I’m not too sure when I became the resident expert on cohabitation.

It could be that, seven months into living in a new apartment with my guy, I am still deliciously giddy about the notion of waking up to him every morning, and he still finds me bearable and perhaps a little cute, despite my tendency to spill food and to wear cat slippers for an entire day.

It could also be that this is round two for me, having lived with The Ex on and off for almost five years (on and off not because of tumultuous break-ups and make ups, but because we had a complicated series seasonal jobs and school related moves between us, meaning that we were seemingly doing the long distance thing as frequently as we were living in the same city). As such, I have some experience on what works well, and what can go very, very wrong.

This week, when having a catch-up coffee with a friend, she asked me for words of wisdom before her upcoming move into her boyfriend’s apartment. At first, I felt a little befuddled, as it can be hard to summarize what makes your relationship work. On the surface, it feels a little natural, as though it just clicks, rather than being due to a series of carefully thought out decisions. However, with a little more reflection, especially on the comparison between what has worked and what hasn’t, I realized there was some things I had learned, both from my first experience, my current experience, and watching my friends go through this transition. 

The thing we all seem to forget going into cohabitation is how differently we were all raised. While hopefully, by the time you decide to move in together, you have discussed the big things, like religious views, feelings about marriage and children, and so forth, often times the little things never occur to you. And while you expect disagreements on the big things to tear you apart, you underestimate how those little differences may eat away at you. These are the things you take for granted, that you just assume the other knows intrinsically.

For instance, some of The Ex and I’s most regular arguments were over the words “Thank you”. While I was growing up, my parents were big on thanking one another for the little things. Every night after dinner, my mother or father would make a point of thanking the other for making a delicious meal. As such, when I cooked dinner for the two of us, I would find my teeth slowing grinding together, waiting for words of gratitude to come from his mouth, and resisting the urge to shout “you’re welcome!” as I cleaned up the plates. However, whenever I confronted him on this, and claimed that it made me feel taken for granted, he stated that in his family, they didn’t thank one another for daily routines, such as cooking or cleaning. He stated that they saw these acts as just part of what being in a family were about, and thus were not in need of any special recognition.

So, in talking to my friend, I warned her about these unspoken assumptions that she may have never had to question before, and the sometimes tedious act of making the implicit explicit.

I also told her about what I see as the Big Three– the three topics many couples argue about when they first move in together– money, chores, and time spent together. Perhaps what has been the biggest blessing in my current relationship is expecting these Big Three, and talking about them prior to formally sharing a living space.

Money is obvious. Some people like a straight up 50/50 split, down to the exact penny. Others take a more lax approach, with the idea that it will all balance out in the end. Others feel the person making more money should pay a greater proportion of the bills. Some want joint bank accounts, others keep every dollar separate. There are advantages and disadvantages to every approach, but one thing is for sure– agree about which one you are going to take before you sign a lease. 

Chores probably fall into the taken for granted category. Some people leave the dishes to pile up until a specific day, others wash them the second they hit the counter. Some people grew up in a house with a gendered division of labour, others find such a notion offensive. It almost always seems as though there is one member of the couple who is messier than the other, which, especially when going unaddressed, is a great recipe for resentment on the part of the other person.

A chief example? I had a friend who did all the cleaning for her partner, and eventually grew fed up. Rather than talk to him about her frustration, she tried to prove a point by stopping all her cleaning– both to show him how much work she did, as well as to see how long it would take him to start picking up the slack. You can imagine how well this went over. Let’s just say I came over once, and had to drink water out of a shotglass, because every single other dish in the house was filthy. And I still don’t think he got the point. She certainly didn’t accomplish what she wanted.

Time together is a funny one. I’ve had some friends grumble over the fact that, once they moved in with their significant other, their partner stopped making plans with them, claiming that “We live together! We see each other all the time now!”

We’ve all had experiences with the opposite, too, the couple that has moved in together and now apparently are a single entity than cannot be separated. They are BobandKelly forever more, and heaven forbid one is invited out when the other is sick, because the world might combust at the notion of BobandKelly separating for a few hours. 

