The Secret, Part 2

As previously addressed, I have always been behind the learning curve. Let me give you a for instance. At the tender young age of 19 months, I was still crawling around on all fours. My mother was deeply concerned and got on the phone with my pediatrician's office to find out what the hell was wrong with her baby.

I was fully cognizant of what was going on, being practically ready for college by that age. While she was busy bursting into histrionics on the phone, I crawled over to her desk, looked her right in the eyeballs, hauled myself up, and walked off. Never fell down once.

That's what I've been like my whole life. I don't like attempting things unless I know I will be a blazing success at them and that nothing will go wrong.

It's taken me a long time to learn how to be brave, and I would be remiss if I didn't point out that this has been an incomplete process. Instead, I limp along until an Unexpected & Life-Altering Event forces me to jump off a cliff into the (relative) unknown.

After watching Braveheart as a youngster, for example, I spent years wanting to visit Scotland. But I never actually WENT because it was an international trip and I didn't have anyone to go with me and my dad was constantly referencing the movie Taken. But then I broke up with the guy I was supposed to marry and BAM!!! I got on a plane and flew to Scotland.

And that's what happened with my job, too. I was miserable teaching in my old school district. In a period of 6 years, my building had 11 principals and 3 superintendents. But I just kept trucking along. And then we got a 28-year-old principal with 2 years of teaching experience. He made me submit all my tests to him so that he could check that I was reporting my data accurately. He made me alphabetize them before I submitted them. Then he sent them back without even looking at them and told me he wanted them in numerical order instead. And I just snapped. I called in the teacher's union and I went BONKERS.

That's when I packed up all my stuff and said I wasn't coming back, come hell or high water. I spent my solo vacation in Turks & Caicos job searching by the beach. It was not my best vacation, but I found a new job and got the hell outta' Dodge.

It strikes me that this is what has happened with my housing situation, as well. I have finally found a tiny house! I guess I probably could have done this before now, but it took the Unexpected & Life-Altering Event of my landlady jacking up my rent while leaving the other tenants' at the same rate to ignite my sense of injustice and propel me into action.

I was all, I'LL SHOW YOU!!! I'LL JUST OWN A TINY HOUSE INSTEAD OF RENT FROM YOUR SCANDALOUS ASS!!!!!!!!!!!!

And now I am thousands and thousands of dollars poorer and probably won't be able to go to England and France this summer, but hey, I finally achieved the milestone of homeownership, which I'd been attempting off and on for 9 years.

The Secret?

Perhaps. I asked Ma if marriage and small black children could materialize in the same vein of finding a new job and a tiny house, but she said probably not because they would involve someone else's will and not just my own.

It is pretty difficult to envision an Unexpected and Life-Altering Event big enough to propel me into adopting a child on my own, but I guess that's what would make it unexpected. Never say never, amiright?

Apple TV and the Best Worst Date Ever

I've always been really behind the learning curve on things. For example, right now my Apple TV is broadcasting pictures of all the following things simultaneously: the Delmar Divide, a 5-paragraph essay, the Ferguson protest riots, my cat licking my face, and some plagiarized student projects. I don't particularly want these pictures on a constant scroll-through in my living room -- particularly in this amalgamation -- but I don't know how to fix it. This is because I do not know how to use my Apple TV, despite the fact that this product was introduced 3 years ago.

The rest of my existence is in similar disarray. Despite the fact that I have a vibrant life in many ways -- ie, I enjoy working with disenfranchised men in north city, I enjoy founding after school programs for my students and learning how to play the drums, I like hanging out with friends and pretending I'm adept at smoking cigars, etc, etc -- I am woefully behind in others.

Case in point: I am living in a one-bedroom apartment with a cat about a decade after this ceased to be socially acceptable. I do not own a home. I am not married. I have no children or golden retrievers. I spend Friday nights drinking whiskey and watching Sherlock. I am simultaneously Behind In Life and also way too far ahead -- surely it's only a matter of time before I move up to a garret and start writing poetry that I hide under my floorboards for future generations to find.

Sometimes I find myself thinking, "If the average person starts dating at 16, and I didn't start until 24, that means I'm 8 years behind everyone else. That means if the average person buys a home at 33, I won't own my own home till I'm 45. That's depressing." I have those thoughts a lot. I try to speed the process up at times, like making my realtor/Dad show me five million homes in one month, or going out on dozens of dates in a short time span. But that doesn't really work either. Observe...

At our last Cigar & Scotch Night, I had just come from a first date. It ranks right up there amongst my most memorable dates. The guy had red hair and freckles, which I'm not going to lie, is kind of enticing to me. Anyway, as I told my C&SN friends, this guy asked me to have a beer, and I checked with Stratski, who, as you may recall is my Dating Mentor (although the effectiveness of this working relationship has been questioned many times). Stratski said sure, why not. It's broad daylight, what could go wrong?

Oh, Stratski. We teach irony for a living. Have you learned nothing?

In the space of an hour or so, this guy, whom we'll call Jerry, boggled my mind. Over a couple of pumpkin ales, he burst into tears and told me his dad had shot himself when he was in 7th grade. I didn't know what to say to that. What do you say when someone drops that bomb on you on a first date? Especially while crying??

Then he told me he thought he might be bi-polar. I was like, "Man... that's intense. You maybe should get that checked out."

"No, I don't want to know. I'd rather just not know."

"Dude, you're a surgeon. Don't you think it's irresponsible to just live in denial if you have a real medical problem?"

It went on like this, with him saying that he'd just started some really good medication that he knew would start working in about month. I made a mental note to check on him in a month. But then Jerry happened to mention that his mental condition was probably biological, and his dad is really volatile.

"Hold up. I thought you said your dad committed suicide when you were 13?"

"Oh, no, he shot himself, but he lived."

DUDE, WTF!?!?!?! You don't start crying in your beer on a first date when your dad is still freaking ALIVE!!!

The date went on and on like that. I finally told him he seemed like a great guy but like he had some  things he needed to work on personally before becoming involved with someone else.

At Cigar & Scotch Night, J-Mo said, "E-train, you CANNOT go out with this guy again. You CANnot! He is a TRAINWRECK!!"

"But he has red hair," I counter-argued.

"Are you insane," J-Mo reasonably asked.

But a month later, true to form, I texted Jerry to make sure he was okay: "Hey, Jerry. I just wanted to check in on you and make sure you are doing all right."

Jerry's response was brilliant: Who is this? Oh!! Is this the most mature 19-year-old ever!?!?!

Me: No never mind

Only after many more wheedling texts during which time it became apparent that I had opened a Pandora's Box, did I say: This is Elle. You asked me to have a beer with you, but then you started crying, called me a bitch, told me you were afraid you were bi-polar, and then burst into tears again. I just wanted to make sure that you are okay because you told me you'd started medicine but it would take about a month to kick in, that is all.

Now, a normal, red-blooded American male would have been affronted by that text (I think). Not Jerry. He called me. He informed me that he DID start taking that medicine, but that it inhibited orgasms in him so he had quit it. I eschewed hearing about the 19-year-old and got off the phone quickly after ascertaining he was alive and had taken up woodworking.

Now maybe normally, people are supposed to know to avoid this kind of train wreck when they are, like, 25. But I'm behind the curve, you see, and it affected me. Seeing someone cry and talk about the meaninglessness and loneliness of their life got to me.

And that is why I may never own a house...