Period Drama, Period Drama, and Everything I Have Worried About Today
I have recently been in a period drama phase. I have watched nearly two seasons of "When Calls The Heart," a Hallmark Channel TV show about early twentieth century Canada, a coal mining town, and a wealthy heiress-turned-schoolteacher. It is a very bad show that I have enjoyed very much. There is a "handsome" Mountie in it, which my mother noted has the potential for endless jokes. Before I found this show, I was watching "Anne With An E" because of my love of Anne of Green Gables. I'm reading Emma (sort of). I believe I am trying to escape my current living situation by thrusting myself into various foreign eras. So far it has worked marvelously.
The second section of this blog post is supposed to be about my menstrual period drama, which to be frank is neatly non-existent, but I thought it would make a good title.
The second section of this blog post is supposed to be about my menstrual period drama, which to be frank is neatly non-existent, but I thought it would make a good title.
Break-ups
On the day of my first real break-up, I went to a tea party for local people who had applied to Smith College. I wore a little skirt and didn't really cry. I was ready for sexual liberation. I tried on a corset and let a man spank me in his old car in a parking lot. My mother sometimes asks me what I did as a teenager that she does not know about, but I do not think she would be surprised by this one. We are all eighteen at some point.
In the next significant relationship, there were two break-ups. All I remember about the first was him trying to slash my tires and me yelling, "suck a dog dick" out the window at him. He never spoke to me again, so I infiltrated his online chat group and pretended to be named Robin. The second time we dated I broke up with him when he told me he was seeing a 17-year-old. He was 23.
In the aftermath of that relationship, I immediately started dating a man who was horribly swept up in my psyche of that era. He wouldn't want me to talk to him, but I wish I could apologize. When he broke up with me, I was devastated for weeks. I asked him to have a conversation with me. I told him I could've loved him and he told me his friends said he seemed much happier without me. I have no doubt about that. I shouldn't have been dating.
This time around I know I made the right decision. No one deserves a relationship with someone they cannot trust not to disappear at random. No one deserves someone who says they're not sure they can love you with their whole heart and then continues to date you for three more months in a half-assed manner because you were too loving to let them fuck off. It was a lot like waiting for my dog to die. I feared it for years and by the time it happened I was relieved. And I came home to her absence and I cried. But I was glad we were all cut loose.
In the next significant relationship, there were two break-ups. All I remember about the first was him trying to slash my tires and me yelling, "suck a dog dick" out the window at him. He never spoke to me again, so I infiltrated his online chat group and pretended to be named Robin. The second time we dated I broke up with him when he told me he was seeing a 17-year-old. He was 23.
In the aftermath of that relationship, I immediately started dating a man who was horribly swept up in my psyche of that era. He wouldn't want me to talk to him, but I wish I could apologize. When he broke up with me, I was devastated for weeks. I asked him to have a conversation with me. I told him I could've loved him and he told me his friends said he seemed much happier without me. I have no doubt about that. I shouldn't have been dating.
This time around I know I made the right decision. No one deserves a relationship with someone they cannot trust not to disappear at random. No one deserves someone who says they're not sure they can love you with their whole heart and then continues to date you for three more months in a half-assed manner because you were too loving to let them fuck off. It was a lot like waiting for my dog to die. I feared it for years and by the time it happened I was relieved. And I came home to her absence and I cried. But I was glad we were all cut loose.
Rowhouse Ghosts
I can never get the kitchen floor clean. It is a tiny space, maybe less than 50 square feet, but the level of grime it accrues is equivalent to that of a concert hall. Tiny shards of glass escape continually from underneath the oven, as though the Borrowers are having hundreds of raucous dinner parties under there, throwing the wine glasses on the floor over and over as I scramble to sweep them up. The space under the refrigerator is a similar story: raspberries come rolling out by the bushel as I take the yellow broom aggressively across the tiles. My bare feet pick up some of the detritus, but I manage to get most of it into the dustpan and into the garbage.
