This is My Graduation Post

So if we get the big jobs

And we make the big money

When we look back now

Will our jokes still be funny?

Will we still remember everything we learned in school?

Still be trying to break every single rule

Will little brainy Bobby be the stockbroker man?

Can Heather find a job that won't interfere with her tan?

I keep, keep thinking that it's not goodbye

Keep on thinking it's a time to fly

-Vitamin C

            Today, I woke up just like I do any other day; with a mouth as dry as the Sahara, hair looking like a bunch of beavers were nesting in it overnight, and the thought of skipping class lingering in my mind.  But as the day went on, I started to realize something, thanks to several overly emotional tweets and Facebook updates:  Graduation is exactly one month away (cue Green Day graduation song). 

            This is super stressful to me for several reasons.  Firstly, it will no longer be acceptable to binge drink “because it’s Tuesday”.  In the real world, that’s considered a “problem”, or something.  Secondly, I’m probably never going to see half of the people I’ve met in college ever again.  I’m not talking about my real friends, because we have an inseparable bond that will hold us together forever (right guys?).  I’m talking about the other people.  As much as I hate my weird, loud neighbor whose giant dog poops on my yard every day, I think I’m going to miss her, just a little.  Leaving OU and not getting to see the same idiots every weekend at Seven47 is weirdly depressing.

            But almost more stressful than those two things is that now we are expected to get a career.  I use the word “career” because it’s more than a job.  It’s more than working at Pickleman’s 2 days a week and making $78 a year, because a homeless person makes more than that.  A career is a commitment.  The world just expects you to know what you were destined to do the second you graduate college and commit to that for the rest of your life.  No offense world, but THAT'S BULLSHIT. 

            As for me, I have absolutely no idea what I want to do after graduation.   All I know is that I’d rather ride on the back of a trash truck every day for the rest of my life than do something involving math.  I know that I’d rather join a nunnery than sit in a cubicle working on spreadsheets all day.  Sometimes I get really jealous thinking about all the people who have jobs lined up after graduation.  That must be a really great feeling.  And I’m not saying I don’t secretly wish I could have that.  Because having a steady income and getting to move out of your parents house the day after graduation must feel AWESOME.  But I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m just not one of those people.  I’m not the kid at the Baskin-Robbins who knows exactly what flavor I want before I get there.  I’m the kid who insists on trying every single flavor multiple times before I finally pick one, after wasting about 17 sample spoons and thoroughly irritating everyone in line behind me.  (Yes, I just made an ice cream flavor metaphor.  Deal with it.)  The fact that I don’t know what I’m doing doesn’t make me lazy or dumb or any other condescending adjective you might think of.  I think it’s freeing. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m kind of excited about it.  The way I see it, I have the option to move anywhere I want and do whatever I want!  Except be a doctor.  I probably can’t be a doctor.

Faith

50 Shades of Crazy

In high school, I made the decision to jump on the bandwagon and read The Twilight Saga. Like a majority of the teenage girl population, I loved it. Unlike the majority of the teenage girl population, it ruined me. I started to get even more fed up with my teenage boyfriend than usual. He was just lazy. I mean my God, if it was raining I needed him to cover me from head to tow in a water repelling shield and carry me to the car. At night, while I slept, I fully expected him to climb into my window and whisper things like “I’ll make sure no one ever looks you in the eye without asking” or “don't worry sweetie, I will viciously murdered all your male friends because I am that in love with you.” He just didn’t do that kind of stuff and I had to break up with him. Those things were reasonable. Like W.W.E.D…what would Edward do, babe? As I grew and matured, I slowly released my Edward Cullen fantasy. I mean it wasn’t really that I stopped finding overwhelming control in a relationship important; I just got way more desperate and forgot about it a little. That is until I read the 50 Shades of Grey Trilogy.

That horribly written, kinky sex filled novel became my secret heroin. I knew the implication this might have on me mentally, but I couldn’t put it down. I tried my hardest to use the things my therapist taught me during my Twilight binge, but I just couldn’t stop it from taking a temporary toll on my current relationship. I wasn’t committed to 50 Shades for the whips, chains and other slightly terrifying sexcapades that Anastasia and Christian embarked on, I was in it for the unhealthy level of obsession that he had with her. 

