the Joneses

   In just under three months, I will be finishing up my five year stint as a college student. 29 days of class in this semester left followed by a three week summer course is all that stands between me and being a graduate. Days have never gone slower.

   It's funny to me the development in my level of nerdiness from high school to now. In high school, I was one of 109 (I think) in my graduating class. There was an assortment of personalities and achievement levels that made my life pretty easy. Though I attempted to excel by enrolling in Advanced Placement courses and was pretty A-oriented, I didn't feel like I was pushing myself very hard. I got A's and B's, participated in various clubs, played tennis, took the pre-SATs, and applied for scholarships to college. I had friends that all aimed very high which was a blessing in disguise when I found out I was very competitive. I'm pretty sure that if I had a different group of friends, I wouldn't have found out exactly how hard I was capable of pushing myself. 

   My freshman year of college I took Economics 101 and hated it. I didn't understand it and didn't care to, which led me to a harsh realization upon receiving my transcript. I looked at the B- (which, to a lot of people would lead to a fist pump in self-congratulation) and just got pissed off. I decided right then that I was not a B- kind of girl. I was paying for my education and the idea of carrying the burden of a $20,000 student debt for numerous years of my life for a bunch of average grades on my record made me very uneasy. I'm pretty sure that from that moment on, I became a mega-nerd.

   School became increasingly important to me, shifting my priorities from "boyfriend and a carefree outlook" to "school, homework, and getting an A". I soon found out I was capable of getting a 4.0 in college and felt mighty good about it. I merged into a group of friends that, to me, seemed normal. In hindsight, I don't think I could've picked a more ridiculous bunch to befriend. Grades, points, and scores were at the core of their worries and it caused me to care a whole lot more about my results than ever before. I soon began to look at my 95%s as simply not being 100%s. I forgot to celebrate and revel in the fact that I was at the top of my class. I looked around me at my peers' scores and the only ones I noticed were those better than mine. It was if they were written larger and in redder ink than all the others.

   My stress and anxiety levels increased the farther I got into the program. The friends I'd made in the earlier years were still there whereas a lot of the others had dropped. I went from being at the top of the pack to somewhere in the middle. Classes got harder and the average dropped lower, gaining me C's and B's on exams. I was not okay with my performance and beat myself up after realizing there were people getting 98%s. I didn't notice the people getting 60%s.

   I started to spend time with my friends less and phone conversations got shorter. I would lose sleep because I was convinced that if I stayed up two hours later studying, I'd do better this time. And yet I'd still do worse than the people who studied "for a couple of hours". It was starting to hurt.

   The worst part was no one seemed to understand. My parents would tell me to not worry as much, that I was doing great - couldn't I see that? My boyfriend just listened and told me it'd all work out. My close friends and roommates didn't understand as much as I'd hoped and I found myself harboring this bitter and self-degrading feeling inside of me. Why couldn't I just be the best?

   The level of competition my senior year and within the Graduate program has been completely insane. We're down to probably 25 people and we've all known each other for at least four years. We know what each other are capable of and are always sure to verify our standing within the group. Scores are compared, time spend studying is casually thrown into conversation, people whisper about others' performance and grades are peeked at over shoulders. And the worst part is how ok it is - everyone does it. It's normal.

   But it's so harmful. There are people that cry themselves to sleep, self-harm, pick up addictions, alienate themselves, hate themselves, become sick and unhappy. The people we should be cheering on and forming lifelong bonds with are the same people we pit ourselves against and compare abilities as if it's some sort of contest. We all will get the degree. We all will get jobs. We all are accountants. Why does it matter so much what the person next to you is doing? Or how they are doing it? How can you possibly compare the results of a single mother non-traditional student with the valedictorian of the graduating high school class of 2009? And why do they both care?

   As the end is looming for my experience at college, my hindsight really is 20/20. If I could, I would go back and do it all differently. I would make time to find myself instead of trying to fit myself inside of a very small box. I would've made more friends that were similar to me instead of ones that just happened to be interested in accounting like I was. I would've looked at the big picture. Mainly, I would've worked on being a happier, better me. 

   Of all the things I've learned along the way, one is the knowledge that competition will always be present. It will be there in my career, in my family, amongst my friends and even neighbors. I'm honestly worried that I've instilled this self-degrading concept of competition and comparison into myself for too long, and that it will be toxic to my life. I don't want to care so much about the person next to me and how "better" they are then me. The thought makes me tired, angry, and depressed. I want to be that person that congratulates, inspires, and shares in happiness with others. I don't want to keep up with the Joneses. 

