Tag Archives: adulting

Am I An Adult?

Kid: I can't wait to be an adult! Adults can do anything they want! Cartoon-child-me: But they have to pay taxes* *I was a glass-half-empty sort of child

***

One year when I was still in highschool I asked for a green ipod for my birthday. The green was important. It was an unwell pistachio colour, sort of warm and cool at the same time. But teenagers aren’t renowned for their emotional restraint and despite the vomit-undertone I couldn’t have fallen more head-over-heels in love with this colour if it fronted a boyband. I stared at it in advertisements and in shop windows. I dreamed of it. I repeatedly prompted my mum so to make sure she absolutely knew the green one was mine, the one I was meant to have.

On the day, there was a heart-flutteringly ipod-shaped present for me.

Unwrapping a present with green wrapping paper ... and ... it's a silver ipod

Before we go any further, I’m going to throw up a wall of disclaimers just in case this escapes the orbit of my regular audience and ends up in the gross, judgemental part of the internet where navigating the comment section requires bio-hazard gear, and even then it’s best to detox afterward with a full exorcism.

Disclaimer: I was psyched to get an ipod.

Cartoon me holding silver ipod looking psyched. Word 'psyched' with arrow pointing at cartoon me.

Disclaimer: Even though it wasn’t soul-mate green.

Cartoon-me holding silver ipod saying 'oh well'

Disclaimer: Although I asked for the ipod, I didn’t expect to get it. My family routinely request present suggestions from each other and giving someone a suggestion doesn’t obligate them to fulfill it. I also did not feel entitled to expensive presents at all. Plenty of times we were told a suggestion cost too much.

Did I miss any potential judgement-windows?

Oh, of course.

Disclaimer: Yes, I’m a millennial. As horrifying as it sounds, some people were born between 1981 and 1996 (or wherever the boundaries are), including me, and sure, we meet up virtually over the interwebs every full moon and use complicated tournaments of Mario-Kart-by-proxy to decide which industry we’ll be assassinating next, but that’s really not the point.

Cartoon-me: Also, I'm not a tentacled monster. Zoom out to reveal cartoon me has tentacles instead of legs.

And the point isn’t that I didn’t get the colour ipod I particularly wanted, either. The point is what I was told next.

Mum saying: I'm sorry the shop didn't have green. But you'll be an adult soon. So I got you an adult colour.

***

When I was in my early twenties I lived alone. I had moved to the city to attend university. Previously I had lived in a residential college and then with a friend, and afterwards I would move in with my partner. But between all that there was this quiet year where I inhabited a tiny apartment with an awkward diagonal wall all by myself.

I’m introverted, at home with my own company, a wee bit controlling about my personal space, and perfectly happy staying in most evenings. I liked it.

At least until the mouse.

mouse

I waited until I’d seen it a couple of times to confirm that, yes, it was really there, and no, it was not just a one off visit. I had acquired a housemate.

mouse waving hello

I called my mum, who was 665kms away and could not physically help me.

Me on phone: What do I do? Voice on phone: You're going to have to kill it. Mouse: *looking innocent and pure, pointing at itself as though saying 'me?'*

There as no one to deal with it for me. I didn’t want to live with the mouse, but I didn’t want to kill it either. I also didn’t own any mouse traps. So I rigged up my own solution.

Box propped up with a ruler tied to string. I'm hiding behing the fridge holding the other end of the string.

(With hindsight, there were warning signs I would end up turning my life into cartoons.)

You’ll be shocked to learn it didn’t work.Trap has been sprung. Mouse is sitting on top of box, free.

But I tinkered. I found if I spilled some rice the mouse would come out, even if I was quite close. And then I tinkered some more. Until finally…

Rice on floor. Mouse peeks at it. Mouse gets closer. Panel zooms out, this is happening in front of an open door. I lean out from behind the door holding a dustpan brush and sweep the mouse out the door. Final panel: me sitting in front of closed door looking relieved.

I was so proud of myself. I even managed to locate a sneaky mouse-hole and block that up. I was sure the mouse would not come back.