The change washed over me slowly but surely as I morphed into a little blonde haired psychopath. “Hey I think I’m going to go out with my friends tonight” I muttered one evening to my boyfriend. “Okay cool have fun,” he responded like the most irresponsible human being I’d ever met. I should have listened to my therapist and calmly walked to the bathroom looked myself in the mirror and said “Katherine, Christian Grey isn’t real. It’s also really strange that, in the novel 50 Shades of Grey…WHERE HE EXISTS…he forces his girlfriend to take a security team with her everywhere she goes. That’s not normal behavior. Also Katherine, you look really pretty today. You should go assert confidence and go make a real human connection instead of wasting your time with romance novels. ” But I didn’t. I snapped. “Look sir” I screamed as I jumped off the couch. I emphasized the ‘sir’ because that’s what Ana calls Christian in the book. “I just told you that I am going to a bar. A BAR. In Norman, OK…a city with an EXTREMELY high crime rate. Like I mean right under DETROIT. And you’re just going to be that nonchalant about me going? I guess I get that you don’t have the financial means to hire a security team 24/7 but you can’t even do it for one night? Oh my god. You’re so cheap. At least force your roommate to follow me around all night and make sure I’m super safe.” He looked stunned which annoyed me even more so I just left. The next morning I had forgotten about it. It was clear I’d suffered from what Summer Roberts on The O.C. calls a “rage blackout.”

 Later that day, and after a few more chapters, I decided to take another cue from the book. I snuck over to his house while he was at work and suspended myself from the ceiling with rope. I thought this would be a nice romantic gesture after a long day of the 9 to 5 but it totally backfired. He told me to leave and not come back until I had let go of “Anastasia” and come back to “Katherine.” I sat on the curb of his apartment building sobbing covered in rope burns and self-defeat. He obviously just didn’t want to evolve with me, right? This couldn’t be my fault. I slowly got up and adjusted the Bloomingdales tag on the Alexander McQueen dress I had bought myself for the occasion with the money I was supposed to be using on school tuition. So 50 Shades of me. 

Then it hit me. I was spiraling again. This sick, sexy, dysfunctional couple was my new Edward and Bella and I needed help. I took a big deep breath and set fire to the book…. well I deleted it off my iPhone but you get the point. I returned the dress, I guess buying it with your parents money isn’t really the same as your megabillionaire lover’s personal shopper buying it for you. My boyfriend eventually took me back and my life is back on track but let this be a warning to all of you. 50 Shades of Grey is a cruel, harsh drug. This isn’t literary child’s play, Ladies. Be careful out there. 

Katherine

My Bowling Instructor

            I’ve never been good at sports. I’m not saying that in one of those ways where I act like I’m bad at sports but then if you asked me to play a game of tennis I’d show up in head-to-toe Lulu Lemon and hold my own really well. I’m also not saying it in one of those cool hipster ways where my lack of athletic ability can be compensated by my insane ability to do something artistic while looking  toned in gray skinny jeans without ever going to the gym. I’m just horrifically awful at pretty much anything athletic. In middle school, I told my gym teacher I was eternally on my period so he and I could sit on the stage of gymnasium, drink Dr. Pepper and talk about his marriage while the other kids ran laps.

As I got older my morbid lack of coordination became less of a bone of contention in my personal relationships. After a certain point you just learn how to avoid any situation where you’d have to do anything remotely physical. You forget what the humiliation of kickball feels like. You move on. At least that’s what I thought. Then my boyfriend suggested we going on a double date to the bowling alley.

I wasn’t even really nervous or worried. It had just been so long since I had used my arms, I kind of just forgot how they looked when they tried to do things. I mean bowling seems easy enough. Everybody can roll a ball down a slippery wooden hallway, right? Wrong.  I did my usual song and dance. The whole “I’m-so-quirky-and-adorable-that-no-matter-what-happens-im-just-gonna-giggle-my-way-through-this” act that I’ve clung to my whole self-deprecating life. It was kind of my trademark thing. I have always been convinced that if you giggle enough it makes the situation less embarrassing. It didn’t work. I was awful. I literally guttered every ball and you could cut the pity-laced tension in the alley with a knife. I could tell that everyone felt like they’d seen a special needs child get bullied in the hallway or something.  That night as I went to bed I vowed never to touch a bowling ball again.

