Eh, It Worked For Me

I’ve taken on a few difficult writing assignments in my day. Military awards, an awkward article about my experience speed dating, my Father’s eulogy – stuff that really is not easy to explain in words. Still, the most difficult writing assignment I’ve ever taken on is my personal statement for applying to veterinary school. How do you write about something you’ve wanted since you were five years old? How do you not start off, Ever since I was in kindergarten I’ve wanted to be a veterinarian…

How do you convey the passion without the cliche? I don’t know many veterinarians who decided on a moment of inspired passion to just go be an animal doctor; but I am sure those inspired DVM hopefuls have rocket-fire personal statements. Most veterinarians have spent their entire academic careers working towards that goal, some, like me, working towards it in a roundabout way. But you can’t start an essay with, “I’ve wanted to be a veterinarian my entire life” without sounding like you’re from Lamesville, USA.

Not saying that I know everything about writing a personal statement, I just know this worked for me. I ran it thorough the gauntlet of my own personal copy editors who smoothed rough edges and polished my lazy grammar. No one changed an ounce of content. It’s all me. And I think that’s why I feel like such a success. I earned my acceptance because of who I am and what I’ve done. I was able to successfully convey that in my personal statement and had some huge supporters in the reference department, but I don’t want to be a total egomaniac and post the awesome things other people had to say about me…as I think Gandhi humbly said, “One must keep oneself real, afterall.”

That wasn’t a real quote.

This is my real statement:

I walked briskly towards the pencil sharpener, trying to hide the guilt radiating from my face. I was blushing, trembling and afraid to make eye contact with Mr. Weis, my fourth grade science teacher. I never liked getting into trouble. Yet, here I was, on the fast track to juvenile delinquency. I sharpened my pencil and considered my options: I could make a run for it, learn to survive as a 9-year-old on the streets of my suburban neighborhood, eventually turning to a life of crime, or, I could turn myself in and pray for mercy. In the end, I didn’t have a decision to make; I was caught red-handed.

“Erin, why do you have a hamster in your pocket?” Mr. Weis asked, looking as stern as possible asking a child such a ridiculous question.

I looked down, giggling nervously and feigning surprise at the sight of Muffin, her cheeks full of sunflower seeds and pocket lint. Holding her closely to my chest, I explained, “I can’t leave Muffin at home all day, now that Mom makes her stay in her cage all alone so she doesn’t have any more babies! Plus, she really likes science, Mr. Weis.” With an understanding nod, Mr. Weis allowed Muffin to audit his class about earthworms, and, at the end of that school year, he awarded me Brownie, the class guinea pig, for excellence in science and dedication to caring for animals.

I have always had a special love for animals, caring for them and solving the puzzle behind their wordless symptoms. Animals need compassionate people to tend to them and educate their owners on proper care.  I knew to be a veterinarian; I would need something special to set me apart from other applicants. In 2002, I was awarded a once in a lifetime opportunity: an appointment to the United States Coast Guard Academy. It was a challenge I could not refuse; four years of demanding academics, mandated athletics, rigorous military training and timeless rituals designed to test my resolve, integrity and intestinal fortitude.

During my time at the Academy, I hoisted sails, climbed rigging and navigated by the stars on Coast Guard Cutter Barque Eagle, I rowed for the varsity crew team, spun flags for the drum and bugle corps, led the St. Francis de Sales Society in community service activities and played for the women’s rugby team. I mentored, tutored and led an underground poetry society. I didn’t follow the Academy curriculum blindly; I took on extra research projects, language classes and paved a way for cadets to take a personal growth and development sabbatical by drafting a proposal to spend a year working at an orphanage in Mexico. I was the first cadet to do such a thing. I succeeded.

I graduated in 2007, receiving my Bachelor of Science in marine environmental sciences and commissioning as an ensign in the U.S. Coast Guard. But, after shaking the hand of the President of the United States and walking across the stage, I realized I had received something much more precious than the paper in my hand: an unrivaled growing experience.

And grow I did. Since graduating in 2007, I served five years in the Coast Guard, qualifying in many positions including deck watch officer, intelligence officer and public affairs officer. Although I enjoyed the unique challenges, travel and adventure, I knew I would be pursuing a career in veterinary science as soon as my commitment was fulfilled.

With honorable discharge in hand, I traded in my combat boots for scrubs and a stethoscope and enrolled in the Bel-Rea Institute of Veterinary Technology.  Not once have I doubted my decision or my natural aptitude for the field of veterinary medicine. Each quarter at Bel-Rea I am on the dean’s list for highest academic honors. I’m a teaching assistant, providing tutoring in medical terminology, anatomy and physiology, microbiology and laboratory animal science. I have gleaned clinical experience vital to my success in volunteering at the Denver Dumb Friend’s League and my job as an exam room assistant for Park Hill Veterinary Medical Center. Every day, my passion to proceed with a career as a doctor of veterinary medicine is renewed.

