We Don’t Know: What Does it Mean to be a Good Roommate?

I recently stumbled across the awesome How To Adult video below:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JNI1fWTlGwY

To sum up their seven tips for being a highly effective roommate:

Tip #1: Set the rules early on.

Tip #2: Have a monthly status meeting.

Tip #3: Be consistent.

Tip #4: Be generous.

Tip #5: Remember that this isn’t “your apartment.” It’s “your and your roommate’s apartment.”

Tip #6: Keep the lines of communication open.

Tip #7: Prepare in advance for possibly parting ways with your roommate.

I think these are awesome rules for living in peace with a non-related human being.  I’ve somewhat successfully lived in my four-bedroom house with a fairly consistent cast of characters for almost three years now, and I think Tip #6 is pretty much the savior of our lives.

But sometimes I wonder if being neat and tidy and nice and polite is good enough to be considered a “good roommate.”  Certainly it makes you an unobtrusive cohabitant.  But if cohabitant is really as far as the relationship goes: there’s no feeling of family or relationship.  So what exactly is the definition of good roommate?

The reason I wonder about this is probably borne from my own insecurity of being a bad roomie.  On a typical night, my fiancé and I come home from a long day at work and go straight upstairs to my bedroom, where I do some UE maintenance for a bit, he finishes up some remaining work, then I pass out without remembering to take out my contacts, and he plays video games for a couple hours before shutting off the light.

Other than occasionally running into my fellow house-dwellers in the kitchen or living room, my main interaction is the somewhat-daily photo that I spam them of our kitchen sink.  I call it the #NagPic, and they’re unusually nice about my insane neuroticism.  (In my defense, it’s incredibly effective at reminding people of their ice cream dish from 3 am last night, but I really don’t recommend it for households of not-incredibly-chill people.)

On the other side of the spectrum, UE writer Emily Knight used to live in this fabulous house where each roommate made dinner once per week and they all sat down and ate together.  This absolutely blows my mind.  How quaint!  How tight-knit!  How envy-inducing!  Just hearing about it inspired fantasies in my head of 1950s-esque hairdos and someone wearing a cute apron from Modcloth.  (I’m not even going to go into all the bike rides, pumpkin carving, and Christmas tree decorating that went on in that utopia of friendship.)

Admirable as it is, it’s just not feasible in my life.  Does that make me a bad roommate?  Probably not.  Does walking upstairs with no acknowledgement of my cohabitants other than “hey” make me a bad roommate?  Probably.  I think it depends on your definition.

While I’m still deciding whether I’m okay with my definition, what’s yours—and are you okay with it? Share your enlightenment in the comments.

Photo by Sara Slattery

Photo by Sara Slattery

Concerning Cats

The most important thing to learn from my experience will be the first and the last thing I say in it: if your pet has a sudden change in behavior, get help immediately. Don’t walk—run to the nearest vet and figure out what’s going on.

It all started in March. For the two years that I had been living with my fiancée and her adorable, feisty furball India, I was greeted at the bed by a head-butt and a purr every evening when I got home from work. Head-butts and purrs usually lead to a happy kitty having attention lavished upon her. So when I came into the room for a week straight without being greeted, I was worried. What was even more concerning was the fact that she was sleeping alone under the desk, rather than nestled between our legs like usual. Well, everyone has an off-week, right? Besides, it was a particularly warm week; I figured that India just didn’t want to heat herself up any more than absolutely necessary. But when I got the chance to break out the laser pointer, then the catnip mouse, and then a long colorful shoelace with no response, some small voice of panic inside of me welled up and shouted that something was wrong.

A quick Google search told us that severe lethargy in cats can be capital-B Bad. Or it could mean nothing. But when it comes to the lives of pets (a.k.a., family), always err on the side of caution.

It was already after-hours at the vet when we were incited to action on Friday night, and our normal vet was out of the office for the next week on vacation. So, we found the next closest vet with the next closest appointment—I worked from home Monday so that I could bring India in as soon as the clinic was open. (My boss and coworkers were extremely understanding throughout this process, allowing me to work remotely. In any case, it wouldn’t have stopped me from getting India the attention she needed.) Into the carrier and off to the vet we went!

When your cat is healthy, you don’t necessarily pay attention to things like their urination or defecation. This is especially the case if you have a closed litter box and clean it on a regular schedule instead of checking daily. But these are things that the vet wanted to know, and they were answers that I couldn’t readily produce. As an indoor cat, we thought that the vectors through which India could be hurt were minimal. They told me to keep an eye on her and bring her into our normal vet as soon as possible since blood tests and x-rays showed no problems.

Rallied by the “all clear” that I received from the first vet, we thought that maybe India was just feeling a bit older and didn’t feel like moving around as much in the heat. Regardless, we got an appointment with our vet and brought her in together. Once again, blood tests and urine tests were performed, and everything came out as “normal.” Our vet asked us about a few common household chemicals and whether or not India had been around them. Of course, she hadn’t. The vet thought that maybe she had gotten into something and just needed her system flushed, so we left her at the clinic overnight to get some extra observation and IV fluids, and were hoping to pick her up the next day.

After observing her overnight, the vet decided that they wanted to keep her an additional night. On the phone, the vet asked us once again if there was anything that she could have gotten into. “We don’t even have human food where she can get to it. The only things that she can easily get to are her food and water. She gets a catnip toy when supervised, and we give her flea medicine to her every month…” The vet took some notes and said that she would get back to us the next day. We picked her up two days after dropping her off, and the vet gave us the likely culprit: her flea medicine.

Our vet had gone through the flea medicine’s ingredient list and had done research on each item. The “organic” and “green” flea medicine that we were using (stocked at a small child’s eye-level at Safeway and Petco) contained an ingredient that was so toxic that humans were required to wear skin- and eye-protection when handling it. This wasn’t the typical “IRRITANT” label that anyone who has used sunscreen is used to. As for the products claims of being “green,” our vet helpfully pointed out that arsenic and cyanide are “natural and organic” as well. If the medicine’s ingredients can cause such severe harm in humans, how much worse is that damage for a being that’s a tenth of our size? Quite a lot worse, as it turns out.

