OCD: Part 2

I'm pretty good at falling asleep, anywhere. I take a nap at school at least once a week and have no problem sleeping in moving vehicles. Lately though, I've had difficulty due to OCD's white noise machine. He gets up about 239847 times between 11 pm and 2 am.

I start to doze off. (whirrrrr) OCD goes to the bathroom and leaves his door open. Then I have to go to the bathroom. And then the cycle repeats itself about four more times. 

My body has started associating that fucking noise with bathroom usage. 

And it is constant. 

In addition to being able to sleep anywhere, can hold it for hours. I drove across the country and would only stop if we reached out destination for the day - I am excellent on road trips. So this needing to go four times before I finally fall asleep is new. I try talking myself out of it, and then I go anyway, just because. 

The other night, I kept waiting for the noise to stop when he closed his door, but it didn't. So I got up and closed his door, because only God knows how long he was going to be in the bathroom this time. I think he got the hint, because it hasn't happened since that night. 

But the incessant whirr is grating. It's not just when he's sleeping, it's all the time. It's how I know he's home - that and all the locks I have to unlock when I get home. I don't see the point in locking doors when everyone is home during the day. (Nevermind the fact that we live in kind of a weird spot and I'm pretty sure there isn't another soul who is aware of these apartments who hasn't lived here.) 

The whirr swallows all other noise. If I'm listening to a record, and he opens his door, WHIRRRRRRRR. If I'm doing dishes, WHIRRRRRRR. If I'm watching Hulu, in my room with my door closed WHIRRRRRR. 

WHIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

IT DOES NOT STOP. 

We've discussed this briefly, it's relaxing, to him and no one else who spends time here. People always ask what that noise is. It's this machine that my roommate finds calming... Yeah, okay. 

I used to have an issue with silence, but I find any sort of constant noise to be more irritating that helpful. Everyone hates that person who taps their pen in an otherwise silent room. It's like that. Except Darth Vader is breathing behind you, and you can't kill him because that dude you live with likes to cuddle with him until he falls asleep.

Roommate1: OCD, part 1

A Darth-Vadar-is-breathing-behind-you machine.

When choosing a roommate, I'm not super picky. I don't want to be your best friend, I just want you to pick up your shit. To me, picking up one's own shit includes taking the trash out when you notice it's full, dusting when you can write things on the TV screen, sweeping when walking around barefoot becomes unpleasant, and doing your own dishes within twenty four hours, etc. Essentially, I just like clean people who don't spread out their things into common surfaces. 

This being said, I love everyone I've lived with, we just can't live together (like your parents). They aren't perfectionists like I am, and admittedly, I was a total bitch about some things to all of the people I lived with in Richmond, Virginia. It took living alone and in an apartment (mostly) free of vermin for me to chill the fuck out. I've been accused of being Obsessive Compulsive, but really I just hate having roaches and mice and fruit flies hanging out on a regular basis - take those things away and we're cool. 

When I moved into my current apartment, it was just me and an exceptionally clean dude. From henceforth I will refer to him as OCD, because that is what he is. I chose to live here based on the potential I saw in the apartment to be cuter by rearranging a few things and how clean it was. It was by far the cleanest apartment I saw that wasn't empty. After I moved in I reorganized the kitchen and bathroom cabinets, he was a bit thrown off by this, but quickly came around. As long as he has "his space" for things he's fine. Though I threw a lot out. I don't think anyone had cleaned the refrigerator in the last year, and no one took their food with them when they moved out - there was lots of stale and moldy things around. 

Of all the things he was OCD about, this was surprisingly not one of them. For him it's about germs and smells.

Each Saturday he "cleans" the bathroom. I say "cleans" because it's just surface cleaning. If I can scratch soap scum off the shower wall, it isn't clean, so I showed OCD how to clean it more effectively. He also has a habit of taking the trash out before he cleans things, which is bizarre because he uses so many paper towels to clean and by the time he's done the trash can is halfway full again. He also wears disposable latex gloves to clean, uses paper towels to life the trash can's lid and to dry his hands. 

