How I've Discovered That I May Be a Long Lost Relative of the Cookie Monster From Trying to Eat a Muffin on the T in a Classy Manner

*Disclaimer: If you came to this post thinking that it would be about something else, I would like to state for the record: GET YOUR MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER. I had to say something up front, because I know how people think.*

Unlike every other day when I commute to work, when I'm running a little bit behind (I set my clocks early, 'cause I know I'm always late is basically the story of my life), recently I had ample time to stop at Panera Bread and get breakfast. Now if you know me, I'm addicted to the pumpkin muffins that they have there. (Luckily my roommate is too, so she understands the insatiable cravings for these things.)

 

It's not sugar on top, it's crack. My roommate and I are convinced. 

After grabbing a delicious muffin and a cup of coffee, I made my way to the T. At this time, it was still early enough so that there weren't too many people waiting at the stop. 

(Quick tangent, and please, if you've experienced this, tell me. If I get on the D line at say ten minutes to eight am, there's plenty of space, and I'm golden for the entire ride. If I get on anytime less than ten minutes to eight, or God forbid, any time between eight and eight-ten, then I'm stuck between some person who bathes by using garlic as soap, an old woman carrying a ferret, and a group of prima donna ballerinas who somehow take up way more space than should be physically possible and think that is customary to violently shove people out of the way when they're exiting the train - seriously though, who the hell are these little girls and where do they come from? I swear they multiply when they're on the train, because they start off in a group of two or three, and by the time they leave, there's like seven of them. So it's that weird ten-ish minute gap in which I will arrive at work calm and collected, or sweaty and looking like I just sprinted from the Pru to the office. End tangent.)

Luckily, I had not reached the witching hour, so when I got on the train, I was able to get a seat to myself, there wasn't anyone hogging elbow room or standing directly in front of me with their crotch in my face (as people are wont to do), the car I was in had air conditioning, and all was well. I had my muffin and I was happy. 

Things should have been fine. Except when I started eating, things most definitely were not. After several minutes of trying to juggle my coffee and shove the muffin in my face, I decided that there is no classy way for me to eat a muffin on the T. Hypothetically, eating a muffin shouldn't take more than both hands (or even more than one hand) because muffins are:

• compact
• relatively small in size (unless it's this muffin, but if you're trying to eat this muffin, then you probably have other issues you should worry about) 

But if you're me, then you end up looking like you're on drugs or like you're a relative of this guy.

I believe he may be an uncle on my father's side. 

So if you found a large pile of muffin crumbs on a green line train at some point last week, sorry, that was me. 

The Long and Short of It Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Hair (Sort Of)

My hair has gone through many different evolutions. It's been long, it's been short, it's been somewhere in between, it's been black, it's been brown, it's been purple (no lie). It's been a tough road, trying to figure out what I can stand about my hair, and what I will never, ever do again (probably the purple, but you never know). So, for your amusement, is a brief history of my hair.

This is one of my favorite pictures of my grandparents. Grandpa and Granny circa 1984. 

Clearly, that is not me in the photo above, but is for reference. My Granny has great hair. Dark and curly, it was the kind of hair that I dreamed I had when I was a kid. Now, all you curly-haired folks out there, hear me out before you jump on me for not understanding the pains of having curly hair. I do not have curly hair, nor will I ever have curly hair. My Granny, who is in her seventies, still has these massive curls and looks twenty years younger than what she really is, and is frequently asked for her driver's license because people don't believe that she is old enough to get the senior special when we're eating out. 

She doesn't look a day over 35.

Anyway, Granny has the hair I aspired to have when I was younger, and instead was stick with some straight-haired madness that my family didn't know what to do with. My Granny, at her wit's end, apparently used to tape bows onto my head because people would assume that I was a little boy, and for some reason, this bothered her. Funny how twenty-six years later, people still sometimes assume that I'm a guy because of the length of my hair. Granny still despairs at this assumption, and the length of my hair. 

Yeah, I didn't have a lot going on up top. I think we still have that watering can. 

Finally, my hair grew and the heavens (and Granny) rejoiced. For several years, I had long hair. Like, I could almost sit on it long hair. I sort of remember having hair that long, but since I've not had it that long ever since I was kid, these are just vague memories.

I guess Granny still was in the "let's slap a bow on her head" phase. Don't I give off a Webby from DuckTales vibe?

Twins, right? 