My guy and I are busy people. If we didn’t make specific plans every once in a while for a movie or dinner night, honestly, we would probably spent most of our time together sleeping. However, it is important for us both to have our separate friends. Sure, we have our couple friends, but we also have our separate social circles. Also, we’re both comfortable with the idea of hitting events solo– I can hold my own at a party or a concert, and so can he. Again, though, this is actually something we’ve had conversations about. As this was his first time living with a girlfriend, I think he was a little frightened of the horror stories about the iron grip coming into play once we moved in, and was therefore relieved when I told him that I still wanted my solo time and girls nights.

So those are my words of wisdom regarding shackin’ up. Does anyone have their own?

(This was submitted to me from a wonderful writer who wishes to remain anonymous. This post is one that I think many twentysomethings can relate to. Enjoy!)

It has been just a little over five years now since I moved into that first apartment that was All. Mine.  Trash, and the responsibility for taking it out: all mine. Food, and responsibility for making sure I bought it, all mine. Rent and bills: all mine.

But privacy, temperature control, furniture arrangements, TV remote and ultimately, the right to do exactly what I damn well pleased were well worth all the unshared expenses. That first new apartment played host to some of my favorite parties and many a weekend visitor, and I have never since considered having a roommate with any degree of sincerity.

It bears mentioning that when I left the world of co-habitation behind, I had been living with a boyfriend of almost three years.  In retrospect, things were already quite shaky between us before we moved in together in a new city during a new phase in both our lives, and I was mentally ready to move on. The catalyst of living together pushed me out of the relationship and out on my own after only two months of sharing an apartment - a two-bedroom apartment, even.

So here I am, five years later: self-actualized, single, fearless, responsible and autonomous. Only wait - single?  Not so much.  I’m attached, he’s awesome, and this is no passing fling.  This, I believe, is the real deal. Truly, I am ecstatic about it (though my fearless, autonomous side keeps me from admitting it freely), and I love the idea of taking The Next Step, until concrete discussions about The Next Step being Moving In Together began to take place.

I swear, I live a simple life and as much as I’ve moved around over the past several years, I don’t place a lot of importance in collecting material possessions. Yet while my first thought after the initial Moving In Together discussion was, that will be wonderful!, my second thought was, what about my stuff? The further I pondered this question, the nuttier I felt, to the point where I actually hand-wrote a list of all of my furniture and appliances, then coded each item Keep, Sell or Donate.

That didn’t make me feel any less nutty, as the move is not imminent, and by that I mean that it is at least six months away.  I suppose I felt that a list or chart or spreadsheet of some sort might also control the success of the proposed living arrangement with step-by-step instructions as to how two independent people who like their alone time can share a household and belongings.

Really what it comes down to is this: the boy and I are going to be great.  But living with someone is going to be a huge adjustment no matter who the new roommate is or how well you know them, and, I think, especially so if you’re like me and have lived alone for most of your adult life. As much as I try to keep my freakouts internalized, I’d love to have some guidance that would help me do away with them altogether and remember that this is a very natural, everyday progression, that I’ll still have all the independence and autonomy I need - minus the hefty rent.

As I washed my hands amidst a bunch of girls clad in lycra chatting on cell phones, I found myself thinking of a post I’d written about a year and a half prior about my experiences at the very same club. About how I’d spent more money than I would ever hope to in one night (and I was barely tipsy), about my friend who had showed up fifteen minutes late after driving an hour to arrive couldn’t get to the club despite the fact that it was still half empty, about how I was spending way too much time avoiding eye contact with men with popped collars. As such, I present to you my six (previously noted) reasons why I haven’t the slightest clue I still return to clubs.

#1- The whole worship-the-bouncer expectations. Somehow, by giving a select few individuals the power to decide who is admitted into a club and who has to wait in line and who does not, we have also given these bouncers superiority in all other realms of life. Now, I understand that some of them are merely doing their jobs, and also have to do a lot of dirty work, including kicking out drunk and angry folk. However, I resent the fact that I am supposed to flirt with them to skip a line-up, am not supposed to bring any men if I really really want to skip the line (which is often just a facade, anyways, as I will comment on later), and am never to protest any unfair treatment on their behalf. I also resent the ridiculous bribes they will demand from men or women who choose not to flirt with them to surpass these lines. It is just so crazy that getting into a club is enough to bestow these people with this power.