When I was five, I made a list of everything I wanted to be as an adult: a veterinarian, a marine biologist, an airplane pilot and a dinosaur. Thankfully, it did not take me long to abandon my ambition to be triceratops, and I turned my attention to other pursuits. Becoming a doctor of veterinary medicine takes courage, confidence and resolve; it is a profession reserved for the strong of will. We DVM hopefuls were the children teachers caught “smuggling” our pet hamster into grade school. We stay up all night feeding a hailstorm’s sole surviving baby robin with an eyedropper, even though we’re told it won’t survive. The next morning, we victoriously rush the little bird to a wild bird rescue center. We demand a dignified and peaceful euthanasia for our beloved mutts and hold their soft, heavy heads in our laps as they take their last breath. We are the kids who were diagnosed with ringworm three years in a row before our mothers explicitly forbade us from tending to the “sick kitties” in the neighborhood. As adults, we ignore that rule when we find litters of homeless kittens, as, by now, we’re probably immune to ringworm anyway. 

My dream to be a veterinarian has never diminished. I haven’t taken a conventional path, but that’s how I am. I challenge myself. I’ve never picked an easy route or a common experience. I take risks and strive for great things.

Just us serious professionals here…

 

Life Goals With A Twist

I’m back to blogging.

Again.

This time, my blog is taking an *unexpected* turn, one which I want to document in detail. I’m going to be 29 in a few months. While, by this point in our lives, many of my friends are married with a baby or two and a mortgage, I find myself preparing to sell the majority of my worldly possessions and move to Europe with a suitcase of clothes, the beagle, and a few treasured books.

I guess we all deal with aging in our own special ways.

Earlier this week, I received notification of acceptance into the veterinary school at the University of Edinburgh in Scotland. I start in August and will be living in Scotland for 4 years before graduating with a BVM&S (the fancy sounding international equivalent to our DVM). The University is accredited by the AVMA, so I plan on returning back to the states to practice, unless of course, I get caught up in old world romanticism…

Gaining acceptance into veterinary school is not only a lifelong dream of mine, but a wild surprise.  Knowing how competitive veterinary programs are, I initially wasn’t going to apply to any. I moved to Denver last August with every intention of finding my soul-mate amongst “my native people.” I enrolled in a vet tech program at the Bel-Rea Institute for Veterinary Technology, got a job at the YMCA, started volunteering at the Denver Dumb Friends League, and was hired as an exam room assistant for a local veterinary clinic. I was ready to work a 9-5 vet tech job, fall in love, get married and start the family. I figured I could work in the field and always go to school to be a doctor at some undetermined time in the distant future.

Nine months later, I’ve grown bored of waiting for Mr. Right and am not finding the same satisfaction in my technician training. I want more. I want to learn more in school, I want to diagnose, and I want to perform surgery! In a passionate moment of self-realization, I declared that I would pursue my dream of becoming a veterinarian and put love and babies on the backburner for a few more years.

I cried when I thought about tiny pieces of my ovaries turning to scar tissue at the end of every month and my decreased chances of having children in my mid-to-late-30′s.  Then, I quit crying and started researching veterinary programs for which I was qualified. I found several in the United States and a few in Canada, Europe and the Caribbean. I ran into work one afternoon, late, fueled on 6 shots of espresso and excited about my new life plan.

I was explaining the possibility of going to veterinary school and the frustration I felt with the representative from the University of Glasgow who told me that I wouldn’t be a competitive candidate. I scoffed because, clearly, she did not understand me, or what it mean when I said I was going to do something. My supervisor overheard me and offered to put me in touch with a student she knew at the University of Edinburgh. I contacted the student and the admissions office for additional information. The university responded quickly and informed me that they were accepting late applicants. Thinking it would be a good way to get some feedback for my applications this fall, I threw my name in the ring, along with a personal statement, my CV, copies of transcripts and personal references.

One week later, the University contacted me with a letter of acceptance, provided I formally apply and successfully finish my current term at Bel-Rea.

Between studying for finals and working, I completed the application, sent in the paperwork to request transfer of my GI Bill to the University of Edinburgh, and started looking for a furnished flat to rent. I’m on a bit of a time crunch and slightly overwhelmed, but I’m more excited than terrified and more joyful than anxious, so it is a good balance. I plan on bringing the sidekicks out, but not until Christmas. I think the beagle will like exploring the Highlands with me and I don’t trust my mom to babysit my cat for 4 years. She just isn’t a cat person.

Stay tuned. I can’t promise much, but I can almost guarantee entertainment and the token photo of me up to my shoulder in a cow.

 

xoxoxo

Erin

My first suture project.

Here’s To You, Mrs. Robinson

Once, in a moment of passionate disgust, I threw my hands into the air and declared, “THE NEXT TIME I DATE A GUY IN HIS 20′s, I’D BETTER BE WELL INTO MY 40′s!”