It didn't take me long after moving in to notice how frequently OCD is in the bathroom. It's all the time. It's a couple times an hour at least, and he always keeps the door closed - whether anyone is in their or not. This is a problem because 1) I don't always know when someone is in there and OCD doesn't always lock the door, and 2) our apartment isn't ventilated well and keeping the door closed contributes to that gross "moist" feeling that lingers after people take showers - gross.

His case is that because of the bathroom's location directly off the kitchen he doesn't want germs getting from the bathroom into the kitchen. I don't understand this logic, I acknowledge that germs are everywhere, and may have told him that "once you put a dick in your mouth, you don't really worry about germs anymore." Crude? Sure. True? Definitely. Being that he has never had a dick in his mouth, he can't relate. 

But COME ON, keeping a door closed isn't going to keep those germs isolated. They're microscopic organisms. They do and go wherever the fuck they want, without your permission.

We've also had issues regarding cooking smells. He claims that my use of garlic and onions, and our other roommate's use of curry and cumin in everything is "suffocating." I think that's an exaggerating, but I've taken to keeping the stove fans on while I cook and he in turn has significantly reduced the amount of aerosol air freshener he sprays. He was doing it a lot. Like, a lot, a lot. Our other roommate and I both get migraines pretty regularly, so the use of chemicals to cover up natural smells wasn't working out, nor was it an effective way to solve the problem. 

OCD also has a white noise machine. I've heard about people using these to sleep, but he has one in his room on ALL THE TIME. If his bedroom door is even cracked that incessant noise swallows everything else, which I guess is the point, but I like music and movies, and the constant whirr of it drives me batty. I've taken to closing his door without asking. 

We get along alright and can talk about things, but where I can let things go, and relax, he is incapable. I've known a lot of awkward people, a lot of anxious/depressed people who are socially inept, but this is a whole new level. Friends have asked me why I don't move, but despite all his quirks, he's clean, so I deal.  

CHIN UP!

Anyone who know me can attest to the fact that when my home is organized, I am a much happier person. Though, since moving to San Francisco, I've been poorer than ever. But as I've told my friends (and continue to tell myself), I'd rather be poor in an awesome city than go out every night (like I was in Richmond, VA) in a mediocre one.

Shortly after moving into my apartment, I was lucky enough to find the exact shel I wanted from IKEA for free (FREE!) on Craigslist. Fortunately for me, I have an overly polite and considerate roommate with a station wagon who drove me across town to pick it up. The stupid thing fit perfectly into the back of his wagon. Since then I've been keeping my eye on Craigslist for the same shelf, though not necessarily for free - just you know, cheapish.

That hasn't happened and I haven't bought a second one because for the first time in my life I'm only spending money on food and transportation. I don't go out much, except recently on OkCupid dates where I silently pray to myself that he will pick up the check because I really need to buy bread tomorrow. (Aside: I don't agree to go on dates if I can't afford them. I always offer to pay for myself.)

I've been on break for about three weeks and classes start next week and I've had this pile of stuff on the floor in my room for three months. I hate it. But I haven't known what to do with it because I haven't had anywhere to put it. I've just kept it all in old department store bags the former tenant left behind.

But last night after my attempt to get all the girls in my quarter together fell through, I decided to treat myself to a movie. I only did this because I knew that if a certain dude was working he would give me a discount. AMC doesn't offer student or military discounts here, but if you ask him, and show him your ID, he'll let you in at the children's rate. Four bucks a pop adds up. Yay! Bread!

On my walk home I found a shelf in the middle of my block. It wasn't next to any trash bins, and it kind of looked like it might have been meant for someone else to pick up, or like someone may have been in the process of taking things inside and that was the last one. I loitered for a bit to see, but no one was around, so I took it home. It's also from IKEA and in the same veneer as my other shelf.

It may seem silly, but I haven't been so grateful, or happy about anything in awhile. These little things are so huge to me. And, I mean, it was so random, and it matched.