Though frustrating, this part is not the issue. The problem arises as I consider how to mop the floor. We have two sponge mops, a Swiffer Wetjet, and a dry Swiffer. We also have hands and knees (mine). Using the sponge mops means chancing the probably-dirty sponges already attached to them and dirtying the newly-cleaned sink to wet them. We never have the right Swiffer mop pads, and even when we do, the pads barely collect a fifth of the dirt on the floor. Even on hands and knees, I can't get the floor clean. I use lots of hot water, soap, any chemicals I can find. I use sponges and paper towels and microfiber cloths. I get my legs covered in mud. I keep wiping and wiping, but the cloths keep coming back dirty.
Down on the ground, I can tell our floor stinks. It smells like old fish and also like diarrhea. I use white vinegar and disinfectant spray and water. It seems a permanent scent. Somehow, the floor keeps producing dirt. It is as though the dirt rises up from underneath the tiles, from the foundation of this 1875 rowhouse. It is like a haunting--the ghosts in my house don't force blood out from within the walls or slime us with some ectoplasmic goo. Instead, they push dirt through the grout into our kitchen, laughing as they watch me scrub and scrub.
The main issue here is that no one else in my house seems concerned about the uncleanliness. I have never seen either roommate with a mop, and when I first moved in and asked about floor cleaner, they regarded me with a vague suspicion. As I try and fail repeatedly to clean our house, I leave no trace of my efforts. The ever-replenishing floor dirt refuses to betray my attempts at housekeeping. For all my roommates know, I am the floor ghost, throwing mud into the kitchen in handfuls. Either way, they don't really care. If there is a floor ghost, so be it, says my roommates. We will live with blackened bare feet and with pieces of gold foil stuck to the floor. We are renters. It's not really our problem! Maybe some new ghost will come along and figure out that Swiffer Wetjet. Maybe it will be me.
Though frustrating, this part is not the issue. The problem arises as I consider how to mop the floor. We have two sponge mops, a Swiffer Wetjet, and a dry Swiffer. We also have hands and knees (mine). Using the sponge mops means chancing the probably-dirty sponges already attached to them and dirtying the newly-cleaned sink to wet them. We never have the right Swiffer mop pads, and even when we do, the pads barely collect a fifth of the dirt on the floor. Even on hands and knees, I can't get the floor clean. I use lots of hot water, soap, any chemicals I can find. I use sponges and paper towels and microfiber cloths. I get my legs covered in mud. I keep wiping and wiping, but the cloths keep coming back dirty.
Down on the ground, I can tell our floor stinks. It smells like old fish and also like diarrhea. I use white vinegar and disinfectant spray and water. It seems a permanent scent. Somehow, the floor keeps producing dirt. It is as though the dirt rises up from underneath the tiles, from the foundation of this 1875 rowhouse. It is like a haunting--the ghosts in my house don't force blood out from within the walls or slime us with some ectoplasmic goo. Instead, they push dirt through the grout into our kitchen, laughing as they watch me scrub and scrub.
The main issue here is that no one else in my house seems concerned about the uncleanliness. I have never seen either roommate with a mop, and when I first moved in and asked about floor cleaner, they regarded me with a vague suspicion. As I try and fail repeatedly to clean our house, I leave no trace of my efforts. The ever-replenishing floor dirt refuses to betray my attempts at housekeeping. For all my roommates know, I am the floor ghost, throwing mud into the kitchen in handfuls. Either way, they don't really care. If there is a floor ghost, so be it, says my roommates. We will live with blackened bare feet and with pieces of gold foil stuck to the floor. We are renters. It's not really our problem! Maybe some new ghost will come along and figure out that Swiffer Wetjet. Maybe it will be me.
Securing the perimeter
Downstairs, my roommate is laughing. Maybe. I think it is my roommate, but it could be anyone. She doesn't laugh very often and even if I knew for certain it was her, I couldn't confirm she was even in our house, either. I find all of the noises of the street enter my room--whether the windows are open or not. I sometimes wake up in the night to voices so close I think they're inside my room. A few weeks ago I woke up to a woman crying while her boyfriend shouted at her. It seemed as though they were sitting in my bed with me.
