Balls and Pin-heads

Sometimes, a girl just needs to feel classy. She does her hair nice, sweeps on some extra mascara, and stuffs a spare pair of socks in her purse. That's right, she's going bowling, late-night style. I was that girl the other night.

I rolled into the alley late, making an entrance. Once there, I rented my shoes and moseyed on over to lane 4 to meet my group. I was bowling with a friend and her two old buddies. Most of you have never bowled with me. I know this, because most of you have all your toes. I'm not a good bowler. Balls tend to fly into odd alleys, backwards and sometimes straight down. I'm the kind of bowler people invite because I make everyone else feel good.

Introductions were made, and the game began. I'll gloss over the play-by-play of the games. Suffice it to say, balls were rolled, pins felled. Sometimes balls were rolled and pins stayed pretty much where they were originally. In between frames, a young fellow wandered over and decided to strike up conversation. His opening line was, "you don't often see 4 girls with short hair, all together." We all turned and stared blankly at him. I wondered if he'd ever seen grandmothers, or mothers. Or lesbians.

When none of us responded, he followed it up with, "But you all look good, anyway." Oh, well, that saved it. We were oddly together and vaguely mannish...but we managed to overcome the short hair, despite ourselves. Dudes like that make me want to chop my hair shorter, just to confuse them. I felt like responding that he was still cute, even though he wore his hat like a doof. But I didn't. Because I am a lady. Also, because he wasn't cute.

I additionally didn't point out the man down the alley with a rat tail. Or, the man in the next lane who had managed to attain a poofy mohawk. He looked like a cuddly, punk teddy bear. There was also a man with a mane. He looked like Vincent from the 80's Beauty and the Beast. What I'm saying is, it wasn't a good hair location.

Later in the evening, as we were returning our shoes, a man swaggered by--all prision-style tats, big shorts, pointy facial hair. He leered that we were some fine ladies. A much better compliment than looking good "anyway." Of course, he ruined it while walking by again. He said we were fine...but followed it up with "for white ladies." What was with the qualifiers from fellas? Trying to make it better, he said "but it's ok, cuz I'm part white." I don't even know what that means.

As I was walking out to my car, I passed the man and his friend. He cat-called that my chest was perky. I suppose that's at least a straight-forward compliment. Because the day had been that ridiculous, I burst into laughter. The buddy offered me a multiracial gangbang. What was with these guys and bringing up race? They seemed oddly focused on it. Anyway, romance is still alive and well in America!

So on this 4th, enjoy a nice day at the bowling alley. But don't comment on hair, chests or race. That's not what we're about. We're about fireworks, and liberty, not gangbangs.

Situational Ethics

I was watching a reality television show last night. As I do with an astounding frequency. Yes, I am what is wrong with America. On the show, an abrasive woman (Gasp! On reality TV? Noooo....) was being a jerk to some of her fellow contestants. One of them responded by yelling back at her. Later, when asked to let it go, he pointed out that he was provoked.

Provoked. Like that makes it all better. I'm sure lots of murderers were provoked. Probably most assaults. Since when did it become acceptable to let go of your own ethics once you are provoked? Isn't that the point of civility? Of turning the other cheek? More and more (even outside the confines of my television) I'm heaving provocation used as an excuse. "He started it." "She went after me first." It's saying that the other person's actions are worse than your own because he...what, did it sooner? Was the other person not provoked somehow? Maybe you just don't know how his attitude came to be.

These people are irate about an action and then respond with an equal and...identical...reaction. It's fighting fire with fire which pretty much only ever gives you more fire and some burns. I'm not saying that it's appropriate to allow bad behavior, but responding to it with more only escalates the situation. What's worse, is that you obviously know the behavior is bad (because you have a problem with it coming from others) and then you choose to do it anyway.

I was going to say that if you react in the same way, you're no better than the person on the other side of the argument...but that's not the point. It's not about being better or worse, it's about actually holding to your morals in a tough situation. Being human isn't determined by whether or not you're more human than the person next to you, it's an individual event. Same as being good. It's not about scoring points, it's about being comfortable in your own skin and not letting others ruffle your feathers so easily. It's about doing things that are right, not things that are easy.

100 Words

My attention was drawn to the site "http://www.100words.com/" by Bingo TC. Seems the goal of the site is for people to write 100 word entries every day for a month. I agree with Bingo that I would have some difficulty doing this consistently. However, it intrigued me enough that I thought I'd try an entry or two:

"I think I am coming down with a cold. Mostly, I blame the airlines. In less than a week, I flew across the country four times: Jacksonville to Phoenix and back, then Jacksonville to San Francisco and back. Planes always have a big mess of sickos who feel comfortable spewing germs all over their row-mates. I was stuck in the middle on multiple flights--sick people all around. It is no wonder that I have been a mess since I got back in town. Zycam works miracles, but I do not know if it is powerful enough this time."

"Sara hopped on to the bus, noting the ad on the side for a sitcom starring an ugly guy and his hot wife. She hoped some day there would be a show about an unattractive woman with a swimsuit model husband. That was something she could get behind. She sat near the middle of the bus, placing her purse on the adjacent chair to dissuade anyone from sitting in it. The man across the aisle caught her eyes with his. She quickly looked away, thus missing his expression when he opened his phone. 'Subject is on the bus,' he said."

Feel free to comment with your 100 word suggestions :)

He's Just Not That Into You

It's a popular movie and something that we've all experienced. A feeling of desperation. The cloying whiff of it--which you realize out of the blue and then attempt to cover up.

I've spent most of my life single and I pride myself on not being desperate. I don't go out hunting for a guy...I don't wait by the phone. I don't Google a man to see what I can discover about him. In fact, I'll admit to feeling some superiority towards women who do these things. I'm not a desperate girl. Neediness as a whole just comes off as additional drama. In fact, I often wonder why people can't just be self sufficient and why they need a significant other.

I've also experienced a humbling parallel situation: The job market. This is no surprise to anyone who's ever tried to get a job. There are countless hours spent trying to sound great on first impression, wearying conversations, tiresome days spent waiting by the phone for someone to call.

If a company does call back, there's a heady thrill. If it doesn't, there are countless 'reasons' why it didn't. Maybe the company was busy with something else. Maybe it didn't realize how interested you were. Maybe it is waiting for the next week or the next quarter. Maybe it's your fault. Maybe it's just a stupid company.

Maybe it just isn't that into you.

Every time I say something about the interview process, I feel the need to qualify. Every time I start to make an excuse for a future employer, I want to make it clear that I realize there is potential disinterest.

I never really empathized with 'that girl' until now. I tell myself it's different, because I'm worried about a career instead of a lover. But is it really different? I suppose I could be financially sufficient somehow without trying all that hard. But I don't want to be. I want to have a career. I want to do something that I love in a fantastic location.

Doesn't that make me similar to the woman who wants to have a super love life? Aren't we all just trying to live the dream? It's just some of us have different dreams. I like to think that maybe all of us are needy in some aspect of our lives, from family to love to career. Maybe whatever-it-is isn't that into us. But we're that into it. Which, in the long run, must be worth something.

Fire Sale

We all hear how bad the economy is. Mostly, I tend to think the economy is bad because of how much we hear how bad the economy is. Negativity drives panic, which just produces more downturn.

Companies, even those who experienced growth in ‘08, catch the panic. They decide ‘09 will be a hideous year…perhaps another great depression. Obviously no one will purchase anything ever again. Thus, they decide to make some cuts. Help cushion the blow.

The moral of this story is: it’s hard out there to be a working stiff. We’re expendable in this grand economy. We create the product and, if we do a good enough job, we are worthless after the product is created. We make ourselves superfluous.

Even worse, is this whole concept of belt-tightening, of hunkering down and weathering the storm. It means that, no matter what, once it’s over you start fresh. Companies who are having massive layoffs will have to rehire and retrain new employees. Those new employees won’t be fully valuable for at least a year. During that time, the old employees could have been producing.

The companies who reduced projects will start to realize that there is nothing new in their pipeline. There will be a panic for new projects to flesh out the portfolio and incite competition. New projects much like the old projects…which might be completed by now if they hadn’t been cut.

I understand that less money is coming to companies and that cutbacks are necessary. But there are always options that don’t involve crippling the business. Put R&D dollars towards new low-budget products. Freeze new hires, reduce travel and minimize external contracts as well as consulting fees.

It’s always easier to take from future projects and get rid of the worker-bees. But, in the long run, what will that do for the industry beyond prolonging the economic crisis? The more unemployed people, the larger the crisis becomes. These companies are feeding the bad economy through their preventive measures.

Bite Me

I will succumb to pop culture, as well as my own literary interests, and write a post about vampires and werewolves. The top show on HBO right now is True Blood, based on the Sookie Stackhouse novels. The top movie in the theaters is Twilight, based on a series of books featuring sparkly, spine-eating death babies (also this Edward guy, I hear). Both of these shows have a human female lead and a vampire lover. They also both have shapeshifter/werewolf love interests.

One of the most common comparisons in fiction these days is the shapeshifter and the vampire. Radio shows all over are wondering what women, or men, could see in these monsters. Seriously? They're like the oldest archetypes of masculinity around. One cold, paternal (as anyone would be if he was 300 years older than any human) and deadly. He's a bad boy and his soul is questionable. The other is an embodiment of life, animalistic at times. Usually warmer than average, more inclined to love and more childish at heart.

I'll spell it out for the masses (and by "masses," I mean "tens who read this blog"). Guys always wonder why women love the asshole. Why the Mystery's of the world manage to get ladies. We mistake artifice for confidence. False confidence doesn't do it for us, but we assume that it's confidence with competence bolstering it. There's a sense of danger when someone has capability. When someone knows who they are and what they can do. There is power and power is attractive.

Vampires traditionally have that in spades. You notice that these main characters aren't newly-made vamps. They have been living for hundreds of years. The years give them more knowledge than the average bear. Also more money. Plus, the vamp body, while paler than average, is eternally young, fit, and superstrong.

