NOTE: The following is a piece I wrote for class, but in the spirit of posting something to the ol' blog during this frenzied finals week I thought I'd share it now. My professor told me to address love and relationships from my position as a woman scorned. (Where he got the "scorned woman" thing I HAVE NO IDEA, as I'm very much a hopeless romantic and am not the least bit cynical. ...oh bugger off, what do you know?) Kristina should be especially happy to see this, as she's been wanting to read it for quite some time. I hope the rest of you enjoy it too, and much love.
When I was 11 years old and Sister 13, we were finally, finally allowed to watch Dirty Dancing (which in retrospect is still dreadfully young. Abortion? Teen sex? The side of Patrick Swayze’s naked ass? It’s a miracle Sister and I turned out as morally sound as we did). We were overjoyed to the point of giddiness for two reasons:
1. Everyone else our age had already seen it and, as we were both socially…challenged, we felt being up on Baby and Johnny’s torrid love affair would help our cool-factor (it did not).
2. We were young and naïve, and therefore still completely enamored with the ideals of movie love.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, this second point would prove to create an earth-shattering crossroad in my life.
I remember sitting Indian-style in front of the TV (in the‘90s “sitting Indian style” wasn’t so un-PC), totally engrossed in Johnny’s chin-dimple and the way his hips moved when he danced. Sister sat beside me, no closer than 3 feet to the screen as that was the rule, and together we settled in for 100 minutes of mild raunchiness never before experienced by our virginal eyes.
Without realizing it, we were building our expectations of our existences to come; we were on the verge of transitioning into teenagers (a conversion that would result in our hating each other for 3 to 5 years), and we were thus on the cusp of boys and relationships and first romances. And as the opening credits rolled and sweaty miscreants grinded in slow-mo to “Be My, Be My Baby,” a societal fairy-tale began seeping into our impressionable minds.
Then, somewhere between “I carried a watermelon” and “nobody puts Baby in a corner,” my all-business, proud-feminist mother marched into the room. Standing defiantly in front of the screen, she put her hands on her hips and in her sternest, do-not-question-what-I’m-about-to-tell-you voice said, “This is not how it happens in real life.” Then she turned on her heels and was gone.
This is not how it happens in real life.
Sister and I were frozen in place, not knowing what to do but being entirely aware that, on some fundamental level, our views of the world had been forever changed. After several moments of stunned silence, we turned back to the TV and pretended not to be scarred for life. We still enjoyed the movie; we booed when Johnny got fired and we cheered when Baby did the lift, but underneath our exaggerated reactions, we knew a part of our souls had died.
At least, that’s what I thought at the time.
For many years following that memorable incident I held a tiny grudge against my mother. I thought her words were completely unwarranted, and I attributed them to some sinister desire to hurt my feelings/be a mean-spirited-dream-crusher (keep in mind that at this point I was the epitome of a foul-tempered teenager, and I was pretty much in a mood 24 hours a day). More than anything in the world I wanted to believe my mother was wrong, and I’d therefore be damned before I’d heed her warning.
Then real life happened to me.
At 17 years old my first love was what you might expect; I fell fast and hard, named both of our future children (Robert and Amber), let him sloppy-French-kiss me even though I hated it, and began preparations for our long, happy life together. And then, just as I was becoming convinced that there was no truth to the saying “love hurts” or to my mother’s words, he dropped by my house one night and lowered the boom: he didn’t love me anymore. Suddenly I knew what it was to have a broken heart.
At that point in my naïveté I still wanted to believe the fairy-tale, so when he called two months (and 12 pounds of woe-is-me-weight-loss) later, I joyously accepted his proposal to get back together. Maybe this was my dream come true! In every life some rain must fall, right? But now things would work out and be perfect…the break-up would become a distant memory, and now I’d have my Prince Charming.
I don’t have to tell you what happened next.
So after heartbreak #2 and 8 more pounds lost, I finally decided to branch out to new specimens. I started dating other guys…some secret pot-heads who used me for free meals, others manipulative womanizers who pitted me against their exes. There were those who called me a “princess” and then hit on my friends, and some who told me they loved me (but could I just dress differently and be less opinionated?).
With every new date seemed to come a new disappointment, and I quickly lost faith in relationships altogether. If true love existed, then where was my perfect romance? Where was my slow dance ‘neath the moon? Where the hell was my Johnny?!
And then my mother’s words played quietly through my head.
This is not how it happens in real life.
Our society sets us up to believe in love at first sight and happy endings and Johnny Castles. We’re raised in a culture where reality is considered over-rated; people would rather seek movie-perfection and fail trying than settle for the world as it actually is. I don’t claim this as an original thought; we all know romances like that between Johnny and Baby are oversimplified and idealistic. We’ve all heard “only in the movies,” and few of us would admit to believing a Cinderella story could happen for us.
And yet, we do believe it….or at least, we’re keen enough on the idea to feel slightly cheated when our relationships don’t turn out that way. That’s not to say my past beaus were actually upstanding gentlemen, because they weren’t. I had remarkably poor taste in the past, and I’m hoping to God that I’ve since learned from my mistakes. But there is merit in expecting something human from your relationships- and by “human” I mean complicated, often frustrating, awkward at times, and most of all…real.
Johnny wasn’t real, and Baby wasn’t either. He wouldn’t have abandoned his playboy ways for the cute-ish girl named Frances, and she would never have been able to learn to dance like that (I mean, come on). But if you think about it, who would want that kind of relationship anyway? Real love can’t survive between wayward bad-boys and innocent do-gooder girls (and I should know, as that’s what caused heartbreak # 3).
So I guess what I’m trying to say is this: for anyone younger and thus less baggage-riddled than I, please heed the lesson my (come to find out, well-intentioned) mother once tried to teach me. Do not expect perfection. Do not expect swells of music when you kiss, or heartfelt I love yous on the second date, or hand-holding strolls on the beach that fade to black and end with the assumption of happily ever-after. Because as a wise woman once warned me, This is not how it happens in real life.
In real life there is heartache. There is arguing, and tension, and differing opinions and constant compromising. Sometimes your relationships won’t work out; you may be mistreated, and karma may never avenge you. You might be lonely for a little while. You might be lonely for a long while. And you may never have a blockbuster “love realized” moment to rival Johnny and Baby’s legendary last dance.
But if you’re very patient and just a bit lucky, you might find somebody who is pretty great - who cares about you and understands how you feel and wants to support you from day-to-day. You may meet someone who makes you laugh and holds you while you sleep, and you may just find someone who will love you for exactly who you are.
And if you do find that, don’t be deterred if there are bumps in the road or if his hips don’t move quite like Johnny’s. Trust me on this one, or at least trust my mother; your romance won’t be like Johnny and Baby’s, and that’s okay. Because real life love isn’t like movie love. It’s something a little bit different. It’s something a little more complicated. It’s something a little more real.
And real is always better in the long run…even if you never go dirty dancing.
This is dedicated to the eternally dreamy Patrick Swayze, who put my middle name on the map and made me proud to be a Frances.
Showing posts with label parents. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parents. Show all posts
Monday, May 11, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Not all who wander are aimless
When I was a minor and thus still under the organizational genius of my type-A mom, I was made to sort through each year’s worth of homework and mementos for future keepsake purposes. At the end of every school year I’d experience a mixture of joy and dread; joy for the upcoming freedom and swimming pools and late-sleeping provided by the structure of summer vacation, and dread for two very memorable reasons:
1. Impending summer homework (as generated by my mom’s aforementioned organizational genius)
2. Categorizing my mounds o’ crap into an easily filed folder of the most meaningful assignments of the year
I hated it…hated having to sort through page after page of Geometry homework and sight-reading practice sheets and color-coded maps of America and what have you. Sister and I would sit down together and proceed with our sifting, and absolutely every year she finished first; partly because she saw it as a friendly competition that she WOULD NOT STAND TO LOSE, and partly because I’d get so distracted reminiscing that I’d become sidetracked and forget my objective entirely. Ahh, ADD.
But. I am now thankful for my 14-color-coordinated folders (one for each year from preschool through 12th grade). My mother’s meticulous foresight has provided hours of nostalgic remembering, and yesterday provided one such incident of looking-back. Instead of writing my 20 page literature review or searching for summer employment or seeking more freelance work, I chose to go through my Complete Education History: Abridged. The ADD of my childhood follows me still (and also does the laziness).
So I started with my countless craft projects from Peace Lutheran Preschool; there were finger-paintings and construction paper cutouts, but most of all there were drawings. I loved to draw from the first moment I held a pencil (left-handed, of course), and I still find myself doodling when I should probably be paying attention in class. The creative mind must not be stifled. My parents love to recount the day I drew every scene of The Nutcracker from memory, and in my preschool folder I found the infamous collection of sketches. I was 4 years old at the time (and quite a bit awesome, I might add).
Then I filtered through 1st grade, and found a letter from my teacher saying that I was an excellent writer. 6 years old and already a master of the written word…my school folders were proving to be an unexpected and welcome ego-boost.
I went all the way through high school, which helped replant my feet firmly upon the ground…I knew I was obsessed with *Nsync in the 9th grade, but I’d chosen to forget that I signed all of my assignments as “Frankie Timberlake.” I am dead serious. I’d also chosen to forget that my vocabulary sentences revolved entirely around *Nsync members. Example:
“Joey hoped a friendly smile and wave would help appease his adoring fans.”
