You Are Beautiful.

A friend of mine sent me this, and I wanted to share it with all of you. This is something we all need to remember.

 

Fat.

I am angry.

Actually, angry is too kind of a word. I am livid. Indignant. Furious. Enraged.

I am tumultuously, turbulently pissed off, and I'm going to tell you why.

I, like many of you, have become a fan of Catfish over the past year. Although it's something I don't tell too many people, there was a time in my life when a big part of my social life revolved around online relationships. Some of you may remember Prodigy; when I started high school at a brand new school without any friends, overweight, two years younger than most of my classmates, with a mom whose chronic illness was just starting to get pretty bad and making life at home pretty stressful, Prodigy was my savior. It was a place I could go and be myself and get away without being judged for the way that I looked in a world that is so adept at doing just that so swiftly and viciously, and for well over a year, I spent most of my time online talking to some pretty amazing people. As I got a bit older, began to lose weight, and gained self confidence, I grew out of my online phase, though I'm actually still friends with some of those people to this day. Still, watching Catfish brings so much of that back. I've never "catfished" anyone, but certainly knew that it was possible to care about someone that you'd never met, and even fall in love with them. Of course the premise of the show was interesting to me. I lived it, once, many years ago.

But that's not the point of this blog.

I noticed a disturbing trend during the first season of the show that I brushed off then, despite the fact that it hit so close to home. Now that we're pretty far in to the second season, I can't ignore it anymore. I was twenty minutes in to Tuesday night's episode when I had to shut the TV off and come here to get this off my chest before I could watch any more, because it literally brought me to tears.

What the ever loving fuck is wrong with this world that we live in, that beautiful, kind, and caring women feel, and believe deep down in the very cores of their beings, that being loved by a man and being overweight are mutually exclusive?

Look, I am going to say this once: I do not believe it's right to lie. I don't believe it's right to lead someone on, online or otherwise, with false information. I believe in personal responsibility. But to anyone who has never been overweight, you don't know what it's like, and you will never know what it's like. Period. End of story.

If I had a dollar for every time I heard or saw someone thin say or write online on a message board or in response to an article about the obesity epidemic in America, "well if you eat less and work out more you'd lose weight" or "well if you don't want to be fat anymore, then change," I would have enough money to accomplish the overthrow and reinvention of the putrid messaging that our society bombards and brainwashes us with every single second of every day. Are those things true? Definitely. If you work out more and eat less, then you will (most of the time, anyway) lose weight. If you don't want to be fat anymore, then you can alter your lifestyle to change that. But pretending that it's easy, that it's a simple solution, that it doesn't come with the stress of dodging the minefields of every social encounter imaginable, because they always revolve around food and drink of some sort, that it doesn't come with the stress of the unfair way our society perceives and judges you, as lazy and unmotivated and disgusting, and how sad and lonely and depressing it can be, that it doesn't come with tears and pain and frustration.... that's just cruel. It's not a simple solution. It's a solution borne of painful changes and learning and growth that requires a lot of love and support and patience from the people around you and unfortunately, not everyone has that luxury.

And how much do you want to bet that the thin person running their mouth just finished eating some sort of junk food that they are fortunate enough that their body can metabolize correctly, while the person they're bashing is trying to feel content on the 4 ounces of grilled chicken and boiled broccoli they had for dinner during yet another attempt at dieting that will most likely, eventually, fail?

If it was that easy, you stupid, stupid people, wouldn't everyone be thin?

Side note: To be clear, I'm not referring to you, dear reader. I mean society in general. I love my readers. :)

At what point do we stop with the fat-shaming and take a look at everything that is wrong with our society, and they way they treat people who are overweight? At what point do we look at the fact that it's cheaper to buy a family of four dinner at McDonald's than it is to buy a healthy meal at the grocery store? Or the fact that that "healthy" meal at the grocery store isn't even healthy at all; that the hormones, and antibiotics, and fillers, and chemicals that the government has allowed companies to put into our food render pretty much anything we eat harmful to our body in some way, shape or form? At what point do we stop letting the entertainment industry tell us who is beautiful and who isn't, and learn to judge for ourselves based on who a person is inside, instead of out? At what point do we realize that all this negativity drives overweight people back into the arms of food - food that comforts, and fills, and can't talk back or reject or judge or shame?

I bet some of you are thinking, "Well, if people don't eat healthy and don't work out, then what do they expect? Of course they're going to be fat. Why are we blaming society? What about personal responsibility?"

Okay then, how about we give "people" a face? When I refer to "people" in this blog, let's assume we're talking about me. I'm sure anyone that knows me would agree that I truly do believe in taking responsibility for myself and my actions, and I've struggled with my weight the entire life. I eat relatively healthy, but began emotionally eating as a coping mechanism a few years ago which caused a pretty big weight gain, and have been struggling to stop using food as a crutch ever since. It got even worse when my mom died last year, but I'm still fighting. I believe in personal responsibility, and I struggle every day to make healthy choices, not just because I want to be thin and beautiful, but because I care about my health as well. I want to feel good just as much as I want to look good.

But what if I told you one of my deepest, darkest fears; that no man will ever love me if I don't lose weight? That if I don't lose weight, I'll never get married and have children, which is something I really want for myself in this life? What if I told you that this fear wasn't unfounded - that it wasn't something I developed on my own? What if I told you that it was based on conversations I've sat and listened to with male friends of mine - "friends" of mine - who talked about how they couldn't date this person because she was too fat, or gave other guy friends of mine a hard time for dating "fatties", while I was sitting right there, wondering what the fuck they said about me when I wasn't around? Or that it was based on a night in college when I met a nice guy and was having a great conversation with him and his friends actually came in to get him and said, just loud enough that I could hear, "Dude, we're not letting you go home with a fatty"? Or that it was based on my experiences with online dating; how every time I decide to give it a try I come across profile after profile where a man will say, flat out in his "About Me" section, "I don't date overweight women"? Or that it was based on the fact that every time I turn on the TV or go to see a movie I am told over and over and over again by the beautiful celebrities we all worship that I, and my body, are not good enough?