And I had not killed it.

I am reading a book. I hear a rustle. (close up, eyes behind glasses) I look to the side ... and see a disgruntled mouse giving me the finger.

I bought a trap, baited it with peanut butter and put it in the cupboard. My partner stayed with me so when it happened

night time, in bed. Partner is asleep. I am awake, looking scared. Something goes *snap*

I wouldn’t be alone.

***

Person: Now you're an adult you'll want to get a Proper Job TM, Buy a House TM, and Start a Family TM! Me: ... will I though?

***

‘Proper’ jobs are out for me, unfortunately, due to chronic illness. I’ve made my own job writing and drawing. (I don’t make enough to pay income tax). I’m proud of it and I like it, but not everyone sees it as a ‘proper’ one.

Including banks.

Even though my partner did have a ‘proper’ job, there were a few years where buying a house seemed utterly impossible. The world is no longer built for a couple on a single (‘proper’) income (at least, Australia isn’t. I can’t speak for everywhere). But, somehow, we pried our way into the exclusive club of Valid House Hunters.

House hunting was a long, weird series of meetings with hyper-adulty sorts—mortgage brokers, real estate agents, conveyances. We put on sensible-masks, threw around words like “interest”, “settlement date”, “pre-approval” and waited for the inevitable moment they twigged to our game and threw us out.

Me, dressed in a button up shirt and holding a breifcase: How do you do fellow adults? (partner standing with me giving a thumbs up and wearing a shirt that says "smashed avo sucks"). An adult looks at me, confused.

No one was more surprised than us when we pulled it off.

Real estate agent, handing me keys: Congratulations! Me: Indubitably! Partner: Variable interest amiright? Final panel: close up of our grins

And home-ownership was fun.

Me and Partner: "We can paint the walls!" "Plants" "hang pictures" "we can get a cat!" Some random adult: ACUTALLY! Final panel: adult is speaking, speech bubble is so big it is crushing us "Owning a home is just a long list of things to spend money on and chores to do! It's a financial blackhole that will weigh you down for the rest of your lives! It's not *fun*!"

But it really was.

And then we had three miscarriages.

Dark room. Getting an ultrasound. Everyone looks concerned. I say "Okay ... okay..."

(I looked again to confirm it that, yes, it was really there, and no, it wasn’t just a one-off)

Dark ultrasound room again. I say: "Okay ... what do I do?"

Each time we made the appointments. Paid for scans. Let people know. I went to the hospital (my partner stayed with me so I wouldn’t be alone when it happened). We made more appointments. We tried to make time to grieve, to process. We booked ourselves into therapy. We reassured other people when we didn’t feel at all assured ourselves.

It’s been almost a year since the third miscarriage, almost two years since the first, and most mornings when I wake up my first thought is still

Dark room, me in bed. "What do I do?". Second panel: still in bed, still lying there. Third panel: I get up.

Some days the big, ultimate answer, the only thing capable of getting me out of bed, is the dishwasher. Or the laundry or the vacuuming, or whatever chore it’s my turn at.

Because I get that little high of accomplishment from getting them done. Because I don’t feel like I have control over anything else in my life anymore. Because I still don’t know how to be someone who had three miscarriages. I don’t know who that is. I can’t get out of bed for her.

But I can be someone who empties the dishwasher.

Me emptying the dishwasher

And once you’ve emptied the dishwasher everything seems a little more possible.

But not fun.

Fun is hard. Fun is elusive.

Fun is a chore.

Really. It’s a job you have to do to stay healthy, like flossing. It just doesn’t feel like flossing when it comes naturally. Right now, for me, it doesn’t. If I want to catch it, I have to set traps.

We set traps. We bought some new video games. We build each other blanket forts. We taught our cat to hi-five. I take refuge in adventure-steampunk, comedic SSF, and comic books.* We go for walks and adventures and find new places.

It’s exhausting.

***

I am playing video games. Random adult: Adults don't play video games! You'll have to stop when you have a kid. Final panel: me giving him a very unimpressed look.