SICK.
One such assignment (which also included a darling little sketch of Justin with an unidentified blond girl (what do you wanna bet it was Frankie Timberlake?)), was graded with a 95% and an “ugg!”. Dear Mrs. Spain had written “ugg!” next to my drawing…not because it was bad necessarily, but because beneath it I’d also written “Justin is my baby!!!!!” I kid you not. 11 years have passed since my wayward years as a teenybopper, and yet I still felt mortified upon seeing that.
But by far and without a doubt the most appalling part of my walk down Memory Lane came in my 4th grade folder. On a poorly folded piece of notebook paper (as I was never one of those girls who could fold paper into a triangle or a bird or the Taj Mahal), was a list:
10 things I want to do before I’m 20
I was immediately enticed. What could my 10-year-old self have dreamed for my future? What great goals of grandeur did I wish to attain? I anxiously read through the list, mentally patting myself on the back upon each aspiration achieved. Go to college…check. Get a puppy…check. Go to high school……they were a little out of order, but check! I was 10 for God’s sake; when you’re 10 college can come before high school. The only goal I didn’t meet was to become a professional dancer, which I discovered at age 14 was not something I really wanted to do. Socializing, having functional toes, and eating were far too important to me. But then, just as I was feeling good about my life’s achievements as of age 20, I got to number 8…and I stopped.
Because the list stopped.
I made a list entitled “10 things I want to do before I’m 20”…and I stopped at number 8.
At first I just laughed, because it is so very like me to get distracted and quit mid-project. I can’t tell you how many short stories I found yesterday that ended suspensefully with “and then,” a doodle of a butterfly, and several pieces of blank paper. Following through was never my style. But as I let myself ponder the list and my mindset as a 4th grader, and as I took note of the carefully written “9.” and “10.” that had no Life Dreams to accompany them, I came to a very real, and very depressing, understanding.
I was born without the motivation gene.
My whole life I’ve felt a little without. People all about me seemed to be chasing fantastic dreams - dream jobs, dream houses, dream cars - while I plodded along, happily but carelessly with my head permanently stuck in the clouds. I had aspirations, sure…but the central theme to my aspirations was that they changed. A lot. The only reason I stayed in Oklahoma for college was that I simply couldn’t make up my mind; one day I wanted to go to New York and study fashion design, the next I decided to head to Stilly for Vet school (until I realized Vet school required loads of math, and then it was promptly back to fashion). And as the years have progressed and my search for a Life Passion has improved with no statistical significance, I’ve really started to wonder if I’m destined to be a wanderer. A flake. A lost soul.
Then I found my list of 10 things I want to do before I’m 20, and I’d only filled out 8. And yeah…that pretty much sealed the deal on that whole debacle.
It seems I’m never going to be chasing the dream, as it’s hard to chase something you cannot see. Where’er I am, I’m this much happy and that much looking for bigger and better things. True, I go through better times and worse times, but I’ve never felt like I reached a pinnacle and could thus sit back and congratulate my awesomeness. Maybe it’s because I’m still young…or maybe it’s because my life isn’t defined by achievements.
But then, what is it defined by?
I think I was born in the wrong generation. I’m sure you’ve felt that way at times too; everyone learns about a certain period in history and thinks “damn, I would’ve made a fabulous Viking.” But it’s more than that for me; the ideology of 2009 just doesn’t fit my genetic make-up. I should’ve been a hippie, I tell you. I could’ve been happy protesting Nam and reciting poetry in the back of somebody’s VW (plus, I can rock bell-bottoms with the best of them).
Sister is well made for modern-day. She’s the perfect blend of nurturer and career-woman; she’ll dote on you and hold you when you cry, but if you go up against her for a job she will absolutely kick your ass. Yes, Sister will do fine in this new millennium. She’ll have a PhD, 2.5 kids, far more stress than she can handle and a house on the good side of the tracks. But as for me, I’m afraid I’ll always be one of those people who doesn’t quite fit. Others will look at me and think, “huh…such potential, and yet she remains a drifter. Tut tut.”
(We should all really start tut tutting again.)
I suppose I’ll stick with the old adage that my existence is not defined by the acquiring of tangible things. I will not be pacified by a house on Newport Beach or a Mercedes McLaren (although GOOD GOD I’d love to have one of those). No…my life - the life of a drifter, apparently - is about self-improvement, growth, learning, and a constant effort not to be a prat to those who love and care for me. And who knows; maybe someday I’ll discover a hidden dream that the gods of motivation have been leading me towards all along.
But until then I’m going to focus on the present. My newest goal (which is infinitesimal when compared to Aubrey’s goal of becoming a novelist or Chris’s goal of going to Dental school) is to get a dog. In a year, I’ll have a master’s degree and will be a far more matured and responsible person (and if you laugh I will cut you). So, my reward to myself will be a dog to call my own: a companion that will love and adore me and think me a god among men, simply because he won’t know any better. This plan is indeed flawless.
And, I’ve even decided upon a breed! I want a Bernese Mountain Dog. A Bernese Mountain Dog named Bernard. Yes, it is decided. It’s a small step, but for a dithering flake with little ambition and diagnosable ADD, it’s a start.
In one year, I will achieve my newest life goal: I will get a Bernese Mountain Dog named Bernard.
(….or maybe a German Shepherd named Lupin.)
DAMMIT.
Much love.
1. Impending summer homework (as generated by my mom’s aforementioned organizational genius)
2. Categorizing my mounds o’ crap into an easily filed folder of the most meaningful assignments of the year
I hated it…hated having to sort through page after page of Geometry homework and sight-reading practice sheets and color-coded maps of America and what have you. Sister and I would sit down together and proceed with our sifting, and absolutely every year she finished first; partly because she saw it as a friendly competition that she WOULD NOT STAND TO LOSE, and partly because I’d get so distracted reminiscing that I’d become sidetracked and forget my objective entirely. Ahh, ADD.
But. I am now thankful for my 14-color-coordinated folders (one for each year from preschool through 12th grade). My mother’s meticulous foresight has provided hours of nostalgic remembering, and yesterday provided one such incident of looking-back. Instead of writing my 20 page literature review or searching for summer employment or seeking more freelance work, I chose to go through my Complete Education History: Abridged. The ADD of my childhood follows me still (and also does the laziness).
So I started with my countless craft projects from Peace Lutheran Preschool; there were finger-paintings and construction paper cutouts, but most of all there were drawings. I loved to draw from the first moment I held a pencil (left-handed, of course), and I still find myself doodling when I should probably be paying attention in class. The creative mind must not be stifled. My parents love to recount the day I drew every scene of The Nutcracker from memory, and in my preschool folder I found the infamous collection of sketches. I was 4 years old at the time (and quite a bit awesome, I might add).
Then I filtered through 1st grade, and found a letter from my teacher saying that I was an excellent writer. 6 years old and already a master of the written word…my school folders were proving to be an unexpected and welcome ego-boost.
I went all the way through high school, which helped replant my feet firmly upon the ground…I knew I was obsessed with *Nsync in the 9th grade, but I’d chosen to forget that I signed all of my assignments as “Frankie Timberlake.” I am dead serious. I’d also chosen to forget that my vocabulary sentences revolved entirely around *Nsync members. Example:
“Joey hoped a friendly smile and wave would help appease his adoring fans.”
SICK.
One such assignment (which also included a darling little sketch of Justin with an unidentified blond girl (what do you wanna bet it was Frankie Timberlake?)), was graded with a 95% and an “ugg!”. Dear Mrs. Spain had written “ugg!” next to my drawing…not because it was bad necessarily, but because beneath it I’d also written “Justin is my baby!!!!!” I kid you not. 11 years have passed since my wayward years as a teenybopper, and yet I still felt mortified upon seeing that.
But by far and without a doubt the most appalling part of my walk down Memory Lane came in my 4th grade folder. On a poorly folded piece of notebook paper (as I was never one of those girls who could fold paper into a triangle or a bird or the Taj Mahal), was a list:
10 things I want to do before I’m 20
I was immediately enticed. What could my 10-year-old self have dreamed for my future? What great goals of grandeur did I wish to attain? I anxiously read through the list, mentally patting myself on the back upon each aspiration achieved. Go to college…check. Get a puppy…check. Go to high school……they were a little out of order, but check! I was 10 for God’s sake; when you’re 10 college can come before high school. The only goal I didn’t meet was to become a professional dancer, which I discovered at age 14 was not something I really wanted to do. Socializing, having functional toes, and eating were far too important to me. But then, just as I was feeling good about my life’s achievements as of age 20, I got to number 8…and I stopped.
Because the list stopped.
I made a list entitled “10 things I want to do before I’m 20”…and I stopped at number 8.
At first I just laughed, because it is so very like me to get distracted and quit mid-project. I can’t tell you how many short stories I found yesterday that ended suspensefully with “and then,” a doodle of a butterfly, and several pieces of blank paper. Following through was never my style. But as I let myself ponder the list and my mindset as a 4th grader, and as I took note of the carefully written “9.” and “10.” that had no Life Dreams to accompany them, I came to a very real, and very depressing, understanding.
I was born without the motivation gene.