Honestly, after years of these kinds of experiences, what am I supposed to think?

What would you think, if it were you?

How about the fact that, today, while being bombarded with food and treats and drinks at work, I almost made it through the entire day without indulging and after I finally did, I sat in my car and cried because I was so disappointed and frustrated with myself? Or the fact that I'm scared to eat in public because I don't want people looking at me and thinking, "she really shouldn't be eating that"? Because you know that they do. You've done it yourself, I'm sure. I know I have, and every time I catch myself doing it, it breaks my heart.

I don't want my weight to define me, but it does. It defines me entirely. Perhaps that makes me weak. Maybe I should be able to ignore all of the negativity around being overweight that I've been bombarded with for the entirety of my life, but it's pretty difficult. With a million voices around me screaming that there is something inherently wrong with me simply because I'm not thin, it's hard to scream loud enough back at them to be heard. It's hard to scream loud enough to even hear myself.

I am struggling to lose weight because I want to feel comfortable in my own skin; because I want to feel beautiful; and, as I mentioned, because I want to be healthy. But don't think that I don't have this anger simmering inside me at the fact that I have to lose weight to feel this way; that I have to lose weight in order to feel beautiful and fit in. Because the fact of the matter is, even when I was at a healthy weight, according to society's standards, I was still fat. And that's how it will always be for me.

And so I watch these episodes of Catfish where, over and over, a girl lies to a boy about the way she looks because she is, in reality, overweight, and believes/knows (you choose, but in my mind, "knows" is the correct word to use there) that, if the boy she's talking to finds out what she really looks like, he won't give her the time of day, and every single time the girl comes clean, the guy wants nothing to do with her. Don't tell me that the reason he wants nothing to do with her is because she lied, because you know damn well that if she looked like Jennifer Aniston or Scarlett Johansson or some Victoria's Secret model, the lying would be a moot point. After all, the high school football star quarterback never dates anyone but the blonde, thin and beautiful head cheerleader, right?

So really, in these episodes, who is the villain? In my eyes, it's both of them. The girl shouldn't have lied. And the guy shouldn't have been an asshole about her being overweight. Sure, there's something to be said for being physically attracted to someone, but these are people who have been talking to each other, sharing the intimate details of their lives, for years; if you really care about the person the way you said you did, it wouldn't be such a deal breaker. I can say this with confidence, because I've been through it. The guys on Catfish are never stupid enough to say it on camera, but you know damn well what they're thinking: "No way I'm going to date a fatty." And as I watch it happen over and over again, episode after episode, it makes me want to scream, because something has got to change. 

I don't know what the answer is. I wish I did. And when I think about how badly I want to effect this change, I get so overwhelmed at the reality of the fact that I'm only one person - how could I even begin to make a difference? How can I begin to try to change the thinking of the billions of people on this planet? I don't know if I can, or if anyone ever will. I just wish with all my heart that it didn't have to be this way, because it hurts more than you will ever know. Until then, I'll just keep hoping that someday, on an episode of Catfish, the guy will learn the truth, and will still love her anyway.

It's Official: I'm a Corporate Asshole

Yesterday morning, while running late for work as usual, I rushed my dog outside so he could use his version of the facilities, and I noticed after a few moments that he was spending an unusual amount of time sniffing a particular spot. When I went over to see what he had found, there, just inches from becoming my dog's breakfast, was the tiniest, most adorable baby bird that I've ever seen. I mean, I hate birds. They're loud and they poop everywhere and the domesticated ones that my friends own always try to bite my finger off when I attempt to hold them. But this bird was the cuteness equivalent of a bundle of baby kittens. (Yes, I realize that saying "baby kittens" is redundant. I'm just trying to emphasize my point. Shut up and keep reading.)

Much to his chagrin, I immediately yanked Kuzco away and crouched down so I could determine whether or not the poor thing was still alive. When I got too close, Gilbert opened his eyes, squawked, and hopped a few inches, scaring the crap out of me, and sending Kuzco into a bark-filled frenzy that would have made Cujo jealous.

Gilbert, the most adorable bird that ever lived.

I should probably note here that I immediately named the bird Gilbert because, well, he looked like a Gilbert to me. I'm also not entirely sure that it was a he, but that's not the point of this story, so let's just roll with it. 

Moving on.

In order to keep Kuzco from committing a murder that I was sure both he and I would regret, I dragged him inside, put him in my bedroom, and grabbed a bunch of paper towels. I don't really know what I was thinking in regards to the whole paper towel thing. I just knew that I wanted to pick Gilbert up off of the ground so he didn't get chopped up by a lawnmower, and I didn't have any gloves, and I knew I couldn't pick him up with my bare hands a) because of diseases and b) because then my scent would be on him and his family wouldn't come back and find him and have a joyful, tear-filled reunion while simultaneously thanking Jesus for the kind, beautiful woman who had saved him from almost-certain death. So, paper towels in hand, I ventured back outside and froze when I noticed, immediately to my left, my neighbor's asshole cat getting ready to pounce. 

"Oh hell no," I said, out loud, to the cat. "Get the hell out of here." The cat didn't respond, but I could tell that he was pissed at me for interrupting him and still contemplating ignoring my threat and going after the bird anyway, so I growled at him for good measure. He ran away at that point. I don't want anyone to think too badly of the cat, though. I'm sure any human being would have responded in the same way if I had growled at them. 

