Birth of a Spinster

Big news, Internet: Your beloved companion Katie Gill has finally begun her life as a spinster.

Some of you may have believed this day would not come so soon. You would have found me amongst your company. Here I thought I would be around 40 before everyone I knew was married and nestled. Fuck, at least 30. But no - such is not the way of central Pennsylvania.

Every day there's a new engagement announcement on Facebook from one of my beloved peers. (I use "beloved" liberally. Also "peers.") The announcement is without fail followed by a flurry of squeals and "congrats!!!" posts, as well as the obligatory "excited to be Mrs. ___ :)" status. Ugh. This is the curse of the townie - eventually the only people left in your hometown are the ones being trained to replace our parents. All the people with actual ambition move away, so for most of your college career you're stuck listening to certified girlfriends (TM) coo over how mature and wise they are, now that they've snuggled into the married life.

You get to hear about how, because you have a job, a rich social life consisting of many close female friends, your own intellectual pursuits, your own favorite bands/movies/books/magazines/chinese buffets, opinions on everything from female genital mutilation to prom dresses, and a taste for booze and the good times, you're "in a phase."

"Oh, I remember my wild phase!" they'll giggle, reminiscing about freshman year like it's been forty years instead of two semesters, "I was so crazy back then! Now I just settle in with him. It's amazing how much I've matured." Like it's some revered rite of passage to sit on your ass and witness the passage of time. Like they're SO RELIEVED that they've had the burdens of zestful living lifted from their weary shoulders.

Apparently being "mature" means living in some cozy fantasy of domesticity because you think its cute and lovey to play house and act like you're an old couple. Fun fact: some day you're going to actually be an old couple, and you're going to be like "holy shit, this blows. why did I think this was fun to pretend?" much the same way I feel when I look back on those days in kindergarten when I got super pumped to do "homework" because it made me feel like a grown up.

The characters on Sex and the City are always getting into these bitter clashes with married women and I never used to relate to it. I used to think "oh, that must be because they're 30 - by then I'll understand!" No, I understand now. Single women are totally spat on by society. It's like you've never really achieved anything until you get married. There's this idea that all the sensible, "down home" girls get married, while the frivolous rogues tinker away at empty pursuits like "financial security" and "personal fulfillment." Men tell their sons to look out for a modest, sweet, demure little lady to snag for a wife. It's supposed to be some sort of fucking honor if a guy wants to "bring you home to mom."

People act like there's some big dichotomy between Mary Anne and Ginger - the cutesy "girl-next-door" (a term that makes me retch as it is) vs. the big sexy famous movie star. The truth is, there is no ongoing inner struggle in the male psyche. Mary Anne just wins. Ginger has her own money and a career and opinions and also can get any guy she wants. Who the fuck wants that? Mary Anne is too naive and silly to even consider rejecting or contradicting her husband. Plus, she's so modest, she'll act like SHE'S the lucky one!

Guys don't want a Ginger. Sure, they want a hottie, but if she's TOO hot, (Yes, you can be too hot. Welcome to the patriarchy, where no one wins and everyone's forced to play!) other guys might try and steal her, OR she might develop this crazy intellectual infection called a "sense of self," which will allow her to realize that she is attractive and capable and other nonsense and may lead her down the treacherous path to a social life outside her man. Sure, they want a lady other people admire and swoon over, but they don't want a lady who is admired and swooned over (gasp) more than they themselves.

I think I might be deviating from my original purpose. Oops. Anyway, I'm sick of all these bitches in my graduating class getting married and settled. 1) Because they can't seem to be able to do so without stigmatizing the crazy old slutbags like me and 2) Because I wanted to be at least 25 before I became the old creep at the party. But I guess these are just yearnings for yesteryear, because everyone else has clamored aboard the Ark.