Had we had any previous indications or reactions, we may have looked online and seen the hundreds of reviews of this particular product, many claiming that their pets were poisoned almost to the point of death (or were sadly killed) by this product. Since this happened as a result of the build-up of over a year’s worth of applications, we never suspected that something that hadn’t caused her any issues before was the culprit of her sudden health problems. How were we supposed to know that counterfeit and bogus flea medicines are some of the pet industry’s top money makers? The vet informed us—our mouths agape—that some popular flea medicine brands are counterfeited so convincingly that grocery suppliers often can’t even tell the difference, leading them to be stocked at your friendly neighborhood corner store.

For a week after we got her back, we had to give her daily subcutaneous fluids to help flush out as much of the poison as possible—this meant we had a giant bag of saline hanging from our ceiling fan, and every day started and ended with one of us holding her down while the other shoved a needle of cold fluid into her neck. We’re now almost three months after the fact, and India still hasn’t recovered. Because of her lethargic response to the poisoning, not moving around caused severe muscle atrophy in her hind legs and she now has a hard time getting around and doing normal kitty things—holding herself up in the litter box, jumping on anything, walking across the room. We have done everything we can to make sure that she’s comfortable and happy, including replacing her litter box with one that has a lower wall so that she can get into it easier and adding a set of kitty stairs to our room so that she can get off the bed easier. We’ve taken her to a feline physical therapist, and now have a set of rehabilitation exercises that we perform with her morning and night.

Even though we’re still working through the mechanics of this ending (and it isn’t exactly the happiest), we now have a story to share with all pet owners: only trust the flea medicine you get from your veterinarian, and if your pet has a sudden change in behavior, get help immediately.

Photo by Sara Slattery

Photo by Sara Slattery

On Our Weird, But Historically Accurate, Fourth of July Traditions

Hot dogs, fireworks, Will Smith marathons—the Fourth of July is Americana pop culture at its finest. Can’t you practically hear the Lana Del Ray song playing in the background? Believe it or not, this is actually pretty close to what the Founding Fathers envisioned.

When the Second Continental Congress voted to approve a resolution of independence on July 2, 1776, future president John Adams wrote the following to his wife, Abigail:

“The second day of July, 1776, will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more.”

Aside from the early advocation of manifest destiny, Adams was actually incorrect—it would be the Fourth that would be fêted, as that is the date upon which the actual Declaration of Independence was dated (there is some skepticism about the actual timing of the signing, but whatever). Written by Adams’s legendary friend Thomas Jefferson (maybe you’ve heard of him?), the Declaration was the first time that anyone had bothered to write down the self-evident truths of equality and unalienable rights: Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.

Let’s set aside a whole lot of politics for the moment and focus on the Happiness. The history of events and celebrations around the Fourth are interesting in their own right and tell a surprisingly comprehensive story of our evolved and evolving national culture.

National Holiday

Despite the immediate acclamation the Declaration received, the term “Independence Day” wasn’t actually popularized until the late eighteenth century—the first recorded usage of the name was in 1791, fifteen years after the initial signing. And, ever the slowpokes, it took Congress until 1870 to make Independence Day an unpaid holiday for federal employees. The cheapskates finally made the Fourth a paid holiday in 1938.

Fireworks

Despite their Chinese origins, fireworks have long been a part of national celebrations, dating back to the original thirteen colonies. The first instance of fireworks being used to celebrate was the very first Fourth of July celebration in 1777. Nearly 200 years later, in 1976, Macy’s sponsored their first Fourth of July fireworks show.

Hot Dogs

While no one is sure exactly who to credit with creating the hot dog, everyone pretty much agrees that they were invented in America, adapted and popularized by German and Polish immigrants who began selling sausages in rolls throughout New York, St. Louis, and Chicago. Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest in Coney Island, New York began in 1972, and regularly attracts half a million live spectators, in addition to more than a million viewers who tune in to watch on ESPN. American Joey Chestnut has held the title since 2007.

Movies

For a time after the westward expansion, the American Dream became synonymous with fame, fortune, and Hollywood glamour. And, while we can’t claim the invention of cinema, blockbuster films are definitely a uniquely American export. Mr. July himself, Will Smith, has faced countless aliens across two franchise films in the name of patriotism. Though his star has faded in recent years (just say no to Jayden and Willow, America), huge tent-pole movies are still released on the Fourth of July weekend with the expectation of breaking box office records. This year, look out for Earth to Echo and Dawn of the Planet of the Apes to battle it out for the #1 spot.

Weird and Wonky

Some things just come full circle. Both Jefferson and Adams died on the 50th anniversary of the Declaration’s signing, July 4, 1826. Lifelong political foes and personal friends, the two continued a written correspondence throughout their lives. Though Jefferson passed several hours before, word never reached Adams, whose last words were reportedly simple—“Jefferson survives.”

A year later, on July 4, 1831, former president James Monroe also died, making him the third president in a row to pass on the Fourth. Calvin Coolidge so far remains to be the only president to be born on the Fourth, though current White House occupant Malia Obama also celebrates her birthday on the same day.

Perhaps the oddest fact of all is that the most sobering quote about the Fourth comes from a fictional president:

“In many ways our great Declaration of Independence was a work order issued under fire. One we still struggle to fulfill.” – President Bartlet, The West Wing

Photo by Andy Sutterfield

Photo by Andy Sutterfield

Debunking the Three-Date Rule

Having a script for how we’re supposed to behave can be a great security blanket. Someone asks, “How are you?,” and you say, “Fine.” You see someone you haven’t seen in a while, and you say, “Well, it was great running into you,” at the end of the conversation. These social scripts smooth out social interactions.

Limiting the possibilities for our interactions to these scripts can cause trouble, though, and the biggest arena I see this trouble play out is in the world of sexual relationships. The dating world is ripe with confusion regarding how we’re supposed to behave versus how we need to actually behave in order to have healthy and satisfying relationships. In the realm of dating, the timing of sexual acts is frequently seen as one of the indicators of how serious a relationship is, or as a predictor of how long the relationship will last (i.e. “why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?”). So let’s just take a few minutes to debunk one of the most common dating scripts: the three-date rule.