After that, what ensued was a good five minutes of my attempting to pick up the tiny little bird in the paper towels without crushing his tiny, fragile little bones. Every time I got close to getting him bundled enough so I could pick him up, Gilbert would squawk, spread his tiny little wings and hop a few inches away, at which point the entire process would start all over again. When I finally had him snuggled in, he closed his eyes, seemingly content - most likely because it was way warmer in the paper towels that I was holding in my hands than it was outside. I mean, 50 degrees in August is kind of ridiculous. 

Once Gilbert was safely in my possession, I realized with dismay that I had no fucking idea what I was going to do with him. I mean, bringing him inside and putting him in a shoebox wasn't going to happen - even though I did have a brief daydream where I raised him as one of my own and he loved me and brought me worms and then flew off into the sunset one day to join his own kind but came back and visited me every once in a while. But realistically, I knew I couldn't take care of him. I couldn't just put him back on the ground. There was no nest in sight that I could put him back into. And I wasn't going to call the humane society, because they would have probably laughed at me and lectured me on natural selection, and besides, at that point, I was really, super, inexcusably late for work.

Let's take a moment to reflect on that last sentence. 

I had a tiny, fragile little life in my hands, and I decided to just put him up on a tree branch and hope for the best BECAUSE I WAS ALREADY SUPER LATE FOR WORK. 

And that is when I realized that I had finally, truly and officially, become a corporate asshole.

So I put Gilbert up in the nook of a tree branch, snapped a few pictures with my snazzy new camera, grabbed my stuff, and headed off to work. He was gone when I got home. I'm guessing the cat ate him, but I'm trying not to think about it. I told my boss yesterday, every chance that I got, that I had killed a baby bird for her, and that it had better reflect positively in terms of my dedication to my team and this company in my review.

Gilbert, wherever you are, I hope you enjoy(ed) your life, however brief it was or may be. 

Ginger Jameson out. 

Goodbye.

I've spent a lot of time over the past few months writing letters to you in my head, thinking about all the things I've wanted to say to you, all the words I've longed to unleash like angry fists to beat against your skin and bruise you the way you've bruised me, deep inside, where no one else can see; but when it comes time to put the words down onto paper, they continually fail me.

I think it's because putting it on paper makes it real, somehow. I think it's because I knew that, if I put all in black and white, it would be so much more awful that it was in my head, and I wasn't sure if I was ready to face that realization.

I'm ready now.

I'm ready to tell you the truth; how the entirety of what we were, and what we were not, was all uncharted territory for me; difficult to navigate in itself, but rendered impossible by you and your rules and your temper and your impatience for everything that I, inherently, am. How I'm still not sure that I was ever anything more than just a convenience for you; someone to be there when you wanted to connect with someone, and to so easily ignore when you didn't.

That's not how it works with people, you know.

I realize now that I should have told you that. I still ache from all the bending and twisting it took to fit into the tiny, few-and-far-between compartments of your life, the brief moments that you were actually willing to share with me without anger between us, without frustration and timelines and deadlines and doubt and exhaustion between us, where it was just you and me and it was good. You blamed it on your job. I blame it on your inability - no, your unwillingness- to learn to adequately handle the stress that came with your job. You can't control your circumstances, but you can control how you react to them.

You can control how you treat the people around you, the people who care about you, when you're doing all that reacting.

I took it in stride, then; when you were angry, or stressed, or frustrated, so much more often than not, I would do everything within my power to try to ease your burden, to let you know that there was someone out there who cared. I never wanted to be your everything, but I did, at the very least, want to be your something. Something that made you smile. Something that made you laugh. Something that made your journey through the insanity of life just a tiny bit happier.

It made me feel like such a disappointment when I realized I never would be. It made me feel so small to finally realize that no matter how much I cared, it would never make a difference to you. It made me feel so inadequate to realize that you were so infuriatingly indifferent about the whole thing. God, I would have rather you hated me; at least that would have been some type of emotion. I think that's what hurt the most. Hearing about the beautiful women you knew and how wonderful they were; hearing about all the places you were planning to go and things you were planning to do without me. I wanted to be a part of your life, but it's clear now that there wasn't, and isn't, any room for me there.

And I think, what it really comes down to, is that I am so incredibly angry at myself for not walking away from you a long, long time ago.

I am most certainly not blameless in this situation, but this is not about me. This is about the way you shut me down every time I tried to communicate with you. You got angry at me, simply because I wanted to make sure we were being open and honest with each other. And so it got me thinking, since he obviously wanted out so bad, why didn't he just tell me? If he didn't feel the same way, why wouldn't he just tell me? Why wouldn't he have taken one of the many outs I had offered him? Was it really just about getting what he needed all along? No. He's not that cruel. Is he?

Is he?

And maybe you aren't. I don't want to believe that you could be, because what would that say about my judge of character? Maybe I was the stupid one, for not being able to take a hint, but shame on you for not being the bigger person when I was never anything but clear and honest with how I felt about you and what I wanted for us. Maybe there was something else going on with you that manifested itself in our relationship that I never understood. Whatever the case may be, even as I type this, I am weary of guessing. I am bone tired to the point of exhaustion, and I don't have any more to give you, friendship or otherwise. The only thing that I have left to say to you is this:

I can't. I can't, not anymore. I'm deeply, deeply hurt; after all the excuses I made and all the times I chose to believe the best in you even when you were showing me your very worst, all of it was for nothing. I guess maybe I thought that if I proved to you that you were worth loving, you would believe it, and you would be able to love me back.

Stupid, stupid me.

I waited for you for so long. For too long. You so very clearly never wanted to be with me, and that's okay. What's not okay is you blaming me for going out and dating other people and acting like I did it to spite you; what's not okay is you acting like I was the one who called it off and that I was the one leading YOU on. Fuck you for that. That's completely untrue, and beyond reproach, and you know it as well as I do. I can admit to my faults and mistakes. It's time you learned to admit to yours.

I love you. If I didn't, you wouldn't have been able to hurt me the way that you did, over and over, all this time. I love you, but I love myself more, and it's time to take care of me now. I wish you nothing but the best, and I hope that, someday, you find whatever it is that you're looking for.