There are drawbacks, of course. The hero tends to be cold and withdrawn...also dead. He can only go out at night. He is the beautiful embodiment of the things that go bump in the night. And, quite literally, he can eat you. There's a frightening loss of control with a vampire because it's never exactly an equal game, is it? If a vampire is your lover, he must really love you because that love is forcing him to act against his own nature. It's taming your lover and everyone knows that a lot of us like a fixer-upper. Vampires are all about control and fear of losing it.

Werewolves are all about lack-of-control and celebrating in it. They are freedom. Usually they have difficulty containing emotions and energy. They are devoted companions and social animals. While the current popular vampires are loners (though the vamp society is typically very structured), the werewolves tend to come from a strong family...a pack.

Not that there isn't danger with the werewolf. Having your devoted lover turn into a ravening beast on occasion (it doesn't seem to be tied with a full moon these days) will put a damper on any relationship. He can still kill and eat you...but at least you aren't his natural prey.

I think it depends on what kind of man you like. If you always loved princes and the idea of royalty as a kid, probably vampires are the flavor for you. They come with a structured society, social standing, power and glamor. If you always preferred the cowboy, the ruggedness of the wild, the freedom of being with nature (and maybe a little extra body hair) probably the werewolf is the way to go.

Back in the days when the creatures were first thought of, vampires were just animals who ate your blood. Werewolves were rabid killers. Humans were afraid of the outside world a lot more than current Americans tend to be. Over time, the characters have evolved into romance figures because we are more frightened by our interpersonal relationships than we are by the big bad monsters attacking downtown. A lover's betrayal is more hurtful and possible than a monster prowling in the dark. Especially to the female teenage target audiences.

Even with the dangers, why wouldn't a woman (or a man) find a superman who retains eternal or extended youth attractive? More than that, how many people fear being consumed by their lover--though perhaps in a less literal fashion? These mythical figures personify both our dreams and our nightmares more than a pure human character could.

For want of a topic....

I don't have enough going on to make a full post, so I'm going to do a tidbit post, or as Darrell would say, a Blogpodge.

In Heroes this week, Veronica Mars electrocuted the shirt off of Spock. They also had eye-sex about 50 times. At what point did the plot-line uniting the serial killer who literally chops up brains and the daddy's girl with an electrical fetish become the only reason to watch the show?

In other television news, Pushing Daisies has been canceled. What the hell ABC? Don't you know that Fox has the market cornered on canceling good shows? Why must you join the bandwagon? Daisies was the most positive, artistic, well-planned and intelligent show on air. (On network air). Some may have found it too sweet, too technicolor, but those people ought to be happy with the gruesome re-animated bodies. Good bye Olive and Emerson. Digby and Pigby. I will miss you.

I hope Fox doesn't do this to Dollhouse.

Twilight.... Sigh. Why must you take wonderful vampire mythology and add sparkly baseball? Why must you take a smart, capable girl and make her into a host for a cannibalistic demon baby? Why, oh why, must you make Rob Pattinson keep that wookie on his head and pretend it's hair? Warmer and fuzzier vampires aren't the way to go.

Holiday travel is beastly. I wish that Thanksgiving and Christmas were farther apart. We have 12 whole months to get the family together, why are the big days for gatherings only a month apart? I'd prefer to get more days off for 4th of July and keep Thanksgiving as a 3day weekend or something. No wonder people get stressed and depressed this time of year.

WingWoman

I'm not good in bars. I'm good at drinking in them, or talking to friends in them. Sometimes I even look cute in them. What I'm not good at is meeting strangers in bars. You know what bars are full of? Drunk people. Drunk people, especially those who aren't *my* drunk people, kind of suck. They're boring, don't enunciate and quite often sweat too much. Drunk men tend to think that you're bought for the price of a drink. If they shell out for shots, you owe even more.

I have a girl friend who is great in bars. She walks into a room and I am literally shoved aside by the hordes of men who want to buy her things. That's not an exaggeration. It's happened. She laughs, they laugh, they dance around. There's a kind of charming freedom that she has. Sometimes I'm almost jealous. Not of the guys she picks up, but the freedom. I'm always in my head in bars.

What I am good at, is being a wingwoman. I can watch to be sure that my friend isn't getting groped. I can follow her to the restroom to see if it's a real trip or an "I'm avoiding that guy grabbing my boobs" trip. I can peel the bad ones off, and direct the good ones on. I'll even hold her hair while she's throwing up outside of a cab in Canada.

I was out with a guy friend last night, and tried my hand at being a wingwoman to the opposite sex. I asked him what his wingman usually does. "Mostly, he just likes calling himself a wingman," he told me. I nodded, this was going to be an easy job.

And it was. Like my girl friend, this boy friend has strange mojo. When I've been out to eat with him (in the middle of the day) women have caught him walking back from the restroom and asked him out. It's happened a couple of times.

The women came to him. I'd make myself scarce, then reappear to see if he wanted a rescue or not. One of the girls started to talk to me about the Olympics opening ceremony. "This iss hiss-treh, It's hisstrical" After some drunk translation, I realized that this was, indeed, historical. Also hysterical. My friend and I rolled eyes at each other as she asked if we wanted to go dance. Knowing how I hate to dance, he looked at me and said "Wouldn't you love to dance?" I smiled sweetly and said I needed to get another drink instead.

Being the wingwoman to a man is a lot less involved than it is with a woman. Less maintenance, but more upfront work. Mostly you don't worry that the man might be taken advantage of. You just direct women towards him...almost like you're vouching for him. Gender reference. Perhaps winging for others means that I'm avoiding having to do anything for myself. I'm ok with that. It's worth it for the laughs.

Feminism, 40 years later

Ah, the modern day and age. A time when a woman can run a major corporation, raise a family, play competitive sports, even be a viable candidate for President. A time when a woman can compete on “The Bachelor,” where the culture icon is Paris Hilton and there are no real movie roles for women over 40—unless they want to play a mother.

Why is it that every main depiction of women these days is so stereotypical? It’s the hot wife and the fat husband, the diva, the ugly girl who blossoms into a sexpot. The only options for women in the media are being attractive (i.e., appealing to men) or being a bitch. Even the mean girls are vapid.

For that matter, think of how women are considered overall. The Madonna, the Whore, the Bitch, the Child. We have so many buzzwords that have nothing to do with the reality and the complexity of life. (I realize that men have just as many stereotypes to content with. This rant is woman-specific.)

In this time, when there is so much potential, why do we get put into these pat niches? Because we do it to ourselves. You know how you become equal? How you finally get to the top? Stop comparing yourself. Stop pretending that it’s us versus them. That attitude creates an issue. We validate the inequality every single time that we compare. Being equal doesn’t mean finally being just like a man. It means reaching your potential.

I’ve heard women say they want to vote for Clinton solely because she is a woman. That kind of attitude diminishes us. It means that we don’t think she’s better, but we want her to win because of gender. It’s softly saying that we don’t believe a woman can earn it, so we’ll vote for the first possible option. If you agree with what she says, vote away. But don’t you dare do it because she has a vagina. That’s as wrong as voting for McCain because he’s a man.

I’m sick and tired of women whining about how they’re being held down by men. About how men call other men assertive and call women bitches. There are two answers to that. First of all, pot, meet kettle. Women are terrible about undercutting other women. Second of all…maybe stop being a bitch. Half of the ladies who complain about this double standard aren’t aware of the difference. Rather than understanding confidence is power, they put on a show of tyranny. If you actually are a bitch, you deserve the title. Have some accountability!

It's just so easy for us to blame someone, to have a scapegoat. As long as we can blame men, or someone else, it isn't our fault. Every single thing that we do is our own choice. Maybe one time in 10 we are held back due to gender. Screaming, "take me seriously!" won't fix that. We complain that we have to be the best to get ahead, rather than good enough. Why on earth would "good enough" be our choice? We had better damn well want to be the best. Anything less and we don't deserve to call ourselves people...much less equals.

Domo Arigato, Mr Computo

I got to work early yesterday and had a lunch meeting, so I left early, intending to spend some quality time at home in the afternoon. When I arrived, I flipped open my computer to check my email. I had no Internet connection. No connection! A bead of sweat trickled down my brow. Now I had to check my email. There might be a crucially important message! With trembling hands, I flipped the toggle to attempt to catch a wireless signal from a neighbor. I found a signal, but it wouldn’t connect. (my condo community has standard internet for all occupants, so I guess it was all down)

I began to panic. I couldn’t reach the world. My condo was an island, segregated from the larger community. Thinking there might be a problem with my computer, I called DP and asked him to bring mine from work. While waiting for him, I obsessively hit the little “firefox” icon, hoping for good news. When he brought my little black plastic bundle of joy, I snatched it from his hands and tried to get online.

No luck. I almost cried. About a half hour later, another friend called, suggesting a hotel for an up coming trip to Orlando. I rushed to my computer to look it up, hands dropping when I got there. Shortly thereafter, I turned on the television, and again turned to my computer to see what was on.

We don’t realize how often we access the Internet daily. We all know that it’s revolutionized the office and changed our home lives. However, it’s also become a pretty strong addiction. Think of how much of your life relies on the Internet. We all know we have other options. I could buy a tv guide, I could check the paper for opening movies. I could call a travel agent for hotels. Even more simply, I could wait until work tomorrow to check half of these things.

In this day and age, we become accustomed to having knowledge instantly. If I hear someone mention a geoduck on Top Chef, I can immediately Google it. Heck, I can figure out the appropriate spelling of geoduck. If I'm mid-blog and I want a decent thesaurus (not the auto Word one, but a real one) I look it up online immediately. I can't even use my usual venue to whine about things, Google-chat.

Obviously, I regained my internet...but I remain traumatized.

Shut up, Dunkin Donuts

"My mouth can't form these words. My mind can't find these words. Is it French or is it Italian? Perhaps Fritalian."

Those of you who watch as much television as I do have probably heard these lyrics multiple times. Dunkin Donuts, in an attempt to branch out from the hungry-cop consumer base it currently occupies, is attempting to move to specialty drinks. They apparently offer whatever snobby drink you want...without the "crazy" sizes.

First of all, a little Starbucks history. The drinks were originally "Short," "Tall," "Grande" and "Venti." Before the super-sizing of America, venti was a relatively rare drink order. Short and tall make sense, grande isn't exactly a complicated foreign word. And venti, you ask? Italian for twenty...like 20 oz, which is the drink size. It's not an indecipherable code.

