Contrivances of a Cali Kid

Twitter, I need a break. It’s not just you. My facebook account is already de-activated. My phone is off. My reddit is logged out. Email too. 

I don’t know how long this will last. I assume the phone will be back in a matter of days, but I’m holding the rest of technology at arm’s distance.

All these things that I used to enjoy have become obligations. Did I update my blog? Have I looked through your new photos? Starred your latest tweet? Commented on your dramatic mid-finals breakup? It’s too much for me.

I’ve been tethered to social networks for 5 years. I’ve been dicking around on the internet more than twice that long. For a while I’m going to try to spend all my time in meatspace. 

I will almost certainly be back. But maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll fall in love with a quaint off the grid cottage, move there and become a hermit, marry a man with a beard, and live off the fat of the land. But I probably won’t. I’ll probably return. I might even lack the moral conviction and personal discipline to stay away for a decent period of time. Who knows. I’m not deleting my account, but I won’t be logging in either. If you want to unfollow, I won’t hold it against you. Or you can keep following, and hope that one day I’ll return and you’ll be there to witness those momentous 140 characters.

Goodbye, and thanks for all the laughs.

My mother went out of town yesterday at 8:00 a.m.

Which left me, 3 dogs, and my 11 year old brother. For the most part this has been an enjoyable experience. I let him watch a PG-13 movie, and he kept his bitchy pre-teen hormones in check.

Until today. I can handle his little attitude that crops up, and usually I can diffuse it a lot better than my mother. He’s hitting puberty just as my mom is hitting menopause, and OMG it is scary up in here.

Anyway, he wanted to change his light switch cover today with a power drill, and I calmly explained he could switch out his standard one for the novelty football one on Monday when our mother was back in town. He asked why, I gave him four or five reasons, and he relented.

A couple of hours later he comes downstairs with a sheepish grin asking me where he should put the old light switch cover. So I sent him to his room, where he’s been ever since.

He’s supposed to go with our uncle and cousins to Pismo Beach this afternoon for the rest of the weekend, which, for his safety and my sanity, is probably a good thing.  

Anyway, he just came out and demanded food. So I told him to be quiet and go back to his room. He then moaned from the top of the stairs that I had to feed him. I informed him that he wasn’t a goldfish, and missing a meal wouldn’t kill him, while fully intending to fix him some food.

I was then presented to some world class acting skills, moaning and carrying on about how he needed food in such a convincing manner one could almost forget he ate three waffles only 4 hours ago. 

If this is child abuse, it’s the most entertaining child abuse I’ve ever been witness to. 

From the most epic roadtrip I’ve ever taken. Starting in the Bay Area, CA; up through Portland and Seattle, onwards to Vancouver and Chilliwack, BC; a couple of days in Edmonton, AB; then Bozeman, MT; Yellowstone Park in WY; Salt Lake City, UT, and back to Reno, NV today.

It was exhausting. It was beautiful. It was enlightening. 

I saw deer, coyotes, big horned sheep, a mountain goat, elk, bears, and bison. But no moose :/

I did my first ever tweetup.

I went to the largest mall in North America.

I won a bet. I lost a bet.

I met a lot of really cool people from all over North America.

I picked up strangers on the side of the road.

I cleared snow to put up my tent. And then very nearly froze to death.

I saw more geysers and geothermal activity than I can easily describe.

I survived a very scary 4 a.m. encounter with crazies at my hotel.

I sent more than 2 dozen postcards. 

I got rain, snow, and/or hail in every state and province I went to, and hydroplaned in three different states.

And I had tons of fun. Successful roadtrip if there ever was one :]

I got a B in my anthropology class this semester.

I know this, because I got a B- on the midterm, a B on my paper, and I feel very confident that I did well on the final exam. These 3 components are each worth 1/3 of my grade.

So, when I logged in to check my semester grades and saw that I have an F I was more than mildly surprised.

Of course, this class has been the biggest cluster fuck out of any I’ve ever taken at UNR. The professor left the class before spring break for maternity leave, and didn’t return until the day of the final. The substitute professor was more than just a little new agey, and I’m fairly certain the TA was perpetually stoned.

After frantically emailing everyone who has ever thought about anthropology at UNR, the professor finally emailed me back last night. Apparently the TA filled out my grading form wrong and didn’t give me any grade on the term paper. So, she simply wanted me to bring by the paper. The problem with that is 1. I’m already back in California, and 2. I threw away the fucking paper.

I always keep everything. I had boxes of papers and notebooks dating back to my junior year of high school. And so, when this semester ended, and with the prospect of moving twice in the next three months hanging over me, I purged a lot of shit. Threw it away. Gone. I’ve never once needed any of the school work I’ve kept, and I figured as a recent graduate, I certainly wouldn’t need it again.

Luckily (?) I was sick the day our paper was due, so I emailed my paper to the TA. Otherwise I’d have no proof I ever wrote one. Especially since my computer decided to commit suicide. I went through 10 boxes of packed stuff last night, checking to make sure I didn’t accidentally keep this paper. No dice.

So now I sit and wait, while my professor decides when to write me back to discuss my fate.

If I fail this class I won’t have completed my minor requirements. Which would negate the grounds under which I was admitted to law school. Also, since I’m registered as a double major with a minor, my degree won’t post.

All in all, this cute little mistake would prevent me from graduating college, get me kicked out of law school, and take a serious dump on my GPA.

So, yeah. I should be relaxing and packing for my upcoming road trip, and instead I’m trying to get my stomach to untie itself from the knots it’s in, and calm down while I fervently refresh my email. 

I just cannot get excited about graduating.

I mean, I felt kind of relieved Thursday when I finished my last final, but not happy per say. And it’s not like I’ve felt depressed that college is over, either. 

Just blah.

The only emotion I’ve been able to stir up is a deep and profound sadness that my great-grandma who passed away in March won’t be coming to my graduation next Saturday. She was so excited to meet my puppy because she used to have a boxer too. She was so proud that I was graduating college. She was just an all around amazing woman, who had a large hand in raising me, and I can’t believe she’s gone. 

But I don’t think being sad about my grandma’s passing explains why I feel so indifferent about college being over. There are plenty of wonderful things to be excited about, and plenty more to be sad about. But I can’t garner any emotion either way.

By “kid” I mean some college age guy who is potentially older than me. I had to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting the bastard after he ran a stop sign. 

And then he flipped me off.

Yes, man-child, you don’t follow the rules of the road, you’re wearing all black riding your bike at night, and you didn’t see fit to invest in a helmet—but fuck me for slamming on my brakes and saving your life.

I hope for the sake of the people who love him that he’s not always so reckless with his existence.

Sometimes when the puppy is being particularly frisky, and borderline out of control, I growl at him.

I think the rationale behind this is to speak to him in his own language. Telling him “no” when he slams me with those not so little paws doesn’t work, so it stands to reason he doesn’t speak English very well.

Unfortunately, my growls get lost in translation. He never hears a good solid Melissa growl, calms down, and looks at me with respect.

Instead he gives me a very distinct look. One which seems to say, “I should kill you while you sleep for insulting me thusly, but without opposable thumbs I can’t open the treat container.”

So I pounced on him in my front yard. He tried to dart out of my arms, and was licking my face in some sort of weird attempt to win whatever game he thought we were playing. All 60 lbs of puppy were squirming while I tried to maneuver him to the porch. With his leash and collar trailing behind me like an unfortunate tail, my pants started to fall down.

As I tried to carry my dog under one arm while hitching up my pants with the other, a car honked, and right then, in that moment, I realized my life is ridiculous.