Bulk Order the Salsa at My Funeral

I have been extremely fortunate in the twenty-three years I've been alive to only have attended four funerals. Two of these weren't even for people I was close to, which I suppose makes me twice as fortunate/ But even so, they were undoubtedly the most depressing and morbid ceremonies I have ever witnessed. While I don't remember the entirety of any of them, pieces of them stand out as being particularly awful. Long lines of darkly dressed, somber-faced witnesses gave pitying looks to friends and family of the deceased, while they shuffled through a mundane, depressing funeral home. A man in a white robe and a pious face led a ceremony celebrating the life of a man or woman he had never even met. A crowd of people, most of whom I didn't know, crowded around an ornate box watching it being lowered into the ground. While "depressing and morbid" seem like givens at funerals, why do they have to be? 

I cannot understand why for hundreds upon hundreds of years now we have continued to honor the lives of our loved ones in the most depressing and least celebratory way possible. As far as I know, nobody has fun at funerals. They are often a two-day extravaganza of grieving that maybe ends in a somewhat upbeat (but certainly not jubilant) lunch of mediocre catered food that nobody feels like they're allowed to enjoy. So if no one is having fun, who exactly are we trying to please? 

According to many religions and beliefs, once we die, our soul goes elsewhere, whether it be up, down, into an animal or plant, or just floating in the ether, bouncing around. If that is actually the case, it seems rather pointless to me that we make such huge, ornate plans to discard our shell. If we're not attending, it doesn't seem to make sense that we would plan what we wanted for a party (or lack thereof) that we're not even going to be making an appearance. I can't help but liken it to going to Bermuda on your birthday, but giving your friends instructions for a birthday party to be celebrated in your absence. It seems a little selfish. There's no reason why we shouldn't consider planning something a little more fun and upbeat instead of forcing our loved ones to sit through hours of mental anguish. If we don't enjoy going to funerals and traditional death ceremonies, why would we think ours would be any more enjoyable than anyone else's? 

Sadly, a lot of people don't even get the chance to plan their own funeral, so then the opposite becomes true. Grieving loved ones want "what ____ would have wanted." Who says the tragically dead would have wanted a stuffy procession into a church, or a migration toward a field full of dead bodies? If that's really what my family would want, then I'm fine with that. But I'm willing to bet a lot of them wouldn't be too terribly upset if we skipped it all and had a nice party instead, that ended in burying my ashes under a tree or sprinkling them at the beach. I certainly wouldn't much care either way. As long as it's respectful, they can do whatever they need to say goodbye and gain closure. If that includes taking my ashes to a cabin in the Poconos and having kayak races, or putting up a Maypole in the backyard and dancing in circles around my body, so be it. I won't be there, and if I happen to be watching the affair from above (or below), I would much rather like to see them having a good time.

I think it wouldn't be too bad of an idea if we started a new tradition, given the opportunity. Upon making arrangements for our deaths, surround ourselves with the people most important to us and ask them how it would be easiest for them to let us go. Let's vow to make the celebration of our lives a celebration instead of a depressing act of acknowledging that we're gone. It seems much more appropriate (and maybe even a more worthwhile investment) to spend a lot of money celebrating life instead of mourning death. 

(And for any of my friends and family reading this, consider it part of my will!)

Here Come the Brides (And They're Running!)

When I was in my final year of college, I was in a wedding. I donned a flowing red gown that matched five others that I will never wear again, carried a small bouquet of roses, and marched awkwardly down the aisle with a groomsman I didn't know. But for the year in between the bride's engagement and the wedding, my fellow bridesmaids and I were in a whirlwind of utter confusion. None of us knew the slightest thing about how to perform our pre-wedding duties; we didn't have the first clue of how to organize a shower, we had only witnessed the drunken messes that were bachelorette parties, and we could hardly afford our dresses. 