I’ve drawn this line in this sand several times and hastily erased it while gulping down the heady liqueur of “boyish charm.” What can I say, a mischievous grin and juvenile sense of humor is kinda like my romance kryptonite. It wears me down until I find myself in the throes of a passionate make-out session followed by a week of wearing the “scarf of shame” because, for some reason, modern science still has not discovered a cure for the common hickey.  Readers, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure guys in their 30′s don’t give girls hickey’s…

I’ve dated a lot of younger guys. Ok, true confession: I’ve exclusively dated younger guys. But I’m done. This time, for real. Which shouldn’t be too hard since I’m technically on a dating hiatus right now and focusing on getting good grades, repairing my soul, practicing yoga, finding peace with squirrels, and developing a better ear for classical music. I’m a busy girl and I’m too old and tired to play childish dating games.

*Pours another glass of wine from the box, takes a sip and sighs*

Still, I can’t help but look back fondly on some of the man-child genotype boys I’ve dated in the past. The first and most epic was Kyle. Our relationship was fun while it lasted, but just didn’t end well. He essentially broke up with me the way you expect your elementary school “boyfriend” to “break up” with you at recess. He said that “it wasn’t fun anymore” and then ran off to play with the other girl on the monkey bars. For a long time, I wished he’d fall off those figurative monkey bars into a literal case of genital warts, but anymore, I usually laugh about the passions of young lovers and that first time you realize “heartbreak” is just a euphemism for “sucker punch.”

The latest and greatest Man-Child was like the placebo band-aid you give a kindergartener with an invisible “owie.” It doesn’t do anything to heal or help them, but somehow they feel better after sticking that Hello Kitty bandage across their forearm, so you just kinda let it go.

Mr. Hello Kitty always made me laugh. And as Marilyn Monroe so brilliantly put it, “If you can make a girl laugh, you can make her do anything.” One day, after I had folded his laundry, cleaned his room, baked him cookies and scraped the dried cat shit off his floor, I realized I was in too deep. I was stuck in that one-sided relationship quicksand stage. I was unable to escape. He made me laugh and I cleaned up dried cat shit with a paint scraper. Fortunately, I moved about a month later, spurring a natural end to playing housewife/mama.

We ended amicably. I think of him and smile and sometimes laugh, but I’m happy we on different paths.

I thought of Mr. Hello Kitty today when the Lemonheads’ cover of Mrs. Robinson came on the radio. I was so much older than him; 4 years older with about two decades more life experience crammed into those years. Whenever I question what vodka-induced lack of good judgment drove me to go all Mrs. Robinson on him, I remind myself how he made me laugh, and that was good enough for then and there.

Now, I’m happy to announce the Mrs. Robinson act has come to an end without an encore. When I start dating again, it will only be age-appropriate men….at least until I turn 40. Then, all bets are off.

Cheers!

PS:  Talk about growing pains, thank Goodness I’m not in High School anymore!

A-W-K-W-A-R-D

*Editor’s Note: Not sure how many people this post will reach. My WordPress is set up to automatically post to the Singletonista Facebook Page and my Twitter account, but I’m currently fasting from Facebook and Twitter, so I won’t be able to follow up interactions in those media.

A Time for Zen and a Time for Zin

I’ve always enjoyed yoga, but in the past 3 weeks, I’ve found a new motivation to roll my mat out and namaste my butt to the floor. His name is Reagan.

Reagan might be the perfect man. He’s always like, “Hey, you can do this pose…or not. Listen to your body. Do whatever you need to do and it will be good. If you don’t want to do the pose, you can just lay there and listen to your heart. Its your practice. Breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out.”

Can you see why I dig this guy!? I mean, he’s so not judgy!

Also, he’s good looking. Like really good looking. I think. Even though I’ve only seen him from a distance in a dimly lit room, I can tell he’s handsome. Compassionate brown eyes, sensitive brown hair and an expressive mouth. Actually, I’m pretty sure he’s my soul mate.

After my first class with Reagan, I was so high on Zen, sweat and pheromones, I vowed to go to yoga every Wednesday.

So far, I’ve made good on my vow. I’ve gone to yoga class every Wednesday for the past 3 weeks.

As I was walking to my second class, I caught wind of a terrible smell. It was heavy in the air and filling my nostrils with an undeniably familiar stench. Ugh. It was My Feet!

My feet smelled so bad, they were offending my olfactory system from nearly 5’10″ away! I couldn’t turn back though, I was halfway to the studio and running late for class, plus I had vowed to go. I put my mat down in the second row and hoped Reagan kept a solid 6′ radius. As long as he didn’t get too close, I felt the smell could pass as a decaying squirrel in the studio walls.

As class went on, I focused so intently on my practice that I had nearly forgotten all about my embarrassing odor situation. I thought I was in the clear as we sank into our final Shavasana. I was wrong.

I felt Reagan’s uncannily soft hands on my ankles. He was slightly adjusting my corpse pose, gently pushing my ankles down into the mat. Every muscle in my body instantaneously contracted as the vision of Reagan leaning over my putrid un-pedicured, blistered, calloused feet filled my head. I felt a little piece of me die. I think that dead little piece of me was called “my last bit of hope for my own happily ever after.”

