Ode to Pookers

How Whiskers
Spent Her Weekend of
Sequestered Self-Reflection and Solitude

I thought that spending all of this time alone would reveal all of these great insights about my inner self and the direction my life is heading. But really, I have learned so much more about Whiskers and what she does all day (and how much she loves me).Here is a sampling about what I learned from Whiskers “Pookers” Biscotti Backstrom.

1. Whiskers and I have similar feelings about lethargy in that we both embrace it. Yes, sadly, I have the energy level of a 10+ year old cat. 2. Whiskers loves my laptop and she love contributing to my masters. As I’m working, she is either on my lap, beside my computer with her paws on the keyboard, or behind my laptop with her head peeking out the side, probably to check my progress. I have learned that Whiskers’ favorite letter to type is q. More accurately, it is qqqqqqqqq11`qq. Now, I can’t read cat but I’d like to think that it is something bearing on overweight sexuality in young adulthood.

3. Whiskers doesn’t always land her jumps anymore these days. It is kind of sad, but also kind of funny when she tries to jump up on the desk but falls backwards. Or when she is able to hoist herself up on the desk but then slides on papers. Terrible, awkward, but still hilarious.

4. Whiskers also trembles when she sleeps sometimes. I know this because she is always sleeping and she is always within three feet of me.

5. I cannot tell if Whiskers is the dominant one in the apartment or if it is me. I used to think that she slept in my spot on the bed because she loves me. But after observing the sheer number of hours she spends in that spot, I wonder if it is actually her spot and she just moves over a little to let me in at night.

Some of you may know that I have recurring paparazzi fantasies. For example, whenever I leave my apartment and walk to my car, sometimes I “sense” that there are paparazzi in the bushes and trees, so I walk shyly and semi-shield myself from the non-existent cameras. Anywho, this stalker fantasy thing has lost some of its luster, after having two yellow eyes attached to a big pouf of fur follow me around for 52 hours. Is that what it is like to have kids? They are always there, whining, demanding attention and food? I’ll stick with pookers for now, thanks.

Painted Revelations on the Inside

And this mess is so big

And so deep and so tall

We can not pick it up.

There is no way at all!

-Dr. Seuss, The Cat in the Hat

After 72 hours of alone time, I have come to the conclusion that I’m not sure if I buy this whole self-esteem thing. After adolescence, does it even matter? I am too busy to spend that much time thinking about my mental state, let alone beating myself up. In high school, you had to be around a bunch of people whether they liked you or not. But in adulthood, you are around your coworkers (or cohort!) and these are people who likely have similar interests as you. You have friends who you have mutually agreed to be in a friendship with because you genuinely like each other, not because of “coolness” or lackthereof. And dating isn’t so much of a stress because you’ve been through it all before. So, all of the uncertainty of fitting in and risks of rejections of the younger years are gone. It’s hard to be self-conscious and insecure when you are around good people.

I think that I pretty much hated myself in 7th grade. I remember being utterly miserable at age 13 because I felt so trapped. I wanted to travel and live in a city and be around fascinating people and live an interesting life and be appreciated for all of my “weirdness.” But over time, I became more comfortable and happy. The greatest thing about getting older is having control over your life. If you are unhappy, you can change it. Life is but a series of choices, and no choice is unalterable.

In many ways, I think talk of low self-esteem and insecurity are merely relics of the younger, forming self that can be worked out with time. I certainly do not think that I have fully matured or that I fully know myself yet. So, of course, some level of insecurity is there. But is it insecurity, or just concern? Maybe I am unsure of myself because I care how my life turns out. Because I want to be a better person. Because I want to love another human powerfully and to accept the same in return. Maybe we should all be a little insecure, because what is the alternative? To stop caring, stop growing? To settle, to stagnate? Whatever good that is in me certainly did not come from me settling.

If that makes me difficult, if that makes me single, if that makes me deemed “insecure” then that is just how it will have to be. Because when I am 35 years old, I want to have earned a successful and happy life through thoughtful deliberation. And right now, at 22 years old, I do not have the answers.