The problem wasn't lack of trying, it was that we were all twenty-two years old. The blushing bride to be was one of my friends, only a year our senior who had consciously decided it was the right time in her life to get married. She wasn't pregnant and she wasn't running away from life--she was proposed to and accepted, simple as that. And though we were ecstatically happy for her, we were dumbfounded and confused at this seemingly foreign possibility of getting married at twenty-three. A little over a year later, the concept isn't getting easier to swallow, it's getting more difficult.

As time progressed, the list of pending weddings of my peers is growing. I can think of at least two more couples younger than me who are married, and more than that who are engaged, none of which are headed for a shotgun wedding. So here I stand, with love in my life, no ring on my finger, my whole life ahead of me, and I am completely and utterly dumbfounded as to why so many people are getting hitched so early.

When my friend got engaged, she and her boyfriend had been dating for less than a year. In fact, most of the betrothed I know have been dating their significant others for roughly the same amount of time. I am beginning to think there is the possibility of a new post-grad trend--get married, then succeed. While I am a strong advocate of love and marriage, I am also a firm believer that love cannot solve all your problems. Sorry John, "all you need is love" is a load of crap. Love won't pay the bills, school loans, or replace the ridiculous amount of money you'll have had to spend on the wedding and the honeymoon. 

While some engaged couples will happily tell me with cheesy grins and beaming with responsibility that they are "waiting until they graduate and get jobs," I find their argument shaky at best. I applaud their sense of logic and maturity, and I will even go so far as to give them extra points for enthusiasm, but I will continue to wince as I look in the direction of their situation. I am far from being a relationship guru, but I know enough to realize that a lot can change in two years time, including people. What is the benefit in being engaged longer than you've been together? An engagement isn't a promise--it's a decision to make one. 

It seems to me that a lot of these couples see an engagement ring as a free pass to Trouble-Free Relationship Land for the time until their wedding. The situation is a lot like working in a job for six months, then waking up and deciding you're going to keep it for the rest of your life. How is it possible to know that? Can you really know all the goals, thoughts about future plans, family anticipations, plans regarding moving, habits with money, quirks, and irresponsible tendencies in that short of an amount of time to know you want to spend the rest of your life with them? It seems like an unnecessarily huge gamble to me. To learn these things gradually over years leading up to the almighty "I do" and facing the possibility that you don't share any of the same major ideas about sharing a life together puts a huge amount of pressure on a relationship. 

To be fair, I absolutely don't believe this is true for all couples, just most. While I think fast marriages and long engagements are disastrous ideas, I know some couples actually succeed and are meant to get married young and early. The bride in my bridesmaid's tale is still happily married to her husband, and they are still as in love as they were when they got engaged, even after health problems, money problems, job issues, and having to begrudgingly live with her parents. Some people really are lucky enough to know they've found "the one" right away. But I still can't help but cringe at the thought that I am already old enough to be going to so many weddings and engagement parties. I thought for sure I'd have at least another year or two to go before reading registry lists at Williams-Sonoma and worrying about being the last of my friends to get married. 

While wedded bliss with a yard and a kid sounds nice, a job with a publishing company, an apartment, and a boyfriend to have dinner and drinks with sounds better. I worry that women are reverting in our sense of independence as a whole if so many of us are following this trend. Personally, I need this time to start my own life; it's the first opportunity I have to really make my own decisions and live by my own rules. I'm not ready to skip that and move right into sharing that with someone else, and I think everybody needs this sort of time for life independence. I might be hearing other people's wedding bells, but mine are being drowned out by rock concerts and a loud car radio. And I am one hundred percent okay with that.

"Feed Me, Seymour!": Fear (and plants) Are Ruining My Life

From the time that I was very young, I've had an odd and irrational fear of large and/or fuzzy plants. No, I'm not kidding. I can't remember when I first discovered my strange aversion, but whenever a bright and tropical hibiscus or a geranium are nearby, I get a prickly, creepy feeling on my scalp that alerts me to stay two feet away. Many times I have scuttled hurriedly through greenhouse exhibits of banana trees or sunflowers at arboretums and gardens, taking refuge in a hoodie and hoping something less intimidating was around the corner. I never watched "Little Shop of Horrors" at a young age, nor did I get hopelessly lost in a pumpkin patch, crying for my mother. But for some bizarre, unexplainable reason, I feel threatened by certain plants.

