Living at home and why I don't understand it

A young woman I know recently grappled with a decision over her choice of colleges. She'd attended one here in Buffalo for her freshman year, but had decided that she wanted more than what was being offered. So she applied to a few other places, and, being the intelligent and accomplished student that she is, was accepted to just about all of them. Among these were three schools in Chicago.

She mulled her decision for months. Columbia? Loyola? UIC? I don't remember what her major was; I just remember feeling a sense of envy at how brightly this kid's future was shining. Chicago! Everyone who knows me knows how much I love that city and how I really do consider it my adopted hometown. The thought of being 19 and going to college there...man, how exciting! I thought it was a no-brainer, myself. She, however, had different thoughts on the matter. And her source of hesitation? Moving away from her mom.

What?

Okay, now...I love my mother as much as the next girl, but one thing I have never been able to understand is people who (a) continue to live with theirs beyond the standard 18-21 year-old stage and (b) people who freak out about having to move out of their parents' homes.

I think I was about 12 when I started fantasizing about the day I could finally pack my bags and get the hell out of that house and away from my parents. Every time a rule was enforced, or I was grounded for some ridiculous thing, I'd curse them under my breath and daydream about what my apartment would look like. I'd think about moving to California, or Hawaii, or someplace as far as I could get. I went to my guidance counselor and asked for information on UCLA. What was her name? Mrs. Kardani I think. Anyway, I remember her telling me, "well, Sweetie, this is only junior high. Your high school will have that information." Now, of course, there was no internet, and finding information was not as easy as Googling it. And so I waited, and as soon as I got to high school I started plotting my escape for real.

My high school years were a nightmare. Now, okay, I know there are a lot of kids who had it WAY worse than I ever did. I had a roof over my head, I had three squares a day, and a guaranteed college education. What I had very little of, however, was privacy. And that's all I ever wanted. Just some privacy, and a little freedom to be myself. I wasn't asking to be allowed to stay out all hours of the night. I wasn't asking to be allowed to have boys in my bedroom. But my mother would routinely go through my things, throw away clothing she didn't like, snoop through my drawers, read my diary and my letters, and I was forbidden to lock my bedroom door. And there was no knocking. So it didn't matter what I was doing. I could be stark naked, and she could just walk right in.

"You have nothing to hide," she told me. But what she failed to understand was that it wasn't that I wanted to hide anything, I just wanted to be left the fuck alone sometimes. In my mother's defense, she was trying to ensure that I wasn't in there smoking my lungs out, but most of the time I wasn't looking for privacy to smoke; I wanted to be able to read, do homework, listen to music, draw, paint, talk on the phone, nap, or just stare off into space - alone and uninterrupted.

My dad was a tyrant, a lunatic, and generally insane. But at least he never barged in on me. He would always knock and say, "Are you decent?" At least he did one thing right.

As it turned out I didn't go to UCLA. My college choices ended up being a little closer to home, but I ultimately chose the one that was the farthest - about 500 miles away, nearly an 8-hour drive. And the sad part is, I didn't choose Franklin Pierce for its programs, or its academic reputation, or its campus life, or anything other than it was the furthest, of all my options, from my parents that I could get.

I think one of the main reasons I have to live alone and never got married or had children is because I am SO protective of my personal space, the very thought of having to share it with someone actually sends me into a panic. So to hear someone say, "Oh, I can't bear the thought of moving out of my folks' house" is so unbelievably foreign to me. I'm not knocking people who want to live at home forever; I just, from my experience and perspective, can't understand it. You mean there are people out there who like their parents so much that they actually VOLUNTARILY live with them? There are people whose parents are so non-invasive and easygoing that living with them isn't a constant source of stress and mental trauma? Damn. Even when I would come home for vacations, my mother and I would fight. It wasn't until my parents got divorced when I was 20 and my mother started living in a different place that we started getting along - for it was no longer a matter of me coming "home," but rather a visit to her apartment, where I was not an occupant, but a guest. The paradigm - and the rules - shifted at that point.

To this day she will tell me, "you are welcome in my home any time. You may stay with me as long as you like. But do not EVER think about moving in with me. It will not happen."

So if you tell me that you don't want to move out of your parents' house, or are moving back in with your parents, now you know why I'm making that face.

Sirius-ly amusing (warning: explicit)

I have Sirius/XM satellite radio in my car. I usually only listen when I'm on long drives or am bored with the selection of CDs in the car, but when I do listen I'm a little overwhelmed by all the choices. Not unlike satellite television, it's essentially 300 stations with nothing on.