And you know what? Maybe at 35, I won’t have all of the answers, either. Maybe I will always be insecure. At 45, I will wonder if I am a good parent. At 55, I will worry that I am getting older. At 65, I will look back on my life and think about the choices I made, for better or worse. At 85, I will be sitting at the nursing home, talking to Betty and Phyllis about how I am insecure about dying. And I will probably die without the answers. But I hope that at my funeral, they won’t say, “She lived an insecure life.” But rather, “She was striving. She knew that to get better, sometimes you have to look at what is wrong with yourself. She knew that life does not reward passivity, and maybe she cried a lot and she agonized and over-analyzed, her heart was broken and she lost some people along the way, but she tried real hard and she cared and she never settled.”

Does that make me difficult? Only if you are looking for the easy way out.

Does that make me “too much”? Only if you are not enough to handle it.

Does that mean that I have intimacy and trust issues? Only if you are not trustworthy. Self-protection is good, because there are so few solid ones out there who deserve your intimate trust.

Does that make me insecure or have low self-esteem? Not really, because intense self-reflection does not necessarily mean that you don’t like yourself, but that you like yourself enough to lead a more conscious and meaningful life.

Perhaps the difference between low self-esteem and striving is in forgiveness. The person with low self-esteem hates herself for failing. The person who strives realizes that failure is par for the course and forgives herself.

In the end, self-esteem, low or high, does not really matter to me. Instead of characterizing inexperience as an impaired mental state or blaming choices (particularly about sexuality) on self-esteem, I want to know: how are you living? Do you try to be a good person? Are you getting better? Do you forgive yourself and others? Do you want to love? Are you striving for excellence?

And if you answer yes to those questions, I say, screw any psycho-babble bullshit that people want to throw at you. You’re better off now, and you’ll be better off in the long run.

Peace Out Snazzy

1992-2007

Sadly, my childhood pet, my first cat, and good friend, Snazzy the Cat died this weekend. Born the runt of the litter, Snazzy maxed out at 7 pounds but she had giant sized personality, ferociously loyal and always a diva. She was a young mother, having taken up with the neighborhood stray at some point and giving birth on my New Kids on the Block sleeping bag. She enjoyed watching The Honeymooners, cracking her cat food as she ate, and sleeping on my clothes. Despite her unfortunate name, she only ran away once. Most importantly, she was pretty and didn’t bite (hard).

Peace out, little Snazzy.

Self-imposed Exile

I have decided to take this weekend to be completely alone. This semester has been busy as usual and while I love socializing, I have been feeling the need for some alone time. The main objective of this weekend is to work on my masters. The secondary objective is to determine if I have low self-esteem. I don’t really think I do, but I have been a little excessively egotistical in the past six weeks. Thinking that I am better at life than everyone else in the world does seem to be indicative of a grandiose arrogance that could be borne out of insecurity. And this is particularly so when I realize that I have not been having more successful outcomes with anything despite the rise in my appraisal of my own greatness. Maybe in grad school – and in life- we are so afraid of failure that we cannot let ourselves entertain the possibility and so we buffer ourselves with delusions of grandeur as self-protection.

Regardless, I am now in Hour 46 of my self imposed exile. I thought I would share a breakdown of what happens when I spend time by myself.

Thursday 11pm (Hour 1)
Return from watching Grey’s with the girls (and eating head sized portions of ice cream)
Think about doing work or beginning intensive self-examination; decide that either would be better after a full night’s sleep.

Midnight-10am
Snooze for 10 hours straight. This weekend is off to great start!

10am-10:30am
Eat 2 bowls of Honey Bunches of Oats, read celebrity gossip online, check my email.

11am
My mind is so fresh and clear. I am ready to work on my Masters.

11:02 am
I should check my email. I should email faculty member X.

11:05 am
This is not going to work. I need a To Do list.

11:12 am
I wonder if she responded to my email? I should check.

11:22 am
Whiskers realizes that I am actually at home during the day. She leaves Big Purple Bed and sits on my lap. It is hard to type brilliant thoughts when she is blocking the full range of motion of my left arm.