While (I think understandably) I always feel a little embarrassed of my phobia, I never get the sense it is controlling or dominating my life in any way. While I might have opted to not grow certain flowering plants in my garden, it isn't the type of fear that can have a major impact on my life. It's simply a strange personality quirk that somehow wired itself into my brain and gives me a funny icebreaker at parties. However, other fears I have most certainly do affect my everyday life, and unfortunately they constantly affect the choices I make. And sadly, yet comfortingly, I know I'm not the only one. 

There are nearly endless lists on the internet identifying all sorts of debilitating specific fears: Agliophobia (fear of pain), Chronophobia (fear of time), and even Coprastasophobia (the fear of constipation). But I find that most of the fears that affect my life are much more common and less concrete. For example, I'm very afraid of being inconsiderate to people, and as a result I often allow myself to be walked all over. While I definitely have a backbone in certain situations which I feel others are being inconsiderate towards me, it does get in the way a lot of the time of standing up for myself. And like most people, I also have a fear of failing, but in my case it often prevents me from taking even the smallest of risks, such as taking a promotion I already know I can handle. I have a fear of criticism, which prevented me from writing in a public forum for quite a long period of time, and a fear of making a fool out of myself in public, so I often don't argue a point unless I know I'm absolutely right. While these more common fears might be less inconvenient and crippling to my life than, say, a fear of clocks (Chronomentrophobia), aren't they possibly harder to overcome? 

While I'm far from an expert on phobias, it seems to me that such enfeebling fears would absolutely require psychological therapy of some kind in order to trounce. But what about fears like mine? While they seem far from requiring weekly visits to a doctor with a couch, many people need help conquering them just the same. I suppose that's why self-help books continue to thrive as a genre of extra-curricular reading, and why Dr. Phil still has a job. But the biggest problem lies in actually realizing the fears we have. How often do we stop and think about why we make certain decisions, or why we act a certain way? Because some fears appear so trivial, acting to crush them seems like a waste of time. But at least in my life, these fears are the most important to overcome. 

Because of my fears, I've missed out on a lot of things in life. I've never ridden a rollercoaster, because I don't want to feel sick. I've never pitched an article, because I don't want to face rejection after rejection (which I know is inevitable and unavoidable in the process). But most importantly, I don't often challenge myself with important jobs and tasks because I'm afraid of failing. What I have realized lately is that to a degree, I am living a life dictated and shaped by fear, just as much as those with serious irrational phobias. While I don't wake up in the morning fearing the day and the things to come, my fears certainly prevent me from living a full and exciting life. As a result, I need to work on fighting my fears. And it's my belief that I am hardly alone. Everywhere, someone is being controlled by fear. They take the lesser-walked path in the park with their dog because there aren't people on it they'd have to say hello to. They won't get a cat because they're afraid it will scratch the furniture. I think more of our actions are shaped by fears we have than we think about, and this is absolutely no way to live. 

With that, I've developed a New-Spring Resolution (since January is so long past, and I don't want to wait that long). Every time I see myself about to make a decision I know is based on avoiding a fear, I am going to work against it. I'll talk to strangers at parties. I'll get my wisdom teeth out. I'll subject myself to criticism. But I don't think it should be a challenge only for myself--everyone has fears. I challenge you to make a New-Spring Resolution, too. What do you want to overcome by next spring? As soon as the weather warms up, I'm going to buy a plant with the biggest flowers I can find...and hope it doesn't eat me in my sleep.

Why Don't I Have the Baby Bug?

Exactly one year ago today, my cousin’s wife gave birth to a healthy baby boy. I was only about twenty minutes away from the hospital, so my friend and I took a trip into the city to see how she was doing and welcome the sweet little bundle of cooing and spewing into the world. Like most babies, he was small, adorable, and completely awe-inspiring. But aside from my fascination that a tiny person was once inside a uterus and was now fully functioning in the open air, I really wasn’t too impressed. I was excited I had a new second cousin, and very happy he was healthy, but my fascination ended there. However, a month and a half later, I was very quick to discover I was in the extreme un-maternal minority.