***

Am I an adult?

Over the course of my life I have been told so many things about what being an adult is all about. I’m nearly 30, and according those adulthood criteria, I’m not sure I qualify.

I’m (considerably) over 21, so I definitely meet the age requirement. I also (part) own a house, which I believe some people would count in my favour.

But I do not have a ‘proper’ job. I do not earn enough to pay income tax. I do not have children, which some people seem to think is necessary (I might still have them one day, but I might not). I still play video games and read comic books. I am the proud owner of a stegosaurus-shaped handbag.

Am I an adult?

If I was to tell someone what adulthood was, to impose my own definition, I might choose to say that it’s just doing the next thing. I think the accurately vague nature of that is perfect for adulthood, and bonus, if it’s a thing you do, then it’s a verb, and therefore ‘adulting’ becomes valid terminology.

When I first started writing this, that’s what I thought I was going to say. But as I wrote and drew, I looked and thought again, and that’s not how this ends anymore.

Am I an adult?

Don’t answer.

It’s not the real question. The real question is, do I have to be?

The essence of adulthood, from what I’ve been told, is that you’re not supposed to enjoy it. If you do, people will line up around the corner to say you must be doing it wrong or you’re naive and deluded, and anyway just you wait for the next milestone, that one will really wreck you.

The criteria are ridged, pointless, and in some cases unhealthy and irresponsible. It’s all about ticking boxes and how things look on the surface. It’s not about how you’re doing or what’s going on underneath.

And if everyone says it’s that, who I am to disagree?

So take it all away. It’s been messed up too much for too long. I don’t want it. I don’t even want to fix it, though you can try if you want.

I’ll just be over here, doing the next thing, drawing dinosaurs, and choosing puke-green everything. Crowned queen of the dishwasher and nothing else. Trying endlessly, desperately, to have fun.

After all, adults can do anything they want.

***

Years ago ... Silver ipod screen says nope, it is broken. I go to a shop. There are brightly coloured ipods in the window. I smile, the panel has turned orange.

* Sidebar: for fun giggles from those respective categories I recommend Soulless by Gail Carriger, Redshirts by John Scalzi, and The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl (beginning with Vol 1: Squirrel Power by Ryan North and Erica Henderson).

*********************************

If you love my stories and comics, check out my store and my Patreon page. You can support my work and get unique rewards!

And don’t forget you can follow me for updates on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest.

Life and Blanket Forts

While building a blanket fort: "The strength of duct tape, the grace of a draped blanket, the comfort of pillows." Sitting in complete blanket fort: "I may not feel like the architect of my life, but I can always make this." Cat jumps on blanket fort and collapses it.

*********************************

So that’s me right now. How are you all doing?

If you love my stories and comics, check out my store and my Patreon page. You can support my work and get unique rewards!

And don’t forget you can follow me for updates on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Google+ and Pinterest.

The War of the Plants

I have never confronted my mum about this, but I’m pretty sure I’m at least 50% elvish.

Having plants around makes me feel good. It always has. When I was a kid in need of a private place to sulk, I would climb a tree. After a long hard day of being a nerd in high school, I would water pot plants. As an adult, I filled my rental’s barren courtyard with potted herbs and spent all day staring vaguely out the window at them instead of being productive.

And finally, as a homeowner, I decided it was time for trendy indoor plants.

And a cat, of course.

It didn’t work out how I imagined.

The first problem was that our brand new cuddle floof turned out to be an indiscriminate glutton. He disposed of his dinner like a vacuum cleaner. Cooking meals became an extreme sports version of keepies-off. He consumed stray bits of dental floss and munched on rubber bands—and we only know about those because we found floss and bits of mangled rubber in his vomit. Who knows what other household items he’s digested.

It became quickly apparent that the probability of him finding and taking a bite out of a poisonous houseplant was 100%.

Which ruled out all the trendy ones.

Terrified I would accidently kill the fluff-monster, I did some research before getting anything.