11:34 am
Whiskers poops.

11:37 am
God, that F*&#ING smells.

11:40 am
I can’t concentrate. I empty the litterbox, light a candle, yell at “pookers”

11:44 am
I still smell cat shit. Eww. This is why I am NOT here during the day. Why did I put her litterbox in my office?

11:46 am
I spray Bath and Body smelly spray all over everything. Ahh, sweet cucumber melon relief.

11:47 am
Where was I? Oh, that’s right. I need to check my email. Yay, she wrote back. Is it odd that so many faculty members have responded to me with, “You know, no one has ever asked me that before”?

12:45pm
I’m hungry. That is strange. I ate TWO bowls of cereal for the express purpose of not being slowed down by hunger today. I am working on my masters, goddammit. Oh, well, I have the whole weekend. That is the beauty of this weekend. Time is on my side.

I am poor. I have no money. I am broke. I am penniless.

So I have decided to start cooking at home in order to save money.

But I can’t cook.

This means that I am poor and a bad cook. (No wonder I have low self-esteem!)

By the way, I also cannot clean. My lack of domesticity has reached the point that my family now finds it appropriate to make this a subject of open humor. I received a magnet in my Christmas stocking that reads, “My idea of cleaning is to sweep the room with a glance.” Wow, thanks, I’m sure glad I’m old enough to start receiving hostile home decor that makes fun of my domestic shortcomings.

So anyway, I decide to cook an elaborate meal. Fettuccine noodles. With alfredo sauce! With chicken!! With portabello mushrooms!!!

The noodles were fine. Pour noodles in boiling water. Check. Alfredo sauce – pour contents of jar into pot, simmer. Check. But the chicken and mushrooms were very difficult to handle. The mushrooms shrunk and blackened. The chicken got all charbroiled because the frying pan I used was still blackened from the grilled cheese sandwich that I burnt last time. I thought it would be fine. I mean, I washed it. But it made the chicken all charred on the outside and it was steaming and hissing and getting all angry and blackened that I couldn’t take it anymore! I turned it off even though I wasn’t sure the insides had reached the adequate temperature. I don’t have a meat thermometer and I don’t know how hot it is supposed to get inside there, but I tend to let it cook for awhile to be safe. I also cut it up into really small pieces in the hopes that it will cook more thoroughly. I should charge for these awesome Biscotti cooking tips!

Then the noodles started boiling over. I dumped out some of the water. Then the sauce started gurgling and shooting up and out in spontaneous patterns – you couldn’t predict where it was going to explode. It was fascinating. I watched for awhile until one particularly nasty explosion resulted in scalding alfredo sauce on my neck. The mushrooms were shriveled beyond recognition. And my chicken had created a strange, surreal smoky effect in the entire apartment. I was both relieved and concerned that my fire alarm did not go off.

1:30 pm
My cooking fiasco is over and my meal is ready to eat. I turn on my Sex and the City DVD and curl up on the couch with a plate of chargrilled fettucine. Yum, yum, tasty. (Not really, but I’m poor and I will soon be eating out of the dumpster).

2:30 pm
Wow, this couch is so cozy. And this smokiness is making me woozy. Ah, there’s Whiskers. She invites me to take a nap. I agree.

6:00 pm
Holy shit. That was quite a nap. I need some fresh air.

6:05 pm
Still too cold for me.

6:10pm
I wonder if I have low self-esteem. Hmm.
I ask myself, “Self, how do you feel in regards to yourself?”
And my Self says, “Well, I feel pretty good. Not too good. Not excessively good. But good enough. I mean, I don’t feel bad about myself.”
And then I ask, “Are you just saying that because you don’t really want to get into your issues?”
Self: “Well, it’s either issues or back to work on the Masters. You should decide.”
I say, “We’ve been working on the Masters all day. Let’s spend some us time. Why don’t we look in the mirror and see how we feel about us then?”

