I don’t want to wonder. I want to do.

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So, after yesterday’s cryptic comments about life decisions, I suppose I should offer some kind of explanation.

It goes a little something like this:

I  want a career change. Emily is ready to be done with Baltimore. Add those together and you get a pretty good idea on why I took the GRE in December and applied to grad schools in February.

I didn’t think I’d get in. My GREs were not too shabby, but my undergrad GPA was a travesty. A mediocre travesty. My academic performance was traviocre. So, I thought I’d get rejection letters.

And I did. I got one rejection letter from Ball State University in Muncie Indiana.

But then, just days apart, I got three acceptance letters. I have the opportunity to earn a Master’s in Historic Preservation from either Goucher College or the University of Vermont. Or, I could take a slightly different course and get a Master’s in Public History with a certificate in Cultural Resource Management from West Virginia University.

Holy. Crap.

I can’t believe I got accepted anywhere. I’m really not trying to be pessimistic, I am really not looking for validation, but I honest to God thought I was applying for the same reasons the geek asks the homecoming queen out. Because they’re sure to say know, but rejection is better than never knowing.

But they didn’t say no. They said yes.

So I decided that I’d do it. I am going to go to grad school. I don’t know where yet, although I am leaning in one particular direction. Each has pros and cons.

It’s crazy to think of leaving this job that is comfortable yet which I hate. It’s crazy to think of (possibly) leaving the only state I’ve ever lived in. It’s crazy to think of making no money at all. (Or, if I want digital cable and the occaisional DVD of getting a part-time job to find my nerdosity). It’s scary and exciting and then scary all over again for different reasons.

But it feels like I’m finally doing something.

It’s better to try something and fail than to be left wondering “if”.

Next week I’m letting the 3 schools woo me. Monday/Tuesday I’ll be in Vermont, Wednesday is a lunch meeting with the head of the Goucher program, and Friday I drive out to Morgantown to meet with the professor who would be my advisor at WVU.

I plan on trying to take pics as I travel for, you know, posterity or something.

Holy crap. I’m gonna go to grad school.

Nemesi (This entry not to be read by Texans)

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If you’re from Texas, you might want to stop reading now.

See, I’m reasonably sure you haven’t done anything to me personally, but I’ve still come to a life decision* that you’re not going to like.

I fucking hate Texans.

I mean, we all know about George Bush and how he sucks. And what makes that even worse is that he’s not a Texan, but has latched on to the identity like it’s the apex of what an american personality should be and instead of coming off as down-home-genuine my-word-is-stronger-than-oak, in actuality it is phony and gross.

But that’s not what solidified it for me.

What solidified my hatred of Texans was lunchtime today.
At lunch today, I was making a left in to a Subway parking lot. (turkey on white with lettuce, tomato, mayo, and a little salt and pepper. yum.) As I began my turn, a red SUV gunned it out of the parking lot trying to make a left as well. The SUV came fairly close to brushing the side of my car and so, with my window down because it’s so nice out today, I said – out loud – ‘jeez, watch where you’re going’. Yes I actually did say ‘jeez’.

I parked and was getting out of my car when the same SUV pulled up next to me.

The red-faced man in the red SUV who looked suspiciously like John Locke’s dad from ‘Lost’ said “So you think I need to watch where I’m going”. Aware that the Subway was full of state troopers, a fortunate calm came over me. “Uhh, yeah, as a matter of fact I do.” His response could have been Shakespearean it was so well crafted. “Fuck you, fatboy.” I was taken aback, but just had to ask the only question that was in my mind at the moment, “You really think you’re a tough guy, don’t you?” He pointed to his license plate. “Look where I’m from.” Texas tags. I couldn’t help it; I started laughing. “Oh, that’s right. Don’t mess with Texas?” He called me fat again and I called him old and then he peeled wheels out of the parking lot. It was a sweet little moment.
The whole time, his lunch buddy sat silently in the passenger seat, looking (I believe) mortified that his friend would chase me down to yell at me.

Yell at me for exclaiming my fear that his shitty driving was about to result in a scrape-up.

He called me fat boy.

He pointed to his Texas tags as proof that he was tough.

Fucking Texans.

Fucking arrogant, lets-get-in-to-a-pissing-contest Texans.

I hate them all. Texans are now my sworn enemies. My nemesisesisses. (or, possibly, nemesi)

The everything’s-bigger-in, don’t-mess-with Texas personality is the egotistical equivalent of the plastic nutsucks that douchbags hang off their trailer hitch. It’s a clear sign of an unimaginitive response to perceived shortcomings.

If fucking Texas is so great, than Texans should go back to their tumbleweeds and oil derricks and leave the rest of us alone.

I love my state; love it with a passion. I think that, for 30 years of my life, Maryland has been the ideal place for me to live. But I don’t think being a Marylander makes me better than anyone else. I don’t think being a Marylander makes me tougher or smarter or better looking than anyone else.

I do think though, when someone questions your character (“you really think you’re a tough guy?”) if your answer is about where you’re from, that answer says a hell of alot about who you are.

*I actually have made another un-related life decision recently but want to wait until all the hate is out of my system so I can write about it in the correct (read: positive) state of mind.

Just. Stop.

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I was all set to post in the 3rd person about how, just a few minutes ago, the security guard silently sidled up to me at the vending machine and then cornered me for 5 minutes or so with tales of how to reset each individual machine in the event of a power outage and/or dollar bill changer jam. Funny and creepy all at once!

But then I got back to my desk and experienced reason #138,216 why the people here frustrate the living bejeezus out of me.

If you’ve been calling me for years to ask me to write reports, you probabky have a pretty good idea by now which ones are easy and which ones are hard. When you’re calling with a request for the hard ones, especially the hard ones which, because they’re destined for the desk of some executive, need to be started immediately, don’t play the whole “is this going to be too hard? Is this going to take a while? I feel soooo bad!” game with me.

Don’t ask for something ridiculous and then query me over whether or not your request is ridiculous in the first place. It is. You know it is. Even if I tell you that your request is a pain and will inconvenience me and will preclude me from my already existing to-do list, guess what? You’re still going to ask for it anyway. You are not, in any way, going to take it easy on me and we both know it. So stop with the need for validation. Stop with the “I’m surprised you answer the phone, you must think I’m the biiiigest pain”. Yeah, I do. But you’re not joking, you’re not being folksy, you’re not actually concerned about my schedule or workload. You think that I’m annoyed by you, with you, about you.

I am.

You’re looking for me to coddle you, to tell you that it’s all going to be ok. Well, I’m not going to do that. You don’t get to hit me with the hammer and then expect me to tell you that it was ok, that i really needed to be hit.

Just. Stop.