This one time in Prince George…

   On our trip back down to the Lower 48 from Alaska this summer, we obviously traveled through Canada. Some parts were beautiful and entertaining, others were downright scary. Like Fort Nelson for example, but that’s another story.

   We wanted to take a different route down than we did up, so we went through some different parts of British Columbia. We liked BC a lot better than Alberta. Garrett was the Master Planner and took on the task of securing hotel rooms each night for whatever town we aimed to end up in.

   Prince George, BC was our goal for Day 3 (that rhymed). I was pretty excited about it because it sounded like a big place and I was ready to integrate into society after three days of driving through Northern Canada. We listened to a weird book on tape, had plenty of road trip snacks, took turns playing with the then-9-week-old Remy, and enjoyed the scenery.

   The hotel Garrett chose was one of the nicer ones. It was more of a motel because we had our own exterior door, which was nice with Remy for insta-bathroom action. We were pooped from our 10 hour drive (weird how that works…all we did was sit) so we didn’t get out and explore Prince George. I was okay with that though because it looked like we were in a not-so-nice part of town and it was getting dark.

   The next morning, Garrett took Remy out to go #1 before hopping in the shower.

Side Note   Puppy Rule #1: your puppy will ALWAYS have to go #2 in the morning. ALWAYS.

   I was aware of this rule and was somewhat irked that he hadn’t waited it out for her to let it out, knowwhatI’msayin’. I was irked because it required me to take her out, which isn’t beyond my capabilities as a pet owner, but it meant I had to put on a bra and do something with my unwashed hair and wipe the crusty drool off my face before facing the public.

   So I did, begrudgingly. I could tell Remy was doing the sniff-along-all-the-walls-while-walking-very-fast-I-gotta-poop dance so I quickly tidied myself up, grabbed the leash, and walked outside. I was careful not to shut the door all the way because it was the kind that automatically locks you out, and I didn’t bring a key.

   The first thing I noticed was that the air smelled exactly like you’d think a rancid porta-potty filled with waste and maybe dead things mixed with rotting things would. It literally made me stop in my tracks. Even Remy hesitated and began sniffing around all huffy-like. I was honestly looking for a bag of decomposing…something sitting outside our door or perhaps a pile of garbage nearby. But there was nothing. It was THE TOWN that smelled.

   After that crude awakening, Remy and I walked over to the nearest patch of grass so she could do her business. We passed a very slender elderly man in a stained brimmed hat smoking a cigarette while sitting on a chair outside of the door next to ours. I smiled meekly in greeting and he raised his cigarette as we passed. We made it over to the tiny 4x4 patch of grass and Remy was just about to get down to business when two Dobermans came charging at us at full throttle behind the nearby chain link fence. Not a big fan of violence, Remy hot-footed it out of there and proceeded to drag me across the parking lot. We passed the old man again and he raised his cigarette once more.

   There was another patch of grass a bit farther away in the opposite direction and we decided it’d be our best bet. We arrived right as the sprinklers turned on. I tried to rush Remy by setting her down on the corner of the grass patch and saying “ok! Go! It’s ok! Go! Go! Good girl! Go poopy! Come on!” But she was completely distracted by the sprinkler and began biting the water as it sprayed both of us.

   By this time, I was getting a bit irate. We were on our way to find the next patch of grass when Remy stopped and let it all go right in the middle of the hotel parking lot. I looked around to see if anyone was watching and the old man raised his cigarette.

Great. Not that I’m “that guy” that leaves dog poop in inconvenient places, but I didn’t grab a little baggie before we left the room. In fact, I didn’t even know where they were. But now that I knew the deed had been witnessed, I had to clean it up. We scurried back to the room and Garrett was still in the shower, surprisingly. I half expected him to come looking for us because he usually takes showers that last only a few minutes. I let Remy into the room and banged on the bathroom door.

“Garrett!”

Nothing.

“GAR-RETT!”

Nothing.

“GAAARRRETTTTT?!”

“WHAT?”

“WHERE ARE THE POOP BAGS?”

“THE WHAT?”

“POOP. BAGS.”

“IBLAGAR”

“WHAT?!”

“GAR!”

   Car. Got it. So I left Remy alone in the hotel room, grabbed Garrett’s keys from the desk, stormed out of the room, slammed the door behind me, retrieved a little blue baggy from his car, marched across the parking lot to the tiny pile of puppy turds, seized them, tied up the bag, marched back to the door, opened the – locked. The door locked behind me. 