What is the Three-Date Rule and Who Uses It?

The three-date rule states that one must wait three dates to have sex with a new partner. This rule plays on some very basic assumptions we make about sexuality in general. First off: this rule applies almost exclusively to heterosexual people. Queer folks have their own stereotypical rules of dating (like gay men and one-night-stands, or lesbians and U-Hauls*), most of which contradict heteronormative sex rules.

Responsibility and Shame

Because this rule applies mostly to straight folks, it heightens the gendered expectations in relationships. The three-date rule plays on the idea that men always want sex, while women are the gatekeepers, which puts women in charge of men’s sexuality and causes a whole slew of problems. If women are in charge of whether or not men have sex, it takes all the responsibility for acting like compassionate human beings out men’s hands and likens them to animals, acting out of instinct and completely incapable of reason. Besides being demeaning to men, this mindset also supports rape culture, because it creates the reasoning that if a man rapes a woman, then she must have done something to open the gate. She must have flirted with him, or worn a short skirt and heels, or taken the ring off her finger—because those are signs that “gate is open—man can have sex now!” (Do me a favor and read that in a caveman voice, because that’s exactly how devolved this mindset is.)

Another problem caused by the notion of women as gatekeepers of sex is the denial of female sexuality. Men are not the only people made stupid by the human drive for sex. Many of us have felt that brain-fog when our crush in junior high noticed us, or that rush of “I don’t care what happens afterward” right before that first kiss. At the very least, we’ve seen people swoon over each other in movies. It’s a human thing, not a guy thing. Female bodies are actually more responsive to sexual stimuli, and denying that lends support to the shame surrounding female sexuality. Imagine taking shame out of the equation surrounding sex—how much freedom would come from it?

Now take that lack of shame and put it into the three-date rule. It doesn’t fit, does it? That’s because the three-date rule is centered around “appropriate” and “proper” times for women to say yes to sex, when in reality there is no “proper” time. There’s only the time that fits well for that given relationship. For some partners, sex is the first thing to happen, and the getting-to-know-you bit happens much later. For other couples, one or both partners need an established emotional intimacy before anything remotely sexual gets introduced. And for a large amount of the U.S. dating population, we need something in between those two. Hard and fast rules don’t work when we apply them to very individual and unique contexts.

To Each Their Own

I like to think of each new relationship in my life like water: it seeks its own level. Each relationship is like a different container, but ultimately the surface is level because I’m seeking the same respect and love. Sometimes that love comes in the form of sex, sometimes in the form of abstinent cuddles. Ultimately, whether or not I have sex with someone depends greatly on a number of factors, predominantly chemistry and trust, not on how many dates we’ve had.

Side Note: the following are tales of three loves. I am purposely avoiding gendered pronouns because no matter how enlightened you are, everyone puts gendered expectations and explanations onto simple “he/she” language. I’m disallowing you, dear reader, to assume I’m treating a given partner a certain way based on their gender as part of my exercise in debunking this dating rule.

The first lover, I hated right off the bat. I thought they were an arrogant know-it-all, and I couldn’t have been less impressed with them. A year later, we met in a different context, and I found that we actually had a lot of similar life experiences. We got to talking and I loved the way they thought about things. I started running into them at clubs, and finally one night, amidst the pulsing bass and the crush of hot bodies, we kissed. And, oh my—that kiss. That’s how it went for several months: meet up with friends at clubs, dance, kiss, go home. Then, one night in November, our friends were heading out and I knew: tonight was going to be the night. …which frankly sucked, because I was sick with a cold, and I knew that I should be home in bed, having soup and going to sleep early. But this person wanted me to come out—texted me specifically to make sure I was going—and I knew that if I went, I’d get laid. We met at the club, we danced all night, we drove back to their place, and we spent the night entangled in each other. No official dinner-and-a-movie dates involved. We’d spent copious hours in discussion groups, in hangouts with friends, in all the getting-to-know-you moments with other people around, and it wasn’t necessary for us to date before having sex. I knew how they took care of their sexual health, how many partners they’d had, and their STI status before we had sex, and to me, that was more important than waiting for three “official” dates.

I met the second lover through the first. My first impression of this lover was that I wanted nothing more than spend many long hours having glorious, athletic sex with them—they were the athlete, not me. I started getting to know this one very slowly as the end of my first sexytimes week with my first lover rolled around. My first time with this lover was actually a threesome with my first lover as well, which was nice because I was still recovering from being sick and having someone else there gave me a little bit of the rest I needed. Two years of having sex later, my second lover and I finally went on a date. But we did it completely backwards from how dates are “supposed” to go. You know that script for dinner-movie-sex-walk of shame? I went over to their place the night before, and we had sex, started the movie, slept, woke up, had sex again, showered, and then went out for breakfast and a walk around the park. For us, the sex needed to happen first in order to get to the point where we felt comfortable enough talking about the rest of life.

I met my third lover, the most recent, through a mutual friend. This lover was just out of a long-term relationship, and I figured I was going to be the rebound. We started out having chaperoned dates with our mutual friend as the buffer, because we did not know each other at all. A few dates in, we took off the training wheels and went on our first un-chaperoned date. I remember sitting on my hands so that we would actually talk. Similar to my second lover, the chemistry between us was electric and I found it difficult to do the get-to-know-you bit with my tongue down their throat. We started having manual sex before they were tested, and after we knew the results, we proceeded on to the many other types of sex.

I specify manual sex here to highlight another shortcoming of the three-date rule: it doesn’t define “sex.” Many people tend to think of “getting laid” as penis-in-vagina sex, but there are a whole range of sex acts that can be considered “sex” (i.e. manual, oral, anal). What one person classifies as “sex” may be completely different and no less valid than what another person calls “sex,” and waiting on one type in particular doesn’t mean you aren’t having sex in general.

Looking back at the rest of my dating life, I have never followed the three-date rule, and you know what? I’m still here, I’m still standing, and I’m only as slutty as I call myself. I am living proof that the timing of sex between two people does not revolve around what other people think. I expect my partners to be responsible for their own sex drive, and respectful of my humanity, and I think that’s a much better rule for when to have sex than measuring out three dates.