And good thing I did. As soon as I brought my non-toxic houseplant selections home, my fears were confirmed. Our food-hoovering, face-cuddling, foot-biting, sink-splashing, shoulder-sitting cat was also a plant-nibbler.

Our sentient scarf fixated on a Boston fern. He nibbled and nibbled. The damage began to show. We moved it around, tried to hide it from him, but he found it again and again. Over the course of month, he ate it down to twigs.

Until that point, I had everything arse-about. I had assumed the plants were a risk to the health of our furry hedge-trimmer, but in fact he was a danger to them.

Our murder-croissant moved on to an African violet. He bit the leaves off so he could play with them on the ground. It lived longer than the fern, but he knocked off leaves faster than the plant could regrow them.

I was not ready to admit defeat. My elvish heritage would not be denied. I picked out some replacements, and this time I choose robust plants, capable of withstanding a bit of casual grazing.

I had grossly underestimated his capacity to nibble.

Worse, the toebean-licker seemed to understand how much I hated it. He would use it to seek vengeance whenever I refused to feed him dinner at 2pm, stopped him from murdering my knitting, or fished him out of the toilet and shut the lid to prevent him playing in it.

It always played out the same way. First, there was a lull in cat mayhem, and I would return to my internet browsing or fantasy novel. I relaxed, but before long I would feel the seeping awareness that the silence was too good to be true. In fact, I inevitably realised it wasn’t silence at all.

Leaves were rustling.

And I would look up.

The nibbles started to show—on my nerves as well as on the plants.

I searched for new solutions. I started hanging them so the meowinator couldn’t reach them to nibble.

If I only wanted a couple of plants, I would have found my solution. But I wanted my victory to be absolute. I needed more plants, large plants, multiple per room!

I couldn’t hang them all. I needed another alternative.

Channelling my elvish wiles, and found it.

It was, I am willing to acknowledge, a little bit evil. A tad cunning. Slightly Slytherin. It betrayed a dark corner of myself I usually pretend I don’t have.

Cayenne pepper.

At the end of the day, the important thing is not my moral integrity or the state of my immortal soul, it’s not even that I got to keep my plants.

It is that I won.

Sort of.

 

*********************************

If you love my stories and comics, check out my Patreon page. You can support my work and get unique rewards!

And don’t forget you can follow me for updates on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Google+ and Pinterest.

Failure in A Minor (Some Other Girl)

Once there was a girl who wanted to be a music teacher. She started playing the piano when she was eleven and the clarinet when she was thirteen. She loved playing and wanted to spend her life helping others like her have that opportunity too.

Third person, you understand. She isn’t me. Some other girl.

some other girl

But actually that’s not the story. If you want to understand, it can’t start there. It has to start further back with a little girl who wanted to be a novelist. Or maybe an artist, she hadn’t quite decided.

some other little girl

The little girl loved reading books and drawing and making up her own stories, and she hated waking up early. She had heard that full-time writers and artists could wake up whenever they liked and never even had to change out of their pyjamas if they didn’t want to.

writing bliss

Sensible adults warned her that neither of these were easy careers. You couldn’t expect to make a living straight away, maybe ever, and you had to be really good.

She wanted to be really good.

She taught herself everything she could about writing from the internet, but most of what she learned was about bad writing. She read never-ending lists of mistakes and snide articles that dissected books she had loved to display their failing organs. She discovered plot holes and infodumps and two-dimensional characters and weak adverbs and purple prose and countless other things. There were so many ways to fail.

bad writing

Maybe in another story she would fight on, learn things, face her demons and emerge successful and glorious.

But we’re here for the other girl, the one who wants to be a music teacher. And we haven’t quite found her yet.

You still need to know that the little girl didn’t have many friends. This little girl, the one who wanted to be a novelist or writer (but wasn’t good enough), was a social failure. She didn’t fit in and was being bullied.

bullied

And she was lonely.

So she joined her school concert band and clarinet ensemble. She had some friends in these groups and made some more, and she found she could cleverly schedule her instrumental lessons over the parts of the school day that she most wanted to escape.

And there she is, the other girl. We’re back at the beginning. I’m sorry about the detour, but it was important, and we can begin properly now.