Proof that I had long hair at some point. It wasn't quite long enough for me to sit on here, but still pretty long. Also, check out my Grandpa rocking the socks and sandals look. 

When I about to start kindergarten, Granny and Grandpa worried that my hair would become too much of a hassle to take care of/become a magnet for glue, gum, all the gross stuff that kids manage to sneak into the classroom when the teacher is not looking, so I got my first official hair cut. Grandpa took me to a salon down the street (which I occasionally go to when I'm at home) and I got my hair cut into a bob. Which I had for seven years. All the bob. All the time. 

This is the sort-of bob. I was six or seven here, as evidenced by my awesome Nala from The Lion King (1994) ensemble.  My crush on JTT was probably in full swing at this point. 

I didn't mind the bob. It was short-ish, but if I needed to do something to it (curl it, crimp it, etc.) for special occasions, I could. Though I was mistaken for a boy several times from about nine to twelve. Hey, it was the 90s, and I knew boys that did have hair about the same length as mine.   

I played basketball from 5th through 12th grade, and my hair was long enough to slap in a ponytail, though the length of my hair changed drastically throughout junior and high school. When I was in 7th grade, I decided that I was going to grow my hair out. I don't know why I made this decision, but I wanted long hair. This was a big deal. I was old enough to take care of my own hair, so I set about growing my hair out. 

Not that I had to wait long. My hair has Chia Pet-like qualities, and I swear it grows at twice the rate as a normal human being (which is about half an inch a month, in case you were wondering). Unfortunately, I don't have photos on hand to showcase that awkward time of my life - ahem - but I had long-ish hair for about three years, until I was a sophomore in high school, and I said enough was enough, and away the hair went. My friends were astonished that I could so easily part with my hair, but really it was more of the fact that I didn't have the time to blow dry my hair every morning, and having to deal with so much hair bothered me. 

I had a medium-length bob for a few years, not really committing to having short hair. One of my friends nicknamed me "Shaggy" (as in Shaggy from Scooby-Doo). 

I think even Shaggy himself is confused by the comparison. 

White Oleander was big when I was in high school, and I loved Alison Lohman's hair in it (after she chops it all off) and I literally went to a hair dresser with this picture and said, "I want this."

 I thought (and still think) that she was the coolest. 

Me, on the other hand...well, maybe not quite as cool. 

After doing the medium bob thing, I cut my hair a lot shorter before I headed off to college. It was fun having hair that short for the first time, and I really took to it, keeping it that way until my sophomore year. Of course, I also did this to it during freshman year:

Manic Panic was the best, right?  Don't lie, you know what I'm talking about. 

My hair made it through freshman and sophomore year without any drastic changes (other than the purple) and at some point during sophomore year, I decided to grow my hair out again, and thus began the crazy lengths melee of 2006 - 2008. 

Right, then, off we go: 

2006. Not drunk, I promise. 

Still 2006. Don't mind the crazy eyes. 

2007 at some point. The hair is getting longer...

Mid to late-ish 2007. This was the longest my hair had been in years. 

Winter 2007. You can't tell where my hair stops and the chair that I'm sitting in starts because there's so much of my hair.

Early 2008. 

Now I will admit, I liked all the things that I could do with my hair. Fortunately I had a friend at the time that was willing to crazy things with my hair like the style pictured above, because I have limited hair styling skills. I had long-ish hair for most of 2008, and then it got to the point where I couldn't handle it anymore again. Granted, sometimes I wish that I had hair this long again to be able to do fun stuff with it, but then I remember how much upkeep it is, and I'd rather do other things, like bake several dozen cookies or solve world peace in the time that it would take for me to manage that hair. 

Off my hair went in mid 2008, after donating it, and I was back to the short 'do. 

Similar to what I had before, but not. 

I kept my hair like this for most of 2008 and 2009, and I was fine with it. 

See? I could style it...to an extent. 

Then mid 2009 hit, and I hate saying this, but right before I was going to graduate from college, I broke up with my then-boyfriend. And not that it should have mattered, because it's not like it was the romance of the century or anything, but I needed to shake things up, because I was still waiting to hear back from the grad schools I had applied to and I didn't know where I was going to be in a year, and I felt like I needed to take control of my life. So what did I do? I got a new hair cut. (Though I'm in no way saying, "Hey, your life's lousy? A new hair cut will make you feel better." At the time, it just did help me feel better about my situation.)

I have as much hair on my head as I do with my two eyebrows, but whatever. 