#2- The club strip. Where I live, there is one primary club strip that gets taken over by drunken twenty somethings every Friday and Saturday night. Somehow, the norms changes on these two nights of the week, such that random groping of strangers is acceptable, and the way to show someone you are interested in them is through a high pitched “wooooooo!”. It also becomes acceptable to leave one’s drunk barefooted friend passed out on the curb in order to flirt (I seriously saw this once. My friend got yelled at to mind her own business when she tried to intervene.) Not to mention the deceptive line-ups that dominate the street starting at around 10pm, which you are obligate to wait in for at least half an hour for the honour of paying to get into a club that is still empty.

#3- Prices- This needs little explanation. I know we Canadians still don’t need to pay the prices that one has to in order to gain entrance into clubs in more prolific cities like New York or London– but our clubs are nowhere near that good. Last night I paid $14 to get into a club because some DJ I’d never heard of was paying. Plus $3 for the mandatory service of storing my coat. Plus insanely overpriced drinks that you can finish off in two gulps– and then you have to tip your bartender really well if you want to get decent service next time around. Those breast implants didn’t pay for themselves, you know!

#4- Crowds. You might as well get in line before you even feel the inkling to pee, because you will have to go by the time you get to the front on the line. And apparently full force shoving a complete stranger is fully acceptable when you really really need to get to the dance floor in a hurry (OMG! It’s my song!)

#5- Drunk girls who need attention. Any semi-decent looking woman who is not wearing a potato sack will get hit on in a club. It’s just a fact (see point #6). Admittedly, I do try to make myself look a little more fabulous that usual– but that means a nice pair of earring and a tank top. Not half a foot high high heels that you can barely walk in while sober and a skirt that doesn’t cover your ass. Even worse is those who, even in the micro-mini, have not managed to pick up yet (I’m really in awe as to how this is even possible!)… about half an hour before closing time, predictably, the pseudo-lesbianism will begin– a guaranteed attention getter.

For example, in the bathroom of the club I was in last night, there is a little lounge area with chairs across from floor-to-ceiling mirrors. My friend came out from the bathroom with a disgusted look on her face. Apparently, a girl in a tiny leopard print dress who I had observed getting more drunk and over the top as the night went on had decided to take the typical man-watching-TV stance on one on the chair… legs spread wide open… nothing underneath… in front of an enormous mirror. Yikes.

#6- Last, but not least, is the other side of the club meat market– the men. I could write an entire post about the various lame pick-up attempts experienced and witnessed. Prime examples- the guy who followed me around screaming “Fuck you!” for an entire evening after I turned him down; the guy who threatened me after I told him to leave my married friend alone; the guy who thought it would be seductive to blow on me… hard… multiple times… after I mentioned I was feeling hot (he was seriously getting out of breath and even followed me, still puffing away, when I tried to leave).

The funniest thing about all these attempt is that they must have worked one time for men to continue trying them so persistently. I really hate that girl who slept with the guy who randomly grabbed her ass on the dance floor.

Remember last week when I asked you to tell me what’s one thing you wished people would realize about you?

There was a reason.

I’ve been finding myself having conversations with people who have made assumptions on the kind of person I am. Obviously they aren’t assuming the worst of me, nor is the motivation behind their views malicious- but their assumptions are simply grounded in the foundation where all assumptions are laid- they simply don’t know about me, so they guess.

They predict my behavior based on scraps of conversation and words I’ve written. They guess who I am based on the evidence that’s available to them- evidence I’ve given them.  Evidence that leads them to believe that I’m something that’s so completely different from what I am.

They assume that I’m not the kind of girl who would backpack Europe, that I’m more likely to take luggage and stay in a hotel. They assume that my favourite Friday nights are spent in loud clubs with cute guys, rather than the truth- I’d much rather hit up a quick pub with good friends. (And you know.. cute guys). They assume that I read chick lit, but don’t assume that I read Thomas Friedman. They assume- and their assumptions have bothered me more than I would have thought.