Once there was a girl who wanted to be a music teacher. She played the piano and clarinet. She loved escaping to play them and wanted to spend her life helping others like her have that opportunity too.

The girl went to university to get the qualifications she would need.

She thought it would be like music at school, only better because music would be all the lessons instead of just some of them.

music bliss

It wasn’t.

None of this happened to me of course. I didn’t have a bad experience studying music at university. I did not fall short again and again. I was not humiliated.

But maybe—third person—she was. That other girl.

failure

Maybe she was told that it was a character test, everything was a character test, and that she was failing.

She remembered how after-school cartoons had tried to teach her that failure wasn’t a bad thing, real failure was not trying and supreme failure was giving up.

But it felt bad. And she was trying really hard and it wasn’t helping.

She didn’t really understand. But she thought she did, and what she understood was that she couldn’t give up. Not ever, no matter how much she wanted to.

So she tried to remember that she was a girl who wanted to be a music teacher and kept going.

She endured a whole year of not giving up. And then she attended her last lesson before the summer holidays and walked out and went home. That other girl.

walking out

And as she walked out she said good bye and happy holidays and see you next year.

walking out with talking

Because she hadn’t quit. Everyone believed she would be back. She couldn’t even give up properly.

It didn’t start with a girl who wanted to be a music teacher, but where does it end and which girl does it end with?

Maybe it ended years ago, when the girl who wanted to be a music teacher got home at the end of the year wanting to be anything but a music teacher. She finally gave up, the most terrible and absolute way to fail. She changed degree (softly, safely via email), knowing that it was all character test, but not yet understanding that there is no grade.

quitting

 

It was not a decision she ever regretted, not even for a moment.

Maybe it ends now, with the little girl who wanted to be a novelist (or an artist) as a woman working as a writer and an illustrator. Perhaps, in the end, she did fight on, face her demons and emerge glorious.

writing and illustrating

But is it only okay that she failed then if she succeeds now? And success is a slippery term. She loves what she is doing and believes she is finally in the right place. But she isn’t making a living. And she has a chronic illness and cannot have another job to protect herself. And she is still frightened that she is not good enough, cannot be good enough.

(You have to be really good.)

do it anyway

Or maybe it ends someday yet to come, with a woman who sees her clarinet case and feels something close to curiosity. She will pull it out, wipe off the dust and put the instrument together. She will rediscover how the pieces fit, and then she will play again and enjoy it.

clarinet

But that’s not quite the right ending either. And maybe nothing will be. I think that this isn’t the kind of story that ends.

Because she’s still walking out. That girl, that other girl. Somewhere, always.

She was caught like a mosquito in amber as she pushed open the door, with all the failure crushing down on her and no resolution. So she is still smiling—a tired, fracturing smile—and still saying nice things to the people who made her feel worthless. And she is still telling them she’ll be back next year. And she is always promising she can do better.

(She didn’t mean to lie, but she did and it is caught too).

The moment is suspended, and then that other girl is dropped back into my life, sending ripples in all directions.

me

I am always heading away from her failure. I am always heading toward he failure. I am always her, failing.

But I understand the cartoons a little better now. Failure isn’t a bad thing.

(Even when it feels bad.)

How to fold fitted sheets (the real instructions)

How to fold fitted sheets

How to fold fitted sheets (the joke instructions)

how to fold fitted sheets

Functional Adulthood

Some days are good days. I leap out of bed and I do all the tasks I am supposed to do. I am excited about budgeting, space-saving storage solutions and petrol discounts. I can feel the progress I make towards my sensible, well-thought-out life goals.graph showing functional adultIt’s the closest I get to being one of those go-getters who start the day by running a marathon and knocking back a disturbing green smoothie before going to work and earning a million dollars an hour by saying synergy and looking dynamic in front of graphs.

(But my graphs are better.)

The next day I wake up with the same tasks and the same goals, but it is not the same.