In the ads, prior to the little jingle, a woman offers a 20 oz cup and calls it a "dieci." When DP first saw the ad, he yelled at the tv "That's 10! You aren't making sense!"

Dunkin Donuts is attempting to cut in on an incredibly successful product line. They seem to be doing that by insulting the customers. What, your drink is intricate and pretentious but you are too good to use a different sizing convention? Part of the "Starbucks" experience is getting your special drink. Using different drink sizes creates originality.

It's not a secret that Starbucks and I have been going steady for about 14 years. I bought a condo within walking distance, I've been to S-bux across America and out of it, I even have a menu on my kitchen wall. I have dated 3 baristas. However, I also live within walking distance of a Dunkin Donuts and I really like donuts. If I could combine delicious coffee and a jelly donut, I might not ever leave the store.

Now? I'm not even going to try the drinks because I don't believe in supporting crappy advertising. Shut up, Dunkin Donuts. You aren't better than I am.

Versus

We seem to need rivals. No matter what we practice, from college to politics, we have rivalries. Not only do we compete against others, but we villanize them. I like to think that this only exists in it's extremes, like politics or religion. Not that it's appropriate in these realms, but it's understandable as people have such different beliefs. However, we also hate the Sun Devils, or the Bulldogs. People earn our antipathy by simply living 100 miles north of us.

It seems obvious, but aren't we all the same? In fact, isn't the tenant of so many of these issues our equality? We all are children of _____ deity, we were all created equal. If we believe in these issues so fervently, shouldn't we remember what it is that we're believing in?

Listening to the current political discussions has reminded me of this fact. People claim that they will vote democrat no matter what. No matter the democrat. They say that McCain has "betrayed" the republican party. Our affiliations take precedence over common sense. The label someone represents seems to be more important than what they stand for.

I wonder if this is a leftover remnant of the feudal system. We want to feel part of a small, select group. We ally ourselves with the lord of our choice--a God, a team, a nominee. We defend those things, sometimes to the death. You may think that I'm being extreme, but think of all the riots between football teams, think of the fights that break out. The things we choose to hate.

And, for being a die-hard vassal, we get our little fiefdoms. We get the opportunity to get seats first, we get to be the nominee next time, we go to heaven. What we don't get is progress or evolution. If change or the "other" is anathema, will things ever get better?

Mermaid vs Sea Cow

A Window to Lunacy ep.1

I was talking to a male friend today, who commented on his love for the one-piece swimsuit. He stated, innocently, that he guessed most women don’t find them flattering so they don’t wear them. Let me say this again…he believed that women choose to wear bikinis because they find them more flattering than one-pieces. The following is a segment that I like to call: “A Window to Lunacy.”

We aren’t that dumb. Maybe some percentage of the population (the percentage with rock-hard abs) loves how flattering two-piece swimsuits are. Most of us realize that something that’s slimming and has slightly more material is vastly superior to something that showcases all of our flaws.

The fashion industry disagrees with us. Unless you are 12 years old, a lifeguard or a grandmother, one-piece swimwear is practically forbidden. We’re all expected to try to find 2 scraps of fabric that somehow don’t make us look lumpy, or bony or somehow extra jiggley. Imagine if they only made old-man swimsuits or Speedos…and pretty much everyone on the beach wore Speedos. In fact, even if you wanted to rebel and wear and old man suit…you couldn’t find one.

So, we all scamper into the fitting room, with about 30 swimsuits. We start trying them on. One of the first five is usually a size small or ill-fitting in some way. Due to that one suit, we have a miniature crisis and decide that we look horrible in all the swimsuits.

We look at the suits with little sarongs or some kind of tank top. They’re so tempting, a lovely obscuration of our slightly less perfect zones. Then we think…won’t it be obvious that we’re trying to hide our huge thighs? Everyone will look to see what we’re hiding. Maybe we’d be better off without it?

Finally, at some point, it has to be functional in the water. It can’t turn transparent, or show too much. It has to be tight enough that it doesn’t suddenly leave you topless but loose enough that you don’t have fat rolls.

We’d be much happier in a one-piece, say, with boyshorts. However, right now, that’s hard to achieve. And if you do manage to find the combo, people (other girls) assume that you’re either out of date or insecure.

Swimsuits are traumatic. Designers, it'd be super-cool if you guys could whip up some young-looking and flattering suits that are composed from more than a square foot of fabric. It would be even cooler if some of them weren't bikinis. Guys...like I said before, we aren't dumb. Crazy, yes. Dumb, no. We make the best of what we've got.

"That is heresy!"
"That is the truth."

I am often confused by modern-day Christians. It seems like most religious organizations have determined that they are at war with science. We are in a final crusade, folks. But rather than attacking Muslims, the church is attacking Thought. (well, and sometimes Muslims too)

Scientists rarely seem to have any problems with religion. Evolution doesn't mean that there is no God. Life on other planets doesn't negate a higher power. Questioning things doesn't kill faith. In fact, many scientists will agree that evolution and the creation story show many similarities. Questioning usually means that--once you find an answer--you are sure of it.

Perhaps this is because I reside firmly in the buckle of the bible belt but it seems like so many Christians believe that the bible is literal. Evolution is a lie because there isn't a talking snake involved. I think anyone will agree that there was a point where people and apes differentiated, and "humanity" began. Not a falling from grace, but certainly the creation of the new. What is grace worth anyway, without choice?

More insidiously, rather than following the behavior of Christ, most of the southern Christians seem to have gotten themselves confused with Him. Their personal prejudices, their weaknesses, their need for power. So, they attack people who are different or people who theoretically endanger their power. Thus, the attack on science. Because science teaches us to think and these people want us to obey.

As many of you know, I've loved Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials series for many years. The recent release of the movie adaptation of book 1, The Golden Compass (or Northern Lights in the UK) is highlighting this religion vs thought battle. The Catholic League has called a boycott of the movie. Other religious organizations are in an uproar over it. In fact, much of the anti-religion sentiment has been removed from the film version--to avoid too much controversy. (For those of you who haven't read the series, book 1 is rather innocuous. I have no idea how they plan to have a movie version of book 3 if they leave religion out of it.)

Stupid as it is, this boycott is proving the truth in the statements from the book (the irony will be lost on the movie-fans--as they won't get to see the movie as it should have been). One of the main sentiments in the Dark Materials trilogy is that free will and thought are crucially important. It also says that religion attempts to keep us from thinking.

I would love to argue, to say that to be religious you should think, in fact, that you have the responsibility to think. However, isn't proof of the theory Pullman suggests found in the church's ban on a movie that might invoke thought?

Which raises the question--do they want to ban the movie because it's false...or because it's true?

I have read this series many times. If someone did not actually think about the content, and just read the words, this book would appear anti-God. The truth of the matter is different. The series is strongly against the misuse of power. The final defeat isn't over the power of good, it's over something that masquerades as good. It isn't about defeating God, it's about defeating an impostor. Perhaps it is a danger to modern religion, then. All those people who get themselves confused with an infallible power.

I just know that it's a story about people making the right choices. They don't do so because they are afraid of going to hell. They do it because it's right. It seems like that's the most important thing you could teach any child--no matter what religion.

There are many reasons, most of them embarrassing, why I love America's Next Top Model. The best reason to watch this show is quotes like the ones listed below.

“Being flirty and sexy and controlling your body, it’s all so hard”

“Do you know how to slide down a wall?”

“Did you apply sliding down the wall to sliding down the pole?”

Let Down Your Walls

I've been told by a large number of guys that one of the hottest things ever is seeing a girl be vulnerable. They're lying.

I'll be fair. They don't know that they're lying. It's just that the translation of "vulnerable," to a man means "periodically needing my support." And I'm not harshing on the fellas here. It's perfectly understandable to find someone who wants or needs you attractive.

The thing is, when a girl hears that vulnerability is a good trait, she usually translates that as "be yourself and it's fine to let some of that crazy out." Because guys, we keep a lot of crazy behind lock and key. Even the coolest gals have an inner maniac, just waiting to flip out over the old t-shirt your ex left at your place a year ago. So, when we hear that it's ok to be vulnerable we decide to release just a little of the crazy. A venting of the crazy, if you will.

In a test run, a girl might send her guy a text that says she misses him. Usually "I miss you" is like a pre-"I love you." You don't toss it out if you don't think you'll get it back. But, since vulnerability is hot, she decides to go for it. If the response is unsuitable, she becomes upset and (because it's attractive to be vulnerable) she actually expresses that sadness.

The guy is confused, because his formerly independent and cool girl is reacting strongly about a stupid text message. He doesn't understand that he unknowingly gave the green light for this. What he thought would be pretty tears and an easy consolation became insecurity and raw nerves.

So guys, when you praise vulnerability, keep this in mind. Your meaning doesn't translate directly to female language. And gals, remember when he says that he wants your wall down, he doesn't really mean it. In truth, he'd just like a door cut in the wall. Sometimes you can let him in, but you can lock the door when the crazy is threatening to escape.

Reality Television

An interesting interview with the girl from Yale who was on America's Next Top Model.

Or

Killer Heels

I Don't Want to Hold Your Hand

I have a long history of being hit on by "Flies." My friend Skippy coined this term in high school, and I've always found it appropriate. Flies are rather like they sound, they usually circle around creepily until they decide it's appropriate to land. Pesky as their namesake, human flies are difficult to get rid of, have bug eyes and have no idea when they aren't wanted. Also, like real flies, they have no discrimination upon who they land. A fly will pester any female--from the hottest model to the plainest nerd. However, though they usually show no descrimination, it's a guarantee that if there is a fly in the room--he will decide to land on me.

Today, I entered the costume shop at the local mall. I wasn't sure what exactly I wanted, but I knew immediately that I didn't want the salesman. The feeling was not mutual. He immediately swooped down upon me and complimented my glasses while breathing heavily. I nodded politely and attempted to walk past him. He scampered along behind me and asked if I knew what I wanted to be. At my response of "No," he suggested that I check out the "Sexy collection." To those of you who aren't familiar with female Halloween costumes, that's code for "what you wear for role playing sex-capades." I'm just not comfortable doing a public showing. I politely said no to that as well and he steered me to--as he called it--the "spooky section."