We look in mirror. Oh shit, I haven’t even taken a shower today. I can’t fairly appraise my self-worth if I haven’t even taken a shower. But for an unshowered person, I would say I feel good about myself. Not too good. Not excessively, supermodel good. But good enough. Not a total hag, right?

6:15pm

Take a shower. Realize that I am not in the mood to think about my self-esteem. Will do that tomorrow.

6:30 pm
Work on masters. This is fantastic. I am really in the zone.

6:48 pm
Check email. Nothing new. Why should there be anything new? It is Friday night. No one is going to send you an email. Give it up.

6:55 pm
Check email. You never know…

8:15pm
Can’t concentrate anymore. Kind of hungry again. On my way to checking my email again when I decide to peruse the TV listings. I never watch TV. Barely know how to operate my unnecessarily complicated cable box.

Then, a stroke of inspiration hits me. How foolish am I? It’s the oldest study trick in the book! So I gather up my laptop, my yellow legal pad, and a handful of articles and move to the couch. I flip on the History channel. Acceptable, but not British. Turn to the Travel channel. Bingo! Nothing makes you feel smarter and more intellectually inspired than hearing British people narrate boring/intelligent things.

9:00pm
Damn. It’s over. Now, I really am hungry. I go to the kitchen and realize that cooking is so useless. All you get is way too much crap food for a single person to eat AND a sinkful of dishes that are too large for the dishwasher. And those ones are always the messiest anyway. I don’t feel like cooking anything else. So I eat more of my flame broiled fettuccine. And then I feel sick. Too sick to do anymore masters. I realize that ironically, in an attempt to feel emotionally better about myself, I make myself feel physically worse.

10:00pm
Start watching “What Not to Wear”
I found it way too amusing which made me realize that I do not watch enough TV. It all seems so funny and sparkly and wonderful.
See advertisements for a new show featuring a family counselor rabbi called “Shalom in the Home” I wish I were in TV so that I could come up with titles like that.

1:00 am
After a day of giving myself mild food poisoning, making moderate progress on my masters and none on my self-esteem, I go to bed.

Ok, so you get the idea. Today has been quite similar, except that I added exercise.

The dishes are still piled up all over the kitchen, in the sink, on the table, on the counters. I tried to make homemade coffee for the first time ever. No one has ever taught me, but I figured that I had watched enough Folgers commercials in my lifetime (I sang the jingle”It’s the best part of waking up. It’s Folgers in your cup”) the ENTIRE time that I made the coffee.

I did pretty well. I knew that you poured the water in the one part and the coffee beany-ness in the other part. Failed to remember that you need one of those paper sifter things before you put the coffee beany-ness in. I had very gritty coffee. So I tried again. This time no grits, but it was damn watery. I miss Starbucks. I wish I wasn’t poor. I bet I would have very high self-esteem if I had enough money to pay people to cook, clean, and prepare my coffee because then I could avoid all of the crap that I suck at and no longer feel bad about myself for my incompetence at daily life.

Oops, she exposed too much of herself again.

I have decided to create a new weekly award on my blog. It will be called Biscotti’s Official It’s Time to Vote Them Off the Island award.

Britney Spears: I have officially voted you off the island.

Dear Britney,

You are obnoxious. Other than “I’m a Slave 4 U,” you have contributed nothing to my life. So I don’t want to see your va-jay jay splashed all across the internet. I don’t want to turn on CNN and see that you shaved your head. Just like I didn’t believe your virginity pledge, or want to watch you kiss Madonna, or hear that your “sex was so good” with Kevin Federline, or see pictures of you barefoot and pregnant in gas stations, eating Cheetos. So, please, Britney, take your Valtrex and diet pills, your Paris Hilton aspirations, and your bald head and go back to Louisiana and raise your two Feder-spawn. You are making K-Fed look classy. You were a teen star, made millions of dollars, that should be enough attention for one lifetime. Your time is over.

Get off my island,

Biscotti

Bated Breath* and Rubber Gloves

*(Did ya’ll know that the correct spelling is “bated,” not baited? A lot of people don’t know what the word abate means but we are all familiar with how to bait a hook so people have taken to spelling it baited breath. But I digress…)

Have you ever been sick of yourself? I’m talking overall just fed up with the same thought patterns, the well trodden paths, the familiar reactions, the recycling of stories.