My whole life I’ve felt a little without. People all about me seemed to be chasing fantastic dreams - dream jobs, dream houses, dream cars - while I plodded along, happily but carelessly with my head permanently stuck in the clouds. I had aspirations, sure…but the central theme to my aspirations was that they changed. A lot. The only reason I stayed in Oklahoma for college was that I simply couldn’t make up my mind; one day I wanted to go to New York and study fashion design, the next I decided to head to Stilly for Vet school (until I realized Vet school required loads of math, and then it was promptly back to fashion). And as the years have progressed and my search for a Life Passion has improved with no statistical significance, I’ve really started to wonder if I’m destined to be a wanderer. A flake. A lost soul.
Then I found my list of 10 things I want to do before I’m 20, and I’d only filled out 8. And yeah…that pretty much sealed the deal on that whole debacle.
It seems I’m never going to be chasing the dream, as it’s hard to chase something you cannot see. Where’er I am, I’m this much happy and that much looking for bigger and better things. True, I go through better times and worse times, but I’ve never felt like I reached a pinnacle and could thus sit back and congratulate my awesomeness. Maybe it’s because I’m still young…or maybe it’s because my life isn’t defined by achievements.
But then, what is it defined by?
I think I was born in the wrong generation. I’m sure you’ve felt that way at times too; everyone learns about a certain period in history and thinks “damn, I would’ve made a fabulous Viking.” But it’s more than that for me; the ideology of 2009 just doesn’t fit my genetic make-up. I should’ve been a hippie, I tell you. I could’ve been happy protesting Nam and reciting poetry in the back of somebody’s VW (plus, I can rock bell-bottoms with the best of them).
Sister is well made for modern-day. She’s the perfect blend of nurturer and career-woman; she’ll dote on you and hold you when you cry, but if you go up against her for a job she will absolutely kick your ass. Yes, Sister will do fine in this new millennium. She’ll have a PhD, 2.5 kids, far more stress than she can handle and a house on the good side of the tracks. But as for me, I’m afraid I’ll always be one of those people who doesn’t quite fit. Others will look at me and think, “huh…such potential, and yet she remains a drifter. Tut tut.”
(We should all really start tut tutting again.)
I suppose I’ll stick with the old adage that my existence is not defined by the acquiring of tangible things. I will not be pacified by a house on Newport Beach or a Mercedes McLaren (although GOOD GOD I’d love to have one of those). No…my life - the life of a drifter, apparently - is about self-improvement, growth, learning, and a constant effort not to be a prat to those who love and care for me. And who knows; maybe someday I’ll discover a hidden dream that the gods of motivation have been leading me towards all along.
But until then I’m going to focus on the present. My newest goal (which is infinitesimal when compared to Aubrey’s goal of becoming a novelist or Chris’s goal of going to Dental school) is to get a dog. In a year, I’ll have a master’s degree and will be a far more matured and responsible person (and if you laugh I will cut you). So, my reward to myself will be a dog to call my own: a companion that will love and adore me and think me a god among men, simply because he won’t know any better. This plan is indeed flawless.
And, I’ve even decided upon a breed! I want a Bernese Mountain Dog. A Bernese Mountain Dog named Bernard. Yes, it is decided. It’s a small step, but for a dithering flake with little ambition and diagnosable ADD, it’s a start.
In one year, I will achieve my newest life goal: I will get a Bernese Mountain Dog named Bernard.
(….or maybe a German Shepherd named Lupin.)
DAMMIT.
Much love.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Stupidity: the new little black dress?
So I’m sitting in the library, talking Muse and Mormonism with my friend Chris, when in walks a sorority debutant princess and her friend the frat boy. They seem to be headed my direction, and I know immediately what they want: laptops. (The guy has been in before and wants nothing to do with books, research or the like, and the girl is giggling so manically that I’m pretty sure reading is not yet a skill she’s mastered.) So I begrudgingly withdraw from my conversation and smile politely-if-not-warmly at them. And the girl, idly twisting her meticulously straightened hair through her recently manicured fingers, opens her eyes scary-wide and says to Frat Boy Friend (even though I’m sitting RIGHT THERE),
“Omigaw, wait…I dunno what to do.”
“What?” he says, confused. I’m confused too. All she needs to do is ask me for a laptop…there’s not a secret handshake or anything.
“I dunno what to do; I’ve never done this before. Do I just, like….ask for one?”
(Sweet mother of God.)
Frat Boy Friend laughs, and says “yeah, you just ask.” And Sorority Sister giggles, and asks me sweetly if she can um, have a laptop maybe? Please?
So I give her a laptop (and one of my token “oh child I pity you” looks), and send her on her way. And as she turns her doe-like expression back to Frat Boy Friend, I hear her say, “So wait, can you help me? Cuz I dunno how to get on D2L."
Let me explain something to those of you not in the know. D2L is OU’s website for All Things School: grades, assignments, syllabi, announcements, course requirements…if you want to have the slightest prayer of passing a class, you have to use D2L. So when I hear Sorority Sister say she doesn’t know how to get on it, I’m understandably taken aback.
Then Frat Boy Friend, who is smiling at her like one might a slightly retarded puppy, says, “but you’re a senior. How can you not know how to get on D2L?”
She giggles and giggles (and giggles), and I ogle them both in sheer wonderment of how she could possibly be a SENIOR without ever having used D2L. How is it feasible? How can this be? And then, as she bats her pretty eyelashes and makes her way across the library with Frat Boy Friend, it hits me:
She’s faking it.
No one is that stupid, and no one could pass 3.5 years at OU without using D2L. It just can’t be done. A few minutes later she waltzed up to me (alone this time) and asked with confidence and far less sweetness to use the Marketer’s Guide to Media. And as I handed her the book she looked at me intensely, not a glimmer of the Dumb Donna left in her eyes, and said “will the ID I gave you for the laptop suffice for this too?” !!! She was faking it! This was a smart girl, playing the part of Stupid Sorority Sister.
But why?
When I was 19 I brought home my latest Epic Fail in dating: an ex-crackhead with a taste for speeding tickets and marijuana (though I didn’t know that at the time). Despite his questionable past and his even more questionable upbringing (his father used to fight pit bulls…oh PS, that’s a FELONY), my biggest concern about introducing him to my family was this:
He was not the sharpest crayon in the box.
At one point during the evening he managed to interject “I got a 20 on the ACT” into our dinner conversation. My highly achieved parents and my 34-ACT-sister kindly showed no reaction, but I was simply mortified. I remember blurting out “I thought you got a 22!” (yes…because that’ll make it better), and my ex-crackhead boyfriend just laughed and said maybe, but that he didn’t remember.
Didn’t remember…and didn’t care.
That’s when I knew I had to break up with him. Not when he got his 17th speeding ticket (but it was the police’s fault, you know…the bastards) or when he made me pay EVERY TIME we went out or when he smelled suspiciously of pot and refused to let me see in a certain closet of his house…when he said carelessly that he got a 20 on the ACT, I knew we were through.
And here, finally, is my point: stupidity is not an attractive quality to me. In fact, it’s a deal-breaker. So why then was this girl so carefully portraying a dumb blond persona, seemingly to attract a mate?
In this world of Equality Now and women’s rights and female presidential candidates, I always assumed girls no longer felt the need to be vacuous of brain function. I was raised believing I had the ability (and the responsibility) to do whatever I wanted in life, and it never crossed my mind that others might think intelligence was less than virtuous when paired with tatas and vajayjays. But now, after a year in Sorority Debutant Princess Land, I’m starting to wonder if we’ve come a long way, baby, after all.
Every single day I encounter beautiful girls with vacant expressions. I kid you not, Stepford Wives could’ve been filmed on campus corner. These chicks have perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect teeth, and men on their arms; the only thing missing is the ability to add 2 and 2. And as I near my master’s degree and witness the increasingly small pool of People Like Me, I can’t help but wonder if the two aren’t intrinsically related. And if this is true…if getting smarter means distancing ourselves from companionship and romance and happily ever after…is it all really worth it?
Female intelligence: friend or foe?
For better or worse I think it’s too late for me to reconsider life as a Valley Girl. I’ve been in school too long and know too many big words to ever pass as a harmless Southern Belle, and with my proficiency for sarcastic wit few would believe I’m a damsel who needs a Big Strong Man to show me how to check out a laptop. That’s not to say I’m brilliant; the past two weeks I lived woefully without television simply because my cable box was turned off. That a genius does not make. But I can’t play stupid. I can’t toss my hair and smack my gum to make a man want to take care of me…and I don’t think I should have to.
Maybe it’s because I’m in the Bible belt. Maybe Oklahoma is still so ass-backwards that we need our men to be men and our women to be non-threatening, and maybe I’ll just have to deal with it until I can move away from the Land of the Lobotomies. But until then I have to stand for what I believe in, and I believe in girls who can cross the street in their Dior pumps alone.
So to my fellow females I make this plea: never hide your Smart Lamp under a bushel. Never feel embarrassed for having a brain, and never believe intelligence to be a masculine trait. I promise you it’s not (as evidenced by my aforementioned former boyfriend). If a man is threatened by your intellect, then he’s not a man worth having. You can do better (and probably smarter) than that, so just give him your copy of the Wall Street Journal and move along.
And to you men out there: I challenge you to value women who can read and write and do ‘rithmetic (or at least 2 out of 3, as we writers don’t do math). I challenge you to seek smarts and not to be intimidated by girls who know their sh*t. I challenge you to be MEN and to suck it up and stop being scurred by women of substance. I challenge you, kind sirs, to grow a pair.