Is it because I’m worried that I project something that I’m not? Is it because I’m worried that I care so much what other people think? Is it because I don’t understand what about me implies that I’m not a girl who reads a book unless there’s a picture of a shoe on the cover?

These types of moments, these chances to reflect, leave me thinking about the kind of person I am and the kind of person I want to be known as.  It’s important to me that people know that I value friends over men, pubs over clubs, backpacks over luggage. I’m not saying one is better, but for me- one just fits better with who I am. And as silly as it sounds, I want people to know that.

I have a lot of going on right now… I’ve been interviewing for jobs, preparing to start grad school, dating a new guy, trying to fill in my free time with odd jobs…. no one said being 22 wasn’t chaotic. And once I do have a job and my classes have started, things will only get crazier.

I have been trying to decide what to write about today. Job interviews? I just had one on Monday so I have a lot to say about that topic. I’m usually a good interviewer. I tried to be prepared. But after it was all said and done, I felt kind of like an idiot. I could have given better answers to the questions. I forgot to say this, or I should have said that. But I think we all go through that. Interviews are touch and go. Sometimes you know you nailed it, and other times… well, not so much.

Or should I write about the boy I’ve been spending a lot of time with lately? I know you all love when I write about dating topics, but this particular boy knows about this blog and I’m not sure I’m ready to be so public about what’s going on with him.

I already wrote about my grad school debt woes. I just had to take a larger loan out than I would have liked because I seriously have no extra money to put towards tuition right now. Money issues are a big concern for me right now, because until I have a steady paycheck again, I’m not sure how all of my bills will be paid. Last week I sat through 8 hours of court television just to make a few bucks. (If you watch the Judge Jeannine Pirro show on Thursday at 3:00, you will likely see me in the audience. One of the cases was Ron Jeremy suing a stripper/porn star for breach of contract…. kind of amusing, check it out.)

I guess I really just don’t know what I could say that would inspire you guys… or challenge you… or make you feel like you can relate to me. And so, with the risk that you guys will make me take a huge leap out of my comfort zone, I’m going to let you pick my brain. Ask me any question you would like in the comments, and I will answer honestly. If I feel the answer is too personal to reply to on this blog, I will send you an email reply.

So, what burning questions do you have for me? Here’s your chance to ask.

Probably one of the biggest points of agreement we can all have about our 20s is that they are bloody busy.

Perhaps it is this pressure to “have it all”, but I frequently feel I have demands flying at me from every direction. Career demands are hurtling at me from one end, family pressures from another, and hey look, here’s finances flying towards my head, and don’t forget about your relationship, plus your house is a mess. Sometimes when I take a good look at my to-do list I feel like my oxygen has momentarily stopped.

At times like these, when items are being added to the list at a faster rate that your pen can cross them off, it is simple to come to the conclusion that “something’s gotta give”.

And, at least for me, what often gives is my health.

In general, I think that our generation, despite ostensibly being all about low-fat this and fortified that, yoga this and hiking that, tends to be pretty nonchalant about our health. I’m sure we all have stories about our friends’ perceived invincibility. I have the male friend who took three years of burning stomach pain and vomiting several mornings a week to actually seek the aid of a doctor. A female friend, nearly 30 years old, mentioned casually this weekend that she had never had a pap smear, and when queried, said she was more paranoid about the procedure involved than the prospect of cervical cancer. 

Top this attitude off with a packed schedule, and we have a problem.

As I find my schedule getting busier, I get less sleep. This means I hit my snooze button a few more times in the morning, leaving me no time for breakfast, outside of a styrofoam cup full of coffee. Shopping takes more of a backseat, meaning that as the weeks go on, there are fewer vegetables in my crisper, and I have to start relying on the canned and frozen fixtures back-up foods– mmmm, chunky soup and french fries it is! After a long day, the last thing I want to do is walk out the door to the gym, as my couch is far more appealing than a treadmill. Not to mention my back is in desperate need of a chiropractor, I am usually dehydrated, and it has been so long since I set foot in a dentist’s office that I almost forget the taste of strawberry fluoride.