As readers of this blog are well aware, I find myself incredibly interesting. You know that fine line between loving yourself (in a healthy, self-esteem way) and being in love with yourself(in an egotistical, narcissitic way)? Well, I walk that line, my friends.

But at a certain point, enough is enough. Maybe I am in a rut. I blame this god-awful winter weather. It’s hard to be dazzling in 12 degree weather.

I have been on myspace for probably a year and a half now and I often get messages from random guys who like my picture and profile (mostly the picture, I think). And I have actually made some good friends based on these random interactions and I have acquired some even better stories about the ones who are too sketchy to take seriously.

It always interests me when a guy writes to me and says, “What do I need to do for you to let me get to know you?”

The real answer that I would give is: “Be someone that I would want to get to know.”

However, I probably would not respond to someone who asked me that simply because it puts way too much emphasis on me. Not only am I the gatekeeper in terms of letting him get to know me (not to mention that he thinks has to DO something for that to happen) but it is all about him getting to know me. And I am sick and tired of me.

I am sick of reaching into my arsenal of charming stories on dates, tired of being the bubbly entertainment while he just sits there, sick and tired of talking about myself. I have been on so many dates in which I have carried the whole thing and left thinking about how interesting I was, how funny I was, what a great date I was. Shouldn’t the whole point be to be impressed by him instead of congratulating myself on hitting that date out of the park? So I don’t do it anymore. No more sparkling personality, no more dates as auditions, no more delightful details of my inner workings. All I really want is to sit on a couch in my sweatpants and listen to the guy say something of substance. Or better yet, not talk at all. Let the people in the television talk.

Really, there is no reason for them to get to know me. All I do is chase my tail, around and around in dizzy circles, while these guys attach themselves like fleas until they inevitably fall off, taking some of my blood with them as they go.

The Party

*

ANTI-LOVE CELEBRATION 2007

*actual stuffed animals were injured in the execution of this party

Down with Love!

Singles Awareness Day is tomorrow. I am hosting an Anti-Love party on Thursday to show my resistance to the lamest holiday of the year.

Let’s explore the downside of love:

1.2 million divorces annually – that translates to 3,200 divorces every day.

People waste $13 billion on Valentine’s Day annually. The average consumer spends nearly $100 on stupid teddy bears, dried out heart shape chocolates and flowers that are going to die in two days.

44% of American adults are single

59% of people between the ages of 18-34 have recently experienced a break up.

29% of people “watch a lot of TV” after a break up, 22% of people get drunk

20% of women and 40% of men admit to cheating

48% of women admit to faking an orgasm

1 in 4 people will have an STD at some point in their lives

Am I Too Liberal for Dating?

I have never willingly dated a conservative. Given the constraints in dating screening processes, I have unwittingly dated a conservative or two. And lived to regret to it.

At a recent dinner party, I asked my friend’s husband if he knew any available men at his law firm. I like to date older professionals, and living in Bloomington, they are a rare species. I told him that I’m not shy and I’m trying not to be so picky, but that I have two deal-breakers: No Smokers and No Conservatives.

A couple weeks later, I am talking to the set up guy who has been deemed the “most liberal friend I have” by my friend’s husband. In our first full AIM conversation, Mr. Most Liberal Friend I Have and I somehow start talking about gun control. By the end of the conversation, I am accusing him of “spewing NRA bullshit” and he has branded me a “dirty pinko commie.” You know, if I were to be part of a politically inspired coupling, I always envisioned myself in the Kennedy mold – certainly not James Carville and Mary Matalin.

However, I was not shocked to be called a communist. You see, I get it honest:

Last weekend, I got my oil changed at nearby Mr. Lubie. A cute kid, probably 19 or 20 years old, was servicing my car and we were making small talk. I told him that I am from Pennsylvania and that I was shocked to find that Indiana does not require car inspections, particularly after seeing more than one rusted out, doorless pick up truck on the road.