   So there I stood in Prince George, British Columbia wearing dirty sweatpants with a T-Shirt that read “Walking For Nice Assets” and holding a tiny bag full of tiny, stinky turds outside of the locked door to our hotel room where Garrett was in the shower, Remy was alone with all of our things to chew on without supervision, and an old man sat less than six feet away from me, staring.

   I slowly turned around, slid my back down the door, plopped onto the metal doorstep, and began subtly banging my elbows against the barricade behind me. I could hear Remy whining from behind the door and the shower still running. LONGEST SHOWER EVER.

   I was in no mood for small talk, but I could sense the elderly gent was excited about the opportunity to chat.

“Mornin!”

“Oh, hi, good morning”

“Didja get yourself locked out?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“That is just too bad.”

I smiled meekly again.

“Sure is a pretty day out idnit?”

The irony was killing me.

“Uhhyep! It is.”

   He continued smoking and I pretended to be really focused on a three-inch piece of thread sprouting from the seam of my sweatpants. I was also still banging my unexposed elbow against the door repeatedly. Still no rescue attempts.

“You got breakfast plans?”

That one took me off-guard.

“Um I…”

“I could get some breakfast. You want to get some breakfast?”

“I actually…” harder pounding with elbow against door “…my husband and I are…”

   And then I fell backwards onto the gritty carpet of our hotel room while Remy stepped on my face and Garrett, wearing a towel around his waist, looked down at me and said “what’re you doing out here?”

everything is wrinkly

Oh hi. Yep, I’m still alive.

I still haven’t unpacked all of my clothes from Alaska yet, and it’s been almost two months. I still pick out my outfit for the day from a heap of clothing in the corner of our closet. My pile is right next to where we also throw our dirty clothes, which eventually get washed and put in slightly neater piles next to other piles. Sometimes Garrett picks out a shirt from one pile, thinking it was the clean one, only to realize it was simply between piles and was in fact dirty. Luckily, he doesn’t care.

There are also piles of things in the kitchen. There’s a pile of important papers that seems to multiply but never moves. There’s a pile of Garrett’s physical therapy workouts for his knee because of his accident last month at work. There’s also a pile of dirty hand towels that have yet to migrate to the laundry room pile. Sometimes there’s a pile of Remy’s toys in the living room until she disperses them throughout the house, mixing into other piles.

You’re a pile.

Basically I am at a standstill. I have time to do dishes, to do laundry, to vacuum, to take the garbage to the garbage can, to make the kitchen tidy, to sweep, to unpack my clothes, to make our house cute. I have that time right now. I had that time from the second I got home from work at 4:30. Now it’s almost 6:00 and I can’t get myself to give a crap.

Part of me hates living in in-between land. How everything is just temporarily stuck somewhere because out of sight, out of mind, right? How piles grow roots overnight. How boxes serve as furniture and places to set piles.

But on the other hand, what is the point of making everything neat and pretty? I mean, we have to be out of this place in less than a year. I’m really the only one who cares if the throw pillows go with our non-existent curtains or if the dinner plates match.

This is all sounding really whiny.

Luckily our house is already awesome and doesn’t need much fussing. My first two-level dwelling since I moved out of my parents’ house! There are huge windows, which are a gigantic step up from our Alaska place (which had four windows the size of a microwave). We don’t have much of a yard but there’s a park down the block for Remy to frolic in. I can see the sunrise from bed every morning and the showerhead is tall enough! We have “hard wood floors”, a dishwasher, and it takes seven minutes to get to campus.

Remy is growing like crazy now that she’s hit the three-month mark. She already lost four of her puppy teeth and her coat is changing texture. Her eyes are still blue and snow is now her favorite thing on the planet. Right now she’s lying by the front door, waiting for Garrett to get home even though he’s out of town. I guess I know who the favorite is ;)

big girl pants

   For some reason, I’m big on pro/con lists. On a piece of paper, slowly accumulated in the Memo app on my phone, mentally – it doesn’t matter the form. Can’t decide if you should take a trip? Pro/con list. Thinking of cutting your hair? Pro/con list. Wanna eat that brownie? Pro/con list for sure. But I’ve never had to make a pro/con list that will drastically change my life depending on either outcome. Change the next five minutes, maybe, but not the path I’m on in life.

