Guys, I like school. This pessimistic creative writer who couldn’t wait to graduate college and never have to look at another text book is really and truly enjoying school. I actually want to do the readings, I get excited for class, and, wait a minute, I feel compelled to participate in classroom discussions.
Is this what being in a functional relationship feels like?
Now I don’t want to come off as though I don’t enjoy learning. Anyone who consistently reads my posts knows how much I enjoy making mistakes and learning from them. And then making that mistake over and over until really my only choice is to learn from it, for real.
Cough cough drunk texting cough cough.
School for me has never been something I’ve felt, prior to this point, compelled to jump into. Sure, my creative writing workshops and some other courses were incredible and interesting, but for the most part I’ve always enjoyed learning things in a less formal fashion. It makes me wonder if I’m too much of a control freak to let other people teach me things, but that’s another blog altogether.
What’s different this time? Why am I suddenly interested in reading the full chapters rather than brushing over the words and ingesting only the titles of paragraphs? Am I mature now?
I hope the answer to all three of those questions is that yes, I have actually made a leap into adulthood. I am also praying that this excitement isn’t simply my body running on adrenaline and then in two weeks I’ll be all “lol jk nvm bye DePaul”.
That being said, I think running on adrenaline would mean that I would hop out of bed in the morning, which is certainly not the case for me. Most mornings consist of me sobbing at my alarm to stop going off and the dog staring at me like, “Get up you lazy asshole I have to pee.”
There is one aspect of this whole grad school thing that I am already not looking forward to, however, and that’s my having to take the “Test of Academic Proficiency” in November. This is a test that all those looking to go into the field of teaching children have to take, because if you’re gonna attempt to teach them shit you should know shit. Unfortunately for me, the creators of this test remembered that young kids need to know math and science and other topics useless to a former English major who grew up in the City of Chicago. This means I will have to relearn everything about biology, chemistry, physics and all those god damn math equations I’ve been trying to erase with alcohol for the past three years.
Can a girl get a calculator?
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Since DePaul is on quarters, a system I am still extremely confused by, so my first day of classes is today. That’s right, today. I am no longer “going to start grad school” I am fucking starting grad school and it’s fucking crazy.
Yes, I am definitely excited, but am I nervous too?
To make matters more interesting, and stressful, as is the routine in my life, the last few days have been less than smooth sailing.
Sunday I went for an incredible bike ride in perfect weather and was all “What a perfect way to start the week! This is gonna be a great quarter, can’t wait for school to start, etc.. etc..”
The next day I’m feelin’ the usual Monday blues; tired, achey, hungry. Which are really the three things I feel most days, turned up or down a notch. But this Monday, around noon, I start to feel nauseous. I attribute it to nerves since I am supposed to go to orientation the next day. I get home from work, do my usual routine of making dinner, working out, and then trying not to eat all the snacks in the house as “dessert”. I’m still feeling pretty nauseous so I decide to cut down my snacking and go to sleep. Then I wake up at midnight to barf and am all like “damn, I am really nervous about starting school.” After I stay awake all night eliminating everything from my body and have to crawl up the stairs and walk the dog hunched over like Quasimodo, I realize I might be nervous but I also definitely have food poisoning.
I call my nanny family right away and let them know that I am basically immobile and vomiting, which means I won’t be able to come into work, but offer up my mother because I thought she didn’t have to go into work until 5pm. Turns out I was wrong, but it didn’t matter because she was also home after having to run off the train and puke into a CTA garbage bag.
Pretty grateful I did not have to experience any of my sickness publicly.
Her and I got the same food at brunch on Sunday so we can pretty much 100% confirm this is food poisoning. Yippee!!
Now not only do I miss work, for the first time since starting this job, but I also miss orientation. I can only assume this means I will be the outcast of the Early Childhood Education program, but let’s be honest, that was bound to happen anyway.
I’m not so good at the making of new friends.
Thankfully my food poisoning nausea has subsided and now only my nervous nausea remains, which means I only have a 50% chance of puking on arrival to class rather than 100% chance.
Here goes nothin’!
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Let me just start by dedicating this post to all the hard working people in our country that did not get a four day weekend, or even a one day weekend, because they are overworked and underpaid. Also, a big shout out to my best friend, and hero, Hannah Joravsky over there in Los Angeles not getting any days off because she’s busy helping the overworked masses demand better working conditions and a living wage.