The lube kid responded to my indignant pro-inspection stance by saying, “Car inspections? That’s communist! I swear, that is downright communistic. I don’t know why Pennsylvania does that.”

See, it’s not my fault that I am a commie. Maybe our slogan should be: “You’ve Got a Friend in Communist Pennsylvania”

So, here I am: Too liberal for Indiana. Too liberal for the most liberal friend he’s got. Too liberal for the lube guy. Basically, too liberal for men in Indiana.

But does that really make me a communist?

Who’s Gonna Love You When Your Looks Are Gone?

Don’t take this the wrong way but I am officially done with love and all of its accoutrements.

Life is good: I like grad school, I have great friends, my hair has never been shinier and I have a cat who greets my daily awakening with a level of adoration and enthusiasm that I highly doubt my future husband will ever be able to attain- let alone sustain on a daily basis.

But today, I had a revelation. It has been snowing heavily all day in Bloomington and the temperature has been in the single digits (leading me to reaffirm my belief that Hell is actually frozen). In essence, this is “boyfriend weather.” The kind of snowed in days where you just want to cuddle up with the person you love and drink hot chocolate and watch movies and make declarations of never leaving the apartment again.

Instead, I was by myself in this desolate weather. I drew a warm, bubbly bath, lit some candles, played my most angsty music and belted out the (more or less correct) lyrics.

And I realized that I am over the whole desire to fall in love right now. Somewhere along the way, I got it into my head that I just have to keep moving, keep trying and if I am genuine and caring enough, it will just happen. But, in fact, when I look over the past few months, I see that I have been sabotaging every romantic opportunity, but I will not just admit that I do not actually want anything to work out. Because without that noise, without that effort and striving, I would have to be content with myself and my life as it is. And maybe, for me, the thought of standing still is too scary to face.

Scary as the alternatives may be, I simply cannot continue managing my love life this way. It all feels so frivolous and petty. And it’s my own fault for chasing the unavailable and shrouding myself in hubris.

In the past few months alone, I have made some type of romantic attempt with:

1. Emotionally Unavailable Man

2. Geographically Unavailable Man (in a classic Laura move, I was indignant that someone would not entirely rearrange his life after knowing me for 48 hours in the name of love and my greatness)

3. Time Warp Unavailable Man
First, I thought that maybe I had it together in high school after all and that a return to simpler times would solve the problem.
Second, I thought that perhaps the fascinating New York man that I should have kept dating instead of going back to my jerk ex-boyfriend was someone that I should get in touch with again. (See also: Geographically Unavailable Man)

4. The Actually Unavailable Man
My personal favorite: the ones who already have girlfriends.

As you can tell, a big part of my issues have been at the selection level. Though to quote Carrie from Sex and the City, “I do not pick the wrong guys, they pick me!”

But when I think about my attitude recently, I see myself bouncing around a lot, being a little too proud, superficial, and ego driven. I have fallen into things with guys just because they come in pretty little packages that validate my own attractiveness only to unwrap them to find morally vile and deceitful people.

Being at this point in my life, I feel confident and settled in a way that I never have before. And I have advantages in the sense that I am adequately “cute”- looking, a fun conversationalist and intelligent enough to attract more than my share of men. But it doesn’t really matter how great you are, sometimes you just don’t find the right connection. And in that frustration, I may have gotten a warped sense of self. Instead of cultivating patience, I became defensive. Instead of being humble, I became conceited. Instead of channeling the considerable amount of genuine compassion and caring for other people that I feel, I started playing the games, too.

While I do think highly of myself, any argument that begins with me being flawless and ends with me being too good for him just rings hollow.

So, I am over trying for love, I am done with the dating game, and I am ready to release this overinflated conception of myself. And I want to replace all of that with a calm, centered confidence. I am starting to see that what I really need is someone to ground me, someone with a spark, who makes me laugh and who I want to do everything possible to be completely awesome to them. I don’t know the answer to finding that, but it seems that the best way to do things might be through the building of friendships without any romantic expectations. It’s worth a shot, right?