Memorial Day came around, and in usual tradition my extended family gathered for noshing, barbecuing, and catching up on the five months that had passed. My female cousins and aunts happily chatted away, enjoying the sunshine...at least until the baby showed up. When little Judah was carried through the door, plates were left unattended, conversations abruptly stopped, and a stampede of cheerful women bounded inside where they promptly gushed and cuddled and swaddled the poor thing for the next two hours. I, however, greeted my cousins, looked at Judah, smiled, said an appropriately excited hello, commented on how much bigger he had gotten, and walked back outside into the sunshine to drink my mojito and continue my conversation. This situation might suggest that I'm a cold, unfeeling, emotionless person. But on the contrary, I'm about as emotional as a woman can get. I have found that I simply do not share or understand most women's obsession with babies. 

I've pondered many reasons as to why I'm not baby-crazy. For one, I could easily argue that I'm just not old enough yet to care about babies. My infamous "biological clock" hasn't started ticking. While this may be true, I distinctly remember my nineteen-year-old cousin hanging around the baby for at least twice as long as I had, and sadly I know several women two to three years younger than me who have accidentally gotten pregnant, but been happy about it. Clearly, my biological clock may already be running pretty steadily. I think ultimately what it comes down to is that I don't find babies as entertaining as most other women, plain and simple. Functionally, babies do very little. They coo, they cry, they poop, eat, spit up, drool, smile, and tug on your earrings. Only two, possibly three of those actions are potentially cute. I didn't at all dislike the new addition to our family--in fact, I liked him quite a bit and loved him as soon as I saw him. But for some reason, I didn't want to hold him, or cuddle him, or rock him. But still, this makes me feel like an awful person. 

Not obsessing over babies makes me feel completely un-motherly. I worry that I will never have the capability to love a child of my own, even though I know this will certainly not be the case. But while I've heard numerous cases of mothers being completely devoted and adoring of their own children but hating everyone else's, I'm still manage to feel about thirty percent awful about not sharing the obsession. Then again, perhaps it's the obsession itself that makes me feel so bad. Maybe I feel self-conscious that I am the only woman in the room not adoring the baby. In my mind, women are whispering to themselves, "Why doesn't she come see the baby? Does she hate babies? Perhaps she's the anti-Christ!" Maybe I really am the anti-Christ in the religion of baby adoration.

But what I really think my self-consciousness stems from is the sense of hard work that comes with having a child. If I spent nine months of my life throwing up, feeling four times my size, and watching my body change in ways I never knew it could, I would like a pat on the back. But then after agonizing for possibly forty-eight hours in labor pushing the thing out, only to have to pump my breasts and get up four times a night to feed it, I would feel pretty damn insulted if everyone didn't fawn over my exhausting little creation. More than connecting to babies themselves, I connect to the mothers. The amount of admiration I have for a woman who can go through all of that will never wane. And while I still don't understand the baby obsession, I'm beginning to see why I feel so bad about not sharing it. To all the mothers out there, I commend you, and you deserve a relaxing vacation...but no thanks, I don't really want to hold your baby.  

Man-Up: How Men Have Made Me Argue Differently

There have been countless books, situation comedies, songs, and even college courses dedicated to the emotional and psychological differences between men and women. By now, it's even possible that the similarities between men and women are teetering dangerously on the edge of indicating we're two completely different species all together. We have completely different outlooks on sex, cars, kids, taking out the garbage, food, clothes, driving, directions, dogs, shoes, money--you name it. But lately, I feel like I have made a sneaky sort of discovery that laughs in the face of "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus"; male behavior can rub off on women, and it might even improve us. 