Now the details on my frivolous weekend:
Friday, a group of us decided to try out Big Star, a place that can only be described as bougie mexican, in Wicker Park. When we arrive they say there’s a slight wait and so the hostess asked for my number and said she’d text when our table was ready. I spent a portion of the wait time wondering if they were really going to text me, because apparently me and Big Star are dating.
It turns out, unlike most of my dates, the hostess did text us about 15 minutes later and we sat down to begin our experience. The basis of this experience being that none of us could hear each other. The lack of communication turned out to be ok after a few tacos and drinks, because it was so hot all I could focus on was not melting. Overall it was “eh”.
However I continued to drink throughout the day and by 9pm couldn’t figure out how it wasn’t actually 2am. My roommates and I decided to walk to Cleos, a bar not far from us. Unfortunately for me it was also “Chicago Ave. After Dark” meaning shops were open and I could drunkenly wander into one and buy something. Thankfully I exhibited self control on this front, unfortunately a few hours later my lack of restraint shined through when I left the bar alone to get a happy meal.
Saturday I hung out with my dog most of the day at the dog park, where an eight year old and I had a conversation about dog breeds and his future for about 45 minutes. I then decided that I should interact with something both my age and species, so I went home. Some people came over and then we wandered to another neighborhood bar, Happy Village.
Comfort zones are hot right now.
I yet again decided that I was hungry and left the bar to acquire some Mexican food. It was a nice compliment to the Mexican food I would get about seven hours later for “brunch”.
Later Sunday I got to hang with my mom for her birthday and gorge myself in french food at Mon Ami Gabi.
The best part of Sunday, though, was stopping to realize that I had yet another day off. This was my Christmas.
Monday got real Labor Dayie with a bbq at the beach where after eating a lot of dip and meatballs, I ended up spending most of my time at the dog beach with Belle. While there she decided to show me, and the entire beach population, how fast she was by sprinting down the shore, out of the dog beach and onto the people beach, before turning around and sprinting back to the dog beach, all in the time it took me to run twenty feet. I apparently adopted both a dog and a personal trainer. Cha-ching.
Bring it on, Fall.
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The past few days have been dog-centric, terrifying, and emotional.
Saturday, I adopt the most perfect dog on the planet. Shes two years old, doesn’t bark, loves everyone and is just generally adorable. My roommates and I spent the rest of the weekend falling/being in love with her all over our neighborhood.
Meet Belle, my new baby girl.
Her and I had quite the interaction with a drunk man who I should not have let pet her. It was Saturday night around 8, I myself am a little drunk and decide to take Belle out to do her business before more people start arriving at our place. A block into it the drunk man I mentioned before stops to pet her and then asks me what her name is. When I tell him it’s Belle he aggressively responds, “One syllable? Really?” to which I respond, “Yeah” while really want to respond, “Yes fuck you, you’re alone and drunk at 8pm please go away right now because you have probably killed a living organism in your life.” After this little exchange Belle and I go to make our exit and as the drunk man stumbles to wherever he’s off to terrorize next, he shouts from 1 foot away, “Get your dog a new fucking name!”
Run, Belle, Run!
Monday night, Belle and I get back from a walk and I see that Jennifer, the dog sitter who is watching Luna, my parents dog who is somewhere in the range of 100-200 years old, had a seizure. My parents are in northern Michigan, hence the dog sitter, and are therefore totally unreachable at 10pm. So, Jennifer and I take off to the doggie ER with an extremely limited knowledge of the specifics of Luna’s medical history. Pretty much every question I’m asked gets a response of, “Uhm, I’m not sure. But I know some stuff has happened to her, you know she’s old, so probably everything has? I don’t know I’m sorry where’s my mommy.” I decided to check Luna into the hospital overnight so that 1) They could run necessary blood work and then talk to my parents directly about what was going on and 2) I could go home and go to sleep without worrying about her. I say goodnight to my grandma dog and then as I take a right onto the street one block from my home the police pull me over.
OH OK SO THAT’S HOW TONIGHT IS GONNA END
Turns out my parents car that I am driving for the first time in months don’t have working headlights. Luckily I react so pathetically to being pulled over the policeman take pity on my cause and let me off with a warning.
What a nice little cherry on top of a horrifying 4 hours.
Thankfully Luna was able to return home the next day and according to Jennifer has been seeming better than ever, eating properly and begging for treats. She basically pulled the dog equivalent of “Got your ass.”
Though Belle has had some bathroom accidents in the house, she is overall remaining an incredible dog. That is until this morning when she decided to give Anika, Ana and I a heart attack and run full speed out the door and into oncoming traffic on Chicago Ave. Thankfully she can’t pass up a good dog hang and stopped to greet a yorkie whose owner held onto her until we could frantically run over and grab her.