* Author’s Note: The jokes typically run along these lines: “What does a gay man bring on a second date? …What second date?” (Because gay male culture is stereotyped as only capable of one-night stands.) “What does a lesbian bring on a second date? A U-Haul.” (Because lesbians are notorious for moving in together very quickly after starting to date.) Warning: if you are straight and you tell these jokes, that is considered homophobic. 

Photo by Sara Slattery

Photo by Sara Slattery

Temporarily Losing my Engagement Ring

So here I am, sobbing in the airport. I hate this for many reasons. See, I’ve just realized that I am not wearing my engagement ring, and I must have run out the door of my hotel room without it. My perfect, vintage, sapphire ring was gone. The one that I picked out with my partner to mark the moment when we decided to throw caution to the wind and get hitched despite a murky and unpredictable future. The ring that followed us through three cross-country moves, two years of long distance, multiple new homes.

I’m trying as hard as I can to stop the flow of tears, because not only am I distraught that I could be so careless as to lose this unbelievably important symbol in my life, I am angry at how frantic I look to strangers. How they can see I’m falling apart, how they will judge this enormous character flaw, and how I am the dumb girl who lost something so important.

Sitting in the bathroom, holding my breath so that other people can’t hear my crying, I give myself a silent pep talk. “Come on, Lily. Get your shit together. There are things you need to do before you get on that plane to increase your chances of finding that ring.” I squeeze my fists tightly and take three deep breaths, using my anger to push down the sadness and regret and dizzying irresponsibility so I can call the hotel.

I was passed from staff member to staff member, as the hotel struggled to help me deal with the situation. My voice cracks and theirs soften. “Oh honey, where were you in the hotel? Where can we check for you?” I am so thankful for their kindness, and so embarrassed at my carelessness. I call my roommate from the conference, and ask her to check around the room, see if she sees the glint of metal. I am angry for inconveniencing her this morning. She comforts me, “We’ll find it.” I call the cab driver who took me to the airport—nothing. I call and call and call, no result after no result. I am shaking, my eyes are rimmed with tears, my voice is far from steady, and I feel like people are watching me. Watching me fall apart.

I call my mom and she gives me suggestions for where else to look and how to calm down. She is so zen in situations like this. She suggests sitting and breathing because, now that I’m past security, there isn’t much else for me to do but wait to see if any one of my taskforce will find it.

On the plane, I am thankfully seated in a row by myself, and now that I am not allowed to make any calls, the weight starts to really sink in and I totally lose control. Because it’s a short flight, I don’t have to interact with flight attendants or other passengers, so I completely lose my composure and just cry and cry and cry, wishing that I had been more careful, angry that I had to inconvenience so many people, upset because I am never this way.

I reach into my pocket for a tissue—and there it is. In my pocket! Who is this crazy person, who not only could lose it in the first place, but the usually cool-headed Lily Henderson could forget to check her own pocket?! We land and I call the hotel to let them know that I’ve found it, and am hit with a warm wave of relief and joy as it comes through the phone. I was completely unprepared for these strangers to react with such kindness—not only at the ring being lost, but to celebrate with me once it was found. Humanity is inspiring, folks. The same thing happens when I text my conference roommate—pure joy that the dilemma is solved. I don’t know what I was expecting—contempt, maybe? But it turns out that everyone I asked not only took time to help me, but continued to show compassion once my situation had been righted. Even though they all had better things to do.

For me, this was an exhausting but effective lesson in human kindness and in letting myself off the hook. I am a known perfectionist and have an extremely hard time asking for help because I don’t want to inconvenience people, and I don’t want to look like I don’t care. What an enlightening situation where I not only was forced to ask for help fixing my mistake, but I also found that even when I was totally inconveniencing others and making a fool out of myself, both my friends and strangers took care of me in ways that I didn’t even know I needed. And in the end, everything worked out.

This made me really reconsider how I structure my thinking around mistakes. When I do something utterly stupid (and everyone does, right? Right?), what if I have the opportunity to choose between digging myself into a shame spiral of regret and anger while furiously fixing the problem alone, or reaching out to a caring community? Why would I ever pick the first? Yes, I risk being seen as dumb, but isn’t it better to be seen as human and then able to see other people’s love?

So, thank you, universe, for the strange, painful, effective and ultimately low-risk opportunity to learn about letting yourself be seen. Because there are people who might surprise you with their kindness, and I don’t want to miss out on knowing them.

Photo by Andy Sutterfield

Photo by Andy Sutterfield

Being the Sancha

“She be wifed up for not even a hot minute and she already lookin’ for a sancha.”

Coming from a small university town and moving to the big city was an adjustment in many ways, the least of which was the language.

“A what?” I asked. Thankfully, this friend was my Urban Dictionary: the one who recognized I was a little white girl from the middle class who knew virtually nothing of slang.

“A sancha*—you know, a woman on the side. Sancho, a man on the side—like that.”

“Oh, like Sancho Panza from Don Quixote!”

“Yeah, okay.” Complete with weird look of “Nerd.” Little did I know I was about to spend the next year being the sancha three times over.

A few months later, I hooked up with a woman from my hometown. We spent a fabulous weekend in bed, followed by promises to meet up again once I returned to school, since school wasn’t too far away from home. I got back to school only to experience radio silence for the next week. Finally, I saw on Facebook that she had gotten back together with her ex. She’d never mentioned they were talking. This was my first experience being the person on the side: not too bad, granted, but I still felt sucker-punched upon finding out that I had been played. See, I’m usually fine with keeping things casual, seeing other people, whatever. But if someone’s going to leave out facts to make the situation seem simpler, well, that’s lying by omission in my book, and I’m not okay with being lied to.