The previous night I was crying to my friend on the phone and he told me, "Chin up, kid." And then the Universe did something nice and was all, "CHIN UP. CHIN UP. CHIN UP."

Thoughts on My Former Life

Washington DC Temple - Mormons get married here.

When I was a child, like all children, I believed everything my parents and most other adults told me. But, unlike most of my friends, I was being raised by Mormon converts. My father converted to Mormonism in the late 1960s after his commanding officer in Viet-Nam noticed that he wasn’t attending church services on Sundays and invited my father to join him – he was baptized there. My mother converted in 1972 after her brother and sister-in-law joined and encouraged her to do the same. My parents met at a church dance when my dad was stationed at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina, they got married seven months later.

I remember getting into arguments with my non-Mormon friends about religion. I was convinced that I was right and they were wrong, and this spilled over into most aspects of my life. I wasn’t taught to believe the church was true, I was taught that it was true – to know the truth. Therein lies the difference. I believe that I’m going to live to see tomorrow, but I know it. As with anything I’ve since learned that I can’t really know anything. Everything changes, and what was true yesterday may not be true tomorrow. Perhaps I’m being cynical, but I’m rarely disappointed.

With all the hubbub surrounding Mitt Romney and Jon Huntsman’s presidential bids, it’s shed an interesting light on the Mormon experience. I personally don’t concern myself with the religious affiliation of those running for any office, because it doesn’t matter to me. However, I do see this as an opportunity for the Mormon church to do more than the “I’m a Mormon” campaign. Being Mormon means more than believing that a prophet is currently alive and can literally speak for God, more than the beliefs is the culture.

Mormons go to church each Sunday and refer to one another as “brother” and “sister.” They are taught that the second coming of Christ cannot happen until all the spirits waiting in heaven have received bodies here on Earth, hence their large families and the church’s former policies against contraception (they now leave family planning to couples to decide over prayer as large families began to drain the church welfare system). They believe that men and women have equal, but different roles, and those “different” roles are what lead outsiders (and insiders) to think that the role of the woman is to remain supplicant to the man. If you have questions, it’s best not to ask them because only those who aren’t devoted to the Church, and to God could question it, and you don’t want other members to talk about your wavering faith. Though, if you do ask a question that doesn’t have an answer you’ll probably be told that the answer has yet to be revealed to a modern day prophet and that God will reveal that knowledge when the time is right.

In yesterday’s Washington Post Carrie Sheffield wrote about her experience within the church and out of it. And I can agree with everything she has to say. Though, unlike her I started questioning the church in middle school. When boys and girls turn 12, they graduate from Primary – essentially a time each Sunday for children to sing fun songs about god – to the Young Men or young Women’s organizations. There we’re taught about our roles within the church and society and how we can be good members of the church within those roles. This is to say, I was told that women should go to college, to get an education “just in case” anything should happen to my future husband that would require me to work outside the home. And that my first responsibility was to my husband and then my children, and that I should only grow up to work outside the home if absolutely necessary.

That wasn’t the life I had envisioned for my future. My parents allowed me to develop a slight obsession with Frank Lloyd Wright, and I wanted to be an Architect. If my mom could do it all, why couldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I? I’ve never been very receptive to being told what to do if I can’t see it directly benefiting me. I like making my own decision and not having ridiculous rules set in place for me to follow. In the summertime I liked wearing shorts, but once I hit puberty suddenly everything was too short. “Modesty” is defined as wearing clothing that isn’t “revealing” – shirts must completely cover your back and stomach no matter how you move, skirts and pants must cover the knee, and shirts must cover the shoulder – all of this is to prepare you for temple marriage and the “special underwear” you will one day wear. That’s fine, but it’s presented as a choice, but nothing in Mormonism is really a choice.