My prime example lies in watching my own thoughts about relationships with friends change. Over the past year, I've spent a lot more time around men than I ever have before. I never really had male friends of my own, so when I started dating my current boyfriend, naturally his friends became my acquaintances and/or casual friends, and now I'm around a pack of men on a fairly regular basis. As time passed, I couldn't help but observe hours worth of communal male behavior and thought patterns play out before me like an educational circus. I watched drunken falling over concrete walls, name-calling, and Rock Band jam sessions. But I also saw communication differences that are prospects I only dream of: short phone conversations, lack of expectation (resulting in no letdown in a friendship), brutal honesty, and best of all, one-minute arguments followed by a friendly relationship that seems to deny that the confrontation ever occurred in the first place. 

Let's be honest--while having girl friends is great, it can be pretty damn tiresome sometimes. Most women do not let feelings go quickly or easily, nor do we forget what we see as social or friendship wrongdoings. If a close friend forgets to call us and wish us a happy birthday until the day after because they were flying to Louisiana and accidentally forgot, we can hold a grudge up to a year. If a man is in the same situation, the guilty party apologizes, a "Hey man, it's cool. Thanks for the birthday wishes" is declared, and all is right with the world. It's a beautiful, simple system, and I envy it completely. To be fair, I have seen a few unspoken male feuds that involve enough closed-door trash-talking to make any woman who revels in drama proud. But even so, most male arguments end in one of two ways: in a physical fight, or peacefully without mention of it again.

As a result of spending significantly more time with men over the past year, some of this mentality has influenced my thinking. I may not let things go as easily as my male counterparts, but I certainly have a much lower tolerance for tense, drawn-out theatrical relationships. If I have a problem with someone, I am much more likely to tell them, and much less likely to care if they hate me for it. I am much less likely to coddle unhappy friends who are miserable for completely ridiculous reasons. While this may sound a little heartless, I have hardly become heartless and cold. I just have developed a much lower tolerance for bullshit. 

It's possible that this change in perspective and no-nonsense attitude I've developed is a result of some "real-world" maturity. I've also been out of school for a year, and thus have automatically become more adult, whether I choose to acknowledge it with a matching mindset or not. But then again, I've watched enough horrible, brain-rotting reality shows featuring successful, "mature" women to realize that drama is just as prevalent with thirty-something women as it is with high school girls, if not more. In that case, I consider it entirely possible that some healthy male outlook has cleared up some of my crazy female drama-clouded vision regarding confrontation and arguments. It doesn't make sense to talk about how much Anna pisses you off to our six mutual friends, but hug her and act excited when we see each other. 

I am a strong believer that women are a little crazy, and men are a little unobservant. But women are also warmer and more emotionally available, while men are more notoriously more logical and level-headed. There are good and bad sides to both sexes. And I'm not ashamed to say a little of male good has influenced me. Maybe it wouldn't hurt for me to "man-up" in other ways as well. Over time, I could become slightly more aggressive when going after things I want. But this situation begs a yet unanswered question--have my girl friends influenced my boyfriend's way of thinking? Has he become more emotionally available? Or more dramatic? Maybe it will take more time to tell.

Is is Necessary to Choose Between Success and Happiness?

From the time that we were old enough to be begrudgingly don coordinated red, white, and blue outfits and wave cheap flags at parades with fire trucks, Americans have been positively saturated with the idea of "The American Dream." The concept of driving to a cultural Mecca in an old car with little more than a suitcase and a sense of hope to make tens of millions of dollars, hire a housekeeper, and live in blissful happiness doesn't seem to be something we're cooling to anytime soon. But not everyone has such tremendous and sparkly ideas of grandeur.

Some of us, like myself, would be content with making a professional name for ourselves and be known within our industry, but not to the paparazzi. I don't need a Maserati or a rare breed of poodle that grows turquoise fur; I'd be perfectly happy with a nice Mazda and a golden retriever. But it seems that this happiness is more specifically what we're looking for--full and total happiness through varying degrees of financial security and a job well-done. And we'll do almost anything to achieve it.