Girls are smart. Boys are smart. It’s all relative, and it’s all irrelevant. What matters is what we value in each other, so we need to up and realize that intelligence is redeeming for all.
But alas I’m in the Sooner State, where a smart woman is still just as terrifying as a gay minister or black president. So until I escape (or until Oklahoma yanks itself out of the Dark Ages), I suppose I’ll go it alone.
For they say no man is an island…but the good Lord knows I ain’t no man.
Much love.
“Omigaw, wait…I dunno what to do.”
“What?” he says, confused. I’m confused too. All she needs to do is ask me for a laptop…there’s not a secret handshake or anything.
“I dunno what to do; I’ve never done this before. Do I just, like….ask for one?”
(Sweet mother of God.)
Frat Boy Friend laughs, and says “yeah, you just ask.” And Sorority Sister giggles, and asks me sweetly if she can um, have a laptop maybe? Please?
So I give her a laptop (and one of my token “oh child I pity you” looks), and send her on her way. And as she turns her doe-like expression back to Frat Boy Friend, I hear her say, “So wait, can you help me? Cuz I dunno how to get on D2L."
Let me explain something to those of you not in the know. D2L is OU’s website for All Things School: grades, assignments, syllabi, announcements, course requirements…if you want to have the slightest prayer of passing a class, you have to use D2L. So when I hear Sorority Sister say she doesn’t know how to get on it, I’m understandably taken aback.
Then Frat Boy Friend, who is smiling at her like one might a slightly retarded puppy, says, “but you’re a senior. How can you not know how to get on D2L?”
She giggles and giggles (and giggles), and I ogle them both in sheer wonderment of how she could possibly be a SENIOR without ever having used D2L. How is it feasible? How can this be? And then, as she bats her pretty eyelashes and makes her way across the library with Frat Boy Friend, it hits me:
She’s faking it.
No one is that stupid, and no one could pass 3.5 years at OU without using D2L. It just can’t be done. A few minutes later she waltzed up to me (alone this time) and asked with confidence and far less sweetness to use the Marketer’s Guide to Media. And as I handed her the book she looked at me intensely, not a glimmer of the Dumb Donna left in her eyes, and said “will the ID I gave you for the laptop suffice for this too?” !!! She was faking it! This was a smart girl, playing the part of Stupid Sorority Sister.
But why?
When I was 19 I brought home my latest Epic Fail in dating: an ex-crackhead with a taste for speeding tickets and marijuana (though I didn’t know that at the time). Despite his questionable past and his even more questionable upbringing (his father used to fight pit bulls…oh PS, that’s a FELONY), my biggest concern about introducing him to my family was this:
He was not the sharpest crayon in the box.
At one point during the evening he managed to interject “I got a 20 on the ACT” into our dinner conversation. My highly achieved parents and my 34-ACT-sister kindly showed no reaction, but I was simply mortified. I remember blurting out “I thought you got a 22!” (yes…because that’ll make it better), and my ex-crackhead boyfriend just laughed and said maybe, but that he didn’t remember.
Didn’t remember…and didn’t care.
That’s when I knew I had to break up with him. Not when he got his 17th speeding ticket (but it was the police’s fault, you know…the bastards) or when he made me pay EVERY TIME we went out or when he smelled suspiciously of pot and refused to let me see in a certain closet of his house…when he said carelessly that he got a 20 on the ACT, I knew we were through.
And here, finally, is my point: stupidity is not an attractive quality to me. In fact, it’s a deal-breaker. So why then was this girl so carefully portraying a dumb blond persona, seemingly to attract a mate?
In this world of Equality Now and women’s rights and female presidential candidates, I always assumed girls no longer felt the need to be vacuous of brain function. I was raised believing I had the ability (and the responsibility) to do whatever I wanted in life, and it never crossed my mind that others might think intelligence was less than virtuous when paired with tatas and vajayjays. But now, after a year in Sorority Debutant Princess Land, I’m starting to wonder if we’ve come a long way, baby, after all.
Every single day I encounter beautiful girls with vacant expressions. I kid you not, Stepford Wives could’ve been filmed on campus corner. These chicks have perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect teeth, and men on their arms; the only thing missing is the ability to add 2 and 2. And as I near my master’s degree and witness the increasingly small pool of People Like Me, I can’t help but wonder if the two aren’t intrinsically related. And if this is true…if getting smarter means distancing ourselves from companionship and romance and happily ever after…is it all really worth it?
Female intelligence: friend or foe?
For better or worse I think it’s too late for me to reconsider life as a Valley Girl. I’ve been in school too long and know too many big words to ever pass as a harmless Southern Belle, and with my proficiency for sarcastic wit few would believe I’m a damsel who needs a Big Strong Man to show me how to check out a laptop. That’s not to say I’m brilliant; the past two weeks I lived woefully without television simply because my cable box was turned off. That a genius does not make. But I can’t play stupid. I can’t toss my hair and smack my gum to make a man want to take care of me…and I don’t think I should have to.
Maybe it’s because I’m in the Bible belt. Maybe Oklahoma is still so ass-backwards that we need our men to be men and our women to be non-threatening, and maybe I’ll just have to deal with it until I can move away from the Land of the Lobotomies. But until then I have to stand for what I believe in, and I believe in girls who can cross the street in their Dior pumps alone.
So to my fellow females I make this plea: never hide your Smart Lamp under a bushel. Never feel embarrassed for having a brain, and never believe intelligence to be a masculine trait. I promise you it’s not (as evidenced by my aforementioned former boyfriend). If a man is threatened by your intellect, then he’s not a man worth having. You can do better (and probably smarter) than that, so just give him your copy of the Wall Street Journal and move along.
And to you men out there: I challenge you to value women who can read and write and do ‘rithmetic (or at least 2 out of 3, as we writers don’t do math). I challenge you to seek smarts and not to be intimidated by girls who know their sh*t. I challenge you to be MEN and to suck it up and stop being scurred by women of substance. I challenge you, kind sirs, to grow a pair.
Girls are smart. Boys are smart. It’s all relative, and it’s all irrelevant. What matters is what we value in each other, so we need to up and realize that intelligence is redeeming for all.
But alas I’m in the Sooner State, where a smart woman is still just as terrifying as a gay minister or black president. So until I escape (or until Oklahoma yanks itself out of the Dark Ages), I suppose I’ll go it alone.
For they say no man is an island…but the good Lord knows I ain’t no man.
Much love.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Invasion of the Spider Monsters
Living alone, for the most part, is a necessity of life I’ve come to enjoy.
(I use the term “necessity” loosely…I could go to Craigslist and fetch me a roommate, but my packrat piles of nick-nacks and randomass crap all but dominate my spare bedroom where said stranger would expect to sleep. Plus, I waltz around in various degrees of undress most of the time, and I fear this particularly freeing form of expression would be squelched by the presence of an Other.)
For the first 22 years of my life I shared a bathroom with at least 1 and sometimes 15 other girls. That is a long time not to have one’s own stash of tampons. Therefore, once I graduated college and could no longer be required to wear shoes in the shower or wait my turn to spit in the sink, I committed myself to a living situation of solitude.
And like I said, I enjoy it…for the most part.
But spring is now eeking its way around the corner, and though I’m elated for warmer weather and thunderstorms I’m reminded of the terrors of March/April/May 2008.
You should first know that I, by strict definition, am not a girly-girl. I love being outside, I don’t mind my clothes being mussed or drooled on by dog or horse or what have you, I’d go barefoot and braless everyday if possible, and I’ve never chipped a nail in my life (as I have no nails to speak of). But there is a certain point where I draw the line, where I say TO HELL WITH IT to being brave and ballsy and surrender to my more feminine instincts.
And since my move to the Nomptom bungalow, that line has manifested itself via an infestation of Spider Monsters.
I do not like spiders. I do. Not. LIKE THEM. They move too fast, they have too many legs, and just when you think they’re going to scurry right they scurry left (or they leap from within your sock drawer and scurry up your arm, which marked the beginning of my arachnophobia). So it was with great displeasure that I realized my precious little home is a hotspot breeding ground for eight-legged mini-aliens.
Most of you have heard the tale of the tarantula in my living room…it was 6 in the morn one day last April, and the mother of all disgusting creatures flitted across my floor just as I stumbled out of bed (barefoot, of course). The War of the Worlds thus commenced, with me hopping from couch-to-chair-to-coffee-table while the Spider Monster followed at rapid speed (I swear to God the thing was chasing me). I screamed a lot that morning, and I called many people who became overly distressed about my well-being as all they could hear was OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD HOLY HELL on the other end of the phone. I daresay you’d be no more articulate if put in the same position. I eventually killed the bastard, but only after discovering it was actually a bastardette. After drenching said Spider Monster (and most of my living room rug) with multiple types of poison, I watched in horror as it exploded…into majillions of baby Spider Monsters. Apparently my little friend was in delicate condition.