It’s a cycle I’m all too familiar with… but that doesn’t make it okay. Just because I’m still a reasonably perky young adult doesn’t mean such things are consequence free. After all, I’ve already cursed high and low about the epic dip in my metabolic rate since my teenager years, which means that donuts have effects they never used to. Baby steps are needed, whether it is waking up 15 minutes early to have a bowl of cereal, or sticking in a pilates tape rather than logging onto Facebook.

What are your health weaknesses? What do you do about them?

This week’s guest post is by Just Jinny over at  A Real Girl in the Real World. 

Finish this sentence..

The one thing I wish people would realize about me is______________________________

(I promise there is a reason for this. We will discuss it next Thursday…)

As the post below this one made clear, grad school isn’t always sunshine and lollipops. I’m afraid this is one of those times. As such, I’m playing cop-out blogger again, and leaving you all with another old favourite from my blog. I thought it may be something our brainy readers could sympathize with.

I’m afraid, Bloggie-Land, that I am about to toot my own horn a little….

I am smart.

This is one of the most consistent and true aspects of my identity. While some days I don’t feel especially pretty, I know I am not graceful or athletic, and sometimes my sense of humour falls flat, I know I can have faith in my intelligence. It would sting if someone were to call me ugly, but if (almost anyone- I have few limits!) called me stupid, I would have the confidence to laugh in their face.

I think this is in part the stuff of family myths. Ever since I apparently spoke and read at a very young age, I have been preened as the “smart” one. I have generally played into my role pretty well, from voraciously devouring novels at a young age (and proudly wearing my Snoopy “I love reading” shirt), to now, as a PhD student in a family that has done well while eschewing university degrees.

However, it is funny how, while intelligence is put forth as one of the most positive values in our society, it seems to be all tied up in a whack of other negative stereotypes. A few have come to mind for me while reflecting on growing up as a “smart girl”.

1. Smart girls aren’t pretty.

While, granted, I did go through a year of my life with the genuinely hideous one-side-of-my-hair-is-much-longer-than-the-other cut, and my eyebrows, when unplucked, may bear a striking resemblence to something of the catepillar variety, I can pull myself together pretty well. However, it appears that some believe makeup to be somehow incompatible with me with brains.

I think this one was probably the earliest to show up, and may have been out of a direct contrast made between my younger sister and I. Despite the fact that we are often mistaken for twins, and she was usually on the Honour Roll, my early penchance for books and hers for pink dresses was sufficient for us to be placed in out own little boxes for the bulk of our childhood and adolescence. I was the smart one, she was the pretty one, and this predetermined what conversations people would try to engage us in. It is probably an entire post onto itself the extent and consequences of this, and I often wonder if it played a role in my sister’s decision not to go to university, despite undoubtedly having the skills (and even some scholarship cash) to do so. It certainly didn’t do wonders for my self-esteem at times.

There is also the flip side of this. This summer, while away at the grad student institute, over dinner, a man asked me and some girl friends about our experiences of having been approached at conference not due to the quality of our poster or talk, but due to our appearance. I knew he meant it as some sort of an offhanded complement, but it burned like an insult. Underlying it was the notion that we would not be recognized for our accomplishments because we happened to be good-looking, or, even worse, that some people would assumed that’s where our recognition came from– despite the fact that acceptance at grad school, for conference presentations and to journals is not accompanied by a bikini shot.

2. Smart girls don’t have friends and don’t have fun.

This was another spin-off of the “contrasted sister” effect, whereby despite the fact that I was reasonably popular and socially involved while in high school, it was assumed that my sister was the real social one, and, behind it all, I had loner-ish tendencies.

What really stuck out for me was how people couldn’t conceive my social persona and my school persona as equally a part of me. People who knew me socially couldn’t imagine me hitting the books, while people who knew me through classes where shocked to see me cut loose at a party. Even now, people have told me that they are a little in awe of my ability to balance these two seemingly opposing abilities.