A little while later, I made a Mistake. It was one of those mistakes that I knew was a mistake going in, but I still had to do it. A friend of mine had recently come back into my life after a long hiatus. He was one of those people that would go MIA once he was in a relationship and the rest of us would only see him again after the relationship started to go sour. He and I had long-standing sexual chemistry, and him showing up on my doorstep was no coincidence. He said he was still in a relationship, but that he was in the process of talking his girlfriend into opening up. (Open and polyamorous relationships are a pretty common thing in my world, so this didn’t come as a surprise.) We hung out all night, the air thick with unsaid wants, and if there had been matches anywhere near, I’m pretty sure one spark would’ve sent us up in flames. The next night he came back, but I wouldn’t let him in until he cleared it with his girl. I knew I wanted him enough that I wouldn’t care that he had a girlfriend once he came up. He told me he sent her a text with the request, and read the reply aloud, “I don’t care—do what you want.” Now, most monogamous people would take that as, “You do and I’ll kill you,” but in my world, where people say what they mean and sleeping with people outside the primary relationship is both okay and common, I was thrilled. A hot, kinky, sweaty, sexy hour later, I found out the text had actually come from his best friend. His girlfriend had not signed off, and I was officially the other woman. Like I said, I’m not okay with being lied to—I didn’t talk to him for another nine months.

Not long after this Mistake, I found myself in the most egregious of all my sancha-ing. I was heading back home for the summer break and I wanted a snazzy summer boyfriend. I had just the guy in mind: dark wavy hair, dark eyes, killer smirk, an edgy streak and a great sense of humor. Problem was, he and his girlfriend, while having been on the rocks for a year, were still together. My actions here are the most heartless I have ever committed. I wanted him. I knew they were going to break up, but I wanted them to break up on my timeline, so I could have him for the summer. Everything fell exactly into place a mere two weeks behind my preferred schedule, and he and I were together. I called him my boyfriend, we were together with all of my friends, but every time we saw someone he had known with his ex, we were “just friends.” This might sound trivial, but it’s a small town, so most of the time we were in public, we were closeted. Here I was in an opposite-sex pairing and we were closeted. Oh, the irony.

As everything was falling into place with this boy, I had this odd feeling that I should feel guilty, but I didn’t. Rather, I felt guilty that I didn’t feel more guilt. I knew I was hurting this girl, but from everything I knew of their relationship and the horrible way she treated him, I felt justified. I was offering him the kindness she didn’t show him, the love that she refused to give him. I did not think highly of her, and my strongest emotion towards her was apathy.

Three months later, Summer Boy and I broke up, right on schedule. It took me a while to process the anger that I felt about the relationship, but once I did, I realized some important Life Lessons:

  1. By golly, it’s not good to thwart the intentions of the universe! I was able to make events unfold exactly how I wanted them, despite all the signs that said I shouldn’t do it, and I wound up with a thoroughly unsatisfying relationship.
  2. Being referred to as “Her” feels like I’m some evil deity. And as much as I like things going my way, I don’t really like feeling like the villain in my own story.
  3. Respect is not necessary for relationships, but it is necessary for good relationships. I didn’t respect any of us involved—the boy, the girl, or myself. I was playing with power that wasn’t mine to take, and that was a misuse of my humanity and integrity.

 

I can already hear the outrage of some of you reading this: “How could you hurt that poor girl like that?!” “Have you no shame?!” And my answers are: relatively easily, and no. Self-interest makes a lot of things very easy, and shame is a useless emotion. I did not feel shame at the time these events unfolded, and I feel no shame now, looking back. I know many people will want me to feel ashamed of my actions, but if I were a man who had broken up an abusive relationship to get with a woman, I would be hailed as a hero. If I felt shame for all these situations still, all these years later, I would not have actually learned anything. The lessons are worth more to me than self-flagellation.

Of all them, the most important lesson in my own development, though, was my realization that I’m actually okay with me making mistakes. Being the perfectionistic Virgo that I have been for so much of my life has kept me on a pretty short leash, and I think my series of sancha-ing was my own rebellion against myself—my way of proving that I can fuck up and be okay, and still think of myself as a good person overall. I can have those moments (or months) of selfishness and not think less of myself.

I recognize my mistakes, and I learn from them, but I refuse to dwell.

Author’s Note: The term “sancha” is used here as insider language, which means that because of my history with Mexican / Latino culture and because of the cultural and racial diversity within my social circle during the time of these events, I am using the permission of my own Latino-American community to call myself a sancha. This does not give White people in general permission to use such terms, nor does it give me permission to appropriate other people’s cultures willy-nilly. Feel free to continue this conversation in the comments.

Photo by Meggyn Watkins

Photo by Meggyn Watkins

The Impending 2nd Anniversary of my 10th Birthday (and Other Concerns)

My parents got married when they were twenty-two years young. Growing up, for whatever reason, I always knew this to be a fact and I was never informed that twenty-two is actually considered to be on the young side of marriageability. They spoke fondly and often about their blissful road trip out to California and the exciting early days of their careers, both of them riding the tech wave raging across the Silicon Valley to lucrative careers before they hit the big 3-0. To me, twenty-two was the age at which you officially became an adult and were expected to have it together. That’s the way it was for them, so that’s how it was supposed to be. So, when my twenty-second birthday rolled around a few years ago and I found myself newly graduated with absolutely zero job prospects, painfully single, and totally clueless as to how I could possibly ever have “it all”… well, needless to say, I got my quarter-life crisis out of the way early, like a kid who was forced to get chicken pox before starting Kindergarten. But then I got over it. Because I was twenty-two.

I got a dog. And a job. I moved to a new city. I met nice boys. Things have been a-okay. But just when I thought it was safe, just as I’m getting comfortable with where I’m at in life, another milestone on the horizon is ominously creeping into view: my 30th birthday.

Here’s what flips me out about thirty—similar to what flipped me out about twenty-two. It’s this idea that, as I approach that number, I’m supposed to feel differently. I’m supposed to, therefore, do things differently. I’m supposed to approach things with an empowered sense of maturity. But I expect, just like my twenty-second birthday, my thirtieth won’t really usher in any new revelations. But there is one difference between my impending thirtieth birthday and my twenty-second; by the time you’re thirty, you pretty much know whether or not you want to have kids. Right now, I have no idea. And I don’t know what’s going to change (if anything) over the next three years.