Katie Gill and Too Much Shit

If my life were a series of children's books, the above would definitely be one of the titles. Recently I've realized something: not only are my parents total hoarders, but they have trained me to be a hoarder as well. Let's start from the beginning:

As long as I can remember, my family has had a ton of shit. Unlike other families who used their garages for things like "cars" and "bicycles," ours was reserved for more important artifacts, like towering stacks of cardboard boxes. These boxes were filled with invaluable possessions like old sports equipment and Christmas decorations from the 70s. In fact, a lot of the boxes were leftover from our move to Pennsylvania. We even had boxes in the dining room for a couple of months. Apparently the contents had been precious enough to transport, but not to ever access again.

My parents hate throwing anything away. It never seemed weird to me that our hall closet belonged to four people and contained no fewer than thirty pairs of shoes. When I outgrew a pair of sneakers, I never thought to throw them away, I just tossed them in the hall closet. Finding our shoes in the morning was a constant annoyance, as each of us had to rummage through an ever growing pile for his or her current pair. Jackets were the same way - each one stuffed back to back on a weakening metal bar. Around 8th grade we stopped trying to shut the door. Our wardrobes never rotated or cycled, they simply expanded.

Kids would come over to visit and ask me what all the boxes were for. "For stuff," I'd say, like it was stupid to ask why we had an entire room that was completely inaccessible to humans. My parents used to complain that we left our toys around the house. "Why don't you just put everything where it belongs?" they'd ask, and it would have been a fine suggestion, if our closets had not been packed with things like formal wear from kindergarten. When at age 13 I decided I was too much of a mature adult to share a room with a little kid and evicted Jame, I had three dressers of clothes plus the closet. And five days out of the week I wore a uniform!

Electronics were no different from clothing. TVs were family members, and when a newer model arrived, the elders would simply be moved to their place of honor in the guest room. Stacks of cassettes lay next to stacks of CDs lay next to stacks of VHS tapes. Our house was like a museum of dead technology.

When I first moved out at age 19, it took over a month for me to pack all my shit - and I still left a ton of it behind. I was the only person in my apartment with a walk-in closet, and it was full to the brim. I even had to buy a 3 shelf organizer from WalMart to hold the surplus clothing. Two big boxes remained unpacked for the entire year, as I had no place to fit the contents. None of this seemed strange to me, even when my roommates offered inquiries such as "uh, why do you have four rain jackets?"

After another move and a decision to move to Pittsburgh, I reached a conclusion: I have too much shit. I vowed to downsize, and tried to give away as much as possible before making the three hour journey from State College. I got rid of tons of stuff, and thought I had done a great job. After all, I had made three trips to Goodwill, and countless trips to the used clothing drop-off center. Some of my dresser drawers weren't even stuffed to capacity anymore - I could open and shut them easily without catching a stray sleeve!

Turns out I underestimated how much excess I truly had before. I may have cut a lot of the fat, but I had such a gargantuan amount before that now I've simply reduced myself to a Person of Clutter as opposed to a straight up Hoarder. My room still contains the tell tale sign of hoarding - empty boxes yet to be unpacked, despite having been here for a month.

This week I'm making it my goal to finally get down to a REASONABLE amount of stuff. And hopefully learn from the past. From now on, when I find a shirt I haven't worn in two years that wasn't even flattering when I bought it, I'm laying it to rest in a Goodwill donation box. It's time to let my shit cross over. It's the least I can do.

The 2nd Douchiest College in America (Part 1)

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Wacky Aunt

Recently I've made a decision - that my greatest aspiration is to become not a contributing, respectable member of society, not a frazzled-yet-loving mom on the go, but a Wacky Aunt. Becoming a Wacky Aunt is a huge relief to me, because it means I don't have to submit to the same ticking pressures as those around me. I don't need a stable career path or a five year plan or a boyfriend - because the Wacky Aunt has no such need! All I need is a zany purse and three cats and I'll be set.

Part of this comes from my recent interest in getting a pixie cut. It started when my friend Christine decided she was going to get a pixie. I thought it would look cool and encouraged her to go through with it, but she ultimately decided not to - which got me thinking, if I think it's so cool, why haven't I done it?