Eventually that fateful night faded into my memory and I continued with my life, until I made the mistake of mentioning that I wasn’t that good at bowling to my mother over dinner one evening. I could tell she was overly concerned, as she usually was. I could see the wheels turning in her head, but I was in no way prepared for what was next.

She woke me up early the following Monday and announced that she had enrolled me in private bowling lessons. I was mortified but I showed up to the alley at 3pm sharp like I told. I picked a table and waited there pouting, until my instructor walked through the door. She was like an angel in wrangler jeans, Kswiss sneakers, and one of those tans that you can tell has been maintained for way too long. I knew right away this was going to be EXACTLY like Tuesdays with Morrie. She reached out her hand to meet me and as if someone from deep within was speaking for me, I locked eye contact with her and said, “Mold me.”

 By the end of that hour-long session, I was hooked. Granted I hadn’t knocked any pins down yet but I had learned pretty much everything I needed to know about my “coach.” She knew how to fly a plane, had like 60 college degrees, used to be a professional chef in Vegas, had a bunch of time shares, home colors her hair, lives in a mobile home just because she’s a free spirit, is dating like five guys at once that she met on Zoosk, and didn't want me to call after 9pm because she will be busy with one of her boyfriends. Did I mention she installed her own sauna in her mobile home? Usually I’d be annoyed that my bowling instructor was more interesting then me but I was pretty positive she was my spirit animal.

I made an appointment for everyday that week. The second day, she showed me how to hold my shoulders and swing my arm to ensure a straight delivery. She winked at me and told me it was her little secret that she was sharing with me.  The third day we drank green tea and talked about these diet pills she took that aren’t yet approved by the FDA. The fourth day she showed me how to “slide and swing.” The fifth day we talked about her divorce. By the end of the week I had my own ball, bag, shoes, slide sock (bet you don’t know what that is do you?) and I was signed up for her league.

Though I’m really not much better at bowling, I took some very important lessons away from my time with Coach. You know, like never invite two guys you’re dating to Buffalo Wild Wings to watch a Giants game at the same time and that every girl should know how to repair the drainage system in her shower. 

Katherine

The Year of the Catfish

            2012 was a weird one.  Snoop Dog changed his name to Snoop Lion, the guy from the Kony video ran around with his junk out, and the world was introduced to the most irritating song ever created, “Gangnam Style”.  Although it’s barely February, I’m optimistic that 2013 will be even weirder. 

            After all of this Manti Te’o fake girlfriend drama, I’ve decided that 2013 should be known as “The Year of the Catfish”.  Apparently having a secret online relationship is the new black.  Everybody’s doing it.  Are you lacking in basic human social skills?  Try an online relationship with a stranger!  You’ve been talking for over a year but you’ve never actually seen her?  No worries, it’s probably because she’s so busy modeling in Paris!  But thanks to the MTV show Catfish,  we’ve come to see that sometimes people may not be who they say they are.  I know…crazy, right?

            Thanks to the show, 35-year-old white guys named Carl who live with their parents can’t catch a break.  What happened to the days when creepy old guys could get away with pretending to be a 19-year-old Norwegian model named Gretchen?  Don’t even think about it, Carl.  Because the next thing you know, Nev and his silver fox companion are going to Catfish your ass on national television.

            The thing that is most mind boggling to me is that all of these people genuinely believe that the person they are talking to is exactly who they claim to be.  What’s that?  Your online boyfriend Chad is an Abercrombie model, the executive producer of Chelsea Lately, and a pediatric surgeon?  Yeah, that sounds totally legitimate.  There’s absolutely no way he’s really a 47-year-old ex-con who works at Jack in the Box.

            So I’d like to take this time to formally thank 2013 for shedding a weird, yet beautiful light on online relationships.  I’ve thoroughly enjoyed getting to look into the secret lives of these mysterious creatures.  Hopefully one day people will realize that starting an online relationship is almost always a terrible idea.  Until then, Tinder away kids.