Tonight, though, as I was scrolling through while stuck in Boulevard traffic among the other last-minute Halloween shoppers, I stopped when I thought I heard the woman say "Pyrex glass dildo."

Now, I don't have the best hearing in the world, so I thought, "no, that can't be right. She probably said, "Fine, let's ask Bill, though." Or something. I mean, with my hearing (or lack thereof), it's entirely possible I'd heard it wrong. So I backed up and continued listening. I hadn't heard incorrectly. It was the "OutQ" station, the LGBT channel, and it was some sort of sex show. So of course I had to listen.

In my younger days, I used to listen to Dr. Ruth, huddled in my room with the radio under my pillow, or with the earphone in my ear (does anyone remember those primitive "ear bud" style mono earphones?) lest my parents hear what I was up to. Much of what I learned about sex I learned from Dr. Westheimer, in fact, and I can still remember as a young woman fumbling around with my boyfriend and thinking, "Oh, I remember this from Dr. Ruth!" But really the point I'm trying to make here is that I'm morbidly curious when it comes to other people's sex lives. Not people I know, though, so please don't tell me about yours, thanks.

So I'm listening to this show, and the hosts (two women) are casually and matter-of-factly dishing out advice to gay, lesbian, and straight callers alike, and not mincing words or hesitating to toss out slang in the process. They discussed proper sanitation techniques for toys (don't put latex in the dishwasher, folks - it's porous and will degrade quickly), positions when one is partially incapacitated with a broken limb (draw your own picture on that one), and demographics of their listeners (3:1 male to female - big surprise, heh). Then I listened intently as one woman explained the mechanics and logistics of the cock ring to a gay man whose partner was having, you know, issues. Man, this was WAY better than Dr. Ruth. But of course after a while my attention started to waver, so I decided to make my way up the dial.

Imagine my amusement when I discovered the very next station up was Radio Disney. Ha! From cock rings to the Jonas Brothers. Awesome. The next channel up from Disney...KidsPlace! Even funnier! But just when I thought it couldn't get any more hysterical, I clicked on to the next channel and it was...

The Catholic Channel.

Heeeee!

It was a good thing I'd gone to the bathroom at Target, because I think I would have wet myself. Man, irony rules.

Dear Insomnia

Dear Insomnia,

Look. I understand why you like to hang around. I don't do a whole lot to discourage you. I mean, I'm up at 3:45 a.m. one day and up 'til 2:00 a.m. the next. Sometimes I pull an all-nighter, although with age those have gotten fewer and farther between. Between a job that goes anywhere from 4:30 in the morning until 11:30 at night, and two classes that meet until 9:00 p.m., I'm all over the place. Then sometimes I do something silly like drink a 20-ounce Mountain Dew at 10:00 the night before I'm having surgery on my mouth. As if worrying about teeth and gum tissue being dug up and rearranged (and the cost of said procedure) weren't enough to keep me tossing and turning! You hardly needed any help with that one, did you?

*Le sigh*

Even when I try and get a full night's sleep, you're there, waiting in the wings to pounce on me before I can get to the REM stage. Almost like clockwork, you shake me awake every 3 hours. But Insomnia, you're never around when I need to be awake, are you? Nope. Where the hell are you when I'm nodding off in class, snapping at a co-worker, or nearly driving my car into a tree? You're probably taking a nap. Asshole. Oh, and hey - thanks for those dark circles under my eyes.

Not too long ago I got some painkillers from the doctor. They were the kind with an orange label, and I thought, "YAY! These will knock me out!" Then I found out that they have a potentially fatal interaction with one of my other medications. Well, you know how I'm always saying, "I'll sleep when I'm dead?" I decided to hold off on that one for a while. Insomnia: 1, Deedee: 0.

Well, I guess at least I could thank you for the many sunrises you've allowed me to see. Sunrises are beautiful, you know. I just wish I could enjoy one after a full night's sleep. Could you cut me a break one of these nights? Please?

Thanks.

Love,
*yawn*
Me.

For the love of a building, Part 2

I put off writing this entry for as long as I could, mainly because I couldn't bring myself to do it without breaking down every third sentence. My previous entry about Russell was sad enough; to write one in the same vein but closer to my heart was more than I could bear.