This past Wednesday, I knew I had some serious prep work to do before my practice.

I painted my toenails pink. I scrubbed my feet with grapefruit soap til they were glowing, I walked all the way to the gym in my flip-flops to let them air out, and right before class started, I slathered my shins and feet with a lightly perfumed lotion.

I was out of clean sports bras, so I donned my pink push-up bra, it looked fantastic with my tank top.

In my last glance in the locker room mirror, I adjusted my hair to look effortlessly, naturally perfect in a slightly sloppy pony tail. You girls know exactly what I’m talking about.

I skipped into class with my chest out and head up. Confident. Ready.

I smiled and tossed my head to the front of the studio to say hello to Reagan, when I caught sight of something that made me stop dead in my tracts. Something that made my confident smile fall into a frown of disbelief. The substitute yogi, Christine.

She said she would be teaching Reagan’s class.

I immediately pictured Reagan out with his girlfriend. She’d be blonde and petite probably really good at yoga. He’d be generously treating her to a vegan restaurant, not judging her, and they would look lovingly at one another in the candlelight.

Christine announced again that she was teaching Reagan’s class because he was home sick with a bad head cold, but he should be returning the following week.

I told myself to stop being so freaking neurotic. He was sick.

Immediately, my train of thought took me on the high-speed rail back to crazy: I bet he called in sick so he could take his girlfriend out to that imaginary vegan restaurant.

Class was starting, so I stared at my nicely painted toes and tried to focus on making my downward facing dog something a little more impressive.

Christine was a great yoga instructor, but I can’t wait to see Reagan next week.

And if it turns out the trollop in the front row who wears short bike shortsthat show off all her goodies and then some when she does her forward fold is more Reagan’s type, well, I raise my glass of Zinfandel and wish them the best.

Namaste.

Does This Sedan Make Me Look Old?

I always thought my middle school years were destined to be the most awkward of my life.

Oy vey, ages 11-13. The golden years, when my feet and arms were fully grown, but my neck and torso were not. When I constantly tripped over my own appendages and proudly sported a gaping hole in the left knee of my blue jeans. Back when I played clarinet. In the band. 

I was utterly graceless. I had braces, followed by a retainer and usually food stuck in it. I hadn’t learned not to pick at pimples and still scraped up my knees from daring (incredibly stupid) stunts on my bike. I hadn’t refined the art of personal hygiene, as I was intimidated by the loud sound of the shower and didn’t always wear deodorant.

I got excited easily and talked loud and fast. When I was flustered, the ghost of my childhood speech impediment would rear its ugly head, making me drop all of my “R’s.”

I cried over getting a B on an assignment or if I thought a teacher didn’t like me or if no one let me sit next to them on the bus.

I watched Saved By The Bell and imagined myself magically transforming into Kelly Kapowski when I got to high school. I read everything by Laura Ingalls Wilder and then all the spin-off books by Roger Lea MacBride. I read the Anne of Green Gables series twice and memorized both The Highwayman and Lady of Shallott. I decided I’d grow up to be poised, fabulous and unstoppable.

Well, I’m 28. A spinster and everything I ever wanted to be except:

1. A Pioneer Woman

2. A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle

3. A Geologist

4. Poised

5. Kelly Kapowski

I still feel like the heroine of my own epic novel, but I must say, it is sad I went through high school without ever blossoming into a 90′s popular culture icon. I did letter in Band, though, so those 4 years weren’t a total loss.

Still, I’m surprised to find myself in a whole new awkward life stage.

I’m not wearing torn jeans and braces anymore and my personal hygiene is considerably better, but I’m faced with more growing pains on a daily basis, which makes me question, is 28 the new 12? Am I getting a re-flash of my “tween years” the way people who had chicken pox re-flash with shingles?

I pondered this very idea tonight, as I mixed my retinol anti-wrinkle cream in with my 10% benzyl peroxide anti-acne ointment.

I’m stuck with both early-onset wrinkles and occasional breakouts. My mom still refers to my ample cheeks as “baby fat” even though I told her a full grown adult doesn’t have baby fat.

I’ve seen my friends get married and pregnant. I still feel too young for all that and wonder why I don’t get invited to slumber parties anymore.

I know I’m “grown up.” I’m even driving a real grown up sedan to prove it. It’s the first car I ever bought myself with 4 doors and automatic windows/locks.

Still, even though I do my taxes and I pay real grown-up bills, I find myself occasionally sneaking candy into movie theaters or ordering a Cherry Coke with “no ice” because I know they totally jip you when they put ice in your soda.

I vote. I watch the news. I listen to NPR radio on my way to school and the classical music station in the evenings.

But I still get excited easily and talk loud and fast.  I’ll get flustered and drop my R’s. I post my grades on the fridge and I’ve accidentally broken almost everything in my kitchen that was made of glass.