Over the past few years, I've watched friends and family members travel boldly to New York City or California, to the land of many promises, to take a crack at being one of the few who obtain extreme career success and the resulting surreal happiness. Some went for music and others went for art, but all came home, broke and downtrodden. While I had great admiration for their efforts, I knew I would flounder long before they had. The last thing I wanted to be doing was calling my mother crying at three in the morning because I couldn't afford bug spray to kill the sabertooth tiger-sized cockroaches in my sad excuse for an apartment. I don't want fame and success nearly that badly.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not proclaiming to be above fame and money, I just currently don't have goals quite ambitious enough to get me that far. I'm satisfied with that. When I picture my perfect career situation, fame and fortune are not necessary inclusions on my customized "total happiness" package. But with the painful present state of the job market, I'm beginning to realize that creating a successful career, even without notoriety, requires a lot more sacrifice than it once did. Those of us who want to have professional success have a cultural Mecca of our own--anywhere that will give us a suitable job. 

After looking for a respectable job in and around the Philadelphia area for over a year now, I'm beginning to see the same sad excuses for job listings again and again. My logic for not looking elsewhere has been pretty understandable--if I can't yet afford to pay rent here, I can't afford to pay rent elsewhere, either. Even if I were able to land a great job in Minnesota or Connecticut, how would I pay my first month's rent while I waited for the money to start coming? How would I eat? But I will never be able to function as a productive member of society (here or anywhere else) if I don't have a full-time, fair-paying job. It's a bit of a Catch-22. 

But now I realize if I want the real kind of success that I foresee, I need to start making such sacrifices. I will probably have to move away from my family, friends, and the man I love. And I will probably be miserable. With that, it seems inevitable and fairly obvious that career success in this situation would not bring me anywhere close to the kind of happiness I want in my life, or the kind of happiness that embodies the American Dream. And so, while this situation won't allow me to have both, one huge question continues to prod at my brain: which is more important to me, success or happiness? 

Like a hamster on a wheel, I think in the same circular pattern that results in no semblance of an answer. It's possible that if I were to make what I see as being a huge sacrifice, that it would result in great success and that would ultimately bring me the happiness I'm searching for. But I've seen enough awful Lifetime and ABC Family movies at Christmas to realize that no professional success will ever bring the "warmth and care of those you love." My greatest fear is that by the time I might be able to move back home again, my love will probably be loving someone else, my parents will be in a retirement community with the TV turned up to excruciating decibels, and my friends and I will have lost touch. And then, what I knew to be home will no longer be home to me. But unfortunately, although the answer may seem clear, at the same time I feel as though that it's an absolutely cowardly excuse and that I cannot possibly expect to stick around forever. I might make enough money to visit my family and friends once a month, and I might be able to sustain a loving and lasting long-distance relationship for as long as time permits us to be together. But "might" isn't nearly enough to make the decision easier. 

As Hallmark as it may sound, I honestly think I owe it to myself and my parents and possibly God to do the best damned job I can with the life I've got. It would be a pretty grave insult to a whole lot of people if I were to not at least try to do something extraordinary with my life, but that can come in many forms. The most difficult part is getting a firm idea of what shape success will come in for me.  If I'm professionally successful, I won't necessarily be happy, but if I'm happy, I'll clearly have done something right and have some measure of success. The very thought is completely exhausting, irritatingly philosophical, and possibly unanswerable. The best thing I can do is follow my gut and take opportunities as they come. I'll give myself options, and take them if they seem right.

The Things I Forgot Before I Decided to Live Off Writing

From the time I can remember remembering, I've been drawing pictures. Crayons were my best friends, and my mom ran out of boxes to hold my drawings by the time I was five. The best parts of my childhood were the ones spent in a pathetic two-person "art club" in grade school. I spent my teenage years sitting in my room drawing portraits and recording my favorite, horrible songs off the radio. I've never been happier and more absorbed doing anything than playing with colors and lines. 

But when the time came for me to man-up and decide what I wanted to do with my life, art took more than a back seat. Instead, logic and brazen, stupid integrity took the wheel. I wanted to be able to make a living, and I really wanted to be able to feed myself once I graduated. But stupidly, more than anything, I hated being obligated to draw or paint when I was told. If I had learned anything at all in high school, it was that when I was forced to create art, I couldn't help but half-ass my efforts. I knew I had little shot at passing college if I tried to half-ass my way through four years of university art classes (half of which I probably wouldn't have wanted to take in the first place). So, I proudly puffed out my chest and announced with conviction and a laughable sense of responsibility that I would be a writer. 