Upstairs, I can hear the rabbit scratching at the sides of his pen. He is an enormous rabbit and he has his own room. My roommate pays extra for the closet off the bathroom. I used to flinch every time I heard him move, forgetting I was not alone in the house. I share this floor with my roommate, her cat, and a rabbit large enough to be steed to another, smaller rabbit.
Living in the city and commuting daily to another one has altered my perception of my public self. Whenever I can help it I stay in my room in Fishtown, blinds drawn. I have almost always operated this way. I have never inhabited a room that was not curated to be exactly how I wanted it. And I have never been the open window type. In the house I grew up in, tucked in my bed, I would imagine cowboys breaking through the windows of my bedroom and attacking me. I sometimes dream of that house and trying to close the doors and windows before an intruder enters, securing the perimeter. I also dream of high school math tests I do not have time to study for. They are the same dream: a lack of control, a battle against time, a return to years past, a biting uncertainty about the now. If I look out the windows of this room, I can see brick houses with jewel-colored doors, the park across the street, and the church on the corner. No one seems to attend it--I've never seen a single person go in or out--but it is comforting that underneath the window guards there is the secret of stained glass. I hide in this room a lot, as I always have in my private spaces. A Room of One's Own?
When I open the door to leave my house, I always feel a little surprised. I peer out, then close the front door behind me. I am so aware of the feeling of walking on the sidewalk, crossing the street. I look at everyone around me and I wonder what they are seeing. When a man yells at me for not acknowledging his hello, calling me a "white bitch with big-ass titties," I get a hint. Suddenly I am thrust back into the world, where I am visible and seen and known. My mother has always celebrated the anonymity of the city, the security of being one with the masses, just another person living their life. I feel anonymous; I feel distorted. I feel that the essence of me is just a little bit injured every time someone looks at me. When they comment on my body, I am undone.
In Anthropology 102 I first thought about the ways our bodies are permeable. We believe we can be contaminated, not just by things like poison and pollution and germs. We are ideologically permeable and we are permeable to other people. We must contain ourselves and we must make sure others are contained. We are, always, part of the world and there is no respite from that fact.
Upstairs, I can hear the rabbit scratching at the sides of his pen. He is an enormous rabbit and he has his own room. My roommate pays extra for the closet off the bathroom. I used to flinch every time I heard him move, forgetting I was not alone in the house. I share this floor with my roommate, her cat, and a rabbit large enough to be steed to another, smaller rabbit.
Living in the city and commuting daily to another one has altered my perception of my public self. Whenever I can help it I stay in my room in Fishtown, blinds drawn. I have almost always operated this way. I have never inhabited a room that was not curated to be exactly how I wanted it. And I have never been the open window type. In the house I grew up in, tucked in my bed, I would imagine cowboys breaking through the windows of my bedroom and attacking me. I sometimes dream of that house and trying to close the doors and windows before an intruder enters, securing the perimeter. I also dream of high school math tests I do not have time to study for. They are the same dream: a lack of control, a battle against time, a return to years past, a biting uncertainty about the now. If I look out the windows of this room, I can see brick houses with jewel-colored doors, the park across the street, and the church on the corner. No one seems to attend it--I've never seen a single person go in or out--but it is comforting that underneath the window guards there is the secret of stained glass. I hide in this room a lot, as I always have in my private spaces. A Room of One's Own?
When I open the door to leave my house, I always feel a little surprised. I peer out, then close the front door behind me. I am so aware of the feeling of walking on the sidewalk, crossing the street. I look at everyone around me and I wonder what they are seeing. When a man yells at me for not acknowledging his hello, calling me a "white bitch with big-ass titties," I get a hint. Suddenly I am thrust back into the world, where I am visible and seen and known. My mother has always celebrated the anonymity of the city, the security of being one with the masses, just another person living their life. I feel anonymous; I feel distorted. I feel that the essence of me is just a little bit injured every time someone looks at me. When they comment on my body, I am undone.
In Anthropology 102 I first thought about the ways our bodies are permeable. We believe we can be contaminated, not just by things like poison and pollution and germs. We are ideologically permeable and we are permeable to other people. We must contain ourselves and we must make sure others are contained. We are, always, part of the world and there is no respite from that fact.