My mom was thirty when I was born. I have plenty of friends and acquaintances close to my age with children. I don’t know how I feel about the prospect of having my own kids, but I do know that I’m probably supposed to know by the time I’m thirty.

Sometimes I think that I can’t possibly be the only female in her mid-to-late twenties who has these conflicting emotions about motherhood. But lately I’ve been getting sidelong glances when I broach the subject with my family members and like-minded lady friends. “Oh, you still aren’t sure? If you don’t know by now that you for-sure want to have kids, you probably won’t ever know. I mean, we’re gonna be thirty soon.”

The worst, though, is this exchange:

“I don’t know—maybe I’ll decide in a couple years that I’m just not cut out for the baby-making thing.”

“Awww, I’m so sorry!”

As if I just lost my phone to a tragic back-pocket-toilet-plunkage incident.

Whatever that biological tick-tock is supposed to sound like… I just don’t hear it. And to be honest, it kind of thrills me just as much as it deeply concerns me. It concerns me because I often worry that I’m going to shoot myself in the foot and wait too long if I’m holding out for a very specific emotional impulse (that may or may not even exist—who knows). More than one aunt of mine on more than one occasion has not-so-jokingly suggested that I look into freezing my eggs. But on the flipside, it thrills me because I haven’t tethered my entire future to this impending event. Some recent psychological studies have shown that a lot of women spaz in their late-twenties / early-thirties over their dating prospects and career potential because they are racing against time—against their biological clocks. As in, “Okay, so I’m twenty-six now. I want to have my first child when I’m thirty-one. That means I only have three to five years to meet a solid partner, get the career I want off the ground, save enough cash, buy a house, have a wedding, and SAVE ME I’M DROWNING, BRING ME MY WINE.” But I haven’t enforced that type of expiration date for myself, and to say that that’s liberating would be the understatement of the century. But as my thirtieth looms, I’m terrified that one day I’m going to wake up in the morning and find my entire brain has been rewired, that I will become the kind of woman I fear becoming the most—a woman with a shelf life.

Recently, I voiced these concerns to a few close family members of mine to very unexpected results. The shifty eye-contact, that forcibly gentle tone of voice used to point out to me that children are “who we build our futures for” and the blatant “you’ll get over it in a couple years” were all heartbreaking to me. I wanted them to understand, especially my female family members, that this is a source of serious inner conflict for me. I wanted them to comfort me, to tell me that it would be 100% okay if I decided not to duplicate my DNA to create future generations of freckle-faced perpetually sunburned kids with two left feet and terrible sinuses. I wanted them to hug me and tell me how badass my career would be and how jealous they would be of all the insane traveling I would get to do. Instead, my words fell to the uneasy clink of forks against plates as I broached what I realize now was a painfully uncomfortable topic for them. They all had kids in their early thirties. They had those kids because they wanted them, of course—but twenty-five years (or more) ago, they might have wanted them because they were told that they were supposed to want them. I was questioning that. Apparently, you don’t do that.

But here I am. I’m questioning it and I’m writing about it and I’m putting it on the internet. I’m not an evil barren ice queen with a heart of steel (quite the opposite—I’ve been told I’m more of an Anna than an Elsa, generally speaking). It’s just that I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about this subject when the clock strikes twelve on my thirtieth birthday. I don’t know if there’s a magical switch in my brain that some mysterious force will pull between now and then. I don’t know if I’m going to start reacting to babies in strollers the same way I react to Corgis wearing raincoats. I don’t know if my relationship with some yet-unknown potential family member is going to dictate all of my decision making for the next five to ten years of my life.

But even though everything I’ve said so far essentially contradicts this—right now, I’m actually pretty okay with not knowing. And I hope that that’s okay. I’ll get back to you in a couple years or so.

Photo by Meaghan Morrison

Photo by Meaghan Morrison

On Being an Introvert and Being Myself

I’ve always considered myself an introvert. My policy in new situations is to listen first, speak later once I’ve gotten the lay of the land. Most kids lie to their parents so that they can go hang out with their friends. But I would sometimes lie to my friends about what my parents said so I could stay home. I’ve been to restaurants and movies by myself. I’ve always loved being able to spend hours alone in the car. Whether it was reading, listening to music, cooking, watching movies or any number of other activities, I’ve always been quite happy doing things on my own.

It wasn’t until grad school that I realized what being an introvert actually means, and it took someone else to really point it out to me. Being an introvert doesn’t just mean that you’re okay or happy being by yourself. The difference between introverts and extroverts has more to do with where you get your energy, how you recharge after stressful situations, where you feel most revitalized. Being around people, even when it is amazing, fun, sparkling and shiny, drains my energy. If you consider yourself an extrovert, these situations probably give you energy, while being by yourself might drain it away.

I was lucky in college to find friends who seemed to understand this about me. We never really talked about it much, but the answer “no thanks, I think I’m going to stay in, make myself dinner and catch up on television” was always readily accepted. Deciding to go out was always met with a certain degree of surprise. My friends were simply happy to have me along when I wanted to go, and not inclined to pressure me when I wanted to go my own way and do my own thing instead.

Even then, I still didn’t quite understand what being an introvert met. I understood doing what I wanted—not forcing myself to go places I didn’t want to go or talk to people I didn’t want to talk to. Part of moving from adolescence to adulthood, I think, is learning the difference between want and should want. In college, I learned that what I wanted most was decisiveness and freedom—the ability to decide what I wanted and the freedom to take it, whether it was curling up in bed with tea and a good book, or going to a bar with my friends and drinking one too many vodka cranberries and doing high kicks across the bridge on the way home.

So, by now, I was solidly aware of my enjoyment of alone time, but I didn’t figure out the energy thing until grad school. My college friends were few but tight-knit, so it was pretty easy to block out some quiet nights with frozen pizza, fruit, and some good television, or to indulge by heading out to a party just because we wanted to. But in grad school, I made lots and lots of close friends—we quickly became a big, amorphous group, loud and rambunctious and high-spirited. We rode that high for the first few weeks of school, and I loved it. But I could never quite figure out why I was so exhausted. I was worried about being irritable, and I was worried about missing out.