Love,
GJ

A Very Special Friday Top Ten

... and I believe that time is now. 

As some of you may already know, I have a birthday looming. Next week Thursday, August 1st, I will be turning the big 3-0. While I have some mixed feelings about this, for the most part, I'm excited. I like to imagine that, when my birthday comes, I'll magically morph into this sophisticated and beautiful woman with an amazing job, a hot boyfriend, a great apartment, and a shit-ton of money. (Thank you, Thirteen Going on 30, for that incredibly unrealistic portrayal.)  However, deep down, I know that 30 won't be that much different than 29. I may not have spent the majority of my 20's slutting it up, doing drugs, and getting white-girl wasted at every possible opportunity, but I still feel like I had my fair share of moments, and - lucky you - I've decided to take a moment to reflect back on some of them before 30 claims me as it's own. So, get ready for the stupid, the ridiculous, and the downright illegal, folks, because shit's about to get real.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Top 10 Ridiculous/Stupid/Illegal Moments of the Past 29 Years 

The Ginger Jameson Edition 

10. When you've gotta go, you've gotta go.
Fairly recently, I peed in a bag, in my car, while I was driving, stuck in bumper to bumper traffic, and  not only did no one see me, but I also didn't spill a drop. "You did what???" Yeah, you heard me. That took mad skillz. I'm not even sure I could do it again if I tried. 

9. What's the opposite of cradle-robber?
At some point in the past 29 years, I slept with a grandfather. I'm not going to say any more about this, but in my defense, let me just say that he's a young grandfather, as in, under 46, so it's not that horrible. I mean, how many women in their 20's can say something like that? Yeah. Not many. I'm all about being unique. Get on my level. 

8. I do really stupid things when I'm drunk, or "I Just Wanna Live!"
I got completely hammered at a bar one night, and some of the guys I was with were going to Poto to gamble when the bar closed. I tried to do the responsible thing and went to stay at a friends house instead, but when I got there, I launched into a tirade, yelling things like, "I just wanna live! I just wanna party and not go to sleep and go to work still drunk the next day! I wanna do this!" So my sober friend drove me back to Poto just to shut me up, and when I got there, I felt so sick I couldn't get out of the car. She then drove me BACK to her place,where I puked in her bushes, passed out on her couch, and ended up having to call in sick to work the next day. Pretty damn classy.

7. I do really stupid things when I'm drunk, part 2. 
I got drunk for the first time in my life after my Senior year of high school when I was staying with some friends in Illinois. Too many Zimas with orange Jolly Ranchers put me over the edge; I climbed out of her pool, puked in her bushes (noticing a theme here?) walked in the house, and announced, "I just puked! Pour me some tequlia!" I then proceeded to black out for the first and only time ever, and during said blackout, I broke the door of her refrigerator trying to eat some pasta salad. I've been told that I demolished some cake as well, which I had figured, because I woke up with cake crumbs all over me and the floor that I had passed out on. That was a good night.

6.  The most hardcore case of the munchies ever recorded.
The statute of limitations has expired on this one so I can now share it publicly: one night, when we were feeling particularly scandalous and hungry, some friends and I raided the dumpsters and trucks of a certain chip company. We ended up filling my Mazda MPV to the brim with chips, cookies, and dip. The craziest thing about it all was the fact that I ended up taking a bunch of it home with me, and spouted some story to my parents that I don't even remember, and they believed me. The benefits of being a good kid in action, folks. Our basement shelves were full of delicious snacks for the next six months. Score.

5. What happens in the hot tub, stays in the hot tub.
I can't really say too much here because so many people were involved over the years, and I've been sworn to secrecy, so I'll break it down into mysterious words and sentence fragments. Booze. Nudity. Never Have I Ever. Truth or Dare. Hot Tub Olympics. All of this and more, wrapped up with a lot of  make-out sessions. The story that is repeated the most involves the night that we were all drunk, most of us 20 and therefore underage, and the booze was all over the kitchen table. My mom appeared in the doorway to the garage, and we all froze, sure we'd been caught.

"Ginger!" she yelled.
"Yeah?" I responded hesitantly.
"Can you let the dogs out?"
"Uh, sure, mom. I'll do it in a minute."
"Okay. You guys have fun." And with that, she went back up to bed.

I still can't believe I wasn't grounded for life. Again, the benefits of being a good kid. Man, do I miss that hot tub.

4. I <3 Phil Vassar
Nothing scandalous here, but Phil Vassar played a big part in the summers of my 20's. Some of my best memories are of spending the day at Summerfest with friends and family and then rocking out to Phil's concert, every year for the past 5-6 years. It's become a tradition, and one I wouldn't change for the world. I especially love the newly added addition of the hours spent playing Asshole while drinking "crotch vodka" and lemonade. What's "crotch vodka", you ask? Long story, but a good one. Maybe I'll share it someday. :)

3. Slippery When Wet
Once upon a time, some friends and I went to lunch at a quaint little restaurant in the quaint little town that I grew up in. There was a cute little bridge there that led you over a small little pebble-filled... river?... into the restaurant. It was really too small to be a river. More like a man-made trickle of water that was created for only for the sake of ambiance, but that's not the point. The point is that, on said bridge, there was a warning sign that said simply, "Caution: Slippery When Wet".

You know where this is going, don't you.

8 hours and some crafty work with a power drill later, under the cover of night, I made that sign mine. It was proudly displayed on my wall for years. No idea where it is now, actually. God, my perverted sense of humor really leads me to do some stupid things.

