When we first moved to the sticks, E travelled a lot. Like weeks at a time. Back then in ancient history, things like cable and cell service weren’t part of our requirements for finding a suitable location to live. Hell, we didn’t even see what school district our property was in. KIDS, MAKE SURE YOU KNOW THESE THINGS BEFORE YOU BUY A HOUSE.
As a result of our stupidity, we now live in a dead zone. A deep dead zone. Like when I call the internet and phone people and demand that they get their asses in gear and provide service to my area, they laugh and quote me timeframes in the decades.
So since E was gone all the time and I was freaked out being alone, as I was still a child, for Christmas that year, E got me a Husky puppy for protection and satellite cable for boredom. When the guys came to install the dish, of course E was gone on a trip. The main guy knocked on our door and I answered it holding a butcher knife and the dog, because that’s what you do when you’re 22 and all alone in a house in Siberia. Kind of like how when E was gone I slept with the cordless phone under my pillow and the knife between the mattress until E called me really late one night when he was at Mardi Gras and I lunged for the phone in my sleeping stupor and grabbed the knife instead. That was unfortunate. And messy.
I’m pretty sure holding a knife didn’t start things off well because the guy asked if my mom or dad was home and I got confused and had to process the query for a while because why would my mom or dad be there? Did I invite them over and forget? Was this a visitor of theirs? If I answered yes, then what would he ask? If I answered no would he murder me? I mean I saw Scream, I wasn’t going to fall for stupid tricks without a fight.
So I flipped my permed giant bangs and rolled my eyes and was all “Uh, dur, I’m the homeowner, gahhhh. Also my 4 month old puppy is trained to kill and I give commands in German, so…..” And then the puppy licked the guy on the face. Ich liebe dich!
He and his cohort set up their gear and started working on the outside of the house and I hid behind the blinds and tried to watch from inside to make sure they weren’t burglars or something, while the puppy scratched at the door the whole time to go outside. I finally let her out and got distracted with the book I was reading when the guy knocked on the door again. Luckily my knife was still handy so I opened the door a crack and he told me his dumbass partner had fallen off our house and landed on the puppy. Listen, I get very frustrated by inconvenience and I was already pretty put out by the fact that I had to talk to a strange potential murderer already that day, but to fall off my house onto my dog? I didn’t even know what to do with that information. Like, was that some sort of ploy to lure me outside? Couldn’t they just get in their creepy van and offer me free candy instead? It just seemed so inefficient to add puppy battery to their purported crime spree.
Thankfully everything turned out okay and I was very excited to finally catch up on Melrose Place since I had pretty much missed the whole season and it was going to be very confusing now to figure out who was sleeping with who. That night I tuned in at the correct time to watch and instead of seeing Heather Locklear engaged in a bitchy battle of wits with Daphne Zuniga, I got some weird show with aliens.
That’s right you guessed it. The X-Files.
Guys, the truth is out there.
I’m sure you’re thinking “Yeah, whatever, The X-Files was awesome sauce, we all know that. Don’t think you’re special just because you liked it.”
Uh. But did you like it so much that you actually switched your college major so that you could become the real life Dana Scully?
I didn’t think so, losers.
Did you tour the FBI building in Washington, D.C. so that you could mentally pick out your future office?
That’s what I thought.
Did you record all 202 episodes and then lay on your couch for 48 hours straight on multiple occasions for X-Files marathon weekends?
I highly doubt you have the stamina for such an endeavor.
Did you purchase and proudly wear a black X-Files baseball cap everywhere you went for more years than it was socially acceptable to do so?
Extremely unlikely you could be as cool as THAT.
Did every conversation you participated in during that time conclude with a chilling premonition about artificial impregnation?
*If anyone answers yes to this question, please private message me, we have lots to discuss.*
Did you bob your hair and wear black blazers with shoulder pads and crisp white button down shirts to work as your standard attire for a few years so that you would be accustomed to the proper FBI uniform?
Uh huh, nice try dummies. I win.
The hardest part wasn’t becoming a chemistry major, it was getting to chemistry classes in the middle of the day when I already had an established and demanding career in the real estate professional services industry. And to be honest, forensic pathology and real estate don’t have a common thread (weird!), so it was difficult to reconcile my day job with my educational goals.
Even though I was still in my 20’s, I was by far the oldest person in those classes. And to top it off I was always rushing in late in my high heels and make-up, dressed like I’d just walked out of the board room. I was an anomaly. I loved it.
And obviously I’m smart, duh, but chemistry was really something that I was quite naturally gifted at. And I say that with humility because while I could balance a chemical equation like no one’s business and rattle off the molecular weight of compounds in my sleep, I had no effing idea what that meant in reality. I was setting the curve on all the tests but I had absolutely zero concept of what my answers meant. It really pissed off the people who really understood chemistry and didn’t see it as a fun math game to ace. A couple bratty boys in class nicknamed me “Lipstick Lissine” (a play on lysine, which as everyone knows is a naturally occurring amino acid with an amine group on its side chain.) This clearly was meant to convey that I was a weirdo in retaliation for not letting them cheat off my homework or give them my notes when they skipped class. They’re probably both super fancy chemists now and feel bad that someone cool like me isn’t working alongside them which is revenge enough in my book, so suck it, nerd science guys.
Naturally I bombed in the lab. Actually a more appropriate description would be I bombed the lab. No one would be my partner because I was always running to the safety wash station and spilling dangerous mixtures everywhere and cutting myself on beakers that seemed to smash to bits just by my mere presence. And I could not for the life of me understand what all the lab work meant or how it pertained in any way to finding aliens or looking good running in heels with a gun.
Eventually it just got too hard to maintain the class load during the workday and I wasn’t willing to stop working so I had to switch to a business major so I could go to school at night. When I went to my advisor to sign-off on the transfer slip, I thought he might actually cry. I got the usual lecture on how dependable and conscientious a student I was and they would be so sorry to see me go, other than the lab costs for the next year would certainly be lower. And that I was wasting a gift. I tried to explain the gift was useless because I would never understand how to apply the fun challenge of numbers and letters on paper to the mysteries of unsolved crime and extraterrestrial life on earth. He frowned and acted confused, but I naturally assumed it was a cover and we were thinking the same thing: Deep Throat and The Cigarette Smoking Man have all the answers.
Between the failed chemistry and Russian language majors (I’ll leave that one for another story time), clearly I should be working at the Pentagon by now. And while they haven’t returned any of my calls or letters that I write them out of cut up pieces of magazine and newspaper scraps, I’m sure a job offer is imminent. Perhaps my grace, wit, intelligence and incredible sleuth skills are too intimidating. I understand. It’s why I have to dumb myself down so much into looking like a clumsy, ignorant, confused soccer mom. I think my elaborate ruse is working. I want to believe.