Now, I've been to the store before. I know the spooky section and he actually lead me to the sexy section, hoping I wouldn't realize. I thanked him and looked at the costumes, hoping to find something interesting. Or at least to show enough attention to the display that he would go away.

No luck. He was still there, staring at me. I gave him a tight smile. He asked me (with a rather lecherous grin for someone so young) what school I attended in the area. Not only do I dislike being taken for a student, I especially dislike it from someone I plan to give a commission to.

"I'm an engineer." I replied.

"Oh, so you want to be an engineer?" he said, nodding sagely.

"No. I actually am an engineer."

"Oh." He looked surprised.

I looked back to the shelves and he continued talking until I looked over, brightly thanked him for his help and said that I just needed to peruse the costumes right now. This finally got rid of him, leaving me free to cruise the store and find something better. I realized there was nothing better when I ran into him again and he followed me about some more. He asked if I found anything. I said that I hadn't. Then he asked for my name, holding his hand out. I told him, and he introduced himself as "Chad." Then he shook my hand, attempting to hold on a bit too long. Oh, Chad.

I took that as my cue to leave the store.

Spite your Face

"All of us have infinite potential but most of us are self-sabotaging."
-Mark Victor Hansen

I've been around a lot of people who, when met with a great opportunity, immediately sabotage it. People enter a fantastic job, and then--afraid of what they might achieve or encounter--they undermine themselves, slack around and search online for other jobs. People enter a relationship with lots of potential and they obsess over their past baggage, look for others on the side or try to force their lover to be the villain...so they can feel good about themselves.

Some people want to be the bad guy or think that they aren't worthy. They grow comfortable with it and it makes life easier for them. It's just another coping method. And, like all other coping methods, it stagnates you. You won't ever be happy if you diligently work to keep yourself upset.

Quite often, the self sabotaging people are martyrs. They enjoy being victims and arrange their lives so that they will be always used. If they are in a healthier situation--they try to give and push until they can be a martyr again.

Other times, people twist the martyrdom. They almost enjoy brooding over the fact that they always hurt others or always fail. Rather than having themselves up on a pedestal as a giving, unappreciated saint--they choose to live in a pit of their own angst. It's emo syndrome. If someone embraces their poor tortured soul and then has the opportunity to be happy, that person might spit in the face of opportunity because it's different. Because they don't deserve that happiness. And in thinking that they don't deserve to be happy (because of whatever) they make martyrs of themselves.

I've posted before about martyrs but don't think that this is rehashing. This is discussing something that they do, not what they are. I'm sick and tired of people refusing to take opportunity when it's presented to them because it doesn't fit into their current world view.

So, to those of us out there who self-sabotage (and we all have at some point), I say this: Look for a promotion, appreciate your significant other for who he is--not who he was or who you used to have, go back to school, and let someone compliment your weight loss. Open your eyes and see the world you live in and where it stands right now. Realize how lucky you are. There isn't an infinite amount of happiness in the world, nor an infinite amount of opportunity. Appreciate what you have. And figure the hell out what you want.

Alpha Dog

Those of you who know me, know that I like to compare people I know to animals. Half of this is due to an enthusiastic admiration of Pullman's "His Dark Materials" series. I like to figure out what someone's daemon would be. The other half is because it's hilarious to observe the dominance struggles that ensue around the workplace.

You get a group of people together and they vie for the spot of alpha dog. I think it's inherent in human nature to try to be the best. It's our method to attract the strongest mates and to work our way to a successful career.

This is more outwardly apparent in men, who have to one up each other from the handshake on. They tell competing stories about their expertise, argue about minutia just to establish "rightness" and sometimes resort to actual physical displays of "prowess."

This fight for supremacy is less obvious in women but it still exists. We do it with everything from our shoes, aggressive haircuts and manicures--to the way that we present a report. Our battles are more subtle but can be just as serious.

When you consider history, it's obvious how this came about. The guys got to battle for dominance the obvious way. They could just have a duel. Women had to play the piano fancier or have prettier hair. Social manipulation was the female arena. Differences aside, it all goes down to the same purpose--the alphas have control of everything.

So, when I determine what animals people would be, I consider whether they are naturally predator or prey. If he is a predator, is he dominant or subordinate? I was in a meeting today with several people I've categorized. Eight of the nine people in the room were either predator or "other." ("Other" animals are hunted and hunt) One person was prey. I like him quite a bit and I've always gotten along with him but he tends to present a more vulnerable aspect than many other people in my group.

A predatory person could give the exact same presentation that this man did and it would go unquestioned. This man isn't as confident or dominant and is constantly challenged. Like a pack of hyenas, the aggression of the group focuses on him. They aren't doing this to be mean and he doesn't mind the group dynamic. It just seems to be the natural pattern that both sides fall into.

By the time you've reached a certain age, you tend to settle in whatever role you have chosen for yourself. Sometimes it's difficult to put a person and their animal nature together. Other times it's immediately obvious (one example is when a larger co-worker settled his back against a pillar and used it to scratch his back like a bear with a tree trunk).

I'm not making a call as to which is better (or which I consider myself). There are far more submissives than dominants and far more prey than predators. The world needs both types to get anything done effectively. Not everyone can be top dog.

Still, it's funny to watch them try to be.

Quite Grope-y

I realize that I haven't posted in over a month. That doesn't mean that nothing interesting has happened...it just means that nothing has happened that would interest anyone who isn't myself. There was even something resembling a public outcry, for which I thank you. I still don't have anything to write about, however. I had planned to write a post on diction. I know, I know...sometimes I excite even myself. There still might be something there, but I can't think of a way to word it that isn't preachy or just boring.

And so, the rubbage bin of paragraphs commences.

This evening, I was talking to CB on the phone. We got to talking about cats...as you do. One thing lead to another and I found myself conducting an image search via Google. I scrolled through galleries of Bengal, Siamese and Abyssinian cats before realizing that I'd crossed a line.

"I'm worse than the crazy cat lady," I told CB.

"No, you aren't that bad until the ratio of human to cat is in favor of cat," she replied (or something to that effect...I'm awful at direct quotes but I get the gist of things)

"This is worse," I insisted, "It's not even a real cat! I'm sitting at home, alone, Googling cats. This is like...kitty porn."

She laughed and said "That's even worse than your sex mirror."

Which nicely segues into the story of the sex mirror. Recently, I grew tired of the fact that--barring contortion--there was no way for me to see my feet and my face in the mirror at the same time. Sometimes, you want to know that your camel-colored strappy heels coordinate with your eye shadow. Or, you want to see how your shoes make your butt look without climbing on a chair.

I went to the store and purchased a large mirror that leans against the wall. It's roughly 7 feet tall, surrounded by a thick, black wooden frame. Super sleek. With growing excitement, I waited for the delivery. About an hour before I went to the airport for a trip, I received a phone call. My mirror was ready. As the delivery men maneuvered it up the stairs, I felt a pang of worry. It was bigger than I remembered. I skittered into my bedroom (where the mirror was going) and looked at the space I had cleared.

It was not at all big enough for the mirror. There was only one place where the mirror would fit--roughly a foot from the side of my bed. I grimaced at the space...willing it to expand. No such luck. Resigned, I walked out and directed the movers towards the bedroom. They shoved the mirror in beside the bed. Leaning it against the wall placed it even closer to the edge of my bed. The bed was perfectly reflected on the giant surface. It appeared that I had purchased a huge sex-mirror.

The movers cast several glances at me. They cast several approving glances at DP. I bit my tongue to keep from over-explaining. Later, I moved my furniture around so the room looked marginally less tawdry. I hung the mirror on the ceiling. Judge me now, moving men!

"Ooooo, gummy worm!" CB exclaimed over the phone.

I stopped thinking about the mirror and the kitty porn. "Gummy worm?"

She said, "Aaaack!"

Her husband had tenderly offered her a gummy worm. As she approached him, he dangled the worm...and then grabbed her boob. "Quite grope-y," she said.

It was the perfect bait and switch. Yes...the pun was intended. Also, shut up, it's not the lowest form of humor.


Your mom is the lowest form of humor.

Come Sail Away With Me

This weekend is the first regatta I’ve sailed in months. Sailing is one of those hobbies where I kind of forget about it when it’s not around (in fact, when it’s not around I wonder if I ever really liked it). Then, I get called about a regatta and I agree to go. I’m reminded why I enjoy this sport.

Today, I woke up early. This is one of the reasons that sailing is questionable. I’m not an “early morning” sort of girl. A friend arrived for our carpool (1 hr) to the yacht club hosting. About halfway there, I got a call from my skipper saying that his boat was broken and they were going home. My driving friend very kindly turned around and drove me home. I was kind of disappointed, but at the same time…hey, free weekend! I imagined the fun things I could do with this new time. I could get a pedicure. Or buy a new purse. I could read some sort of technical book to build my expertise in the workplace. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

As I was sitting in Starbucks, sipping my coffee and reading a book, my skipper called again. The boat was fixed. Could I just hop into my car and toddle out there? I supposed so. Goodbye weekend. I drove the hour up to the island and hopped on the boat right before we launched. We scooted across the water towards the starting line, taking note of the looming thunderheads to the west.

Thunder started booming and lightening flashed. We decided that it wasn’t the best time to be isolated on a floating lightening rod. The current began to pull us out to the ocean as we attempted to retreat. As a violent downpour of rain began, we were forced to take down the sails. The boat rocked and nearly toppled several times. We hailed a passing motorboat to tow us in. Their engine was so weak that they couldn’t pull us any farther into the creek.

Eventually, we were forced to row ashore. As we approached the beach, Kat and I jumped out to pull the boat onto the shore. We landed in 3-foot deep mud. It immediately sucked me down and the waves pushed the boat forward. Kat and I both attempted to extricate ourselves from the quick-mud and keep the boat from overturning on top of us. With a disgusting sucking sound, we wrenched our legs out and dragged the boat higher at a run. Crabs skittered out of our path as we charged up the muddy sand. We looked like mud-wrestling refugees.