Part of me is cool, collected, set, defined – forged through the fires of life experience. The rest of me is still figuring things out, waiting to grow into myself, occasionally tripping over my own feet and snorting when I laugh.

Rage and Fear

I woke up a little after 8 on Sunday morning. By the time 9:30 rolled around, Huckleberry, my beagle, was ringing his bell insistently, his way of requesting to go outside and evacuate his bowels, or leisurely sniff around because the warmth and comfort of inside is far more boring than the smells in the elements.

I bundled up and we ventured into the 4 degree morning. The dry Denver cold was not near as bad as I was expecting, so I decided to keep the beagle out a bit longer and we went into the court yard to play fetch. I was told once that I’d never teach a hound how to fetch – how I’ve proved that wrong! Huckleberry will chase down a tennis ball, bring it back to me and dance around, enticing me to wrestle it away from him. I always gain control of the ball, because he just doesn’t last long playing games without letting loose a howl, requiring him to fully drop the ball.

After about 5 minutes of Beagle-Rules-Fetch, one of the windows in my building opened and a gruff, inhuman roar echoed through the small courtyard, “GAHHHH! SHUT YOUR FUCKING DOG UP BEFORE I COME DOWN THERE AND FUCKING STOMP ON HIM!”

I wanted to reply, in kindergarten sing-song fashion, “You didn’t say in the magic word…“

I wanted to shout back, “Look, asshole, I’m just as pissed about the Bronco’s losing as you are, pop a fucking Motrin, drink a Bloody Mary, and get over it.”

I wanted to stomp my feet and holler, “You live in a pet-friendly apartment, you could be more friendly to my pet! Or, maybe, move out!”

I wanted to return the threat, “Oh, you’re going to stomp on my dog? Well, I’m telling P.E.T.A. and they are going to napalm your car!”

I wanted to throw a rock through the anonymous window.

I didn’t do any of those things. I called Huck over, “Here, boy. Sounds like someone is a little hung-over. Lets not get ourselves stomped…” and we returned to the apartment.

Over coffee, I reenacted the experience before the Tribal Counsel. I was visibly upset and blabbering, but after a hot cup of coffee, we were able to identify the root of my feelings:

1. I was insulted by the tone and language of the Angry Stranger. I would have happily responded to a shout of, “Please stop your dog from barking, we’re still sleeping up here.” I don’t understand why it is so common for confrontations to be anonymous and hostile. I’ve come to expect internet “trolls” and “haters” from the far reaches of the web, but am still very surprised when people are rude in person. Maybe hiding behind a window shade gave the Angry Stranger anonymity similar to that found online and therefore he felt comfortable addressing me in a manner he would not have had we been face to face.

2. I was threatened by his tone and language. I live in this building. I need to feel safe in my place of dwelling and seek out community with my neighbors. We live in a violent society and I am not one to antagonize an unknown angry man. Being shouted out in such a way made me feel very uncomfortable. I was ashamed of how much it scared me. I felt like a little mouse as I bent down to leash my dog and leave the courtyard.

3. I was bewildered. I’d never received a noise complaint about my dog. Almost everyone in my building has a dog or two and barking happens. I haven’t noticed any out of the ordinary or incessant barking from any of the units and Huckleberry has played in the courtyard with our canine neighbors on several occasions.

4. I felt guilty. I strive to be a careful and conscientious pet owner. I always pick up Huck’s excrement and don’t let him run around in the hallways off leash. When I realized that it was before 10:00 AM on a weekend, I felt truly sorry for being inconsiderate to my neighbors. I know I was in the wrong. Still, I would have appreciated a more respectful correction than, “SHUT YOUR FUCKING DOG UP BEFORE I COME DOWN THERE AND FUCKING STOMP ON HIM!”

Since the Angry Stranger remains a stranger to me, I’ve decided on my course of action, I’m printing out 6 copies of the following letter and posting it on all the doors of the potential offended party:

Dear Neighbor,

This letter is addressed to the building occupant who was disturbed on Sunday morning by my dog’s barking. Since you only shouted at me from a window, I was unable to identify you and apologize for my rude behavior. I have printed out copies of this letter for all possible units from which I could have heard your voice.

I understand that playing fetch with my dog in the courtyard before 10 AM on a weekend is disruptive and inconsiderate. For that, I apologize and assure you that I will be more mindful in the future. I strive to be a considerate pet owner and neighbor. I would appreciate your efforts to be a more considerate neighbor in the future as well.

I respond quite well to polite requests and common decency. I assure you, had you opened the window and nicely requested that I take my disruptive dog away from the courtyard, I would have expediently done so. Your profanity, angry tone, and menacing words made me feel uncomfortable and threatened. I did not appreciate being yelled at in this manner, and having no history of offending you; I felt your explosive reaction was unjustified.

Thank you for your consideration. I hope to continue moving towards building a positive community in our building through respectful and understanding interactions.