-FD

The Minor Emergency Waiting Room

I woke up yesterday morning feeling a little under the weather. As the day progressed, it was clear that I had to go to the doctor. There was snot shellacked to my face and my mom kept interrupting my episode of Shahs of Sunset to remind me that it was flu season. I flopped off of my couch and headed to the nearest minor emergency room. When I got there I realized it was packed with people. It was like a germ orgy in there and I was horrified, but I knew I had to stick it out and accomplish my crusade to good health. I marched up to the front desk, looking around defensively at the Medical Center’s inhibitors. “How long?” I said, doing my best to make intimidating eye contact with the skunk-haired receptionist. “Two hours,” she replied flatly. I whimpered a little and picked a seat by the door.

 My waiting room neighbors seemed normal enough, germy but normal. I picked up a WebMD magazine and prepared to start self-diagnosing when I noticed a woman cough her way through the door. She was wearing baby blue flannel pajama pants with penguins all over them and they were backwards, allowing the silver sparkly drawstrings to outline her butt crack.  She also seemed to have forgotten to wear shoes...to a doctor’s office. To make matters worse, she was wearing a red and green shirt with an animated owl on it that read, “Owl I want for Christmas is you.” I hated her instantly yet I was jealous of her. The front desk had given her one of those face masks that made her look like that one emojicon that you never need to use. Her coverall-clad mother and two year old daughter, Arielle, had accompanied her and they picked a seat right next to mine.  Arielle immediately spilled her McDonald’s french fries on the floor and started eating them. For a second I thought Pajama Pants was going to stop her daughter, but instead she just asked her if she remembered how to get home.  PJs seemed to have forgotten. The question made sense; after all she was almost two years of age…she should know that.

I, then, became intensely aware of the other people around me listening closely to every conversation. It turned out to be a circus in there. A raspy voice, soaked in hickish undertones, caught my ear next. “It’s like man porn, babe,” I heard him say. This confused me. Isn’t regular porn supposed to be “man porn?” I turned around to see a man in head-to-toe OSU gear and fur insulated Crocs holding up a picture of a goat on his iPhone to show his voluptuous and hairy looking wife. She just laughed and shook her head.  “Boys and their toys"' she muttered to a terrified looking newlywed couple. I was unaware that livestock could be so erotic. Then, Croc-man started talking to them about how his ex-wife recently bought a gun and that he was scared she was going to kill him. Noticing that the couple couldn’t relate to that issue he tried a different social angle, he snickered and said he was excited to take his daughter to the Justin Beiber/Carly Rae Jepson concert. He winked at the nauseous looking pair and said “brownie point sex.” His wife just smiled and tenderly touched his leg. I immediately went to sit by the newlyweds, they had been through as much as I had at this point and we needed each other. The woman was wearing an approachable looking Ann Taylor Loft outfit and her husband was mildy good looking. Well, not really good-looking, but they both looked clean. We made a lot of “this place, right?” eye contact. We didn’t talk or anything but we were both exchanging auras of classiness and social awareness and that was comforting. Things seemed to be going really well until I heard Ann Taylor Loft shriek. It turns out Pajama Pants had run outside, instead of to the bathroom, and was now barfing violently in front of the window directly behind us while Arielle stood and clapped. I admired the clapping a bit. I think its important that every bodily function be rewarded, but I still couldn’t get over her shoeless ways. We watched, regretfully, as PJs straightened, walked back inside, and started eating a cheese stick underneath her mask. Just when I thought it absolutely couldn’t get any worse, I noticed a little boy crying and a toothless woman comforting him. “Sweetie, your brother is at the doctor because he has a big, big hole in his arm. Gammy could stick her finger right through it and touch all way to his bone!” She then made a motion like she was screwing something into a wall. The boy screamed and ran from his grandmother with a look of sheer terror. 

Finally they called my name…I looked back at the newlyweds to say my goodbyes and though they didn’t say anything, I took their look to mean, “go on, Katherine, get! Go live. Go live for all of us.” That’s exactly what I did.

Katherine

Hell On Earth: The Cottage Pool

“Through me you enter into the city of woes

Through me you enter into eternal pain,

Through me you enter the population of loss.