For the duration of the storm, we took shelter farther up the shoreline. A larger boat came to tow us into the yacht club. Several other sailors had been forced to seek refuge on Cumberland Island. They spent the storm drinking. This was evidenced as they attempted to hoist a 500lb boat with a 200lb guy inside…using a tiny tiny line. About 6ft into the air, the line snapped and the guy went a-tumbling out. He dragged the rudder out with him and it spun out down the river. I asked if he was ok. He laughed drunkenly and dragged himself onto the dock. The rudder twirled in an eddy. I was forced to leap in and rescue the rudder.

I’ve been around several people who have fallen or nearly fallen off boats. A reporter sailed with us once, and I helped her from one boat into the other. In between boats, she fell and I caught her and pulled her onto my boat. Her shoe fell off. Who the hell wears strappy sandals to a sailboat race? Still, I couldn’t let a pair of sandals go to waste. I rescued the shoe. Now I’ve rescued a rudder also.

We sailed 4 races today and did all right. There was nothing too remarkable, except I saw an alligator lingering around the same part of the river I hurled myself into yesterday. On the way to the yacht club today, I was pulled over by a cop. On the way home, I had to pull off the road because the rain was pounding down so hard that I couldn't see the road. I am an albatross.
Koo koo ka-choo.

Welcome to Paradise

When I'm getting ready for work in the morning, sometimes I watch VH1. I'm not sure why I watch it. Perhaps to gain a better understanding of what kids these days listen to. Or, because watching Fergie shake her hips in her latest fashion atrocity is more entertaining than the infomercial for the vacuum that will even slurp up ball-bearings. My options in the morning are limited. I used to have Buffy re-runs. For some reason, FX has stopped running them. I could watch the news...but that usually just makes me want to go back to bed and sleep some more.

A Green Day song came on, featuring people from the Darfur region of Sudan. They were asking for UN assistance. It struck me that they've grown past the point of political help and are now almost literally taking out a commercial on national television asking people to please do something. Part of this is probably due to the fact that African aid has become the new purse-sized dog of celebrity fads. With all the Bono's and Jolie-Pitt's out there attempting to make a difference, the rest of the celebs are trying to follow suit and show that--darn it--they really do care. Since saving lives and helping people is more commendable than toting around miniature dogs, I'm not really going to judge the trend beyond pointing out that most of them are helping in such a way as to gain more publicity. Good done for a bad reason is still good.

When you consider the global family, I see the UN like the doting mother and the US as the well intentioned but periodically ill advised father. Neither side has it wholly together. However, all the other countries are subject to our rearing (get your mind out of the gutter). We have Iraq and the Middle East filling the position of the first born. All of our focus and attention is going to "disciplining" them. We have North Korea, the poor middle child. He keeps hanging out with a bad crowd and smoking the reefer, trying to get our attention. And we have the babies...the countries who we aren't going after or ignoring, but we keep our eye on them and give them a hand or a light smack when necessary.

However, barring celebrity involvement, many of the African conflicts have become the neighbor children down the street. We avert our eyes and pretend that they aren't ours. "Our hands are full," we say, "Shouldn't their own people look after them?". They knock on our door, trying to sell a magazine subscription and we politely tell them that we aren't interested.

The difference between the countries we acknowledge and those we avoid is simple. Gain. Influence in the Middle East could build our economy, it could provide security. North Korea is in a powerful region. Currently, we think that we have little to gain from Africa. They aren't threatening us. Why should we become involved?

I'm not a fan of America interfering with other countries. I don't necessarily think that we should impose our agenda on everyone. However, if we make a habit of doing it in some places but not others, we are making hypocrites of ourselves. And, if we must--maybe we should give the real reasons and not make excuses that feed our egos.

What's your flavor?

I recently got an intern who reports to me. I sign off his time sheets, provide day-to-day instruction and also stand in as a mentor. I’m fairly certain that my new employee is my age. I have no problem with this, as I have work experience that he does not. Plus, I have the huge ego that I received wrapped in my engineering diploma. Engineers are more egotistical than nearly any profession I can think of--except for all Ph.D.’s and medical doctors. Then again, I don’t want someone who’s cutting into me to be wallowing in self-doubt. I want the scalpel-holder to be a cocky bastard.

I had an intern last year as well, a nice girl. Still, I’ve been hoping for a presidential style intern. Not for a dirty reason, but it’s nice to have pretty people doing things for you. I enjoy subordinate eye-candy.

“You’re objectifying the intern!” you might say. I most certainly am. Everything in the intern process feeds this practice. We get resumes. They are like intern-menus. What flavor intern do you want? A pre-med student who enjoys lacrosse? A chemist who rides a unicycle? An engineer who has no social life? We conduct phone interviews…like a taste test. It’s not really for their merit, but to see how they communicate and how you interact with them.

We even put in purchase orders for them. You hear down the hall, “Fred just finished the PO for the new intern.” We have purchased them. Much like lab equipment, but more mobile. In the case of an intern, it’s sort of rent-to-own. Each week we make a payment towards the ultimate cost.

We gave him a medical check to make sure he could work and was worth the money. I don’t know if they checked his haunches or teeth. After all this prep-work, last week, the project he was going to work on fell through. I have a horse with no wagon. We’re trying to think of other stuff he can work on. At some point, he’s going to get tired of fetching me drinks and dusting my cubical.

Hot Child in the City

There’s something about a visit from the parents that makes you feel more like a child, but dedicated to becoming a super-adult. When my parents appear in town, it’s after a week of prep-work at my home. I replace the dead plants on my porch. I wash my car. I give my house a super-cleaning and buy vegetables to stock my refrigerator. Usually, I’m forced to drink a lot of beer and wine that week, so they don’t see all the beer and wine that I usually stock. For a week, I become a heavier drinker—so that my folks don’t think I’m a heavy drinker. The silliness of this isn’t lost on me.

I get my hair cut and styled—something edgy, yet professional. I also get my nails done. I wake up early and get to work on time when my parents visit. Hell, I could cut that sentence off at “I wake up early.” Even on the weekend, I rise at about 7 when they are in town. I take the Cosmopolitan magazines off of the coffee table—replacing them with Physics Today. I am afraid that they will inspect my nightstand drawers and learn that they are not stocked with back editions of Physics Today.

I don’t know why I assume that my family will snoop. They really aren’t snoopers. Still, I have this fear that one day I’ll come home from work and encounter an intervention because they found my hidden wine cache and also have some questions as to why I need red fuzzy handcuffs. They won’t believe the “I’m a volunteer on the police force and I busted a wine smuggler. My handcuffs broke, so I had to borrow these from the store I caught him in front of…” story twice.

I leave little things out, to add hints about my responsibility. Sometimes it’s a calculator, “accidentally” left on the coffee table. I even buy new cleaning materials—substances in yellow containers with noxious odors. Quite often, I have no idea what you are supposed to clean with them. They are entirely for prop purposes.

I am never more “together” than when my parents visit. Of course, it’s a thin veneer of “together” over an inner core of “crazy.” I’m like an M&M. The green one, probably, as her shoes are cute. Still, no matter the thickness and glossy hue of my hard candy shell, I still get suggestions about how maybe I should comb my hair, or perhaps that three kinds of martini olives don’t count as real food.

My father looks at the staggering amount of shoes that are collected on the artfully arranged shelves in my foyer. He asks if I could possibly need more. I scoff. Of course I need more. My old Mark Jacobs green sandals with shiny stars on the toe (they looked exactly like “dress up” shoes) just broke. I loved them so much that I probably need 2 pairs just to fill the hole in my heart. But don’t worry, they’ll probably be professionally shined and tidily arranged on their shelf by the time my parents actually see them. Because I’m an adult.

Too much fun for MySpace

Zombies are about to attack us and you only have your top eight friends to go to war with you....

(I'm pretending this is a magical world, where everyone I know is in the same geographic location. Otherwise...I don't think I'd have 8 people)

1. Frank
2. Sara
3. Rob
4. John Lopez
5. Aaron (Because I think Sara would make me take him)
6. Josh
7. Patrick
8. Peter

Who would you put as second in command?
I think Sara. The others would be looking at us all the time anyway, on account of we're hot. Also, she and I have talked about scenarios.

Who is the fastest?
I'm guessing Peter. I think he exercises more than the rest of us. Maybe Frank.

Who is the most logical and strategic?
Frank and Sara. We've developed all kinds of plans already. If the ZA comes in a couple of years, I add Rob to the list for medical knowledge. Probably as a biology sort, he could help us live off the land anyway.

Who would you entrust to carry the food?
I concur with S. we all need to carry food. It'd suck if we had to kill the food carrier.

Who would carry the weapons and ammo?
Yup, we all need to. And I've partially chosen my list for people who already have weapons/ammo. J-Lo will carry a lot, I think. Then again, he already carries more knives than the average bear.

Who would drive the car?
Any car that would fit 8 of us will never be able to travel on streets already clogged with wreckage. Josh already has a bike. I think some of the rest of us would need them also.

Who would you eat if you ran out of provisions?
No one. That's a way to get made into a zombie. What if the person you eat is carrying the rage virus?

Who would slow you down?
Patrick. I love ya hon--that's why I'm taking you with us--but you haven't done nearly enough thinking about how this is going down.

Is there anyone who you don't think will make it?
Oh, trust me, we will all make it.

Who do you think your best fighter is?
I'm going to go with Frank. Except he'll start trying to wrassle with the zombies, and that's a sure way to get bitten.

Would you shoot number 1 if they were bitten and going to turn?
Nope. I'd wait until they turned. You always hope there's a way to reverse it. I'd feel pretty badly if I shot someone and then the guy next to me was all "you know, there's a vaccine...right over there."

Who is most likely to be baited into a booby-trap?
I think a harem of well-preserved zombie fem-corpses could potentially distract some of the boys. But the dead body part might ruin it.

Who would mutinize your leadership?
Hm, I'd like to think no one?

Who would be the hero?
Why, me, of course.

Who would you sleep with when you realized you could die?
I refuse to pick one of them. I will sleep with at least 6 of the 8

Who would take one for the team?
Take one what? One good lovin'? One zombie bite? I'm not choosing a sacrificial lamb!