Respectfully,

Erin, Apt 310

Please Don’t STOMP on Me!!!

Sorry Beatles, You Got It Wrong

A fellow blogger, someone I connected with from my my time working as a dating columnist in Connecticut, left an interesting comment on my last post.

Ok to play devils advocate here for a moment, Maureen. I wouldn’t say “B.” If he wasn’t interested clearly he
A) wouldn’t have approached you.
B) He wouldn’t have asked for your number.

Maybe after asking for your number he didn’t want to come on to strong and maybe he thought texting would show interest but not overbearing interest.

Ok don’t kill the messenger, Maureen. LoL! Just showing there maybe other possibilities. If it were I, I would most assuredly pick up the phone and call. But other people have different approaches. Don’t write someone off because they don’t play the game like you expect. Sometimes those people that color outside the lines are the ones you really want to meet.

Like I said, don’t kill the messenger.
–
Chris

*Editor’s Note: Chris knows me as “Maureen” because I was kinda sorta going through an EPIC IDENTITY CRISIS after EPIC HEARTBREAK. There are 5 people in the world who still call me Maureen, to everyone else, I’m back to being Erin. Crisis over. Epic Confusion Remains.

Chris really made me think, and I decided to write this post in reply. I appreciate him leaving his two cents on my blog. Since his blog is called “Wisdom and Life” I do expect a certain amount of Wisdom from the man and take his words under careful consideration.

…other people have different approaches. Don’t write someone off because they don’t play the game like you expect. Sometimes those people that color outside the lines are the ones you really want to meet.

Good advice.  In so many ways I want to wholeheartedly agree.

Yet, I humbly disagree, in a manner as unromantic as possible.

Here’s why: Dating really is the process of “writing people off.” Sure, I believe in giving love a chance and I think Chris’ advice is spot on for people looking for love. Unfortunately, I’m not just looking for love. There are many more other important factors in a successful relationship. Love is just a small piece of the relationship pie.

I told you things were going to get unromantic.

When I was younger, I gave everyone a chance. I never wrote guys off until it was much too late. It was the best way I could think of to expose myself to all the different players in this game of love. I learned a lot. I made some mistakes, but, in the end, I think I did it right. The whole “Live and learn” thing.

Chris’ advice was right for me at that time in my life.  My dating experiences, although limited in number, were rich in opportunities for growth, reflection, self-loathing, heartache and recovery. I also found love, a couple of times. I absolutely, undeniably found epic love.

Here’s what I didn’t find: epic compatibility.

And that’s the unromantic truth of it all, my lovers! That’s why The Beatles were wrong! LOVE IS NOT ALL YOU NEED!

*Somewhere a little piece of 23 year old me just died*

Love is great. It is at the root of all things wonderful and beautiful in our short lives and I would most certainly consider true love a necessity. Still, I can not deny the importance of true compatibility.

First comes love, then comes marriage, right? Well, in theory, anyway…

Here’s the kicker with marriage though, for it to be a real “until death do we part” kinda deal, you have to have a lot more than love.

I’m not going to pretend like I know some all-inclusive recipe for a good marriage, maybe some of my happily ever after married readers will weigh in on that one. But, I’m looking for a few essential character traits to compile my big Gumbo of Marital Bliss:

Start with a rue:
Love, Respect and Honesty

Simmer With:
Friendship
Patience
Communication
Problem-Solving Skills
A Strong Work Ethic
Fiscal Responsibility
A Sense of Adventure.

Mix in a heavy dose of:
A Strong Faith
Complimentary Goals.

I’m going to focus on that last ingredient, complimentary goals, because it is so important and so easily overlooked when two people are under the influence of heavy doses of love.

Without complimentary goals, love is not enough to hold two people together. If she wants to have babies and he doesn’t, love isn’t enough. If she wants to live in the city and he is only comfortable in the country, love isn’t enough. If he is saving every spare penny for retirement and she only lives in the moment, love isn’t enough. If he has an unquenchable passion for traveling and she is a homebody, if he wants to put down roots and she is a wanderer, they will have problems that not all the love in the world can fix.

Compromise is for the small things. Compromise is for cooking and cleaning, compromise is for where to vacation and how often to entertain visits from in-laws. Compromise is for takeout and choosing the right scent for air fresheners. Compromise is not for career goals, faith and spirituality, values, dreams or babies!

This is why I’m not giving those texters a fair shake: I want to have babies (eventually) and I don’t want to make babies (and subsequently raise babies) with men who don’t know how to talk to me. It all comes down to babies. Seems like it always does.

Suddenly, rejection isn’t such a bad thing. While rejection in any form still stings, as I expect it always will, dating is all about finding the right person for you, not falling in love with someone and both working to be the right person for each other.

I say, go ahead and write off the non-compatibles. Otherwise, you’re making love too damn hard.