 Abandon all hope, you who enter here.”

-Dante’s Inferno

Ever since I lied to my Priest about brushing my teeth during my First Reconciliation, I’ve been 110% sure I’m going to Hell. He asked me what I wanted to confess and I just stared back at him, cloaked in terrified silence. “Well,” he started, “Do you always mind your Mother?” I answered "yes" truthfully. “Have you ever stolen anything?” I said no, frankly insulted that he had even insinuated something so appalling. “Do you always brush your teeth when your Mother tells you to?” Oh God. How did he know? “Uhhhhh…yes.” I lied looking down at my Velcro-fastened shoes in horror. I tossed and turned that night knowing my fate was sealed. I was screwed. There was no way I was going to sit on a cloud watching as much Famous Jet Jackson as I wanted while Angels taught my Polly Pockets to talk after what I had just done. As I grew up I always knew in the back of my mind that I probably didn’t stand a chance. In high school, as I stamped out the Camel Number 9 I was pretending to smoke with my Catholic school required loafer, I knew I had just solidified that fact even more. The thing was, I just didn’t know what form “Hell” would come in. I mean I thought I did. You know "fiery pit with a mean red guy screaming at you to do certain tasks" or maybe somewhere that you could only wear Crocs and you had to do a lot of math. I was wrong. Hell is a much different, much more awful place and I would see it much sooner than expected. 

I’ve decided Hell is different for everyone. You know, like Satan has a Genius application or something that customizes your eternal pain. Unfortunately, mine came in the form of the pool at my apartment complex, The Cottages of Norman. 

When I walked in, I knew something was off. The air smelled of stale, barf-stained fraternity tank tops and Keystone Lights.  As the abrupt “clang” of the metal gate echoed behind me, I knew there was no way out. Immediately my sense of hearing was compromised, deafening my brain with the sounds of "Party Rock Anthem" mashed up with something that sounded like Pit Bull mashed up with Barry Manilow mashed up with a baby crying mashed up with Pink Floyd mashed up with Gladys Knight mashed up with the sounds of take off on the first Apollo mission mashed up with The Jackson 5 mashed up with Mel Gibson’s voicemail to his ex-wife. I knew this was sent to weaken me for the attack. 

I did my best to make it to a lounge chair, wading through the piles of passed out guys named Chad and other bros that weren’t up to the first challenge of the Under World, “Day Drankin’.” I laid down bracing myself for the next phase of the swimming pool prep process, trying my best to ignore the too-loud conversations of the overly tanned and perfectly groomed.  The next thing I heard was “No, but like I’m for real. If he’s gonna be all about her than I’m def. going to make out with that half-Iranian guy that’s been texting me. It’s like 'let me live'….. ya know? YOLO and all that. You think you can smoke weed with your ex after I repeatedly asked you not to and I’m just gonna be like 'yeah, sure honey, I’ll do your laundry and hook up with you whenever?’ So over it. Like already done. Like unclear as to why I'm just now over it.” 

At that point I thought maybe it was a good idea to swim and take my mind off things. I tried to be sexy as I walked over to the pool but the pavement was so hot I just ended up looking like a scene from Bridget Jones’ Diary or something. Once I got in, the pool was so incredibly packed that swimming had become a mere pipe dream. It was like a battle zone, but with a lot more over-the-swimsuit fondling. The worst part was I had absolutely no idea what to do with my hands. Do I put them at my sides? Do I cross my arms? Do I use them to subtly dance? Like seriously, what do I do with my hands? I decided to just throw them straight into the air and make unbreakable eye contact with every well-manicured sorostitute that came my way, showing them that I would not back down. It was every man for himself. I climbed out and dangled my pale legs from the edge. I gazed down at the murky water filled with urine, beer cans and tanning oil, briefly catching a glimpse of my reflection.  A tear came to my eye. “I WANT ANOTHER CHANCE!” I screamed at water Katherine. “PLEASE GOD GIVE ME ANOTHER CHANCE!” Then suddenly the heavens opened up and an angel dropped down in the most unlikely form. “You can’t have glass by the pool”, she barked glancing at my drink, “leave.” 

I’ve literally never missed Mass since.  

Katherine