Would you sacrifice yourself for number 7?
::sigh:: Pat...my fear of becoming the flesh eating evil dead may outweigh my nobility.

Who would finish you off if YOU were bitten?
I think most of them would. It'd be harder to find one who wouldn't finish me off.

Cosmo Girl

I went out to a local bar last night. It's not like I never go out--but I usually don't spend much time paying attention to other people in the venue. I don't go to bars to pick up boys. Mostly because the guys in bars tend to be drunk and I tend to be sober. That's never a fun way to meet men. Also because the only people who hit on me in bars tend to be women.

I went past the cover-collector. He gave me my change and commented that it was my lucky day. One of the dollars gave me a phone number with the offer of a good time. I passed on the luck immediately as I paid for my drink. I figure, it's like double the tip.

I met my friend, his girlfriend and a plethora of her friends and their dates. I hadn't expected quite this group. I was quickly delegated the role of "picture taker" as I was the only single person there and didn't know most of the group. One of the guys got the camera and attempted to take a picture of my boobs. His date did not approve. My singleness may not have been the only reason I was given the camera.

As I stood talking to the group, people passed behind me. When people walk behind me in bars, I don't like to move. The second you step forward, people keep coming and eventually you're leaning all over the person in front of you. This is useful if I'm hitting on the person in front of me, however, most of the time I'm not. Instead, I stand my ground and let people walk into me. Sometimes I strike a Wonderwoman pose and elbow them back. This time, someone took a healthy handful of my ass. I turned around to give him a piece of my mind. Or to tell him he could make it up to me with a drink. It was a girl. I don't get it. She didn't even offer me a drink.

The band started playing. Suddenly, the lead singer was on the floor. My friend suggested that there was a banana peel up on stage. His girlfriend thought that he meant the lead singer was a monkey. He did look a bit cro-magnon, so it was an honest mistake. They took a break after their first set--the better to toke up--and then started a new set. They chose to start the new set by repeating one of the songs from the first set. It was still bad. The song was that 3-Doors Down number about how they missed their girlfriends. I guess they really really missed their women.

Some more people arrived and one got a lime to the eye. When she confronted the citrus mafia, they thought she was offering them a line rather than asking about a lime. They were confused by the preppy dealer. Also, they were perplexed by her anger over the their refusal to buy some.

Near the end of the evening, a friend shared his technique for meeting acquaintances of his girlfriend. He dances like an idiot so that she is embarrassed to introduce him. He doesn't have to remember any names and also gets to throw around jazz hands. It's a win-win.

We left the bar some time around 1. Back when I lived out west, this would have been the opportunity for greasy Mexican food. They don't do good late-night Mexican in the south, which left us with...the Waffle House. Sometimes I'm guilty about feeling too good for the Waffle House. Then I remember that I am, in fact, too good. I tried to eat some pie. Mostly I just drink coffee...the pie reminded me why. We called it a night and I went back home. I played some air-guitar in my living room before bed. My hair is near perfect length for air-guitar head banging. It's good to practice your art.

When it Rains

I woke up this morning in beautiful Denver, CO. The sun was shining, the grass was green, it was a perfect day. I had a cup of coffee, checked my email and received an emotional gut punch. As I was not alone, I had to pretend to be ok, so I promptly went to the bathroom to throw up. Years ago, I stopped crying when faced with extreme emotion. I throw up instead. This is both better and worse. If I actually experienced emotion, I might be bulimic. Good thing I only feel rarely. Anyway, the day progressed and I got to the airport 2 hrs before my flight.

Everything went swimmingly, except for eating. By 3 in the afternoon (flight time) I'd eaten 3 bites of bagel, half a banana and a cup of coffee...all had been sacrificed to the cause. I read a book on the plane and the two women next to me pretty much ignored me. My usual row-mates smell, invade my space, hit on me or otherwise--so these two ladies were doing well. However, as they didn't offer to buy me drinks they weren't on the top of the list.

We landed in Dallas early...for my 3.5hr layover. I decided that though food made me nauseous, beer would be ok. I sidled up to the airport bar and ordered a bottle. The gal next to me was drinking away her sorrows. Her flight had been cancelled. I internally gloated. I wasn't on a cancelled flight. My day already sucked...but at least I had that. And I had my beer.

While nursing my Bass, I got a phone call from an old friend. I'd sought him out for solace. That's right. Solace. Midway through the conversation, I was ready to phone-slap him. Griping about social life and jobs only works if both parties are complaining. His life was super-duper. I was green with envy. Then he kind of sort of offered me a job opportunity. I was stunned. I choked on my beer and attempted to pass it off as a cough of excitement.

The girl next to me raised her eyebrows. I gave her a sunny grin. I'm sure she wanted to real-slap me. I paid for my drink, hopped away from the bar and skipped towards my gate. There was something wrong. All these angry-looking people were standing at the gate. Children were crying. That's all pretty normal but the true alarm bells started ringing when I saw the people at the counter actually doing something. My flight was cancelled.

I shuffled through the line to get my hotel and new ticket. The lady at the desk was very helpful--directing me out into the thunderstorm to wait for the hotel limo.

We drove to the hotel where I got my room, toothpaste, floss, and deodorant. My phone is broken and there is a suspicious stain on the floor by the door. Either someone gave birth, was stabbed or had a badly house-trained puppy. I haven't studied it too closely. Right now, I'm sitting gingerly on the bed, attempting to avoid any other stains, and thinking about the future. A lot of potential, maybe a move. Silver lining.

Anyway...the moral of the story is: when it rains--it pours. But sometimes, just sometimes, there's a rainbow at the end.

One Fish, Two Fish

This weekend I purchased a fish tank. This was an impulse purchase, on par with buying a new tube of lipstick. (I have an appalling variety of lipstick considering that I never wear the stuff. I keep hoping that if I try enough colors and brands I will eventually discover something that makes my lips super glossy, sexy and infinitely kissable. Once I try out the kissability, the lipstick will be transferred to the face of the kissee...hence my main problem with lipstick. It stays on everything that isn't my lips.)

DP and I were at Walmart, looking for a betta fish for him. His domicile needed some homey touches. Nothing makes a house feel like a home better than a small colorful fish...one which often goes on hunger strike. I know this because I have three of them. While at the store, we saw a 10 gallon aquarium for a surprisingly low price. This seemed like a good deal. There could be a variety of fish. Fish that weren't isolationists.

We plunked the tank into the cart and frolicked down the aisles selecting gravel, tank decoration, water plants and bubble walls. It was like shoe shopping, except cheaper. As we selected fish, the apathetic Walmart employee told us that the tank had to equilibrate overnight. This means no fish the first night. But the fish must always have a filter. Therefore if we kept the fish in the bag, we'd have a beautiful assortment of floaters.

DP and I are all about instant gratification, so waiting a day to purchase fish wasn't an option. He selected 2 black ones, 2 neon tetras and 2 guppies. We looked at small filters to allow the fish to survive the night. At some point (probably because it was late) I decided it would be easier for me to get my own aquarium. We came up with a slightly convoluted scheme where the filters and tanks could be interchanged, allowing fish health. A pasta pot was to be used the first night.

We set up the pasta ecosystem in my guest bathroom, dumped the fishies into it and started up the aquarium. Some friends came over to watch movies. Midway through, one walked out of the bathroom commenting that one of the fish was probably dead. We rushed in and saw that the guppy had hurled itself from the pot and had died on the floor. The melodramatic fish equivalent of suicide by walking slowly into the ocean.

At this point, we decided that equilibration was useless if the fish insisted on killing themselves and dumped them into the tank. Guppy 2 didn't make it through the night. The next day, we went out and purchased more fish. Heartier fish. Today, I returned from work to discover that one of the little ones had been sucked into the filter tank, trapping it by the tail. The other fish had proceeded to eat his face off. Things are pretty cut and dry in the fish world.

As I name everything--from my car to random plants--I had to name my fish. When they were new, DP and I came up with names based on the characters in a favorite book. The downside of this is that it's much more sad to scoop a dead fish with a sentimental name out of a filter intake. With my previous fish, I named them something that would be amusing when they died. I imagined coming home and exclaiming "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead!" I'd feel slightly sad, a little grossed out, and also literate. I've tried to overcome this problem by naming the most eatable fish after characters that are already dead.

When they're alive, the fish are pretty cute.

Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

I don't know if I'm a product of my generation or of a western upbringing, but chivalry is always slightly surprising to me. This isn't to say I never encountered it growing up. My father is incredibly gentlemanly. Watching he and my mother seemed sort of like watching the older generation do something cute and moderately archaic--like watching your grandparents polka. You sigh and miss days gone by--but you know that's not the world you live in.

I got used to being a tomboy. You can't be one of the guys if you wait around for someone to open doors for you. It seems to make sense that whoever gets to the door first, opens it. This usually doesn't pose a problem but sometimes I approach a doorway with a chivalrous man. We get in an odd little dance where both of us reach for the knob and almost wrestle for it. At some point, I let it go and walk in. I do always say "thank you"--even post-wrestling for the knob. Because I am a lady.

The car-door opening is also kind of awkward. I don't necessarily mind having the door opened for me as I get in--but it's really weird to wait for it to be opened so I can get out. And how do you know if you're supposed to do that? As she is a genteel lady, my mom told me I should always wait. I never wait.

Pulling out the chair is another oddity. Maybe it was started because women had big poofy skirts and had to fuss with them while sitting. I just don't understand why it's still done.

Speaking of the group seating reminds me of my least favorite civility. If I am sitting in a group and have to go to the powder room (see, I learned that term in the south...sounds so fancy) it's irritating when, as I stand up, all the guys stand up with me. Then when I come back, they stand up again. It feels like I'm ruining the flow of the conversation. As much as I like to believe that discussion revolves around me (and that while I am gone, all the guys sit in awkward silence and stare at each other) all the standing and sitting really makes dinner seem more like a Catholic mass.

I like gentlemen. I find them adorable. I didn't meet many of them in the west. It was mostly my father and my friend Marcus. (Not to insult the rest of you...you are all gentlemen...you just allow me to be more one of the guys than the Southerners do:) ) Still, I'm awkward with the concept. I don't know if it's the inner feminist, or I'm just set in my ways. I understand that it's a sign of respect. And again, I'm complimented when I am on the receiving end of gentility.

