a mutual friend had been trying to introduce me to for weeks; there was to be a post-Christmas group hiking excursion in the mountains and I had extended (through said mutual friend) the offer of carpooling with the guy, since he wasn’t too far from me. He was all for it and when, by ten or eleven, we still hadn’t heard from anyone else, we decided just to go to north Georgia and make our own day if we needed to. I liked his way of thinking.

He picked me up in an Accord almost identical to my own, right down to the beat-up leather seats—and with a dog in the back, no less. I couldn’t help but laugh, and after our own introductions and a quick hello to the various dogs, we headed north. It was a comfortable ride and the day followed suit, laidback and lacking any real agenda. Conversation came easily, as did the laughter. My cell phone was accidentally left at home, which was by far one of the better mistakes I’ve made in a while.

At noon, the ringleader of our hiking compadres called, having just woken up along with the other party-hearty drunkoheads. But of course. The guy-who-doesn’t-have-a-blog-name-yet and I expressed sarcastic surprise as well as our collective doubt that any hiking would be happening at all, and we opted instead to stop in downtown Athens for pizza before finding our own entertainment for the afternoon.

We lunched at a little street cafe with the dogs and then crossed the street to wander the UGA campus for the better part of an hour. From there, a nearby park provided more time outdoors and we ultimately met up at the dog park with the few functioning members of the hiking group who had managed to get out of bed and rejoin the land of the sober. The gathering brought on fantastically random renditions of songs from the Temptations, the Beatles, and the Wicked soundtrack, as well as animated arguments over Candyland characters … because obviously, we’re all so very mature.

The ride home showcased a particularly vivid sunset and rounded out the day perfectly. It was just such an easy, companionable way to spend the afternoon, and a much needed recovery from the day before … I was a puddle of tired contentment when I finally turned out the lights that night.

I'm no Wishcake (see blog roll -->) with the whole food-photography thing ... but the pizza was excellent, at least.

Heh heh.

An out-of-focus baldy at the park's native bird exhibit.

... And the sunset.

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