It seemed like the perfect solution at the time. I could go to school and acquire a writing degree that would plop me in a pretty little job where my creative side would get a pat on the head and a little push on the behind, but I could avoid that pesky little problem of actually having to decide what to write about. I'd be given assignments or tasks and build a paragraph of adjectives and flowing sentence structures that would give me a temporary sense of accomplishment. 

Unfortunately, I was so proud of myself for considerably turning up the logic knob on my internal stereo that I couldn't hear life yelling "hey, you forgot a few things!" Now, I've had that nice Cum Laude degree hanging on my wall for almost a year, and not only do I not have that safe job I wanted, I don't even want it anymore. And life was right, I definitely did forget to bring a few thoughts with me along the way. 

Most importantly, I forgot that if I can't create art for anyone other than myself, that I probably wouldn't be happy writing for anyone else either. Unlike art, writing comes more naturally for me and cranking out decent writing is possible regardless of whether I feel like doing it or not (granted, it's a lot better when I actually have the desire to write pretty words). The thought of copywriting makes me cringe. I definitely don't want to write proposal letters. I get nauseous when I think about writing marketing copy ("It comes in thirty-six colors and is available NOW for the low, low price of $39.95!"). While these are great stepping stones to be able to fund writing that magazine column I dream of having but have spawned no concept for, I won't be happy for long actually having to sit and painstakingly butcher the beauty of words on a daily basis. I did not think about this. 

Because I didn't stop to ponder the possibility that I might quickly get unhappy writing drivel, I also forgot, that like art, ideas do not flow continuously through my head. I hate anyone blessed with this unwavering inspiration to the point that I exhaust myself. So even if I did come up with a great column idea, I fear I would flounder miserably as my list of ideas fizzles out after the first month. Not only would I then be out of a job, I would have blown my one chance to have my dream job. 

I didn't realize until I was actually in college how truly ambiguous and unplanned this dream future of mine was turning out to be. After tripping through an unpaid online writing opportunity I became painfully aware that I only have nominal knowledge of the topics I would truly enjoy writing about. I love music, and I love food. I've only been seriously listening to music for about eight years, and while eating and cooking are two of my favorite activities, I am extremely far from being a foodie. I don't know who influenced Led Zeppelin and what year "In Through the Out Door" was released, and I absolutely couldn't begin to tell you what the hell foie gras is. I don't know much about what's required in professional magazine writing (a testament to my fine university education), but I'm fairly certain it's a little difficult to write a weekly column on something you know next to nothing about. I am also sure that I had a massive brain fart when it came to anticipating the ease of obtaining such a flashy gig.

I absolutely, for the sake of my success and future, must write editorial pieces. I am and always have been an extremely shy person. I am overly, almost irritatingly considerate of others and I am about as aggressive as a goldfish. These are not desired traits for a journalist. No editor wants to hear a writer come back with a blank page on deadline because "I didn't call a third time--I thought it was rude, and it was during the dinner hour!". I may have many flaws, but stupidity is not one of them. I refuse to set myself up for such a disastrous and fiery failure that will embarrass myself and whoever had the gall to hired me. And while I'm sharing my bad side, I hate news. I have, and probably always will think it's boring and the last thing I want to do is write about topics that bore me. Instead, I want to write columns. I want my thoughts and experiences to have a nice little box on page 37 every week. Unfortunately, they are luxuries that are earned, not granted. In order to get that sort of glamorous and cushy security (that can be safely written from home), a writer's got to go out and get their hands dirty pitching freelance articles by the truckload to magazine after magazine from Canada to East Jibip. That requires a consistent arsenal of ideas and the ability to conduct hundreds of interviews, neither of which are talents I currently possess. I can force myself to grow a backbone (I won't like it), but ideas are a lot more difficult to cultivate. And then, if I'm lucky and catch the eye of some rich and fancy editor, I might just be swept off my feet and live happily ever after. 