3. Smart girls don’t have to work hard.

This represents a huge pet peeve of mine. Yes, I’m smart, and tend to grasp things reasonably well the first time ’round. But to blame where I am today on some sort of luck of the genetic draw is pretty insulting. For instance, I didn’t merely spew out my Masters thesis over coffee one morning. I worked literally from when I woke up in the morning (starting running stats over coffee in my PJs) until I went to bed at around 3 in the morning, sometimes not leaving my apartment for days at a time during the final stretch.

Ambition and intelligence are not the same thing.

4. Boys don’t like smart girls.

This one is my most recent struggle. I believed for a while that, sure, boys may like smart girls on paper– no one overtly claims to want a stupid partner– but they often don’t like what a smart girlfriend entails, including wanting to do “smart” things, possibly having more knowledge on a particular topic, or, heaven forbid, having educated opinions on issues. I’d actually been told by the Ex that my intelligence was a negative when discussing an issue with him– as though it was somehow playing dirty by bringing up knowledge he didn’t have. Especially in front of others.

Unfortunately, I’m not too good at playing dumb.

And I started wondering if this was actually to my disadvantage.

Thankfully, this stereotype was disconfirmed by what remains one of the best complements I’ve ever received by my guy, while we were still just friends, when he said that I was sexy when I talked confidently about the topics I knew well.

(Hence why we are a match in geek heaven.)

“Welcome to the real world she said to me,” is my mother’s favorite retort to my hemming and hawing about my life and the suckiness of paying bills and making decisions and being a Contributing Member to Society.

She never remembers that the very next word of that song is “condescendingly.”

Sigh.

But this is not about my mother and her condescending lyrical responses. This is about the Real World. Not the first reality television show (does anyone else find it annoying that Survivor often gets billed as such?)  The real Real World, the big one, outside, where people go to work and have mortgages, and health insurance and jobs that require a degree. The Real World that a lot of you currently reside in (Look! Real World inhabitants in their natural habitat! Scientists have recently discovered that most of these inhabitants have two work-free days a week! They call this anomaly a “weekend.” Oooo. Ahhhh!)

This post is about my love-hate relationship with the Real World.

See me, well I’m Shaba, and I take up valuable internet space blogging about my life as a graduate student at A Blog of Her Own. Yup. I’m delaying the Real World by collecting expensive pieces of paper. As I tie off the end of my MBA (May 17^th! May 17^th! May 17^th! The end of weekend classes!) I’m also starting to fill out Ph.D. applications. Yes. More school.

I think.

Therein lies my problem. I do want to get my Ph.D., I want to spend my time learning shit I actually care about (I’m glaring at you Finance/Econ/Statistics), I want to try my hand at teaching freshies Women’s Studies 101, I want to be able to call myself a Doctor. I want to continue to learn while I’m still in student mode; I know how hard it is to go back after spending some time in the Real World. But…I’m a little burnt out. I’ve been in school, full time, year-round, since I graduated high school. That’s 5 years without a break. And a Ph.D. program will probably take me another 5. Another five years of avoiding the Real World. Another five years of papers and exams and over priced text books. Another five years of living on a student’s salary. Another five years in a long distance relationship. Another. Five. Years.

Thinking that way, the perks of the Real World (a mere 8-10 hour work day?! Money?! A Routine that doesn’t include multi-tasking every minute of my day?!) are alluring. Especially given my extreme desire to move forward in my romantic relationship. (Did I mention it’s long distance? And that it’d be an even longer distance if I continue my schooling?  Yea. Not fun.)

So, umm…now what?

Well, right now, I’m playing it by ear. First I have to get accepted somewhere before I’ll even know if I have to worry about this, but granted I receive a shiny happy acceptance letter (or four), I have some tough decisions to make.

Have any of you dealt with this kind of decision already? What did you decide? Those of you in a Ph.D. or Master’s program, do you feel you made the right choice for you? Why? Those of you in the Real World, how is it? Is it ok out there? Is it real or is there really “just a lie you’ve got to rise above?”

Thanks, Internets. You’re the best.