Unfortunately for me (and for those whom I call when massively freaked out), this did not prove to be an isolated incident. Far from it - I found so many spiders in my house last spring that I began a daily count…at one point I was killing at least 6 every 24 hours. Finally I had enough, and I employed the assistance of both a professional Spider-Monster-killer and my father (who set off so many bug bombs that I’m sure my death will be a direct result of their fumes). For the next few months my critter numbers dropped to a tolerable point. Sure I still had tree bug thingamajigs and rolly-pollies, but the potentially blood-sucking-people-killing arachnids seemed to have moved on.
But alas it is once again March, and my floors and walls and ceilings are no longer soaked with spider kryptonite. I’ve smashed 3 already this spring…they were easy targets as the lethargy of winter had not yet warn off, but the very sight of their prickly legs and squishy bodies made me momentarily regret being Miss Independent. If I had a roommate, I’d have someone to run to and shake and holler at when I discover a wolf spider in my dryer (an occurrence I became all too familiar with last year). And with any luck, I could make said companion partake in some of the arachno-killing; I’m a bad aim anyways, since I refuse to get close enough to the Spider Monsters to guarantee a hit. Half the time the damn things get away, and then I get to wrestle with the thought of going to bed with angry spawns of Satan roaming my halls.
I’ll make it through. I’m no sissy-pansy, and I have too much pride to ever surrender to my irrational fear of creatures 1/200th the size of me. But take this as a word of warning; if you are a new add to my speed-dial, you best be expecting some frantic calls from me in the near future. Try to identify the word SPIDER within my stream of howling, and once you do you’re welcome to sit down the phone and go about your day. For I know you can’t save me from the Spider Monsters, but at least you can recognize my bravery and/or stubbornness for residing by myself in the true 8th circle of Hell (trust me – Dante’s scorpion-man is no match for my army of arachnids).
Indeed I am quite valiant for living alone. Plus if you think about it, at least I won’t be living alone for long…there are thousands of future roommates just waiting to hatch within my bedroom walls.
Much love.
(I use the term “necessity” loosely…I could go to Craigslist and fetch me a roommate, but my packrat piles of nick-nacks and randomass crap all but dominate my spare bedroom where said stranger would expect to sleep. Plus, I waltz around in various degrees of undress most of the time, and I fear this particularly freeing form of expression would be squelched by the presence of an Other.)
For the first 22 years of my life I shared a bathroom with at least 1 and sometimes 15 other girls. That is a long time not to have one’s own stash of tampons. Therefore, once I graduated college and could no longer be required to wear shoes in the shower or wait my turn to spit in the sink, I committed myself to a living situation of solitude.
And like I said, I enjoy it…for the most part.
But spring is now eeking its way around the corner, and though I’m elated for warmer weather and thunderstorms I’m reminded of the terrors of March/April/May 2008.
You should first know that I, by strict definition, am not a girly-girl. I love being outside, I don’t mind my clothes being mussed or drooled on by dog or horse or what have you, I’d go barefoot and braless everyday if possible, and I’ve never chipped a nail in my life (as I have no nails to speak of). But there is a certain point where I draw the line, where I say TO HELL WITH IT to being brave and ballsy and surrender to my more feminine instincts.
And since my move to the Nomptom bungalow, that line has manifested itself via an infestation of Spider Monsters.
I do not like spiders. I do. Not. LIKE THEM. They move too fast, they have too many legs, and just when you think they’re going to scurry right they scurry left (or they leap from within your sock drawer and scurry up your arm, which marked the beginning of my arachnophobia). So it was with great displeasure that I realized my precious little home is a hotspot breeding ground for eight-legged mini-aliens.
Most of you have heard the tale of the tarantula in my living room…it was 6 in the morn one day last April, and the mother of all disgusting creatures flitted across my floor just as I stumbled out of bed (barefoot, of course). The War of the Worlds thus commenced, with me hopping from couch-to-chair-to-coffee-table while the Spider Monster followed at rapid speed (I swear to God the thing was chasing me). I screamed a lot that morning, and I called many people who became overly distressed about my well-being as all they could hear was OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD HOLY HELL on the other end of the phone. I daresay you’d be no more articulate if put in the same position. I eventually killed the bastard, but only after discovering it was actually a bastardette. After drenching said Spider Monster (and most of my living room rug) with multiple types of poison, I watched in horror as it exploded…into majillions of baby Spider Monsters. Apparently my little friend was in delicate condition.
Unfortunately for me (and for those whom I call when massively freaked out), this did not prove to be an isolated incident. Far from it - I found so many spiders in my house last spring that I began a daily count…at one point I was killing at least 6 every 24 hours. Finally I had enough, and I employed the assistance of both a professional Spider-Monster-killer and my father (who set off so many bug bombs that I’m sure my death will be a direct result of their fumes). For the next few months my critter numbers dropped to a tolerable point. Sure I still had tree bug thingamajigs and rolly-pollies, but the potentially blood-sucking-people-killing arachnids seemed to have moved on.
But alas it is once again March, and my floors and walls and ceilings are no longer soaked with spider kryptonite. I’ve smashed 3 already this spring…they were easy targets as the lethargy of winter had not yet warn off, but the very sight of their prickly legs and squishy bodies made me momentarily regret being Miss Independent. If I had a roommate, I’d have someone to run to and shake and holler at when I discover a wolf spider in my dryer (an occurrence I became all too familiar with last year). And with any luck, I could make said companion partake in some of the arachno-killing; I’m a bad aim anyways, since I refuse to get close enough to the Spider Monsters to guarantee a hit. Half the time the damn things get away, and then I get to wrestle with the thought of going to bed with angry spawns of Satan roaming my halls.
I’ll make it through. I’m no sissy-pansy, and I have too much pride to ever surrender to my irrational fear of creatures 1/200th the size of me. But take this as a word of warning; if you are a new add to my speed-dial, you best be expecting some frantic calls from me in the near future. Try to identify the word SPIDER within my stream of howling, and once you do you’re welcome to sit down the phone and go about your day. For I know you can’t save me from the Spider Monsters, but at least you can recognize my bravery and/or stubbornness for residing by myself in the true 8th circle of Hell (trust me – Dante’s scorpion-man is no match for my army of arachnids).
Indeed I am quite valiant for living alone. Plus if you think about it, at least I won’t be living alone for long…there are thousands of future roommates just waiting to hatch within my bedroom walls.
Much love.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Insomnia, BlogCritics and the Addy's
3 AM is an excellent time for blogging, no?
Urrg, I’m doing that thing where your mind is so busy you can’t sleep; I did this at the start of last semester too, and it was just as disturbing then as it is now. I am a sleeper; if there’s one thing you can count on me to do it’s sleep (and not much else, as I’ll probably accidentally sleep through whatever it is). Therefore, this new-found desire to check my email at 4 AM (and send responses, which results in “why were you emailing at 4 AM?” phone calls the next day) is severely mussing my whole system. Asleep before 12, awake as late as possible. This has been my tried-and-tested pattern since high school, and I’m more than a little freaked out by my adult-esque new habit of staying awake to worry about unimportant things.
Damn you, 25. Damn you, sense of personal responsibility. Damn you, crows feet (do not tell me they’re not there because I CAN SEE THEM.)
But if I’m up, I might as well use this opportunity to splatter some words on the ol’ weblog. I have broken my self-imposed post a week promise, and for that I am truly sorry. I’ve actually had people ask me to update; this makes me feel both special and like I need cooler friends, all at the same time (I don’t mean that…please keep reading…I crave your validation).
First order of business: I am now also publishing on Blogcritics.org, which is a slightly more credible/less narcissist writing outlet as my pieces must first be approved by an editor before venturing into CyperSpace. I’m excited for the opportunity of portfolio padding, but it also means God Willing must be good and patient for its updates. I have to give Blogcritics first publishing rights, so if I seem to be slacking (like this week, for instance) that’s probably why. Just don’t panic; I will keep posting as I’m too OCD not to, so take a deep breath and peruse my archives. Or better yet, go to http://dooce.com (but please don’t leave me for her. I need you more than she does).
Second order of business: Addy’s. This topic was actually requested by an aforementioned uncool friend, so don’t blame me for crossing the TMI line by posting about my dating life. Take it up with Lola, aka Team Park…I’d provide more info on her identity, but she’s remarkably scrappy and frankly I’m afraid.
Ahem. So the Addy’s are an advertising competition. Prior to January I knew nothing of them; to me, “Addy” was a girl in my high school show choir and nothing more. Then I met my dating partner, and as he’s an Ad guy I was quickly caught up to speed. (“Dating partner” is a funny little quip said Ad guy and I originated, but as I realize it’s not actually that funny I’ll drop it. For the purpose of this post, DP now = Edward.)
Edward asked me to be his date for the Addy’s about a month out, and I proceeded to react with far too much enthusiasm…we’d only been dating for a few weeks, so it was imperative that I still act cool and nonchalant. However, he said “cocktail dress” and it was a lost cause; I immediately began making prom-like-shopping-plans and wondering if my tanning contract had expired. Luckily for me Eddie powered through and didn’t spazz out at my gusto, and one week out from the Big Night I embarked upon my journey for the perfect dress.
For this outing I required more estrogen than I alone could produce, so I asked for the assistance of the one woman genetically obligated to accompany me on such a trip: my mother. She kindly agreed to tag along, and by 11 on a Saturday morn we were chin-deep in corset-tops, empire-wastes and chiffon-overlays. Ahh, what sweet perfection!