2. The Night I (Almost) Got Arrested
It was my friend's 21st birthday. I was 19. My friends were buying me drinks. We'd chosen a hole in the wall bar to avoid the exact situation that ended up playing out. The cops showed up. I attempted to nonchalantly walk to the restroom to hide. They saw me, and called me out. So, I did what had worked for me up until that point: I played the good girl. I did exactly as they said and kept my mouth shut, while the other underager there ran her mouth at them. One of the officers put me in the back of the cop car and when he pulled out of the parking space, I swear to God, I had a small heart attack. But, instead of taking me to the station, he pulled over to the front door of the bar, gave me a breathalyzer, gave me a lecture, and then told me that my friends and I had 5 minutes to get out of the bar, or he was writing us all tickets.

I've never moved so fast in my life.

Although, I'm pretty sure the cop got the last laugh here, because I didn't even attempt to drink in public again until I turned 21.

And last, but certainly not least,

1. 2708 Drinking Club
Senior year of college was arguably the best year of my 20's, thanks to these guys. We were a group of friends who spent more time at their apartment than in class, drinking beer and participating in the most ridiculous of shenanigans. There was the night where Chase* disappeared and ended up six miles from the apartment with no idea how he'd gotten there, and then walked home on the coldest night of the year, and we had to warm him up with blankets, heating pads and hot chocolate so he didn't end up losing any fingers or toes.

And the night where I was walking back from the bar with Jim* and Paul*, and one of them ran their mouth to some other people and we ended up getting jumped; I called Chase instead of the Police for help, and then couldn't figure out where we were. Arguably the best part of that story was when we took Jim to the hospital, and he told the doctors that the girls volleyball team had beat him up.

Or the night that Jim passed out and peed in Chase's bed, and Paul spiked a frozen bag of corn, which promptly burst and scattered all over the apartment. I'm pretty sure that Chase still was finding corn all over the place weeks later.

I learned the Perfect Cast from A Goofy Movie with these guys, my own, personal, protective big brothers, and, in exchange, I was the perfect wing-woman whenever they needed it. They would bring me Gatorade and hangover food when I had to work the day after one of our particularly epic nights, and I would ply them with free coffee in exchange. We had a great thing going, and above and beyond that, we shared a love of good movies and booze and fun. Although we don't see each other much anymore, I still love them all dearly. My college experience would have sucked without them.

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent 


So yeah. I think I've done my fair share of living up until now, so 30? Bring it on. Besides, I'm pretty confident that my 30's will bring their own brand of crazy, cuz that's just the kind of girl I am. I think the kids these days were onto something with that YOLO bullshit, so yeah. Live it up, darlings.

YOLO. :)

How to Not Be a Dick

I am one of those people who can always see the other side of arguments and disagreements, so sometimes, for that reason, it's hard for me to stand my ground when I find myself in the middle of one. Because really, who is to say who's right and who's not when so much of it is often circumstantial? Most of the time it's because one person believes or feels one thing that the other person doesn't, and vice-versa, and it's really just a clashing of personal beliefs and preferences that's causing the problem, not what someone actually did or didn't do.

Because of that fact, I try really hard to step outside myself and see the other person's side. When I feel as though someone has hurt or offended me, I try to look at the situation from their point of view, and understand why they might NOT think that they'd done anything wrong. Some people say that this is me making excuses for other people. Maybe it is, and certainly, if a certain person has continually offended and hurt me even after I've made it clear that they're making me feel that way, it is an issue. But the issue never becomes about them at that point; it becomes about me. Clearly, that person has proven that they are they way that they are, and they're not willing to change, even to salvage our relationship. So, at that point, it's my choice. I can either understand that and I can accept who they are, flaws and all, or if I can't, or I am going to continue to feel hurt or attacked, then it's up to me to walk away from the situation.

This is how I think about things. It's not always easy to put my way of thinking into practice, but it's still what I truly believe.

That being said, there are still certain circumstances where basic manners, and basic human fucking decency come into play, and as of late, I've experienced a severe lack of both so many times that I had to write this blog about it so I could get it all off of my chest and move on with my life. After all, I do believe that the world is a beautiful place, and that people are, inherently, good... but for the love, if we could all just step outside ourselves for just one freaking moment each day, it would make the world a better place. It would also help me to stop cussing like a sailor, because rude, inconsiderate people make me angry, and when I'm angry, I swear. A lot.

Below are some examples of things you can do to help avoid being awarded the title of                              "Dickhead of the Year":

• When someone is walking into a building behind you, hold the door open for them. It's not that difficult. Just take a second to notice if someone is behind you instead of letting the door close in their face.
• That being said, if someone does hold open the door for you, say 'Thank You'. Don't be a dick. They took a second out of their day to be polite, and so should you. 
• Actually, just say 'Please' and 'Thank You' in general. These should be a staple of your vocabulary.
• When you're hanging up the phone with someone, and they tell you to have a great day, return the favor. Don't just say something stupid like "Yup, bye" or "Thanks, bye." Do you know how selfish that makes you sound? "Thanks for telling me to have a nice day. I don't really give a shit if you have a nice day or not, because I'm a selfish dickhead with much more important things to do and think about than anyone but... well... myself. Bye!" I get that sometimes hanging up the phone can be awkward, so if you slip here and there, totally forgivable. But there is a certain person I know who does this consistently and it drives me insane. So, I just stopped saying it to that person. I no longer care if you have a good day, sir/madame. Go to hell. Plus, now it doesn't make me angry anymore, because they don't have the opportunity to not say it back. Win, win! 
• If you're driving, and someone pauses to let you into their lane, or stops to let you turn out in front of them, give them a courtesy wave. You are not the King/Queen of the Road, and it was not my obligation to let you in. Don't be a dick. A little wave goes a long way.
• If someone experiences a death in the family, tell them you're sorry for their loss. If it's someone you're close to, ask them how they're doing. It's just common courtesy. If you're not capable of putting your own fucking problems aside for the five seconds that it takes to do that, then you need to get yourself some professional help.
• In general, just pay attention to your freaking surroundings. This one is for you, Mr. "I'm going to unload my trailer at the storage unit on a busy Saturday and when I do, I'm going to park like an asshole so that no one can get around me to exit or enter the parking lot for at least a good thirty minutes". Guess what, sir. You are not the only human being on the planet. I will give you a moment to absorb that no-doubt shocking information. Have you recovered? Good. Now, next time you want to park like an asshole, take a moment to think about all the other good people of the world that you may be inconveniencing, and then find a different place/way to park.