It's like any other compliment. I don't know how to respond appropriately, so I stammer, punch someone in the arm and drink some beer. Or, since I'm in the south and this is an appropriate situation, I fan myself and have the vapors. I'm not sure what they are, but they seem very southern. Much like gentility.

Son, be a dentist
People will pay you to be inhumane

A month ago, I succumbed to pleas from my mother to schedule a dentist appointment. It had been two years since my past one, so I figured I was probably due. The appointment was scheduled in June, which allowed me to almost forget I had it. Last week, I got a call telling me they had a cancellation and I could come in on May 21. This was said with some excitement, as though—after putting off the dentist for years—I’d be thrilled to get in a month early. I accepted the new time and showed up this morning.

I dressed extra cute, operating under the assumption that people don’t like hurting cute things. (I forgot about sadists). By the time I reached the chair, I’d received comments regarding the cuteness of both my car and my purse. (I didn’t actually plan those things…made me wonder about my actual clothes). They sent me through the styling new whirly-gig x-ray and plopped me in a neutral colored chair that allowed me to watch some gamboling squirrels. (not gambling…we don’t support squirrel gambling here in the south.) There were televisions set in the ceiling, and the office manager offered me headphones. So far, the dentist was better than I remembered.

I reclined and watched some of the Today show, wondering if this was the precursor to dental torture. The torture warm-up, if you will. This proved to be true when the dentist arrived. He cackled and twirled his handlebar mustache. Over steepled fingers, he inquired if I was comfortable. Ok, so maybe he wasn’t that stereotypically villainous. He did have extremely contracted pupils, however. Tiny little pinpoints. And his eyes were utterly flat. (not topographically, but expressively). He checked me for oral cancer…which I passed as I don’t chew great wads of tobacco. I started to get cocky. Obviously the cute outfit was working.

Then, he pulled out this little plastic probe and told me he’d be checking my gums. This was new to me. I’ve never had my gums checked. Turns out, maybe I should have. After he’d probed all around 5 teeth, I decided the dentist was definitely evil. He growled out numbers to his assistant. They appeared to be associated with the pain scale. Not wanting to be a dental wuss, I kept a stiff upper lip.

According to the gum poking, I have periodentitis. I won’t get into the details, but the cuteness of the outfit had backfired. The dentist asked if I was allergic to anything. I told him and he implied that I was lying. He had the sort of patronizing chair-side manner that he would have if he were checking the teeth and gums of a cow. I considered mooing but figured that he wouldn’t get it anyway.

Following the delightful gum poking, I got to experience “root plaining.” They clean around all the gums with an ultrasonic tool. There is a local anesthetic applied. My hygienist was very enthusiastic with the anesthetic, which is usually a good thing. However, as my tongue and throat went numb, I realized that liquid was pooling in my throat and I was having problems swallowing. She realized that I was having difficulty when I started thrashing around in the chair. I am a subtle person.

At the end, I was sent home minus quite a bit of money and with the addition of some medicinal mouthwash and floss. Also, a toothbrush emblazoned with my dentist’s name. I can think of several places to put it.

(As an endnote: I was a huge fan of everyone at this office who wasn’t the actual dentist. The office manager and the hygienist were both quite nice and explained everything they were doing.)

Birds flying high You know how I feel

I am always right. This is a curse that I’ve dealt with for many years. Sadly, it’s never helped me with exams or memo writing. It has given me an unerring knowledge of which professors will give me a pity grade, which aren’t worth the time, which guys just aren’t that into me and which people may or may not be in prison in the upcoming years.

That’s right…I know people. There are millions of things in the world that I don’t know but I do know people. I have never had a gut feeling about anyone that was wrong. Each of my inexplicable distastes has been accurate after time has passed. Those who I felt warm and fuzzy about have proven to be good people. The warmer and fuzzier the initial emotion, the better the person has been.

This isn’t always useful in the workplace, as there are plenty of spectacular people who are crap at their jobs. It wasn’t always useful in school, because while someone may have great qualities, an innate knowledge of quantum physics isn’t necessarily one of them. It’s very useful in relationships. Every time I’ve gotten the willies about a relationship, I’ve been right.

The downside of this is: I am fantastic at rationalization. I can talk many people (including myself) into (or out of) anything. Even though I know things, I can still convince myself that I am incorrect. I can convince myself that I’m being hard on someone and he or she isn’t really the raving psychopath that my animal instinct seems to think he or she is. Of course, it usually turns out that I was correct all along. But you don’t want to just believe in instinct. And, in my case, it makes me feel pointlessly cynical and oftentimes bitter.

I don’t like being right. I don’t like knowing, because I tend to second-guess myself. Or, after a repeated pattern of eerie empathy, I start to believe my gut. And then, I’m sure, it will turn out to just be paranoia or a story I’m telling myself. Still, it’s hard to periodically understand people better than they understand themselves. Or to deal with people who are changing day by day.

I’ve never been really surprised at a breakup. I’ve been surprised at the timing, or the situation but I always knew. Even the worst one, where I’d rationalized so damn hard that up was down, I knew. I’d just convinced myself that I couldn’t possibly be correct. Because who could be that much of a jackass, right?

I’m not always dead-on. I once dated a guy who had just stopped dating another girl. A couple months in, I started to get really shady (for want of a real word) “vibes." At the time, it never occurred to me that it had anything to do with his ex. (I have an ego, as many of you know, and to be honest--at that point in life--it was utterly inexplicable to me that a guy I was dating would ever want someone who wasn’t me. I still find this hard to believe but I’ve come to terms with the fact that I may be an acquired taste) I actually thought that his dark turn was due to some health issue that he wasn’t telling me about. It wasn’t. He was thinking about the ex and eventually went back to her.

I usually know when there is a problem, even if someone is doing a bang-up job of hiding it. I just don’t always know what the problem is. Damn frustrating, especially when I’m in a situation when I can’t do a thing about it. I have an innate desire to make people feel better. This is always rather difficult if there isn’t anything I can do to influence their feelings at all or if any distraction that I can offer is fleeting.

It’s also difficult if it’s none of my business at all. I usually know very quickly if my friends are or are not dating good people. (A perk of having so many neurosis of my own—I can detect them very quickly in others.) Once I have all this great insight into their relationships, I'm usually dying to tell them all about it. As it turns out, people don't actually want to hear it. Besides, I don't have to live with their relationships.

In any case, the gut feeling can be very useful. It lets you know whom you can trust and whom you can’t…and the level of trust for each person. It can alert you to bad news on the horizon. It can also make you wish that people would actually communicate. Or, it can just cause you to feel damn jaded.

Six Degrees of Separation...from a coherent blog post

That might actually mean that I went full circle and arrived back at coherence. Or, I never had it. Yay!

I was walking into work today with a friend. I felt pretty cocky, because I had on a new dress and my shiny-new pair of FMP's. Let's say there was a spring in my step. That may have been the coffee. Anyway, we walked by a group of guys and my friend commented that I had just been "eye fucked."

I get the saying, but it always leads me to a horrible mental place and makes me throw up a little bit in my mouth. I think it's because the first time I heard the saying...well, it was in a book and they weren't referring to an admiring glance. That makes me think of eye patches. Eye patches cover missing eyes...which makes me think of the sexiest thing *ever* to say in the heat of the moment..."gaping socket." Try whispering it to that special someone. It is second only to "toothy nether maw." I have some issues with the latter. 'Gaping socket' just reminds me of a nasty eye socket. 'Toothy nether maw' implies that something is horribly amiss amongst the woman-bits.

Now, when I think of a toothy va-jay-jay, my first thought is of Parker Posey's character in Blade 3. You know the one. Parker Posey is also starring in the new movie "Fay Grimm" And, we've come back around to me. That's right, I was just that bored while driving home from work.

(For those of you who want to continue to the real 6 degrees game, Parker Posey was in "The Anniversary Party" with Kevin Kline. KK was dirty and French with Meg Ryan in "French Kiss," where he both festered and rotted. Meg Ryan hung out on some rooftops with Tom Hanks in "Sleepless in Seattle." Tom Hanks and Kevin Bacon starred in "Apollo 13.")

My condo looks a wreck. It appears that I drank a bunch of beer, tried on every item of clothing that I own and then exploded. Rather than cleaning, I'm considering calling it art. Nuevo-sty.

In the midst of considering gaping sockets, I also decided that Robert Smith from The Cure has the best mournful wail of any singer. Every time he moans, my eyes roll back in my head a little bit. Because of the silliness and I'm also a little turned on.

Speaking of being turned on, I was watching Heroes last week. I don't know how many of you watch Heroes, but the 'main' character is very mopey and emo. Even his bangs mope. People have talked about how he was hot and I didn't understand it until they did the future episode. In the future the emo-bangs are slicked back and the boy's got a scar covering his whole face. Perhaps the rakish angle of the scar gives him some asymmetry. If I ever have a son who is too pretty, I may consider giving him a face scar. You know, out of love. This is why I should never procreate.


I was talking to someone today in a hallway at work. A woman walked between us and did a that little duck people do when they walk between two others. The dip like the two people speaking are holding a limbo pole between their shoulders and the walker is afraid that he or she will hit it. Or like your conversation/eye contact is an actual physical entity that they can't pass through. I do it when I walk between people, probably all of us do. But why?

I think that's enough rambling for now. Happy National Heroes Day in Moldova!

On Comments

I was reading a post by Darrell where he commented on his comments. (This is what happens when nothing significant occurs in my day or in the days of my immediate friends...I steal internet games or loot other posts for ideas) He pointed out that his lazy post received a lot of fantastic comments and some of his favorite posts got very little attention.

It's always intriguing what people will like. There are some obvious crowd-pleasers. Posts about zombies will garner you quite a few comments. Some of my more emo posts have gotten commented more than I expected. Generally, I'd attribute a lack of comment to over-personalization of a post. If no one gives a damn, they won't comment. But some of the seemingly personal posts apparently still find popularity.

Like Darrell, some of my favorite posts have gone without attention. Then I remember that I have a group of friends who persist in emailing me responses to blog posts. Perhaps some comments are un-tallied.