Now, I misspoke earlier when I said I could be counted on to do one thing (sleep). I can actually be counted on to do two things: sleep…and shop. You don’t become Best Dressed 2002 without first memorizing the layouts of both local malls (and I should know, as I was Best Dressed 2002…or have I mentioned that?). So I was absolutely certain that this particular excursion would end like most of my trips to Penn Square; with a few too many dollars spent and a bag of glorious Fashion Fabulousity in hand.
When store #1 didn’t rock my world, I lost very little heart. There were still several stops to make, and I didn’t really want to find it that easy anyway (because half the joy is in the hunt). Store #2 was a disappointment as well, as it was riddled with prom-dress-shoppers who tainted both the ambiance and the dresses themselves. But not to worry, it was still barely past noon.
So we continued on to store #3, and 4, and 5…my mother vigilantly maintained her “I’m so excited to be trudging through the crowded mall with you” façade, but as the hours passed a bit of the life behind her eyes began to die. Even I became disheartened as the failed attempts piled up, and when the stores finally started to close I was left with a throbbing head…and no dress to call my own.
The pains-in-the-ass didn’t end there, but I’ll spare you some of the details (especially the part where my mom went shopping on my behalf and sent pictures of dresses to me via cell phone…yeah, I’ll leave that out as it’s kind of horribly embarrassing and makes me seem like a wretched child). I’ll pick up a few days later; I’d almost come to terms with the fact that I had failed at shopping, and I’d decided to just wear a dress I already had (siiiiigh, how great the trials of my life). Then just as I was coming out of my no-dress-deep-blue-funk, I remembered a sassy little number at shop #2.
My mother had immediately loved the dress; it was royal blue, which she’s been saying is “my color” since I emerged from her womb. I opted to try it on for that reason alone, and once I’d wiggled my way into it I swiftly used my veto power. It was strapless - as a rule, I don’t do strapless. Ever. They’re dreadfully uncomfortable, they make breathing nigh impossible, and they squish up one’s side-boob in a most unappealing way. So, once I realized what I was dealing with I turned to Mother to say “uhh, NO.” But to my surprise, she had a peculiar look on her face.
“You look like a movie star!”
Wellllll crap. Somewhere deep inside every woman is an intense desire to please her mother, and when mine said those words I knew I was about to experience a great internal struggle: to appease, or not to appease? I gaped at her, then turned back to the mirror…I had to admit I liked the color, but no. This girl does not wear strapless dresses; I am nothing without my principles, and no innate need for my mother’s approval was going to change that. I am strong. Damn straight I’m strong.
Much to your surprise I’m sure, that all changed when I realized the serious anorexia of my options. I ended up in the blue, utterly strapless dress, and by the weekend of the Addy’s I’d gone from hating it to tolerating it to liking it to loving it. Never doubt the power of a mother’s opinion. So I set out on my first advertising-awards-ceremony-evening, and I daresay I did a fine job. I don’t remember saying too many stupid things, and even if I did I was in a fabulous dress that with any luck distracted everyone from my babbling.
The night was a lovely blur of fine wines, good food and new faces, and I’m pretty sure Edward still liked me afterward. So, mission accomplished. And the real star of the evening-The Dress-survived without spill, slippage or tear (and received several compliments to boot). One gentleman seemed notably taken by my attire…he asked me in apparent awe what color I was wearing, and when “blue” didn’t satisfy him he asked me again…and again...and again. I eventually bowed out of the conversation mumbling something about needing to find my seat, and clung just a bit more tightly to Eddie’s arm from that point forward.
So there you have it, Lola-my-uncool-friend: this is my account of the Addy’s. Don’t act surprised that it revolves almost entirely around the dress, as you know me well enough to realize what a prisoner of fashion I truly am. It was several weeks of preparation for a few hours of display, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Dressing up is a high for me; keep your cocaine, I’ll take the couture. So say what you will – I think it was worth it…
Afterall, my mom said I looked like a movie star.
Much love.
Urrg, I’m doing that thing where your mind is so busy you can’t sleep; I did this at the start of last semester too, and it was just as disturbing then as it is now. I am a sleeper; if there’s one thing you can count on me to do it’s sleep (and not much else, as I’ll probably accidentally sleep through whatever it is). Therefore, this new-found desire to check my email at 4 AM (and send responses, which results in “why were you emailing at 4 AM?” phone calls the next day) is severely mussing my whole system. Asleep before 12, awake as late as possible. This has been my tried-and-tested pattern since high school, and I’m more than a little freaked out by my adult-esque new habit of staying awake to worry about unimportant things.
Damn you, 25. Damn you, sense of personal responsibility. Damn you, crows feet (do not tell me they’re not there because I CAN SEE THEM.)
But if I’m up, I might as well use this opportunity to splatter some words on the ol’ weblog. I have broken my self-imposed post a week promise, and for that I am truly sorry. I’ve actually had people ask me to update; this makes me feel both special and like I need cooler friends, all at the same time (I don’t mean that…please keep reading…I crave your validation).
First order of business: I am now also publishing on Blogcritics.org, which is a slightly more credible/less narcissist writing outlet as my pieces must first be approved by an editor before venturing into CyperSpace. I’m excited for the opportunity of portfolio padding, but it also means God Willing must be good and patient for its updates. I have to give Blogcritics first publishing rights, so if I seem to be slacking (like this week, for instance) that’s probably why. Just don’t panic; I will keep posting as I’m too OCD not to, so take a deep breath and peruse my archives. Or better yet, go to http://dooce.com (but please don’t leave me for her. I need you more than she does).
Second order of business: Addy’s. This topic was actually requested by an aforementioned uncool friend, so don’t blame me for crossing the TMI line by posting about my dating life. Take it up with Lola, aka Team Park…I’d provide more info on her identity, but she’s remarkably scrappy and frankly I’m afraid.
Ahem. So the Addy’s are an advertising competition. Prior to January I knew nothing of them; to me, “Addy” was a girl in my high school show choir and nothing more. Then I met my dating partner, and as he’s an Ad guy I was quickly caught up to speed. (“Dating partner” is a funny little quip said Ad guy and I originated, but as I realize it’s not actually that funny I’ll drop it. For the purpose of this post, DP now = Edward.)
Edward asked me to be his date for the Addy’s about a month out, and I proceeded to react with far too much enthusiasm…we’d only been dating for a few weeks, so it was imperative that I still act cool and nonchalant. However, he said “cocktail dress” and it was a lost cause; I immediately began making prom-like-shopping-plans and wondering if my tanning contract had expired. Luckily for me Eddie powered through and didn’t spazz out at my gusto, and one week out from the Big Night I embarked upon my journey for the perfect dress.
For this outing I required more estrogen than I alone could produce, so I asked for the assistance of the one woman genetically obligated to accompany me on such a trip: my mother. She kindly agreed to tag along, and by 11 on a Saturday morn we were chin-deep in corset-tops, empire-wastes and chiffon-overlays. Ahh, what sweet perfection!
Now, I misspoke earlier when I said I could be counted on to do one thing (sleep). I can actually be counted on to do two things: sleep…and shop. You don’t become Best Dressed 2002 without first memorizing the layouts of both local malls (and I should know, as I was Best Dressed 2002…or have I mentioned that?). So I was absolutely certain that this particular excursion would end like most of my trips to Penn Square; with a few too many dollars spent and a bag of glorious Fashion Fabulousity in hand.
When store #1 didn’t rock my world, I lost very little heart. There were still several stops to make, and I didn’t really want to find it that easy anyway (because half the joy is in the hunt). Store #2 was a disappointment as well, as it was riddled with prom-dress-shoppers who tainted both the ambiance and the dresses themselves. But not to worry, it was still barely past noon.
So we continued on to store #3, and 4, and 5…my mother vigilantly maintained her “I’m so excited to be trudging through the crowded mall with you” façade, but as the hours passed a bit of the life behind her eyes began to die. Even I became disheartened as the failed attempts piled up, and when the stores finally started to close I was left with a throbbing head…and no dress to call my own.
The pains-in-the-ass didn’t end there, but I’ll spare you some of the details (especially the part where my mom went shopping on my behalf and sent pictures of dresses to me via cell phone…yeah, I’ll leave that out as it’s kind of horribly embarrassing and makes me seem like a wretched child). I’ll pick up a few days later; I’d almost come to terms with the fact that I had failed at shopping, and I’d decided to just wear a dress I already had (siiiiigh, how great the trials of my life). Then just as I was coming out of my no-dress-deep-blue-funk, I remembered a sassy little number at shop #2.
My mother had immediately loved the dress; it was royal blue, which she’s been saying is “my color” since I emerged from her womb. I opted to try it on for that reason alone, and once I’d wiggled my way into it I swiftly used my veto power. It was strapless - as a rule, I don’t do strapless. Ever. They’re dreadfully uncomfortable, they make breathing nigh impossible, and they squish up one’s side-boob in a most unappealing way. So, once I realized what I was dealing with I turned to Mother to say “uhh, NO.” But to my surprise, she had a peculiar look on her face.
“You look like a movie star!”
Wellllll crap. Somewhere deep inside every woman is an intense desire to please her mother, and when mine said those words I knew I was about to experience a great internal struggle: to appease, or not to appease? I gaped at her, then turned back to the mirror…I had to admit I liked the color, but no. This girl does not wear strapless dresses; I am nothing without my principles, and no innate need for my mother’s approval was going to change that. I am strong. Damn straight I’m strong.