On August 27th, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, my friend (as well as loyal blog-watcher and frequent commenter) Mike Miller passed away. He was just 51.

What made his death even more tragic was the irony of it happening on the heels of losing Russell, the man whose post as CTRC president Mike had taken over just last year. Mike had so much to say about Russell's wake, and how beautifully it was handled and arranged, and a few short weeks later we were saying goodbye to Mike himself in the same spot. I didn't think I could cry so many tears. That little pocket-pak of Kleenex I took to the service didn't stand a chance.

I've said a lot of what I had to say about the Central Terminal in the previous post, so I won't get into that. I will say, however, that it was Mike who was instrumental in getting me involved as deeply as I am. He was the first person I talked to about becoming a volunteer, about donating materials from my job, and about my instant love for the building. He got it when I told him the building had "spoken" to me. He was the one who told me I looked like the illustration of the Bier Wench on the Oktoberfest poster and convinced me to dress up in the costume. He'd said, "Come on, dress up! You look just like her! You have the same hair, and you have the boobs for it!" I told him only he could get away with saying that, and I agreed to dress up.

Mike loved the Central Terminal more than anyone I know, and felt such a bond to the place due to it being the very thing that caused his existence in the first place (his parents met while working there together). His energy and dedication radiated onto everyone around him, and it was hard not to share in his enthusiasm, and even harder not to smile when you saw him.

Not only was Mike dedicated to the Terminal, he was dedicated to preservation in Buffalo. A founder of Broadway-Fillmore Alive and the recently appointed president of Preservation Buffalo Niagara, Mike loved this area. Mike loved a lot of things, in fact. Mike was full of love - for his family, his friends, his colleagues, his causes. "What a great guy" doesn't even begin to describe it. He was a constant and reliable source of encouragement, support, and friendship to me, and I never heard him utter an unkind word about anyone. Even those he might not have agreed with, or who had transgressed in some way, Mike could spin everything into a positive light - with a smile.

We're all going to miss him more than words can say, and the entire Buffalo-Niagara region will forever feel his absence. The Terminal will never be the same without him walking around. I worked the train show this past weekend and without thinking, I kept looking for him in the crowd, kept waiting for him to come into the gift shop. Then I'd remember.

This blog will never feel the same, knowing he's not reading it, knowing I'll never see another comment from him. He used to tell me all the time how much he enjoyed reading it, and how he couldn't wait to read the next entry. He told me one time during a particularly stressful time in my life (and a coincidentally dry spell of writing) that I needed to "vent my spleen," and that became the title of the next entry, the very next day. Even if he didn't comment here, he'd make sure to tell me the next time he saw me. In fact, one of the last things he said to me in person was "I loved that entry about the Quirkyalones. I could totally relate." And then he said what he always said to me. "But don't worry, Deedee, you'll find someone when it's the right time. You're too fabulous to be alone."

Well, Mike...I know wherever you are you're among friends and are at peace. Because you, no matter here or hereafter, are too fabulous to be alone.

Michael J. Miller
1958-2009
You are loved and missed by many.

For the love of a building

Five years ago, my sister called me and said, "Hey, I saw in the paper that they're doing tours of the Central Terminal. We're going to go. Want to come, too?"

I replied, "What's the Central Terminal?"

She was aghast that I didn't know of it, but to be fair, I'd moved away at 18 and growing up, my experience with the East Side of Buffalo had been really limited to trips to the old Rockpile for ball games. By the time my sister started breaking in there to hang out and drink in high school in the late 80's/early 90's, I was grown up and gone out of the house, moved out of state, and more or less completely detached from any Buffalo interests. And even if I had known about it when I was a teen, chances are slim I would have actually been able to escape the iron fists of my parents long enough to actually check it out.

I went on the tour with my family, and what happened that day will forever be etched in my memory because it was so profound. As we approached the building from Memorial Drive, the tower loomed in the near distance, rising above the surrounding neighborhood. At that moment, something about it just hit me like - dare I employ a really bad pun here - a ton of bricks. I've always been interested in architecture, particularly that of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and this Art Deco masterpiece literally took my breath away. How was it that I lived in Buffalo for the first 18 years of my life and had never even seen this building?

The approach, however, was just the beginning. After we parked and walked up to the building, we were met outside by our docent, the president of the Central Terminal Restoration Corporation, Russell Pawlak. Russell started the tour outside, explaining the history of the neighborhood (he'd grown up there) and the history of the Terminal's inception, construction, and eventual decline. I couldn't wait to get inside, and kept wishing he'd hurry up and take us in, but this guy knew his stuff, and he wasn't going to just let us loose in there until he was damn sure we knew it, too.