(Hello everybody! I received this post from someone who wished to remain anonymous. I think it’s such a revealing look at the struggles I know many people faced- or are still facing. Though we all wish politics would unite us, it’s sometimes far more difficult than we can imagine. Enjoy this thought provoking submission and thank you to the writer who submitted it.)

I don’t try and pass myself off as Miss Manners. I know that I sometimes forget to thank my hosts, I’m horrible at sending thank you cards (in mass quantities), and my inquisitive nature sometimes asks people questions that I instantly regret asking. I do not however, EVER ask people questions about their political/religious affiliation.

To me, it’s just wrong. It’s none of my business who you voted for or what god, if any, you decide to put your faith in. I won’t attempt to convert you to my side, I won’t even tell you what my “side” is, and I’d prefer the same respect. Now, I’m all about people being passionate about their causes, wave your signs, speak your mind, etc. I just don’t want to be put in an awkward position when I don’t join in.
Like, say, the position I was in with my father last night.

My father is an uber republican. I know this. I suppose I should have known better than to even begin a conversation with him on election night, but for some reason I thought he’d be a rational, respectable individual. I said “Hi.”

All I said was “Hi.”

Then, as if the flood gates were suddenly opened, my father started spewing uber-republican propaganda at me through his keyboard. And then, he asked me who I voted for.

Stop. Think about this. What position does this put me in? I either lie (because I certainly didn’t vote republican), plead the 5th and be assumed to have voted democrat, or fess up to my real vote and be forced to deal with the crazy that lies ahead.

I plead the 5th. I attempt to engage in an intelligent discussion about why McCain lost my independent vote (coughPalincough), about why I feel it’s always the lesser of two evils, about why I think the electoral college is bass-ackwards and how no matter who is elected most things will remain the same for the next few years (hello, do you realize how long Congress takes to make a decision?!). I try. I try. I try. And I fail.

Every. Single. Time.

Somehow I continually forget that it’s impossible to have a logical discussion with people who refuse to consider alternative view points.

Soon I receive a phone call from my mother. She yells at me, “Don’t tell people who you vote for!” I tell her I didn’t. I just said who I didn’t vote for. I could have written someone in, I could have voted libertarian. She tells me I need to tell my father I voted libertarian because he’s threatening to cut me off financially due to my ASSUMED democratic vote. Then she says if he drives me away she’s leaving too.

Wonderful.

Needless to say I ended up lying about my vote. The financial threat didn’t bother me much, I’d be ok. But I would not be able to be around my father, and because I know my mom would follow, I’m not about to let myself play the role of home wrecker in my own home. So I lied about my vote, feeling a sense of persecution I have only before read about. In an election year that was historic for the progress it made for women and African Americans in politics, I feel so very oppressed.

It’s a very happy day for a lot of people. A day that marks a shift in beliefs. A day that marks the beginning of an over-arching change. A day that many thought would never come.

But to me, it’s a day that reminds me, so very personally, of how far we have left to go.

I feel a little bit guilty that today is my turn to write a post here, and I’m not sure what to do with it.

I am so happy about how the election turned out yesterday that I can’t even begin to describe to you how I am feeling.

I know that not all of you voted for Obama. Maybe some of you didn’t vote at all. (Especially if you’re not from the USA.) But I did. I voted, and I voted for Obama. Why? Because I think he is fantastic. I think that he will do what he promises. I think that Obama is the change that America needs.

And he won!

What does this mean for us? It means that we can have hope. Hope that the economy will turn around. Hope that the unemployment rate will go down. Hope that the end of this war will soon be in sight. Hope for better healthcare for everyone. And HOPE that we can finally be proud to be Americans again.

This is our victory. No matter who you are or where you are from. We did this, and we can be proud.

Thank you for voting everyone. You helped elect a president, you helped make history, and you helped create change.

I’m 24 years old. This is the first year I have been registered to vote. To be honest, it’s the first time I cared enough to vote. The first time I’ve cared enough to watch the debates, to research the issues that are important to me and to want to vote.

I got chills this morning driving down South Shore Drive and seeing all the Obama signs as I passed. The radio talking about how it’s the 20somethings that are going to be the difference between who wins and who loses. It’s amazing seeing so many of my peers getting riled up, getting angry, being so passionate about what they believe in.