I thought my Granny was going to kill me. She couldn't get over how short I cut it. All my Grandpa said was, "It makes you look taller. Whatever makes you happy, baby." (It took a lot to shock my Grandpa.) I kept my hair at this length for the rest of the year and until I went off to grad school. Short it was, and short it was staying. 

Of course, I did manage to make it even shorter than in the last photo, but I was also on the opposite side of the country where Granny couldn't hunt me down: 

Most manageable hair cut ever. No blow dryer necessary. 

My hair was buzzed like this for several cold Boston months - yeah, I probably shouldn't have decided to cut my hair in the middle of winter, but you live and you learn. It was a blast having my hair like this, and it made me feel both really feminine and tough as nails. 

Probably because in my mind I looked like this. My fav, Tank Girl. 

Since then, I've kept my hair short, but not as short as that last photo, save for a brief stint, where I started to grow my hair out again, but then had a friend of mine say that I looked like Martha Washington, and I cut it again. I've also had my hair compared and compared my own hair to Justin Bieber's and Ralph Macchio's (circa The Karate Kid). 

Now don't finish reading this post and think that I'm a bitch because I've been lucky enough to hack and slash my hair off for years, when some people don't have that luxury. I get it - I'm very fortunate to have Chia-Pet-head. I just wish that occasionally it wouldn't turn into the jungle from Jumanji, namely when I get up in the morning and I'm trying to get to work on time. 

I Have Really Vivid Dreams Sometimes

The first time Georgia met Julius was at the request of her friend Melinda. Georgia had been feeling mopey lately, and Melinda thought that meeting someone new would snap Georgia out of it. 

The initial conversation about Julius between Melinda and Georgia went like this, via text message:

M: I think I have someone for you.
G: Unless he’s a six-foot tall man made of chocolate, like literal chocolate, I don’t care.
M: He’s not made of chocolate, but you’ll still find him pretty tasty.

The picture Melinda sent Georgia was a black and white shot of a very attractive man laughing while holding a wine glass. He wasn’t quite looking at the camera, but the angle at which his head was cocked led the viewer to believe that he was still aware that his photo was being taken.

G: Hmm…He is attractive. But what’s with the picture? It looks like you snatched it from Google images “male model laughing”
M: I didn’t. He’s completely real, and I think he’s exactly what you need right now.

Annoyed at that last comment, as if a man would solve all her problems, Georgia waited an hour to respond to Melinda. In that time, Georgia ate a Pop-Tart, watched an episode of her favorite show on Netflix, started to wash the dishes, thought better of it, and was about to watch another TV episode when Melinda messaged her again.

M: Okay, so sorry for that last message. But let’s face it, G. you haven’t been out of the house for a month. I’m worried about you. And not only is this guy good looking, but he’s a great conversationalist, and you’re always telling me that you want someone to talk to. Just meet up with him once. That’s all I’m asking.
G: Fine. Give me his number.
M: He wants you to go to his house for dinner.
G: Dinner at his house for a first date? That’s weird.
M: He’s a little quirky. But you like quirky. Here’s his address.

G: What are you, his secretary? This isn’t your boss that you’re setting me up with??
M: NO. NO. He said Saturday at 7 would work. Do you want me to come over and help you pick out an outfit?

G: What am I, three? I’ll be fine.

M: Okay…and G, for god’s sake and mine, please don’t sleep with him. Wait until at least the third date.

G: Who says that this will get past the first date?

Melinda didn’t respond.

The house Georgia stood in front of was a mild yellow. It was similar to the color of Dijon mustard, but without all the speckles in it. She scratched her right ankle with the toe of her left platform sandal. Why do I let myself get talked into these things? I would have been perfectly happy to spend this evening sitting on the couch eating leftover Chinese food.

Georgia walked up to the door and rang the doorbell. Looks like he has a gardener. What, can he not take care of his own lawn?

No one answered the doorbell, so Georgia rang again. But still there was no answer. Frustrated, she knocked on the mahogany door. Though she knew it was rude, she tried the handle. The door was unlocked, so she walked it.

“Hello?” she called. The only light was coming through the front windows. Georgia was standing in the living room. The room was sparsely decorated, in a modern style. The colors of the room were rich, deep, dark reds and browns, with a color palette that reminded Georgia of the southwest. She didn’t know if she should venture further into the house, but since she was already in so far, she figured why not. She called out hello once more and walked deeper into the house. The kitchen was placed behind the living room, with a half wall separating the two. Like the living room, the kitchen was very modern looking with a set of copper pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. A window faced the backyard, which had a small pond and a well-crafted table with a striped blue and white umbrella on the impossibly green grass.