When we finally got inside, this is when it happened. We were treated to a brief video in the entrance, and then led into the concourse. All at once, as the concourse opened up in front of me, I was filled with a feeling, overwhelmed with a connection to this place. It was as if the building itself spoke to me and said, "I need you here. You belong here. This is your cause." I literally fell in love. Right then, right there, I knew I'd found something really special. It makes sense, really, if you think about it; both my late grandfathers were railroad engineers. Grampa Jack drove for Erie-Lackawanna, and Grampa Ed drove for Conrail. Both of them undoubtedly passed through the building many times, and it's consistent with my beliefs as a Spiritualist that they'd be hanging out in there now, or would have at least stopped by to sway me in the CTRC's direction that day. As my mom pointed out, trains and spirits are in my blood. It all came together.

Over the next five years, I would volunteer as much of my time as I could (which, as I would unfortunately discover, wasn't a whole lot between working multiple jobs and then working and going to school full time). I've been the Oktoberfest Bier Wench. I've sold merchandise. I've scraped paint. I've stacked chairs, collected trash, served hot dogs, and this year designed the poster for the anniversary. I never feel as if I could ever do enough. This is love, remember.

The CTRC is made up of an incredible group of dedicated and passionate individuals, and through the organization's efforts the building has undergone an astounding transformation. What was a dilapidated, abandoned, and largely unusable old train station has become a gorgeous work in progress on its way to restored splendor. Throughout the years and through the tireless efforts of the group, numerous events have been held there, from weddings to picnics, parties to art shows, car shows, concerts, ghost hunts, theatrical performances, festivals, and train shows.

Today, it held a wake. Russell Pawlak passed away on August 8, at the much-too-young age of 59. His untimely death comes just a year after stepping down as the CTRC's president, and though he was no longer involved, he was still close to the cause. Passion and dedication such as Russell's doesn't fade. And as I walked into the Terminal this afternoon and saw how beautifully everything was arranged, transforming the beloved building into a stop on Russell's journey to his final destination, I remembered that day five years ago, and I fell in love all over again.

Thank you, Russell. Rest in peace, and I'm sure we'll be seeing you.

The War on Stuff

Earlier this year I committed to reducing my clutter, thanks to the introduction by my sister to the show "Clean House." She was going to nominate me for the show, but I decided to take matters into my own hands first. While it might be kind of fun to have a TV show come in and document my compulsive hoarding issue and give me a new lease on life by showing me the way of the cleanly and well-organized, I didn't think I could actually wait a year for the whole process to come to fruition. I also wasn't keen on the idea that the whole world would get a bird's-eye view of my clusterfuck of a living space. It's...well, it's embarrassing. I will say, however, that watching the show has opened my eyes to one oft-forgotten fact: I am not the only one who struggles with this thing.

So...the first step, I decided, was to start purging - also known as "Operation Project Toss," sort of my own mini-version of "Clean House." This is not the first version of said operation (as you may well know if you've been a part of my life for any length of time) but it's definitely the most serious. It's a tough battle to wage, this battle against Stuff, since it requires a lot of letting go and overriding of emotions, but I entered into it with the best intentions and a fair amount of aplomb, and have spent the year fighting the good fight. The fight has since escalated into a full-blown war, complete with trenches, foxholes, and a few allies called in for reinforcement. One yard sale, a couple good-sized donations to charity, and several ebay auctions later, I’m winning. I think. But it’s a slippery slope, indeed.

It's unbelievable how much crap I've accumulated in the six-plus years I've been in this house. As someone who spent ages 18 to 32 moving every couple of years and still had the uncanny ability to accumulate junk, one can only imagine the havoc wreaked in six years. I mean, it's really astonishing.

See, I like Stuff. No - I love Stuff. I’m rather addicted to owning Stuff, in fact. However as a compulsive hoarder, I have a tendency to let the Stuff own me. It grows and reproduces. Little piles creep over to other little piles, which soon spend the night together and spawn more little piles. Soon these little piles grow up and form giant communes of piles. I don’t know what to do with all of it, and usually end up walking away in defeat, resolving to deal with it some other time as I climb over more stuff just to go to the bathroom.