I think that about sums up the things that have been driving me crazy as of late. Seriously, we've gotta learn to give at least some semblance of shit about one another. It's not that hard. Just think about how you'd want to be treated, and then treat others that way. I guess some people are just natural-born assholes who want to blame everyone else for their problems and to them, I say, stay the hell away from me. I don't have time for people like you in my life. And also, go fuck yourself. Of course, I mean that with love. :)

Happiness Is...

I am absolutely swamped at work right now, and it's bleeding into my personal life, hence the lack of blog posts as of late. I've always wondered what it would be like to have a job that I didn't have to take home with me at night and on the weekends, but honestly, I think that if I did, I would miss the fast-paced nature of it all. Yeah, it can be exhausting. When it's like it is right now, with multiple new things rolling out during the busiest event weeks of the year, racing against impossible deadlines and trying to drag the fifteen people working on your initiatives across the finish line with you, it's enough to make you want to hide under your desk until it's all over. Still, there is an element of an excitement to it all; when you manage to dodge all of the inevitable curveballs and put out all the last minute fires and in the eleventh hour everything comes together, you get to step back, and smile, and marvel at everything you've accomplished against all odds. 

Unfortunately, I rarely take enough time for that step, because I'm usually off and running the next race already. 

I was thinking about that today, and it's pretty symbolic of my life in general. It's symbolic of most people's lives, truth be told. We're always looking ahead, focusing on what's next, and worrying about what we don't have, instead of living in the moment and being thankful for everything that we do have. I'm not going to wax philosophic about this, because anything I said would be something you've read in a thousand "Live Your Happiest Life Today" articles and books written by bald men and women in power suits who have found a way to have it all and will share their secrets with you for just three low payments of $19.95 (plus shipping and handling). Instead, I want to share some of the truths I've realized lately that were hard to face, but I think finally facing them is going to make me a lot stronger in the long run.

I've been in and out of talk therapy for a lot of my life, which is a fact that I'm not in any way ashamed of. Most of it was family-oriented, due to all the struggles we faced as a result of my mom's chronic illness. All of the therapists I've seen have had different approaches, but the one thread that tied them all together was their recognition of my codependency. There are many different ways to explain codependency, but the definition most applicable to me is as follows:

"It often involves placing a lower priority on one's own needs, while being excessively preoccupied with the needs of others."

Basically, my happiness has always needed to stem from the happiness of others, and their recognition of the fact that I went out of my way to make them happy/fulfill their needs. I now have a solid understanding of how this developed in my life, and recognizing this in myself was/is half of the battle. Still, I'm not sure that it's something I will ever grow out of entirely. As awful as it was/is to give that power away, it's equally as terrifying to begin to take that power back; to focus on myself, and my needs, and my happiness. I mean, after almost thirty years of ignoring what I wanted and needed (in the broad, intrinsic sense, of course) how am I supposed to magically turn it all around?

Slowly, that's how.

When I started at my job three years ago, that was the beginning. It's the first job I've held, ever, where I feel valued, and appreciated, and am doing something that I, for the most part, love.

My mom passing away was the second milestone. A lot of my guilt and stress - over not having enough time to spend with her, not having any money to give her so she could afford things she couldn't otherwise due to being disabled and having astronomical medical bills, not being able to make her better - was replaced, when she died, by a sense of sadness and loss that is much easier to process through, though certainly not any easier to feel.

The third and most recent milestone occurred when I moved into my new place at the beginning of May. And I love it here; I love the neighborhood, my neighbors are very kind, I love the way I've decorated, and the way that it's always clean when I walk in the door. But I came home the other day, and I walked in, and I looked around, and thought to myself, "Shit. This is it. It's about me now. My mom is gone. I have my own place. I have a good job. I am getting my debt under control. I still want to work on my weight and my health but... what comes after that?"

And I didn't know the answer, and in that moment, that scared the shit out of me.

I know that that's okay. I mean, no one has all the answers. I certainly continue to take positive steps each day, like making my workouts a priority, cooking healthy meals, and learning Spanish through Rosetta Stone. And there are some things I know I want someday, like the chance to travel the world, and to learn about photography, and eventually, to get married and have a family of my own. But the point of it all is, it's time now for me to figure all of that out. It's not in the future anymore. Now is the future. Which, again, is both exhilarating and terrifying. 

Perhaps the majority of my strength as of late has, ironically, come from denying myself things that are bad for me, no matter how badly I want them in the moment. As this strength inside of me grows, it is altering my relationship with food for the better (although I will always love to eat); and next to the sadness that I can't quite dislodge from my chest, I also now feel a sense of pride when I don't pick up the phone and call or text a certain person with whom I'd previously been very close, because I know I deserve better than the 'second-best' position that they put me in. It's been a long time since I've had the strength to deny myself these things, so I know that this, too, is a step in the right direction.

I don't know if I'll ever have all of the answers, and I don't know if it will ever stop being scary, but what I do know is this: I want to take back my happiness. I want to learn how to be happy because I am who I am; to love who I love, and be who I want to be, and do the things I want to do, and know that, even if I don't learn Spanish or lose weight or meet someone and fall in love and have a family of my own - even if it's just me, on my own, for the rest of my life - I'll be brave enough to find happiness in whatever life may throw my way, because instead of looking for it outside, it will be coming from within. 