On this day I do not feel equal to my goals. They are too hard, too high, and I am too weak and too low. The small tasks I am supposed to get done are too much pressure. I cannot even bear the weight of basic human functions.atlas I think most people get this sometimes. Probably even the marathon-smoothie-synergy-people get a bit down that their graphs aren’t as awesome as mine.

Over the years I have tested different methods for dealing with this situation. My methods have had varying levels of success. Sometimes I try to do the things anyway.panicked doing everythingSometimes I give up.not getting out of bedOne time I read twelve books in a week so I wouldn’t have to think about all the things I wasn’t doing.reading all the booksSome of my solutions have been a bit extreme.playing deadNone of these help.

But there is something that does.build blanket fortsBuilding blanket forts makes me feel more in control. It reminds me things can be fun. When cuddled up in a blanket fort, I feel safe. I can even do some of the scary things without melting into a jellied heap of nerves.being productive in a blanket fortI wrote some of this in a blanket fort.

And yes, there’s probably a bit of latent agoraphobia at work there, but blanket forts make it work for rather than against me.

(By the way, that right there is the line between maladaptive behaviour and behaviour that’s a bit different but okay I guess. If it constricts your life, it might be a problem. If it doesn’t, boogie on.)

What a magical and wonderful solution to all problems! Rainbows and kittens etcetera.

… Did I at least have you until the etcetera?

It’s not a silver bullet. I don’t think there is one. Even actual silver bullets only work on werewolves; for vampires and zombies and regular people they’re just the same as normal bullets. Although I guess normal bullets are pretty effective against regular people, so silver bullets probably would be too. But using silver bullets on regular people seems like an unnecessarily expensive habit.

Also just generally an unnecessary habit.

Also a very, very bad thing to do.

(Please don’t shoot people.)

But blanket forts (we’re back on blanket forts) are better than the other things I’ve tried, even though sometimes I backslide to terrible coping methods anyway.

don't judge meBut at least I built a blanket fort first. That counts as productive.

It’s My Birthday!

And I am now officially on the late twenties side of 25. This has me concerned that by now I should have my shit together, or at least have a more respectable shit-together versus shit-all-over-the-place ratio. Or at the very least I should act more like an adult.

(If you’re thinking, ‘wait, you’re getting married soon and that’s a shit-together sort of thing to be doing,’ you might be right, except it’s really just an elaborate excuse to have honeymoon in New Zealand so that we can frolic with the hobbits and then drink them under the table at The Green Dragon.)

But then I remembered that I have a blog and am practically required to have my shit all over the place so that I have things to write and draw about. Who would want to read a blog about the adventures of some sensible and responsible girl who doesn’t chase people around her house making weirdly unnerving comsognathus noises, is so organised that she never runs out of toilet paper (yesterday, when I was the only person in the house, I realised post-pee that we had run out, so I was trapped until I worked up the courage to risk a slow-motion, tip-toeing tissue-finding expedition, which I am proud to say was successful, and thanks to my careful footwork, drip-free), and would under no circumstances interrupt already-complicated lists with parenthetical anecdote-overshares so you forget what the list was about in the first place and can’t remember what punctuation should go at the end? (Surprise! It was a question the whole time. I went back and checked.)

So maybe it’s okay.

And that’s  comforting.

But then I learned that Taylor Swift is the same age as me. And when I say ‘the same age’, I mean the difference between our birthdays isn’t statistically significant. I did the maths and everything. So, theoretically, we were born at the same time. And I even look like her.

Well, I have the same colour hair as her.

Almost.

You know, it’s what’s on the inside that really matters. And the point is that we are very similar and therefore I should have achieved a comparable level of shit-together-ness in the same amount of time, but I haven’t. When sixteen-year-old me made the decision to dedicate her free time to NaNoWriMo rather than releasing pop country albums, she had no idea of the ramifications that would echo down the years.

But I know what you’re going to say. Shake it off.

birthday1

birthday2

birthday3

Oh wait, I have chronic fatigue syndrome and couldn’t even win a dance competition against a jellyfish.

birthday4

Looks like you win this round, Taylor Swift and jellyfish. See you at 30.