It’s all uphill from here.
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For the last two, going on three, years I’ve been debating whether or not to get a dog.
Do I have time? Do I have money? Do I have energy?
I of course rarely have one, let alone all three, of those things. But, lately I’ve had a little bit of each, so I’m getting more serious about my search.
Been on the phone with a lot of middle aged women who are foster dog moms and getting scary glimpses into a possible future for myself, as well as talking about dog habits for an hour at a time. Just another exciting week in the world of No Blaise.
In addition to these lengthy phone calls, I’ve been perusing Petfinder and AdoptaPet which are basically search engines for shelter dogs. Of the some 600,000 available dogs in Illinois, about 1% of them have normal names.
By normal names I mean things like, “Jack” or “Spot” or “Sunny” or even “Toodles”.
The “Toodles” I came across was a white chihuahua wearing a fedora which lowered his rating on the normal scale.
Apparently shelter dogs don’t live under shitty enough circumstances, but the majority of them need obscure names.
“Silent Sunday” was possibly the weirdest I came across, followed closely by “Ms. Frankie Blue Eyes” ”Jack Black” and “Figo” Figo!? What is a Figo? Did someone just throw four letters together? There are then the very hilarious, and usually human, names given to these cuties. Some good ones I’ve found are “Elliot” and”Dan”. Then there’s “Sherri” and “Peggi”, because if you put an “i” instead of a “y” it’s automatically a dog name.
If you’re still not with my on the hilarity of obscure dog names, just imagine yelling one of them out loud.
“Jack Black shit in the house again!”
“Dan, stop licking your butt!”
and if you want your neighbors to think you’re in a cult:
“Silent Sunday, come here!”
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Some of my friends and I went to Michigan this weekend. It’s a trip we start planning in February and build up the excitement during the months in between. This years trip did not disappoint, and may have even surpassed previous years because I discovered a beer made with blueberries that is the most delicious thing on planet earth.
However, I’ve spent the days since we returned being very concerned with the speed at which time is moving.
When did the Fourth of July happen?
When did I turn 26?
When did my nanny baby Calvin go from being a lil pea in a pod to crawling and throwing things at me?
When did Robin Williams get so depressed that he killed himself?
This last one is still something I can’t figure out. Seriously though, if someone I grow up watching and idolizing as one of the funniest people ever can get so dark what the heck are the rest of us going to do? Plenty of people use comedy to deal with and mask the sadness that happens in their lives and around them so at what point does it stop becoming funny and start getting way too real?
I realize there are several factors that led to the demise of the legend that is Robin Williams so I should stop thinking all people who use comedy to deal with life’s tragedies end up getting too overwhelmed with a happy face and just end it, but you can tell I’ve been thinking about it, right?
And I’ve got a head cold so shit is really hitting the fan.
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Today marks the one week anniversary of my turning 26. Luckily for me, I have parents who care about my well being and so today does not mark the one week anniversary of the day I no longer had health insurance. They signed me up for Obamacare weeks ago as I just sat in front of my computer googling things like “how to make almond milk” and “low carb meatloaf” rather than worrying what would happen to my prescription of crazy pills and birth control if I no longer had coverage to help with the costs.
So far this week has been pretty on par with the last weird year of my life, got a lot of happy birthdays from online dating sites and food ordering services as well as an email from something called “Nautical Networking”. As someone who is pretty terrified of open water, I do not understand how I got on their listserv and am assuming I was put on it as a practical joke.
To this practical joker I say, “That was actually funny but also cruel, are you single?”
The day of my birthday I ate about five cupcakes, and a captain crunch donut. And basically shouted YOLO all over Wicker Park, as my mother pushed the boys I nanny in a stroller so shit got real wild.
Later my family and I went to dinner at a restaurant I was convinced was new and so I thought myself very socially knowledgeable, but upon arrival I quickly realized this place had been around for at least five years and so all I was was late. After dinner I met friends at a bar in Bridgeport called Marias where I got way too into something called a “mystery shot”.
If it only costs two dollars and you’re not allowed to know what’s in it, you should probably avoid it unless it is forced upon you. But in typical No Blaise fashion I bought multiples and tried to convince my more sober friends that it was the coolest.
I then finished the night with one beer at a bar near my house and woke up with my headphones on and The Shins playlist up on my Spotify.
Here’s hoping that my 26th year is easier than my Thursday July 31st was.
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