True Story: Elephants made me believe in love again. Picture taken from my visit to Elephant Nature Park in Chiang Mai, Thailand

Why He Hasn’t Called…

Every day, women ask their friends, girlfriends, cats, and sunken-eyed-red-nosed-disappointed selves “WHY HASN’T HE CALLED ME!?”

There are millions of answers to this question – and yet, no answer that can make you feel anything but rejected, dejected and ugly….it is one of the most special kind of relationship enigmas that always leaves you wondering if you are that hard to love.

Here’s the quick and dirty truth: he hasn’t called because he doesn’t like you enough. Let this not take any toll on your self-worth. You’re precious in your own uniquely beautiful, intelligent and charming way.  For some reason, he’s not in a place to love and appreciate you. Maybe he’s married. Maybe he’s depressed. Maybe he got in an accident and is in a coma, suspended between dreams of you and the unattainable reality of being with you right at this very moment. Maybe you’re not actually his “type.” No matter what the reason, the reality is he isn’t calling. File him under “dead” and keep your eyes open for the next guy to come along. The guy who will dial your number and woo the ever living crap out of you.

That’s my party line and I’m sticking to it…at least in theory.

But there is also this new gray area….

He hasn’t called because he is texting instead.

*FacePalm*

Le sigh – who remembers the days when a telephone was used to TALK to the person on the other end of the line? Who remembers what it was like to hear someone’s voice when you were “conversing” – anyone born in the 90′s need not raise their hand and reminisce, you just don’t get it…

Maybe I’ve been driving around blasting Sister Christian, I Would Do Anything For Love, Like A Prayer and Forever Your Girla little too much lately. Maybe I’m longing for simple love emotions in the form of monster ballads, rather than ermoji emoticons. Maybe that is a thing of the past, best left in the past, and I need to get with the new trends of #romance, #sex and #HappilyEverAfter.

I’m not ready to admit to that yet. Call me a typewriter in an iPad world, call me an Atari trying to keep up with XBox Live, call me 35mm of film in the digital age, or just call me a hopeless spinster and lock me away in the attic. I remain unimpressed with text to text flirtation tactics.

While I do not oppose texting (except for when you are driving, or on a date with someone, or in any face-to-face social situation…) I don’t get the same butterflies in my stomach seeing a text from a cute boy as I used to when my phone rang in that 3 day window of “eeee he asked for my number!”

Essentially, when a dude asks for my number and texts me instead of calling to set up a date, I place him in one of the following categories:

A) Lazy

B) Uninterested

C) Socially Inept

D) Young and Dumb

I assume most guys are in Category B – Uninterested. Reference previous advice to file them under “dead” and move on. I wish I did this. I usually put them into one of the “forgivable” categories (A, C, D) and give them a chance.

Since the title of my blog is Singletonista, I am sure you can tell how well this has worked out for me in the past….ha.

Either way, a texter really should just be filed under “dead.” Because dating isn’t about doing and saying the right things. It is about finding the right person. And I can guarentee one thing, my “Mr. Right” would pick up his phone and call.

Which brings me to my New Year’s Resolution.

Last year, I resolved to use exact change. I still take the extra time to count out Pennies, Nickles and Dimes, thus renewing my faith in my ability to maintain a New Year’s Resolution. This year, I am resolving to not date any young, immature, lazy, socially inept man-children parading around as young adults without career paths. It isn’t going to be easy as I am a sucker for boyish charm, but I think I am finally fed up enough to call it quits.

Next Blog Post: Shedding The Title of Mrs. Robinson and Going After The Older Man.

Just kinda old fashioned, I guess…

Likes Me or Like Likes Me?

Although I’ve already explored the topic of how to tell if a man is in love with you, I have a feeling this is a general theme I’ll return to again and again. We are, if nothing else, doomed to repeat our mistakes until the day we awake having “learned better.”

This time I’d like to poll my readers. I’m hoping you will all leave a comment with your insight/tidbit of advice….because, lets face it, I need some help.

Here’s the deal, Mr. Tall Dark and in Scrubs goes to school with me. I don’t know his name yet, but we had a brief discussion several weeks ago in which I said, “Good morning” and he asked me how I was, so I automatically subjected him to one of my silly diatribes about how I was running late (surprise, surprise) didn’t have time to stop for a cup of coffee, was so tired driving to school that I listened to sports radio for 20 whole minutes before I realized it and changed the station and was seriously considering writing my Congressman about outlawing 7 a.m. classes throughout the state of Colorado. Or my Senator. Not sure who would handle that.

He smirked and asked me what quarter I was in. I said my first and he nodded with that knowing, “You shall see, my child, you shall see” expression people sometimes give me. Then, I ran to class. Late.

I saw him a few other times and we exchanged smiles. That’s it. Just smiles. No names, no numbers, no bodily fluids.

Then, last week, I was talking to one of my classmates about ways to overcome test anxiety when Mr. Tall Dark and in Scrubs walked past. Our eyes met, briefly, but I was in the middle of a story about getting a 17 out of 100 on a Physics test in college and how much that psyched me out and made me feel like a moron, so I didn’t pay him any additional attention.