The first time I said no was a revelation. I stayed home. I watched some television. I didn’t spend any money on alcohol. I went to bed early. I felt a million times better the next day. It took another few missed outings, a few more negative responses to text messages before I really figured it out. I was telling this story to a friend of mine, and it was her response that made it all click.

“Well, yeah,” she said. “Being alone is how you rest.”

I love my friends. I love parties and I love going out and I love dinners together. I love meeting up for coffee, and studying with people in the library. But I also love quiet nights by myself. And more importantly, I need them—they are how I build up stores of energy so that I can really enjoy social engagements later. Being by myself is how I stay myself. It makes me happy. And now, I don’t even remember those things to which I originally said no. Missing out on a few social outings hasn’t changed my relationship with my friends or affected my position in the group.

It’s all part and parcel of the same lesson—knowing yourself, being honest about what you know and need, and making sure you get it. It’s been a process for me. I had to start by learning what I want and learning to separate that from what I thought I should want. And then it was important to learn why I wanted it, so I could keep an eye out for those situations in the future.

Wherever you’re most yourself, however you’re getting what you need to be your best, most invigorated self, is an okay place to be.

Photo by Andy Sutterfield

Photo by Andy Sutterfield

Arranged Marriage Proposals & ABCDs (American-Born Confused Desis)

Whenever I call my best friend in Pakistan, her mum always prods in the background asking for ‘good news.’ Good news, meaning I’m finally… drumroll please… getting married. As an unmarried 26-year-old Pakistani-American woman, I’m considered by many desi aunties as a bridal ship that has nearly sailed. You see, there’s a reason why that is. Where to begin? The time my father’s old friend said at my grandmother’s funeral: “Betaa (child), my wife loved you for our son, but unfortunately, he is younger than you.” What’s even more baffling is when, enraged, I informed my father he responded, “Uncle’s comment might have sounded untimely, but believe me, that is an amazing family. To be a part of it would have been very precious for us all.” Or the time in a small town in California when an “aunty” whom I met about 56.2 minutes previous and to whom I said the two telling words ‘Assalam Alaikum’ (simply how Muslims say hello) came to me with her ducklings trailing her: three sons. Like the scene in Mulan where they line up to get assessed as honorable brides… I felt like I was at a toy store going: I want that one. My dad was very proud that I am hot on the market.

But let’s move on to my favorite story…

I was blessed enough (read: condemned) that my grandmother (rest her hilarious soul) had a matchmaker cousin in Pakistan. Yes, in the 21st century. Can you sense my excitement?! Keep in mind the old dame was in her 70s at minimum, and apparently an expert at binding young men and women for life. I beg to differ.

Let me explain: I simply do not have any interest in marriage at the moment. I can’t imagine my life fusing with another’s forever until I’ve sorted mine out. I believe holy matrimony is holier when done later in the game; we change so much in our 20s that if you get married early and can’t handle one another’s transformations—big surprise—it is likely to end in divorce. Stats and stories—we all know. Of course, there are exceptions, but Lord knows my values and life goals have changed immensely since my early 20s. I look back and feel silly about the kind of men I used to assess as potential life partners.

My mum and I fought for two weeks about seeing the matchmaker. She did not want to go either, but my grandmother was losing her memory and was so persistent every few minutes of her waking hours that my own mum begged me to be done with it. I caved in hopes of ending the torment. I rebelled in small ways and refused to dress up or even wear my standard makeup for my initial meeting. The matchmaker’s son (my mother’s second cousin), told me that he’s the reason my parents married and hopefully he would be the reason for my own marriage. I bit my tongue so hard I nearly tasted blood. Thanks for being the reason I exist, friend! All I could muster was a half-smile. The matchmaker barely talked to me—she asked my mother where I work, my age, and some other totally irrelevant questions. She confirmed that I have a ‘blue passport’ (American citizenship—this makes me super hot). My mother ensured that it was known I’m vegetarian and that I won’t change. Immediate concern was expressed about whether I would cook meat for my husband. I politely (forcefully) smiled and desperately kept my obnoxious mouth from spewing anything that’ll make my mother look like she didn’t raise a respectful, obedient brown girl. Anything bad I do would make me too Westernized… oh, dear. But seriously, I can’t even cook vegetables for myself, let alone meat for anyone else yet. Another disgraceful quality in me as a brown girl.

Days later, a match! Her long-time neighbor’s son was in town and of age! He was getting a PhD in public policy in Atlanta. I was stunned; okay, shockingly, not horrible. However, he did not have a ‘blue passport’ and would like to stay in the U.S. I was already wary: I told my mother jokingly that I’d marry him and set him free in… the Land of the Free, but it’ll cost him big American bucks. She told me to shut up. I fought ‘til the end, but she promised this is the only one and my grandmother would drop it. His mother and he planned to meet us at my uncle’s home where we were staying. I was not pleased—my uncle has a beautiful and perfect home, and they were going to want me based off my citizenship and that. Why were we inviting strangers to my family’s home?

The day arrived. I rebelliously didn’t wear sleeves; they needed to know of my right to bare arms as a “modern girl.” My mother and I fought in the bathroom about how much makeup I was not wearing. My cousin joined to back-up my mother right before they arrived. My mum greeted them and shortly after told my cousin to “bring me.” I was already over this shit and praying that my gallbladder would burst and explode all over the walls so I could leave. (It didn’t happen. Thanks for nothing, you useless nub. Science hates you too.) My cousin “escorted” me into the room and there they were: a lady eyeing me like we at da club and her scrawny, lanky son sitting at a perfect angle so all I could see was the giant mole on his face. Two words about my thought process: Austin Powers. That will be all. I swear I’m not usually a terrible person, but my pessimism about this whole set up was only serving to spotlight everything negative.