My point? I have come to the conclusion that there can be no more extraneous Stuff. I’ve put a moratorium on Stuff. I have set very specific guidelines about what can and cannot come into this house. I have strict policies regarding the intake of Stuff (i.e. nothing comes in unless something goes out). In the past I have been an avid collector of Stuff, but at this point in my life, as I look toward potentially downsizing my life in a move (or just in an attempt to preserve what shred of sanity remains in my head), I have to put my foot down.

Every year my mother says, "This is going to be a lean Christmas!" Every year I respond, "That's fine, Mom. I don't want a lot of things anyway." Every year I put together a wittily-worded, graphically-enhanced list of things I want and/or need. And while it's never a particularly Stuff-heavy list, I nevertheless always end up on Christmas morning with a bunch of Stuff. Apparently my mother's idea of "lean Christmas" is different from mine. This year, she's getting a list with specific instructions, worded as gently as I know how, to knock it off with the Stuff. I understand that in my family Christmas is all about the obscene amount of gifts lining the walls and stacked to the ceiling on Christmas morning, but as I've gotten older (and as new little members are added) I take less joy in ripping open package after package, and instead derive most of my holiday cheer from sipping coffee, eating cinnamon rolls, watching snow fall, and lounging in my pajamas with my family.

But I digress. Must stop blogging and resume purging (and painting and ripping up carpet, etc). I will be back with updates as they come. In the meantime, enjoy this lovely photo of approximately 80 pounds of my boxed up, unwanted Stuff.

Even Quirkyalones get the blues

I had a conversation with an acquaintance recently about my perpetual state of singlehood, during which I explained the concept of the "Quirkyalone" to him. His argument had been, up until that point, that I didn't have to be alone, if only I'd relax a few of my "stringent" standards and requirements (which, if you know me, include such outrageous requirements as an education, a brain, and absence of offspring). After passionately explaining to him that it would be better to be alone than to back down on things that I hold important, I think it finally dawned on him that there are single women in this world who would actually prefer to be single over being coupled for the sake of being so.

The Quirkyalone, for those of you who are not familiar, is explained best by the Quirkyalone.net website:

Quirkyalones are people who enjoy being single (but are not opposed to being in a relationship) and prefer being single to dating for the sake of being in a relationship. It’s also a mindset. It’s about being present to both the wonders and possibilities in being deeply single or deeply in partnership. It’s also a mindset that recognizes the power and value of significant others, plural: our friends.

Quirkyalone is not anti-love. It is pro-love. It is not anti-dating. It is anti-compulsory dating. We tend to be romantics. We prefer to be single rather than settle. In fact, the core of quirkyalone is the inability to settle. We spend a signficant chunk of our lives single because we hold relationships to a high standard.

Are quirkyalones loners? Not necessarily. Quirkyalones often value friendship very highly. We’re often very social people. But we do value occasional solitude. Quirkyalones are often creative and need time alone to allow thoughts to fully form.

Fundamentally, quirkyalone isn’t so much about being alone as it is about connection: with yourself and others. It’s about liberating yourself from the expected road maps to discover your own. It’s about developing comfort with aloneness and recognizing that comfort is crucial to being with someone else.

The quirky in quirkyalone is really about authenticity. It’s about accepting yourself in all your quirky glory, and being fully yourself, whether you’re single or in a relationship.

The alone part is about willing to stand out from the crowd, to go to a wedding alone rather than go with a date, for example, out of social obligation. It’s about resisting the tyranny of coupledom, the prevailing notion that you must be in a relationship at all times in order to be happy.

It’s about preserving solitude in an era of hyperconnectivity so that you can be comfortable and full alone, and therefore fully present with another human being.

That said, I will confess to having periodic bouts of melancholy, wistful sadness when it comes to being alone. Today being the 8th wedding anniversary of my sister and her husband, and realizing that I've not been in a "real" relationship in that entire time...well, it kind of makes me wonder what the fuck I'm doing. I guess I've always thought that if I live my life the way I want to live it, that someone special will come along and fit right in. Well, it's been eight years since my last relationship (I don't really count James, because he was a long-distance thing, and, well, it was never really a committed thing, at least not on his end) and I'm starting to think that there really is no lid for my pot.

This, dear blogwatchers, is what's got me down today.

That, and I make a mean sundae pie, and sometimes I wish I had someone to make one for. I can't make one for myself; I'll eat the whole damn thing, and then I'll just feel worse. So does anyone want one? Name yer flavor. :-)