Writing Prompt: 6/11/13

Writing Prompt: Write a list of five first and last names. Select one of the names and write about the character.

Hannah Black
Joseph McKenna
Isabella Fortune
Charlotte Franklin
Lincoln Montgomery
_________________________________________________________________________________

My name is Isabella Fortune.

I was born on the night of a full moon; Halloween eve, twenty-two years ago. I've come to realize, over time, that it's because of this that I am the way that I am... but I'm getting ahead of myself.

I should start at the beginning.

When I was a young child, my mother would whisper to me each night as she kissed my forehead and pulled my covers up to my chin, tucking me into bed, "Magic chose you, my darling. Magic chose you the night you were born, and you are destined for great things. Just wait, Isabella. You'll see."

And I believed her. I spent the better part of the first ten years of my life firmly rooted in the belief that something amazing was going to happen to me, someday, and wondering when 'someday' would come. I daydreamed of dragons and castles, of kings and princes, and every afternoon, on the way home from school, riding in the back of my mother's station wagon, I would stick my head out the window to feel the wind rushing against my face, just so I would be prepared for the day that I learned that I could fly.

But things changed. I never discovered a hidden talent for flight; I never met any handsome princes or kings or angry dragons; and the closest thing I ever saw to a castle was the White Castle burger joint just up the road from my house. In short, I grew up, and I became the pessimistic realist to my mother's optimistic whims of fancy. Of course my mother saw magic in me; this was the woman who picked discarded bits of glass from the neighbor's recycling bins so she could tie them together and hang them in the window and bask in the explosion of color that would occur when the sun hit it, just so. My mother saw magic in everything, and in order to balance her out, I learned, over time, to ignore it completely.

I never knew my father - he left my mother before I was born - but I imagined myself to be a lot like him; sturdy, strong, logical and dependable, all the things my mother was not. But despite the fact that she could never seem to pay the electric bill - or any bill, for that matter - on time, my mother loved me. God, did she love me, so fiercely that even to this day, when I close my eyes, I can still feel that love surrounding me; an intangible emotion made tangible by her a ferocity that both suffocated and comforted; hurt and healed.

My mother died two months before my nineteenth birthday, in a car accident that could have been avoided if only The Rusty Nail Tavern down on Clark Street had checked the ID of the twenty-year-old boy they'd over-served. Up until then, despite my learned pessimism, there had always been a small corner of my heart that still believed what my mother had told all those years ago; that magic really had chosen me... that I really was destined for something wonderful. But as I stood there watching the last of the mourners leave, their sobs muffled by handfuls of tissues while my own traitorous eyes remained dry, I realized that that last bit of light inside of me had been buried with her. 

And so, the next three years of my life passed in as uneventful of a manner as the previous few already had. I had plenty of money from my mother's life insurance policy, thanks to the fact that I'd taken over paying the bills a few years before she died, and the house had been paid off by my father before he left, a sort of "parting gift apology-slash-bribe"; my mother's words, not mine. I went to college, I got a degree in business, and I took as job as the manager of a local coffee shop. I went through the motions of life without feeling anything. It was almost as if someone had put my body on auto-pilot with me still stuck inside; I could see everything that was happening, but I couldn't feel any of it. I began to wonder if I was destined to go through life as a spectator rather than a participant, but I couldn't even muster enough energy to care about the answer. 

And then, on the night of my twenty-second birthday, as I was nursing a bottle of my favorite Moscato and watching Trick-or-Treaters scurry from house to house while the full moon swam across the sky, that all changed. 

It is there, on my doorstep that Halloween night, that the story of Isabella Fortune really begins.

Writing Prompt: 6/10/13

Okay, so I want to be super good at writing. I want to write a book, and writing, just like anything else, takes practice. So, I've decided that, every day, I will find a writing prompt and write until my brain shuts off. No pressure. Just whatever I can muster. I have no problem with sharing you, but please note that this is all original work, and therefore, my personal property, so please, no stealing. That being said, let's get this party started.

Writing Prompt:

I know it is cliche to say he smiled with his eyes but, he did smile with his eyes. Unfortunately the rest of him was saying...

I know it's cliche to say he smiled with his eyes but, he did. Smile with his eyes, that is. It was one of the things about him that had always fascinated me. Unfortunately, the rest of him was saying, "If I make it out of this alive, there will be hell to pay." I shivered at the thought, though it wasn't necessarily an unpleasant one.

"I think what Mara meant to say is that I'm currently in-between jobs while pursuing a career that's both financially as well as intrinsically rewarding," he seethed.  

"Potato, potat-oh." I waved my hand absently, while deep inside, my stomach tied itself into knots. I would never understand why I couldn't just leave well enough alone. I always had to push.

"Not exactly, darling," he said, smooth as silk, but his eyes had turned to steel. I swallowed hard and forced a carefree smile.

"I'm just saying, darling, that I worry about you, and I want to help you through this midlife crisis in whatever way that I can." Take that, asshole.

He opened his mouth to respond but my sister, forever the peacemaker, beat him to it.

"Mara, there's nothing wrong with taking some time off of work to find yourself," she chided lightly. "In fact, Hunter, I find it quite admirable. I mean, I love my job, but there have always been other dreams I wished I'd had the courage to pursue."

"Courage is a myth, Ana," Hunter said to my sister, pausing to take a sip of his scotch, and I rolled my eyes. "It's about balancing patience and sacrifice with living in the moment, which is something the younger generations never quite learned how to handle," he said, inclining his head slightly towards me. I crossed my arms, fuming, while they shared a laugh at my expense. 

"Yeah, well, I'll remember that when you guys are buying canes and living in nursing homes and I'm still completely independent. And wealthy. From all the money I earned working my ass off at my job." I hated the fact that I'd let him turn me into a petulant child, but I couldn't seem to stop myself.

Hunter chuckled, which only served to infuriate me even more. "Mara, love, ten years is hardly that big of an age difference. I have a feeling you won't be too far behind."