That’s when it happened. He shoved me.

Not like he was trying to pick a fight with me. Not in the domestic violence way. Not in the accidental “gravity shifted and he bumped into me way” either. He put his arm out and shoved me like we were 3rd graders at recess.

Here’s my question: Do you think he like, likes me? And if so, what do I expect next? A note asking me to “circle yes or no” if I like like him too?

I Don’t Buy Single Ply Toilet Paper and Other Quality of Life Issues

I don’t buy single ply toilet paper. I buy the cushioned stuff with cherubs and fluffy teddy bears and puppies on the package. I know I could save money by purchasing low-grade T.P. or even snagging a roll from work every few weeks, but I don’t.  I am 28 years old. I work hard and have paid taxes for half of my life. No matter the income bracket in which I found myself over the years, I’ve always ensured my ass received more luxurious toilet paper than the stuff of gas stations, public restrooms and cheap motels.

In building upon our existence, we are constantly making quality of life choices. We prioritize, define our thresholds and draw lines in the sands of acceptable circumstances.  I’ve seen many of these choices manifest themselves in my own life and the lives of my friends. While quality of life has always been a hot topic, lately things have gotten a little bit hotter.

Almost everyone I know is in some point of crisis. We are miserable in our jobs or miserable in our love lives. We are on the brink of greatness or the brink of failure. We are leaping blindly into a new and unknown career or holding on to our “starter job” for dear life . We are chosing to have babies or choosing to go back to school. We are chosing to marry, divorce or take a vow of celibacy. We are on spiritual pilgrimages and in rifts of  spiritual depravity. We know better, but we are making the same mistakes over and over again. We’re young. We’re older every day. We’re growing. Growing can hurt.

Not to brag, but I’ve navigated some pretty extreme crises in my 28 years. While I haven’t always done so with grace, poise or a shred of dignity, I’ve somehow made it through. Many people ask me about my *usually* cheerful disposition (Lord knows, I can throw a pity party with the best of them). Some people sneer at me, like I’m only happy because I’m too simple-minded to fully comprehend the misery I should feel by the nature of my existence. Some are carefree and ask me about my “secret” to happiness as if we’re swapping our grandmothers’ recipes for cornbread. Some marvel at me like I am a mental anomaly and ask out of pure curiosity, “How do you do it?”

Well, I’d like to answer all of those people with a short guide to my happy life. Here are the top 10 things that make me a generally happy and cheerful person:

*Disclaimer: This is not a guide for happiness in your life. This is just what works for me. You gotta do your own thing, sweetheart.

1. My brain is chemically in balance.
Growing up the child of a shrink, I understand the importance of having all of the brain juices in their right proportions.  If they aren’t, you need to re-establish your baseline.  Period. I wish our society was more comfortable talking about mental health. I wish we were better at asking for help. I hope people with balanced brain chemistry understand it as a blessing and a delicate gift which could easily be thrown off-balance. I hope for people with imbalanced brain chemistry to have access to the help they need and the desire/empowerment to seek that help. I promised a short guide, so I’ll stop there.

2. I have a bad memory for details.
This is a blessing and a curse. Trust me.

3. I never ask myself, “What’s the worst that can happen?”
It is easy to talk yourself out of amazing opportunities if you think about all the worst case scenarios. The only question I ever ask myself is, “Are you willing to accept the potentially negative consequences for this decision.” If the answer is yes, I do it.  I almost always answer yes.

4. I escape.
I get out of negative situations as soon as I can. Stagnating in a toxic mire only makes you sick. You can’t infect an environment with your ”healthy.”

5. I honor my commitments.
Although escape is my coping mechanism of choice, I also stick through my commitments. In work and personal relationships alike, I go down swinging. I keep my promises. This makes me feel like a good person. Feeling like a good person makes me happy.

6. I forgive myself.
I expect to make mistakes. I delight in having imperfections because it releases so much pressure to strive for perfection. I have learned to discuss my imperfections in a non-self-depreciating way. I’m still working on not comparing myself to others.

7. I forgive other people.
They don’t have to be perfect either. I look for intentions rather than end results. I remind myself, “People are just trying to help. Even if they suck at it.”

8. I emote like a champ.
I throw my head back and laugh until it causes me physical pain, I cry like the only person who has ever been hurt, I love deeply and heal slowly. I feel everything around me. I don’t sink into numbness.

9. I exhaust myself with hard work and sleep like a champ.
Never underestimate the power of a good night sleep.

10. I eat delicious foods, I exercise, I drink good wine, I moisturize and floss. I talk to strangers. I hold doors for people. I return books to the library on time.  I splurge on Chanel perfume, high thread count bed sheets and Organic Honeycrisp apples. I drink between 64-100 ounces of water a day. I send post cards. I recycle. I take time to be alone and I take time to reach out to others. I do NOT buy single ply toilet paper.

We’ll just call this “Perspective.”