About who they believe in.

We have this opportunity to vote and so many others don’t. We have a chance to make our voice heard. Just decades ago women didn’t even have this right and now one is close to being second in command. Neither did African Americans and now one might be our leader.

It’s just amazing to me how far we’ve come and how we get to be a part of it.

It doesn’t matter who you vote for today.

Just vote.

Let your voice be heard.

This was originally posted at my blog this summer, hence the dated Batman reference. As an aside, I haven’t seen him since.

Every six to nine months, The Ex and I decide that a catch-up coffee is in order.

This time around was brought about by a text message I sent after seeing his apparent twin on the street… something akin to “Were you just on Main Street?”

When his (tres, tres jealous) girlfriend texted me back from his phone, I knew he was in trouble.

And in trouble he was, as I found out from him the next day, when he told me that my clearly salacious text had led to her accusations of our secret plans to get back together.

I guess he assumed we might as well meet for coffee in the aftermath of her regular bouts of insecurity, rather than face another round at a later date.

Meetings with him are always rife with an odd contrast of sorts. A lot about him is familiar– the smell of his car, or the way in which he orders his coffee. Yet the talk always feels so shallow. We are usually able to make it about an hour by virtue of sheer catch-up– the lives of ourselves and others– marriages, babies, houses purchased, job changes, holidays, and so forth. At around the hour point, after we’ve gotten down to the updated on grandparents, things start to get a little slow, and we veer into “Are you excited about the new Batman?” territory.

There is also a contrast in our manner of tackling conversations about our current partners. I circle around it a little bit, using terms such as “we” to describe my life. He asks me no questions. While talking about the city’s rental market, I mention nonchalantly that my boyfriend and I are living together, he winces almost automatically, and tries to cloak it by an artificially casual “oh yeah”. He avoids the relationship small talk, jumping head first into the deep end, going into the same story he tells on each of our biannual meetings about her jealousy and their arguments. I feel as though I am being bated, and thus bite my tongue, though I can’t help but retort “She does know that women make up 51% of the population, right?” when he tells me she was angry about him going to a beach without him because there would be girls there.

We end things before we cross the line into uncomfortable silences, with a smile, and a vow to meet up again in the next six months or so. He adds in “… which should be the next time I’m allowed to see you.”

And although I do appreciate the light level of contact that we have been able to maintain, as I ride the train back home, I can’t help but wonder what we talked about for six years.

About a month ago I wrote the rejected post and told you all of my fear that I wouldn’t get into my grad school of choice.

Welllll…….. I did! I did! I got in!

But wait… before we bring out the bubbly and have ourselves a party, there is one little minor problem. Umm… how am I going to pay for it? Dammit. I’m still paying back my loans from undergrad! And my car payment! And car insurance! And rent! And credit cards!

Oh, there is nothing like being 22 and in debt. Lots of debt. And now I’ve just gone and signed up for something that will double… maybe triple… that dreadful negative number.

I’m telling all of you this today because I know that I am not alone. In fact, if every single twentysomething that was debt voted for Paris Hilton in the presidential election… well folks, I think we’d have our very first woman president. Sorry Hillary. (Although… I’m pretty sure Paris isn’t old enough. Ack, I’m getting off topic.)

So how do you guys all deal with debt? Do you “accidentally” lose your statements in a pile underneath your bed and ignore bill collector calls? Or do you have a perfect little organized way to keep track of every payment amount, every due date, every penny going in and out of your checking account… ? Or are you like me and just keep on living life without letting bills bury you alive. Sure I pay them. On time even. But I try not to spend too much time worrying about how much I owe because my life is about so much more than that.

I filled out my FAFSA. I’ll apply for scholarships. I’ll take out loans. And I’ll work my butt off during my free time to deal with my growing debt amount. And someday I will pay it all off and I will try not to let that moment be a bigger accomplishment then when I am on stage being handed my diploma from finishing grad school.

Yea, that’s right people. I’m gonna be a big bad grad student. And all of you get to come along for the ride.

(What I mean is… pretty pretty please come along? I will NEED you. HELP!)