Your choice is to do what you’re “supposed to do” or not be a member in good standing, which goes on your church record and will affect what callings (job) you may have at church and ultimately if you’ll get into Heaven. It is often said that you should “be in the world, but not of the world.” Though many have taken that to an extreme as to ostracize those who do not believe, and do not act the same way you do. Members of the church are more than happy to welcome you into the fold, but as soon as you question something, or express a difference in opinion, those friends you’ve made can be gone. Because if you’re choice to live life in such a way that makes you happy, is not the prescribed method for happiness as proclaimed by the church – it is wrong.

If you leave, or “fall away,” you have to be prepared to not have those friends anymore. The beliefs of the church aren’t so different from other Christian faiths, but the culture is among the most uniform and extreme. It’s not enough to share the same basic beliefs if you don’t practice them in the same way. And if you come to the realization that it’s all bull pucky, well, they will mourn your loss and discuss it in the hallway as though you took up heroin and need to go to rehab. Because how could anyone not be happy living the way that they do?

It does seem appealing, and I understand that living that way works for a lot of people. But it didn’t make me happy. Leaving the Church was like having a boulder lifted off my back. The anxiety, the depression, the consistency of never being good enough – that was gone. I still feel these things from time to time, but not because I feel inadequate trying to reach some ideal that’s been decided for me, I feel that way because I know who I want to be and I haven’t reached become her yet.  

For The Love of Music

There is a moment that any fan can recall when they fell in love with a band.  While parts of my record collection I have been given for free – and I mean in a physical way (my iTunes account is made up completely of music that I’ve personally downloaded from CDs and vinyl). But each record that I’ve bought, and some that I’ve been given have a very specific purpose. They remind me of someone, or some particular life event, or resonate with a part of me that I can’t quite explain, but somehow that album can make whatever I’m feeling make sense.

I am not the only person who feels this way, and I think most of my friends would agree – I can say that because most of my friends and I are friends because of a common love for a certain band. It’s kind of a litmus test when I meet people, not because I’m trying to be a dick, but because an interest in music and a love for it is often a quality people that are curious and observant and well, interesting, have.

They get it.

I don’t remember the first time I heard Pulp, but I do remember when I realized that those songs that I had been dancing to were by them. Spinning to the chorus of  “Do You Remember The First Time” – there aren’t words for that.  That probably seems silly to a lot of you, and that’s okay.

Today tickets to see Pulp at The Warfield here in San Francisco went on sale at 10 am. I set three alarms, just in case I slept through the first two (I didn’t) so that I would be up and have my information plugged in as their website allows. This was followed by an invitation to the “waiting room” – a virtual line of some kind before tickets went on sale. I did this on two computers – not because I had an interest in buying 293487 tickets, but because I wanted to make sure I had a decent chance of getting tickets at all, and I called their ticket provider AXS, and stayed on hold for a solid 20 minutes before I was told that they had sold out in five minutes.

Five. Minutes.

I looked around the internet yesterday to see if any tickets were for sale elsewhere, maybe leftover from a presale and there were. They were. I posted on The Warfield’s Facebook page asking when the presale had occurred. They said there wasn’t one, unless there had been one on Pulp’s page without their knowledge. I couldn’t find anything that would lead me to believe there was one of any kind.

I digress. The scalping. The website allowed for you to buy eight tickets at a time.  I know it’s up to the venue, but to allow the sale of such a high quantity plays right into the scalpers grubby little hands. I have been to a lot of concerts, with and without other people, and I’ve never known of anyone to need that many, let alone be able to afford it off that bat, and let their friends pay them back later. Maybe I just have poor friends.

One would think that if you own a venue, you do it because you love music, because you’re a fan. And The Warfield isn’t an arena, it is a dedicated music venue, with a capacity of about 2000. If you’re really a fan of music, and enjoy sharing that experience with others than why would you allow policies that fuck over the fans? With big names, you won’t lose money by restricting the quantity – people will still buy their tickets, though probably not quite as fast.

Which brings me to scalpers. Whether you’re charging ten or a hundred dollars more, you’re still making it that much more difficult for fans, presumably poor bastards like me who spend all our money on rent and going to shows, from seeing a band we love. You can’t love music, or really anything and willfully fuck over other people.