Much to your surprise I’m sure, that all changed when I realized the serious anorexia of my options. I ended up in the blue, utterly strapless dress, and by the weekend of the Addy’s I’d gone from hating it to tolerating it to liking it to loving it. Never doubt the power of a mother’s opinion. So I set out on my first advertising-awards-ceremony-evening, and I daresay I did a fine job. I don’t remember saying too many stupid things, and even if I did I was in a fabulous dress that with any luck distracted everyone from my babbling.
The night was a lovely blur of fine wines, good food and new faces, and I’m pretty sure Edward still liked me afterward. So, mission accomplished. And the real star of the evening-The Dress-survived without spill, slippage or tear (and received several compliments to boot). One gentleman seemed notably taken by my attire…he asked me in apparent awe what color I was wearing, and when “blue” didn’t satisfy him he asked me again…and again...and again. I eventually bowed out of the conversation mumbling something about needing to find my seat, and clung just a bit more tightly to Eddie’s arm from that point forward.
So there you have it, Lola-my-uncool-friend: this is my account of the Addy’s. Don’t act surprised that it revolves almost entirely around the dress, as you know me well enough to realize what a prisoner of fashion I truly am. It was several weeks of preparation for a few hours of display, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Dressing up is a high for me; keep your cocaine, I’ll take the couture. So say what you will – I think it was worth it…
Afterall, my mom said I looked like a movie star.
Much love.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
We pay no attention to the Man behind the curtain
Well kids, Tornado Season is upon us. Every year it seems to come earlier and earlier - when I was little I associated it with Spring Break and Sister's biffday (which is in April), and now I've come to register it with Valentine's Day and my biffday (which was 3 days ago...spitspit). I tell you, God's messing with us. I think he's sick and tired of the cockiness and the "I dare a tornado to suck me up" attitude most Oklahomans have adopted. He is a god to be feared and respected, and if massive tornado-storms with hail and sideways rain every spring won't do it, he'll keep us in a state of constant wariness by dropping his Twisters of Torment whene'er he pleases. It's a good plan in theory; people generally dislike unforeseen disasters, and having rainwrapped cyclones pop out of the clouds mid-February certainly qualifies as an unexpected act of Godly fury. However, this is Oklahoma. You drop a tornado on us unawares and (assuming we survive) we'll stand on our porches, watch that sucker evaporate back into the sky, and shake our fists at it in the most obnoxious "you can't get me that easy, Jesus" fashion we can muster. God underestimates our stubbornness.
Yesterday marked the first day in 2009 of widespread OMIGAWD THE SKY IS FALLING weather reporting on Oklahoma's fantastically sensational local news stations. The only reason I know this is because I accidentally unplugged my DVD player (by tripping over it, which hurt), and my personal marathon of Arrested Development episodes was rudely interrupted by a weatherguy exclaiming "THE TORNADO'S GONNA HIT QUAIL SPRINGS MALL." At first I was merely perturbed, as I A) didn't believe him and B) couldn't figure out how to get my DVD to start up again. But then a snippet of a phone conversation came trickling back into my brain....my mother had called earlier, and was blustering about getting ready for something....what was it?? And then I remembered; she was going to the movies. At AMC. In Quail Springs Mall.
You might assume that this prompted a Freak Out on my part; frantic texting and dialing and skyping Sister in Virginia to tell her our mother was woefully following in the footsteps of her favorite movie character, Dorothy Gale. But on the contrary. I called my father to say "uhh, so about Mom...." and once he assured me that all weathermen lie I pushed my concerns aside and cozied back into my couch for more TV marathoning.
(Well that's not entirely true. I did call Sister and leave a message detailing the aforementioned Wizard of Oz scenario - but that was merely to pay her back for ignoring my phone call, and thus she deserved it. You kids are aware that people can tell when you've clicked "ignore" on an incoming call, yes? Okay, then...stop doing it.)
And so a few hours later, after peeking out the window every now and again to assure my house was still firmly attached to the ground, I talked to Mother once more on the phone. Yes, there had been tornados all around her and yes, the entire mall was shut down due to the impending doom, but she got to see the conclusion of Slumdog Millionaire so she was in a chipper mood. No harm, no foul.
Point is, Oklahomans cannot be swayed in their defiant disrespect for Mother Nature. We've heard the "you're going to die if you don't climb in the bathtub with a mattress over your head" song and dance too many times, only to resurface 30 minutes later with mussed hair and a sneaking suspicion that somewhere, Gary England is laughing at us. Those weatherpeople get off making us act like douchetards, I swear it.
So, now that I live in a stamp-of-a-house that doesn't seem all too securely fastened to Earth, I am embracing my midwestern instincts to Fear Not the Weather (even when it's logically the smart thing to do). I don't have a central room, and I certainly don't have a cellar (and even if I did, I bet you it'd be 20 times worse than The Spider Room...and I'd rather try my hand at involuntary windsurfing than submerge myself into such a Pit of Despair). No, this Tornado Season it's just me, my 89-year-old bungalow and my innate Oklahoma ignorance against the wrath of God. I really don't think it'll be that bad. If my teenage self was able to survive my mother's fury after slamming one too many doors in her face (she single-handedly removed my bedroom door from its hinges in a fit of rage and stole it away to A Place Unknown)....well then, I can survive most anything. I hope you kids are ready too; just put on your best "I ain't scurred" face and keep one eye on the sky. And if you hear the chaotic howl of a westerly wind or the ominous call of tornado sirens, remember; that's your cue to walk outside and look up. Afterall, you're not in Kansas anymore, my friends...
You're in Oklahoma now.
Much love.
Yesterday marked the first day in 2009 of widespread OMIGAWD THE SKY IS FALLING weather reporting on Oklahoma's fantastically sensational local news stations. The only reason I know this is because I accidentally unplugged my DVD player (by tripping over it, which hurt), and my personal marathon of Arrested Development episodes was rudely interrupted by a weatherguy exclaiming "THE TORNADO'S GONNA HIT QUAIL SPRINGS MALL." At first I was merely perturbed, as I A) didn't believe him and B) couldn't figure out how to get my DVD to start up again. But then a snippet of a phone conversation came trickling back into my brain....my mother had called earlier, and was blustering about getting ready for something....what was it?? And then I remembered; she was going to the movies. At AMC. In Quail Springs Mall.
You might assume that this prompted a Freak Out on my part; frantic texting and dialing and skyping Sister in Virginia to tell her our mother was woefully following in the footsteps of her favorite movie character, Dorothy Gale. But on the contrary. I called my father to say "uhh, so about Mom...." and once he assured me that all weathermen lie I pushed my concerns aside and cozied back into my couch for more TV marathoning.
(Well that's not entirely true. I did call Sister and leave a message detailing the aforementioned Wizard of Oz scenario - but that was merely to pay her back for ignoring my phone call, and thus she deserved it. You kids are aware that people can tell when you've clicked "ignore" on an incoming call, yes? Okay, then...stop doing it.)
And so a few hours later, after peeking out the window every now and again to assure my house was still firmly attached to the ground, I talked to Mother once more on the phone. Yes, there had been tornados all around her and yes, the entire mall was shut down due to the impending doom, but she got to see the conclusion of Slumdog Millionaire so she was in a chipper mood. No harm, no foul.
Point is, Oklahomans cannot be swayed in their defiant disrespect for Mother Nature. We've heard the "you're going to die if you don't climb in the bathtub with a mattress over your head" song and dance too many times, only to resurface 30 minutes later with mussed hair and a sneaking suspicion that somewhere, Gary England is laughing at us. Those weatherpeople get off making us act like douchetards, I swear it.
So, now that I live in a stamp-of-a-house that doesn't seem all too securely fastened to Earth, I am embracing my midwestern instincts to Fear Not the Weather (even when it's logically the smart thing to do). I don't have a central room, and I certainly don't have a cellar (and even if I did, I bet you it'd be 20 times worse than The Spider Room...and I'd rather try my hand at involuntary windsurfing than submerge myself into such a Pit of Despair). No, this Tornado Season it's just me, my 89-year-old bungalow and my innate Oklahoma ignorance against the wrath of God. I really don't think it'll be that bad. If my teenage self was able to survive my mother's fury after slamming one too many doors in her face (she single-handedly removed my bedroom door from its hinges in a fit of rage and stole it away to A Place Unknown)....well then, I can survive most anything. I hope you kids are ready too; just put on your best "I ain't scurred" face and keep one eye on the sky. And if you hear the chaotic howl of a westerly wind or the ominous call of tornado sirens, remember; that's your cue to walk outside and look up. Afterall, you're not in Kansas anymore, my friends...
You're in Oklahoma now.
Much love.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
No Justin, I will NOT cry you a river.
Recently I was asked what the last movie was to make me cry (I cannot remember how this came up in conversation, but it made perfect sense at the time). And despite my innate female/sentimental/hormonal tendencies, I struggled to arrive at an answer. After several moments of hemming and hawing my conversationalist and I finally came up with The Notebook, and we quickly left the topic for equally random and ingenious subject-matters.
But ever since then, I’ve been thinking. Thinking about crying, tearing up, weeping inconsolably, having emotional breakdowns…you know, normal girl stuff. And I’ve come to the conclusion that, although I’ve engaged in all the aforementioned activities, I am not a normal girl (you needn’t add a sassy comment in response to the “normal” thing, because I will cut you).