I'm an attention whore, to an extent. Sometimes I try to find the commonality between popular posts. Besides the lesson that zombies are a sure win, I haven't been able to put anything together. Humorous life stories are good...I'd be sure to share them if I had any.

It's kind of like when I was in English in college (see, I had to go back nearly 6 years to find a related story). I had a paper to write, 5 pages or so. I was done writing and only had about 4.5 pages, so I wrote a bullshit paragraph about how water was symbolic for the rushing flow of the relationship of the main characters. (Water is always the easy symbolic thing. Ugh.) It was pure obvious bs. The rest of my paper was creative, original and intelligently thought out.

The day after I turned it in, the teacher said she was reading part of my paper to the class so they could see how good it was. I eagerly wondered which keen insight she had chosen. She read the water crap. To this day, I flinch that my writing was portrayed that way. I wanted to jump up and point out all the actual paper was much better than this crap.

Still, some of my written trash is written treasure to others, I guess (maybe not treasure...but shiner trash). And the converse. Maybe for my next post I'll write about how the St. John's river's reverse flow is symbolic of the backwards nature of the dirty south. And the dirty water and flesh eating bacteria is also symbolic.

Fun Google Game

Type your name and 'needs' in quotes. In my case, I typed "Constance needs"

Some friends played this game already. The quotes were "Frank needs a date." Said date, Kim, had the quote "Kim needs to take the gloves off." Methinks someone is going to have some dom/sub fun in the next couple weeks. ::wink::

Anyway, here are my top 5.

1) Constance Needs Help!
Well...yeah. Should have been obvious to anyone. (I say it so you don't have to)

2)Constance needs the love of a man by All Hallow's Eve.
Shut up, Google.

3)Constance needs urgent finances
...to pay for the love of a man, perhaps.

4)Constance needs to build up her confidence to become her Character Fantasy
Hmmm...it knows my secret desire to become Aeryn from Farscape. I already have her neurosis!

5) Constance needs physical fulfillment.
Again, shut up, Google.

My conclusion...Google is a bit of a bastard.

The Loneliest Number

About a year ago, I went to a movie alone. I do this quite often. Especially when I want to see chick flicks. I don't like subjecting my male friends to Hugh Grant. I settled down (in front, by the railing) propped my feet up and leaned back. Two middle aged women sat behind me. They were fat. In my defense, I didn't think that they were fat initially. I didn't think about them at all. The fat thoughts came later. Several ads for laser hair removal and car dealerships passed on the screen and I heard one women tell her friend "Isn't it so sad, when people have to go to movies alone?" Obviously considering themselves in a sound-tight area, they proceeded to have a long conversation regarding how pathetic I was for attending a movie solo.

I've never considered it that way. Movies aren't all that social anyway, are they? I can't imagine being so dependent that I had to bring a friend everywhere. Obviously, these women had never experienced any time alone. They weren't comfortable with solitude and instead needed a security blanket friend. It didn't bother me that they thought I was pathetic, it was just amazing that people actually still feel that way. Like you need a chaperon.

Lately I've been thinking about self-confidence quite a bit. Several friends and I have discussed how self-assurance changes over time. Some people have low confidence when single. They feel the need to have someone around to boost them up. In my mind, those people really haven't been single enough. They still look to others for support.

For a lot of us, it's really easy to be confident when single. You only have yourself to depend on, you grow comfortable with a pattern and the ups and downs associated with your life. You have the ultimate control over the future and have the feeling of the world in the palm of your hand. The single life is full of potential and opportunities lead to confidence.

When you couple up, whether romantically, with family, or with friends/siblings, you are adding other dependences to the equation. It's difficult to be purely happy with yourself when you have to consider the happiness of so many others. At the first implication of discontent from another party, you over-think the situation and try to find how you have control over it. Many of us are fixers. We want the power to make others happy. That power comes with responsibility for the happiness and with responsibility comes fault. At the point where it's your fault that someone is unhappy, your own self confidence has been shaken.

If you can't provide them happiness (which, duh, you can't always) it tinges everything else you do. The more weight you pile upon yourself, the harder it is to keep hold of that confidence. We like to think that it's all about us. If we have the feeling that something is wrong in someone's life, it must be something we did, right? Because we're just that important. Self confidence gone wrong leads to ego.

Which is eventually crushed as you run repeatedly against the wall of trying to fix something that has nothing at all to do with you. It's especially fantastic when the other party sees that you are bothered (by their troubles, though they don't realize that part) and then attempts to fix you.

So many relationships would probably be better if people made the deal to simply take care of themselves. Or, when they have a problem that they can't take care of themselves...they could actually talk about it. When it all comes down to it, we should be able to maintain our single-confidence because we're always on our own to an extent. You're never wholly merged with another person, so it's kind of silly to allow your self-worth to be.

For a boring day:

Replace the stars with your name (or a dirty word if you're feeling madlib-ish) for a pick me up on a bad day. I think I'm going to make a cape. Or trade some cake for it. It's a toss-up.

www.*****.youaremighty.com/

• 

Depression as the Better Part of Valor

Why do so many of us feel the need to be martyrs? When a crisis comes about, and something doesn't go our way, we embrace a pattern of victimization. It's such a comfortable position to fall into. Perhaps it's a way to salvage pride in a losing situation. If you have no control, it's easy to blame someone else. Being a victim allows you to be innocent of fault and responsibility.

We also can’t be silent martyrs. That defeats the purpose, doesn’t it? If no one knows that you’re martyring yourself, then they just think you’re losing. Generally, this vocalization involves reminding others of how they disappoint you. And what you go through--what you bear--for them. There’s a lot of passive aggression in modern martyrdom. Sly jibes to remind others how much better you are. Maybe that’s why so many people go there. It’s a way to have a façade of superiority without taking the time and effort to become more.

Because that's all martyrdom is, really. It's the inability to overcome weakness and strive for something better. When faced with something we don't like, we can choose to overcome it...or to learn from it and incorporate it into ourselves. I know it's a cheesy thing, but it's more important to grow from adversity than to triumph over it. If you always win, you never understand the full spectrum. Becoming more isn't winning...but it isn't necessarily losing either.

Becoming a victim is the loss. You don't learn from it, you don't beat it. You're just defeated. If you choose depression, it's all you'll ever see. It's why martyrs always see someone trying to hurt them. Self-fulfilling prophecy, that. That's becoming what someone else made you instead of what you make yourself.

Sometimes, we don't even realize that we've chosen the path of the martyr. We don't talk about it, we don't revel in it. But maybe, just maybe, it made an aspect of our lives easier. Maybe we chose to take the road more often traveled just once. We didn't realize we were making the choice, it just happened. Years down that road, we look back and realize that what we've been clinging to doesn't really exist. It's a story we told ourselves about how things were, or how things could have been. And we let someone else write a chapter of it.

How do you fix that? Do you rewrite it in your own words? That doesn't get you anywhere. I suppose you need to make it one of your lessons learned. It'd be awfully bad to martyr yourself to your own martyrdom.

It's a Nice Day for a White Wedding

Best wishes go out to a certain commenter "CB," now "CF" (Dude...we totally share initials now!) She got married yesterday, out in Orange Park. Many of you know my opinion of young people getting married. Usually I'm entirely against it. But, as is the case with both CB and Kate, I think sometimes you really do find the right person early in life. I'm glad that both of them could recognize it and embrace it at the right time.

The wedding was very nice, though also very Catholic. Lots of standing and sitting. Then standing some more. I decided that it would be in bad form to pretend to be Catholic and take communion. The reception was dry. I was getting desperate.

The cake was great...but I have to say the groom's cake kicked butt. I didn't think I'd see one that was happier than Chris's Krispy Kreme cake (say that 10 times fast). However, Mr. CF had a Lego cake. Complete with Lego vikings pillaging on the top. Pillaging, I tell you! How often do you see a good pillage at a wedding (especially a dry one)? Not often enough. I was hoping that they'd decided to go with the artfully applied red gel blood spatter. They didn't, but I figure maybe the anniversary cake will look like the aftermath.

The gifts to the bride and groom (If you haven't opened gifts and happen to be reading this CF, stop now! Though...if you're reading my blog instead of opening your presents--or having lots of mad animal sex--you have odd priorities ) included deluxe Scrabble, a coffee machine, and a sex swing. It's really the gift that keeps on giving. Shopping for swings is interesting. We decided that the "over the door" variety would be the best plan. Full support with no messy holes in your ceiling.

I'm glad that these two crazy kids found each other. I'm glad that they're fleeing across the country to start a new life together. Most of all, I'm glad that CF found someone who realizes what a spectacular gal she is. I don't know Mr. CF that well, so I won't say the alternative...but he must be pretty neat if he understands her extreme cool factor.

So here's to CF and Mr. CF, making beer and partying hard in New York.

Hit Me Baby, One More Time

I described my college major to a friend today. He wondered why I disliked many of my courses. One cause was the habit my professors had of spending the first 15 minutes of class telling us how stupid and worthless we all were. Great for the moral support, that. If you're stupid like I am, you don't like quitting something. I don't like quitting in general, and it seems even worse to have someone drive you to it. Because that's like saying that you agree with them and maybe it is too hard for you.

This is my abusive relationship. I put up with things from my major that I would never put up with in a person. I did it for pride and the future. How does that separate me from an abused spouse? I stuck with an unhealthy professional relationship because I had hope that it would get better. I didn't want to be wrong. Um. Seems like something we've heard before.

Love and the career are quite often similar. We go through the interview process/dates. We move in together. We break up or get fired. We love our jobs and we hate them. Sometimes they bring us up and...well...sometimes not so much. However, people who would never suggest that you settle in the romance department quite often suggest that you settle in your career. They'll say that you will never be completely happy. And that you should be realistic. They say that at least you're supporting yourself, that others could wish to be so lucky. They may spout true love all day, but they'd tell you that there's no such thing as a job you love.

Jobs are like people. You may not always agree. There may be arguments, or boring points. However, you shouldn't be spending time with people who you aren't fond of and the same truth follows for a career. Abusive professional relationships can be as insidious as abusive personal ones. While you shouldn't necessarily quit when the going gets tough, there is a breaking point.