“Fancy,” she said quietly.

Exiting the kitchen, she walked down the hall, which had several black and white photographs hanging on the walls. One was of a church steeple, and another that was a hilly landscape. Stopping to admire them, Georgia heard a sound come from a room down the hall. Passing by a bathroom, and peeking into an office off to the right before she tiptoed to the end of the hall, she saw a tidy study with three walls covered in books, seemingly the only non-modern items in the entire house. Her heart beating hard in her chest, she knocked softly on the door at the end of the hall.

A gruff noise that she deciphered as a “Yeah, come in,” was emitted from the room. Slowly opening the door, not knowing what to expect, Georgia entered a semi-dark room. A man was sitting on the bed, his back to her. He was shirtless, with his hair a jumbled mess. Georgia couldn’t tell if he was in fact the same man from the picture Melinda had sent. The room, by contrast to the rest of the house, looked like a bomb went off. Plastic cups and papers were strewn about, and the bed looked like it hadn’t been made in a week. The room felt slightly humid, and she noticed various medicines and Kleenex scattered around.  

“Don’t step on anything important,” he told her.

“Anything important? How am I supposed to tell if anything is important? Are you sick? What’s with the tissues?” She kept a hand on the door handle, poised to run out of the room at a moment’s notice.

“Just don’t move from where you are. That’s how you won’t step on anything important. And yes, I’m sick.”
“I can leave, if you’re going to be grumpy and contagious.” Or if you want to try and kill me.

He looked over his shoulder at her. “No, don’t leave. It’s been ages since I’ve had company.” He grabbed a tissue and blew his nose.
Cute. He hasn’t asked how I got into the house.

Rather than skirt the issue, Georgia said, “You should be more careful. Your front door was unlocked.”

“Yeah, I know.”
“Well, you shouldn’t do that. It’s not safe.”

He got up from the bed and stood facing her. “I unlocked it because I knew that you were coming over.”

He was taller than she was expecting, and seeing him now made her a bit nervous. Maybe because all he had on was a pair of pajama pants. Even ill with she didn’t know what, Georgia had to admit the man was gorgeous. She forced herself to look above his waistband. “So this isn’t something you do all the time?”
“Do you mean leave my door unlocked, or have my friends set me up?” He crossed his arms over his chest.

Georgia, who had not seen a shirtless man literally in the flesh for longer than she liked to admit, tried not to reveal that she would like to stop the pointless chatter and possibly bang this man.
Even if he does turn out to be a sociopath with a cold. 

“I meant, leave your door unlocked.”
He moved around the bed so that he was closer to her. Georgia took a step backward, and was half standing in the room and out in the hall.

“And how often do you go into strange men’s houses, creeping about without so much as a warning?”
“I said ‘hello!’ twice, and you didn’t respond!”

He took another step closer to her. “Maybe you weren’t speaking loudly enough.”

“I thought we were supposed to have dinner. Pretty strange dinner if you’re going to be in your pajamas.”

“I can change that.” He grabbed her hands and pulled her into the room.
Georgia shrieked, “What the fuck are you doing?”

He immediately let her go. “I thought…you don’t? I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“You lunatic! I don’t know what I was…what Melinda…fuck! If nothing else, you just blew your nose, and now you’re touching me. God, what do you have anyway?” She rubbed her hands on her pants, backed out of the room and made her way to the front door.

He followed her. “Please don’t go! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it! I’m sorry. I’ll make you the best pasta primavera you’ve ever had!”

Georgia knew she should leave, that she shouldn’t trust this guy, that it shouldn’t matter if he was a friend of Melinda’s. But her stomach grumbled and she stopped. Walking back, she stuck her finger in Julius’s face. “Don’t touch me again. Unless I ask you to. And JESUS. Wipe your nose.” There was a box of tissues on a table in the living room. She hurled the box at him, hitting him in the chest.

He bent and picked up the box. “Sorry. I’ll go put on a shirt.”

As he walked away, Georgia thought, “He looks like a little boy.”

She put her purse on the couch, and went into the kitchen. She hopped onto the counter and waited for Julius. Melinda owes me big. I don’t think he’s going to kill me, but she cannot set me up with any more sociopaths.

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This is all I have so far. Maybe tonight I'll finish it.