I was forced to serve them tea and snacks, even though there were people in the house hired to do exactly that. I did my best to avoid conversation, and my poor mother tried to break all the long, awkward silences. She asked about his hobbies, and His Lankiness responded… rock climbing. I stifled a guffaw and snorted. I know a professional rock climber, and trust me—the arms on this lad could barely lift up all whopping 103 pounds of big ol’ me. “Do you actually rock climb or use the rock wall at the gym?” I asked as politely as possible. Homeboy over here misunderstood me entirely and told me he works out several times a week at the gym and rock climbs sometimes. I continued to hold my tongue for the sake of my family’s honor. My mum mentioned I love ice hockey and took a class in college. I’m glad she did, because he ought to know I’d beat him with my mean twig if needed. Meanwhile, my cousin was blatantly nudging me about wanting alone time with him, and I was transparently telling her I’d kill her if she suggested it aloud. Eventually, this hellish, unnatural evening came to an end. No discussion was needed.

The matchmaker called a day later, upset we didn’t update her instantly. (I didn’t realize she was our BFF already.) It turned out we won their hearts (yes, we and they—mothers included), and they wanted round two. Regretfully, the matchmaker had to inform them that we never called to share the same sentiment. So we (yes, again, we) broke their hearts. Sorry folks, not every story can have a fairytale endings and matching blue passports.

The matchmaker then proceeded to set me up with another guy who, you guessed it, also wanted to live in Amreeka, as we call it. Annoyed, my mother said she’ll ponder it, that we had a lot happening, with my grandmother’s sudden passing and my cousin’s upcoming engagement. Guess what she had the nerve to say? Her exact words: “Look, Farah, your daughter… she’s nothing extraordinary. She’s pretty ordinary. And before she gets fat, I suggest you marry her off!” My mother, out of respect, laughed nonchalantly, but on the inside she thought: “Lady, I have waited 25 years for this brat to gain weight, and I’m pretty sure it ain’t going to happen now.” I warned my mother to not let this woman come within twenty feet of me or I’ll really bring dishonor to the family. And that’s how the West was won.

As a decent-looking, independent, bicultural, open-minded woman, a Stanford employee, a person with an incredible and diverse circle of friends, a high sense of morality and not too many daddy issues—dare I be too bold to state that I’m a catch? It doesn’t really matter that my clock is ticking: I’m grateful to be able to focus on my own needs. No brown man would want this one anyway—it doesn’t eat meat and can’t cook.

The point is, no matter where you are in life, regardless of your background, you’ll be prodded about the next step in your life. You’re in college, when will you graduate? Graduated—when will you get a job? Job—when will you get married? Married—when will you produce a child? A child—when will you have another because Heaven knows that child will be lonely!

Do whatever you want, kids. Stick it to the man. Or rather, stick it to the aunty.

Photo by Gali Levi-McClure

Photo by Gali Levi-McClure

An Urban Explorer’s Guide to Living Cheap

I am an urban explorer. Not the kind that sneaks into abandoned buildings or climbs through underground tunnels. The kind that loves to explore the culture of her urban environment. I don’t feel at home in a city until I have a favorite restaurant, can recommend a venue, and am a regular at a cafe.

But urban exploring comes at price, one that often exceeds the budget of a student or a struggling 20something. When I was living in Portland, I was a struggling 20something, freshly out of undergrad, and trying to support myself in a brand new city. I had only a year in Portland before moving to Eugene for graduate school and so I promised myself that I would make the best of my time and explore as much of the city as possible. This was my decree, and its success was in its limitations.

When on a mission to explore a new city, you have to decide what is possible. Can I go to every café in town? No, not in a city with 175 coffee shops per capita. Can I go to every restaurant? Again no, especially if you are living in food heaven. Can I go to as many free and cheap events as I can find? Yes, that I can do. And so I began my search for affordable activities in the hipster capital of America and aptly started a blog called Portlandia of the Free (Or Cheap).

I posted five free or cheap events to my blog every single day of the week for almost a year. All of them were $10 or less and, yes, I could always find 5 events to post. In fact, I often had to narrow down the list to my top five events for the day. How did I find all of these events? The simple answer is I looked for them, but the secret is where I looked.

Become Best Friends with your Local Magazines

I am not joking when I say I think of the Portland Mercury and Willamette Week as close friends. As I write this, I find myself smiling in memory of the times we spent together, me searching through their pages for events to post to my blog and discovering the best and weirdest activities. Like the annual Naked Shopping Spree at the Red Light Clothing Exchange, where people run out of fitting rooms naked and compete to put on as many clothes as possible in three minutes, while Portland’s fantastic Prince cover band plays music to the chaos.  Or CHAD Chats, Portland’s version of TED Talks, where people share sardonic PowerPoints and get drunk, of course. Or when I discovered that a local pie restaurant was letting the public judge which pie they would put on their menu next, immediately following a chocolate festival full of free samples. Food, drink, nudity, and sarcasm: that’s what makes Portland go ‘round.

I would not have discovered any of these events without my trusty local magazines. I seriously found most of the events for my blog through these publications, which is why, whenever I go to a new city, the first thing I look at is their weekly magazine. Not every city’s magazines are as good as my dear friends Willamette Week and Portland Mercury, but I guarantee you’ll find something unique and inexpensive to do.

Don’t be Afraid to Sign-up for Email Lists

As I started to attend all these events, I began to wean myself off depending on weekly magazines. I decided to get event announcements straight from the source: the venues themselves. So, I signed up on every mailing list I came across. I still get emails from Collage, a craft store that holds $5 classes every Friday and In Other Words, the feminist bookstore from Portlandia that hosts a range of free events. I also found that I wasn’t the only one curating cheap activities and joined mailing lists like Portland on the Cheap or Around the Sun. Now instead of searching for free activities, the entertainment was coming straight to me, and often I was getting in on sweet deals. I felt like I was “in the know,” which is exactly how you want to feel when you move to a new city.

Ask People Where to Go

Regardless of all my searching, there are some places I never would have found unless I asked. That great inexpensive Mexican restaurant in an alley behind a strip club my roommate recommended to me, or the gathering of local poets every month where you could hear people who didn’t perform at the big poetry slam. These were the places that finally started to make Portland feel like home, because you can explore a city all you want, but you don’t stop being a tourist until you find a community.

So, venture out there, but don’t just look for places, look for people. They’re the best form of free entertainment.

Photo by Andy Sutterfield

Photo by Andy Sutterfield