So, now that I have stopped to actually realize these important things I had previously forgotten, I'm in career limbo. I apply for job after job, surfing Craigslist, Careerbuilder, and Monster for anything that I might be qualified for and not dread on a daily basis. I could be happy working in a publishing company, or for a trade magazine, but what's next? I have no long-term career goals, because I am honestly not at all sure what I ultimately want to be doing. I want to be writing, and I want to be happy doing it. Aside from that, I feel as though I'm standing at the end of a long, blank road staring off into nothing. Not a day goes by that I don't thank myself for pursuing writing over art, but I often think saying "the hell with my creative side" and struggling through science classes to become a veterinary technician would have been a wiser and ridiculously easier choice in the long haul when it comes to determining my future and paying my bills.

So I can work, and I can hope. I'll find a job doing something that allows me to use the degree I worked so hard to earn, and all the while I'll keep writing for me. Someday, if I take the right opportunities that wave and say hello, I can actually do something I saw myself so confidently doing when I signed up to be a Print Communications major. Until then, I'll keep remembering the things I forgot when I decided I wanted to write for a living. 

It's Totally You: Is There Friendship Break-up Etiquette?

Thanks to those cute little Hallmark books nobody ever buys and Facebook photo albums titles, the phrase "Friends are family you choose yourself" has tragically engraved itself into the back of my brain. Unfortunately, friendships and family relationships are often are two completely different animals that can't be interchanged that easily.

Consider this: whether your Thanksgivings are warm and fuzzy or comparable to the bombing of Hiroshima, most families don't get together more than twice or three times a year, and less if they don't get along. Close friends, on the other hand, are in our lives as few as every few months to as much as several times a day. While having friends through our worst times and best memories are what makes them so valuable, it also creates a bond relative to that of a romantic relationship. Unless you're a little too close with your family, they are not the same type of relationship in the slightest.

And this is wonderful! Unless you grow to dislike one of your close friends to the point where a fiery and unchartable course of action is required to remedy the situation. If your BFF is really happy in the friendship, but the thought of their phone calls make you cringe in pain and guilt it's time to initiate the dreaded Friendship Break-Up. 

Unlike a regular break-up, sympathetically admitting "I just don't love you anymore," is completely inappropriate and harsh. It is nearly impossible to break off a perfectly good friendship because you simply don't like someone without feeling like a horrible human being and carry an indescribable amount of guilt. Is there really ever a good way to break up a friendship? Maybe not, but there are better ways than others. 

I've been blessed to have wonderful friends, but I have had a few long friendships grow strained by changed personalities and a growing gap in interests, sense of humor, distance, and priorities. The unfortunate fact of a friendship break-up is that hurting your dumped friend is unavoidable. However, there are ways to do it gently. On two separate occasions, I have had close friends simply stop returning my phone calls, or calling back when they couldn't talk for more than two minutes because they were on their way to the dentist or an eyebrow waxing. After months of telling myself they were just extremely busy, the truth set in: I was being gently nudged away. It hurt, but it is a sad reality that like relationships, not all good friendships will last forever. While it brought a little sting, I respected their subtlety. No one wants to hear "I just don't enjoy talking to you anymore." 

While the guilt is completely unavoidable, I am a strong believer in honesty always being the best policy. I would much rather know that a friend is not enjoying my company than to run up to them with hugs and excitement, only to be greeted with a fake smile and an internal dialogue of "Lunch was a better idea than dinner. I can say I have to take the dog to get de-wormed at 2:00 and keep this short..." 

Don't let Hallmark fool you. Friends are not the family you choose. They are our polygamous, sexless relationship partners that are often a lot easier to maintain, but sometimes just as hard to end. 

Love in a Time of Frugality

At least once a week, my ever-patient boyfriend and I have the same circular, unresolved conversation. "I'm bored," I tell him. "Let's go somewhere!". Unfortunately, I never fail to prepare myself for inevitable question that follows, and the giant snowball of disappointment that rumbles along behind it.