Seriously though…not normal. I am not a crier. I did not cry when Jack Dawson froze to death, I did not cry when Hedwig died, I did not even cry when my sister got married (although that may have had something to do with the panic attack I was experiencing, being the Maid of Honor and having had forgotten her to-be-husband’s wedding band). And on that occasion when I do cry, I become tremendously uncomfortable and pissed off at myself. I am not that friend who cries, then buries her head in your understanding arms for a good long “shh…everything’s gonna be okay” hug. I am that friend who cries, makes a horrified face, and unceremoniously walks out of the room while you’re still thinking of nice things to say. Yeah……sorry about that.
But after giving this psychological weirdism of mine extensive mulling-over, I now know who is to blame for it all (you didn’t think I was at fault for my own problems, did you?? Hogwash!). The responsible party is, without doubt or hesitation, my oldest-only-sister Rachel.
Do let me explain how I’ve come to the conclusion of said sister’s utter horribleness. Rachel is amazing. She’s brilliant, and articulate, and her skin is flawless and she’s skinnier than I’ll ever be. Rachel is also the most competitive human being you’ve ever met in your existence. If she can beat you at it she will try…and probably succeed. Example: every year as chillens Sister and I went to our grandfolk’s home for an Easter egg hunt, and every year Sister found more eggs than me. Every. Year. And, Sister also managed to find all the eggs with money in them, whereas I found only those containing partially-melted-lime-green-duck-shaped-marshmallows. If by chance Sister did not beat me at something immediately off the starting block (and those moments were painfully rare), she would manage to catch up with my humble victory and squash it into the ground by being Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger at whatever I had done. I will again provide you with an example: one epic day I very innocently (and probably accidentally) learned how to blow a bubble with my chewing gum. Before Sister. We were on some sort of family road-trip, and both Sister and I were busy entertaining ourselves in the backseat (her by reading classic literature, me by doodling in the margins of my Where’s Waldo). Then “pop!” I’d blown a bubble. My parents oooh-ed and aaah-ed while Sister looked on…and by the end of that very day she had not only taught herself my newfound skill, but had learned to blow bubbles twice as magnificent as mine. True story.
But throughout this blockbuster case of sibling-rivalry, there has always been one thing Sister cannot do; Sister cannot not cry. Sister cried when she went to camp, she cried when she got her blood drawn and she cried when a Junebug flew up her shirt. She cried when her goldfish started swimming upside-down, and she cried when our father said the vision of God was under her bed (this was after watching Raiders of the Lost Ark, and she feared her face would melt off upon seeing Our Lord Jesus). And in my little demure, soft-spoken baby-sister world where I was constantly overshadowed by Rachel’s fabulousity (and by her loudness), I saw a golden opportunity.
I could win at crying.
More accurately, I could win at not crying; whenever Sister cried, I would not. When our mother greeted us after school by announcing “its flu-shot day!” and Sister’s bottom lip began to tremble, I swallowed my own rising hysteria and acted disinterested in the prospect of a giant scary needle piercing my flesh. When Sister and I were both shipped off to Kanakuk (her with her two friends, me with my no friends), I bravely climbed the stairs of the Missouri-bound bus while Sister wailed uncontrollably and made promises to “be extra good if she could just stay home.” And when our gerbils endeavored to murder each other and almost succeeded (the bloodbath began when my rodent (coincidentally named Jezebel) tried to steal her rodent’s babies), Rachel bawled at the sight of the carnage while I remained the stoic one…the brave one…the WINNER.
Unfortunately for me, being a non-crier is not a very marketable skill in the universe of grown-ups. Nobody’s going to hire me or date me or ask me onto their TV show because I didn’t cry when Edward disappeared for 366 pages of the second Twilight book. That kind of achievement is productive absolutely not at all, and in fact means to some that I am dead inside (ahem, Kristina). Simply put, nobody cares about crying when you’re an adult. Somewhere along the maturation process crying stops meaning you’re a baby and starts meaning you’re emotionally available. And just in typing that last sentence, I realized something so traumatically demoralizing that I struggle now to articulate it; in the world of mature, human relationships, being a crier is often better than being a non-crier.
Sister. Wins. AGAIN.
So here I stand, a 24.9-year-old non-crier (who is dead inside and/or emotionally unavailable), having just lost the ultimate and final battle in my lifelong war with Sister. It is a dark and dismal day. So dark is it in fact, that I may retire early and dramatically bury my face in a pillow. But let there be no doubt; said pillow will remain dry.
Much love.
But ever since then, I’ve been thinking. Thinking about crying, tearing up, weeping inconsolably, having emotional breakdowns…you know, normal girl stuff. And I’ve come to the conclusion that, although I’ve engaged in all the aforementioned activities, I am not a normal girl (you needn’t add a sassy comment in response to the “normal” thing, because I will cut you).
Seriously though…not normal. I am not a crier. I did not cry when Jack Dawson froze to death, I did not cry when Hedwig died, I did not even cry when my sister got married (although that may have had something to do with the panic attack I was experiencing, being the Maid of Honor and having had forgotten her to-be-husband’s wedding band). And on that occasion when I do cry, I become tremendously uncomfortable and pissed off at myself. I am not that friend who cries, then buries her head in your understanding arms for a good long “shh…everything’s gonna be okay” hug. I am that friend who cries, makes a horrified face, and unceremoniously walks out of the room while you’re still thinking of nice things to say. Yeah……sorry about that.
But after giving this psychological weirdism of mine extensive mulling-over, I now know who is to blame for it all (you didn’t think I was at fault for my own problems, did you?? Hogwash!). The responsible party is, without doubt or hesitation, my oldest-only-sister Rachel.
Do let me explain how I’ve come to the conclusion of said sister’s utter horribleness. Rachel is amazing. She’s brilliant, and articulate, and her skin is flawless and she’s skinnier than I’ll ever be. Rachel is also the most competitive human being you’ve ever met in your existence. If she can beat you at it she will try…and probably succeed. Example: every year as chillens Sister and I went to our grandfolk’s home for an Easter egg hunt, and every year Sister found more eggs than me. Every. Year. And, Sister also managed to find all the eggs with money in them, whereas I found only those containing partially-melted-lime-green-duck-shaped-marshmallows. If by chance Sister did not beat me at something immediately off the starting block (and those moments were painfully rare), she would manage to catch up with my humble victory and squash it into the ground by being Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger at whatever I had done. I will again provide you with an example: one epic day I very innocently (and probably accidentally) learned how to blow a bubble with my chewing gum. Before Sister. We were on some sort of family road-trip, and both Sister and I were busy entertaining ourselves in the backseat (her by reading classic literature, me by doodling in the margins of my Where’s Waldo). Then “pop!” I’d blown a bubble. My parents oooh-ed and aaah-ed while Sister looked on…and by the end of that very day she had not only taught herself my newfound skill, but had learned to blow bubbles twice as magnificent as mine. True story.
But throughout this blockbuster case of sibling-rivalry, there has always been one thing Sister cannot do; Sister cannot not cry. Sister cried when she went to camp, she cried when she got her blood drawn and she cried when a Junebug flew up her shirt. She cried when her goldfish started swimming upside-down, and she cried when our father said the vision of God was under her bed (this was after watching Raiders of the Lost Ark, and she feared her face would melt off upon seeing Our Lord Jesus). And in my little demure, soft-spoken baby-sister world where I was constantly overshadowed by Rachel’s fabulousity (and by her loudness), I saw a golden opportunity.
I could win at crying.
More accurately, I could win at not crying; whenever Sister cried, I would not. When our mother greeted us after school by announcing “its flu-shot day!” and Sister’s bottom lip began to tremble, I swallowed my own rising hysteria and acted disinterested in the prospect of a giant scary needle piercing my flesh. When Sister and I were both shipped off to Kanakuk (her with her two friends, me with my no friends), I bravely climbed the stairs of the Missouri-bound bus while Sister wailed uncontrollably and made promises to “be extra good if she could just stay home.” And when our gerbils endeavored to murder each other and almost succeeded (the bloodbath began when my rodent (coincidentally named Jezebel) tried to steal her rodent’s babies), Rachel bawled at the sight of the carnage while I remained the stoic one…the brave one…the WINNER.
Unfortunately for me, being a non-crier is not a very marketable skill in the universe of grown-ups. Nobody’s going to hire me or date me or ask me onto their TV show because I didn’t cry when Edward disappeared for 366 pages of the second Twilight book. That kind of achievement is productive absolutely not at all, and in fact means to some that I am dead inside (ahem, Kristina). Simply put, nobody cares about crying when you’re an adult. Somewhere along the maturation process crying stops meaning you’re a baby and starts meaning you’re emotionally available. And just in typing that last sentence, I realized something so traumatically demoralizing that I struggle now to articulate it; in the world of mature, human relationships, being a crier is often better than being a non-crier.
Sister. Wins. AGAIN.
So here I stand, a 24.9-year-old non-crier (who is dead inside and/or emotionally unavailable), having just lost the ultimate and final battle in my lifelong war with Sister. It is a dark and dismal day. So dark is it in fact, that I may retire early and dramatically bury my face in a pillow. But let there be no doubt; said pillow will remain dry.
Much love.
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