Here's why: Because I'm afraid it will look bad. And why does that scare me? Because then men wont like me. I've been re-examining the issue for a few weeks, and I've come to realize that literally the only reason I'm afraid to get a pixie cut or a big tattoo or wear sneakers with mini skirts is because I'm worried it will be unattractive to men. This has to change. I shouldn't be selecting hairstyles based on what will maximize boner production.

This is where the Wacky Aunt steps in. Wacky Aunt doesn't need to manufacture boners. She doesn't need to be pretty or get a husband or raise children. She just has to pop in for the weekend, serve ice cream for breakfast, let everyone stay up watching PG-13 movies, and play rock music. Then she gets to go back home and get drunk and watch documentaries and eat frozen spring rolls for dinner.

Being a Wacky Aunt would be amazing. I'd never have to be "hot" again. I'd never have to pretend to care about some uneducated bullshit spewing out from a guy's mouth again. People wouldn't ask prying questions about my future plans, because they know I don't have any. I wouldn't be subject to same regulations as Adjusted Adults.

Recently I bought a documentary series called Flying: Confessions of a Free Woman. It's amazing - and it kind of exemplifies what I've determined. It's about women around the world who defy the characters society has imposed on them. I've decided to be more like them. You watch and you think - how can these girls in Bangladesh allow men to decide what they wear? Decide what they eat and where they go? And then you think about it and you realize that that's exactly what happens in America. Men tell me what to wear. How is wearing a burka different from shying away from a pixie cut? How is only leaving the house with a male escort different from being afraid to eat at a restaurant alone?

So here I am. I decided to do it in winter, just because I hate the shit out of winter and it'll be nice to have something exciting to jazz it up. And so begins another youthful anecdote from everyone's Wacky Aunt.

Moving Fun w/ Tim 'n Wendy!

I decided to start a new blog. My former blog "Girls on Film" was actually created by my friend Sky (who has since lost interest) and therefore many of the features were inaccessible to me. The title was also problematic, as it required me to publish things that were relevant and/or consistent. But no more! Let the haphazard ramblings begin!

My first topic is going to be Packing Up All My Shit, which has thus far proven to be an extremely unpleasant task. First there are the time constraints - up until yesterday, I had two jobs and worked every single day, so all my packing had to be done either in the hours prior to 8AM (already designated for sleeping) or following 11PM (already designated for Beer 'n Netflix.) Today was my first day off since I got home from the beach, and unfortunately YESTERDAY was the day my overlords Timothy and Wendy wanted to move my stuff to Port Matilda. To combat this looming deadline, I decided to give a bunch of shit to Goodwill. Hopefully none of it will be missed, although I'm afraid I might be adopting a patented Timothy trait, which is to just pack nothing and buy new stuff when you get there. In my own defense, I had a ton of ridiculously unnecessary items. For instance, I had twelve steak knives in my kitchen, and given my current consumption rate of zero steaks per year, I found twelve to be a bit superfluous. I still have 3 DVD players - my old, shitty DVD player, my PS2, and my Blu-Ray Player. The old, shitty DVD player still works, but for some reason it skips on movies with more than 24 scene chapters. Not sure what to do with it.

I also got rid of a ton of clothes. Until this year I've had a pretty bad habit of holding onto old clothes for all eternity. I go through my closet determined to scale back and end up rationalizing every article with some sort of BUT WHAT IF I HAVE A JOB INTERVIEW IN AN ICE STORM reaction. As of this month I still had clothes from ninth grade - an era not known for its dazzling fashions. Plus I generally just cycle through the same three outfits anyway. That being said I still packed 30 hoodies. Rome wasn't built in a day?

It looks like the Wegmans people are eyeing me up. They keep trying to awkwardly clean around me, even though they don't close for two hours. But I guess they've won this round so I'll just leave.

Next time I post, I could be in Pittsburgh with my very own internet access!!