   I just found out last Friday that the company I’ve been interning with this summer has decided to offer me a full time position once I complete my Masters degree next summer. It’s a great feeling to learn I made a positive impression and worked hard enough to be desired by such an impressive company! It was hard work and I definitely had some ups and downs, but overall it was a great experience and I don't regret it for a second. Being supported by Garrett and my family, having a handful of friends and family in Alaska, and the thrill of being somewhere new made for a great adventure.

But now for the biggest pro/con list EVER!

   If I take the offer, Garrett and I would make the big move up to Alaska in September 2014 and begin our lives in a very new environment. If I don’t take the offer, we would stick around Bozeman and hope for an offer from my other two internships with smaller local firms. Either way, I would be totally happy with my life! That’s the hard part. I just need to decide which life.

Moving to Alaska:

Pros – the adventure of living in a different state, new people, new places, a respectable job with a big company, the number of professional opportunities that will open up to me, the growth opportunity for Garrett and I, soul-searching, a big paycheck, the overall Alaska adventure

Cons – the distance between me and my family, Alaska weather, the complexity of working for a Big 4 firm, city life, not having our core group of friends, being completely out of my element

   So what’s a girl to DO?! There are so many good “goods” yet so many not-so-good “bads”. Luckily I’m not facing this decision alone. Garrett gives the best advice and I’m confident that whatever we mutually decide to do, we will be perfectly happy and everything will be just fine. I just sometimes wish I had a tiny crystal ball that I could take a quick peek in to see which choice would be the “best”…but that’s when you just learn to trust.

que sera, sera.

onto the next “home”

   2013 has been a weird year. On one hand it has been completely awesome: graduating from college, spending time at home, getting married, moving to Alaska, moving back to Montana, etc. On the other hand, it’s been extremely inconvenient. I’ve realized that for the last five months I haven’t felt like I’ve had a home. In April, I began moving out of my cozy little Bozeman apartment. I moved back in with my parents in May and spent a month in a weird transition stage, half of my things in a storage unit in Bozeman and the other half in produce boxes in the hallway of my parents’ house. After Garrett and I got married, we immediately left for Alaska and spent a week living out of a car that was so packed, you couldn’t even lean the seats back more than an inch. When we arrived in Anchorage, we tried to make our dinky little apartment feel like home but struggled. I still have a few boxes I don’t care to unpack because it’d just clutter the place more. Next weekend, we’re moving out of this place and in with Garrett’s grandparents for the weekend: more living out of the car. Then it’s back through the Yukon for a week: car living again. Then home for a couple days: produce boxes in the hallway again. Or, heck, we might not even unpack the car! Just lug in a few pair of undies, our toothbrushes, the puppy – you know, the necessities. Then back on the road to Bozeman where we can’t move into our new apartment until September 1^st so we’re staying with some friends for about a week – half of our stuff in the car, the other half in the storage unit. Ugh! I feel like a gypsy, but I’m assuming gypsies have way less stuff to keep track of. I’m so excited to move into the new place and live somewhere for a YEAR and not just a few months, a few weeks, a few days. But I also can’t help finding it to be bittersweet because it IS only for a year, and once again we’ll be moving. 

   Whenever I imagined my married life, I always pictured me and Garrett in a quaint little fixer-upper – decorated exactly how we’d want it, our dog lying on the living room rug, hanging out on the porch with friends. That isn’t how it’s turned out so far, obviously. I want to make a home for us, but it’s just so hard when you know it’s temporary. I find myself thinking “should I print out those pictures and buy some frames to put on the wall? Well, that’ll make holes…and our lease agreement said no holes…and we have to leave in a month…I guess we’ll just keep staring at the bad paint job and barren walls…” I see friends on Facebook who are also recently married, and they’ve got cute little kitchens with nice plates and leftovers in the fridge and a broom in the corner and it’s so obvious they live there together, happy and fresh into marriage land. Meanwhile, Garrett and I live in damp basement that I’m pretty sure grows mold in the corners (I’m assuming that’s what it is…) and is the PERFECT climate for fruit flies to prosper. I want to make Pinterest crafts, dang it! I want to make a nice place for us, I want to bake cookies without having to buy every single thing before doing so including the pan, I want to feel comfortable walking around in bare feet, I want my clothes to dry in less than five days if I hang them from the shower rod, I want to feel like I can lay on the couch without something crawling out of the depths and laying eggs in my ear, I don’t want to have to go out of the garage door every time I leave the house. I guess I’m complaining about a lot of mundane things. 

   I just have to keep telling myself “home is where the heart is”, and that’s wherever Mr. Morris is. And now Remy, too!