Blessedly, Ana's phone chose that moment to ring. She glanced down at it and frowned. "Shit, it's my boss. I have to take this. Will you excuse me for a moment?"

Hunter stood as my sister grabbed her phone and quickly disappeared in the direction of the lobby. When he was seated once again, I turned my best glare on him, and he sighed. 

"Mara, why do you insist on making this so difficult?"

"Me?" I yelped incredulously. "We're supposed to get married and you quit your job, which was the only reason we were getting married in the first place... and on top of it, you tell my sister about it before you tell me?" My voice was shrill, and people were beginning to stare, but I didn't care; I was too angry. 

Hunter was quiet for a moment, silently appraising me, his jaw clenched tight. His eyes traveled slowly across my face and, briefly, I found myself wondering what it was that he was seeing. Were my eyes too far apart? My nose too upturned? Could he see the tiny scar just above my eyebrow from the time I'd slammed my head into the corner of the bathroom mirror? 

Did he - could he - find me beautiful? 

He took a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated instead; his gaze moved to the glass in his hand and he swirled the amber-colored liquid slowly for a moment. I watched, tense, trying to anticipate his next move, waiting for him to pounce.

But he didn't.

"Have I ever let you down before?" he asked, so quietly that I wasn't sure, at first, that I'd heard him, and  when I realized what he'd said, my anger vanished. I sagged against the back of my chair, defeated.

"No," I said, sighing softly. "No, Hunter, you haven't."

"I am a man of my word," he continued. "I said I would take care of you, and I will. I know you could never love me, and I would never ask that of you. What I do ask for, however, is your respect, which is something I feel I have earned." 

"You have," I responded quietly. I looked up at him, and when our eyes met, I knew I couldn't leave it at that. Not anymore. Not when it was the only thing I wanted. With courage I didn't realize I even possessed, I continued. "But that's just the thing. You always say that I could never love you, but..."

"I am so sorry about that," Ana said as she sat back down at the table. I hadn't even seen her coming. Hunter had that effect on me; his presence tended to block out the rest of the world. Ana noticed the awkward silence as the words I hadn't been able to say burned in the back of my throat. I took a sip of water and snuck a glance at Hunter, who was staring at me so intently that it made me feel like I was the only person, besides him, who existed in the entirety of the universe.

Ana looked back and forth between us slowly. "Um, I'm so sorry. Did I interrupt something?"

I wanted to tell her that she hadn't, but I had come so close to telling Hunter the truth, and I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, all the things I'd been hiding for so long would come tumbling out and embarrass us both. It was Hunter who finally broke the silence.

"I do believe," he said quietly, "that your sister was about to tell me that she's in love with me."

It was now or never. I took a deep breath, knowing the the next words out of my mouth were going to cause one hell of a shitstorm. 

I didn't care.

"I do believe," I said, "that you are correct."

Water Conservation, Bedtime Fashion, Road Rage, and Brand Brainwashing

Fair warning before we proceed; there is a lot of inappropriate language in this particular post, mostly in the form of an excessive use of F-bombs. Love it or leave it.

Moving on. :)

I was driving with my dad to pick up my sister's car this morning for reasons that are neither important nor entertaining, and on the way, we ran into a funeral procession. Stuck at the light, we watched it for a moment in silence, and then he said, very nonchalantly, "So, when I die, I want to make sure there's a really long procession, and I'm not sure that I have enough friends, so how much do you think it would cost to hire people to just drive in the procession so it looks like I'm popular?"

Just in case you're wondering where I get my sense of humor from, now, you know.

I've encountered a couple of things lately that I wanted to share with you in hopes that you'd get some entertainment out of them, too. The first is this sign I found on the hotel rack in a hotel I stayed in during a recent business trip to Jacksonville, Florida.

YOU MAKE THE CHOICE.

I'm sure that we are all used to seeing these when we stay in hotels; in fact, when I stay at the Westin, I always opt to get the extra SPG points over having my room cleaned and my towels changed out every day. But for some reason, this one struck me as hilarious. I know the picture is a little blurry, so let me type out what it says for you:

Dear Guest,

Every day millions of gallons of water are used to wash towels that have only been used once. 

YOU MAKE THE CHOICE:

A towel on the rack means "I will use again."

A towel on the floor means "Please replace."

Thank you for helping us conserve the Earth's vital resources.

Since I see these all the time, I know the gist of what they say, so I never really stop to read them, but I am so glad I stopped to read this one, because I still laugh my ass off every time I look at it. I mean, seriously. I completely understand saving the Earth's vital resources and am all for re-using my towels for a day or two. After all, I only wash my shower towels once every week or two at home. (I really hope that's socially acceptable because if not, revealing that information just made me a social pariah.) But this one just seems so over the top. I don't know if it's the bold font and all-caps they used for the 'YOU MAKE THE CHOICE' part, but this is what I hear in my head when I read this lovely little note:

Dear Guest,

Every day, millions of gallons of water are used to wash towels that are only used once.

Are you fucking kidding me? 

That is the biggest fucking waste of water I have ever heard of in my life. Dolphins and whales and children in third world countries are all dying simply because you're a lazy fuck, and you don't want to take the two seconds and five calories it will expend just to 

HANG YOUR FUCKING TOWEL BACK ON THE RACK. 

Wow. You're an asshole. 

But, you know, it's a free country, so,

YOU MAKE THE CHOICE:

A towel on the rack means "I am a decent fucking human being, and I will hang up my towel, because it's the right fucking thing to do."

A towel on the floor means "I am the spawn of Satan, and when I die, I will certainly go straight to hell, where I will burn in fire-y pits of lava with an unquenchable thirst for all of eternity while dolphins and whales and children from third world countries drink an endless supply of water and watch and laugh."

Thank you for helping us conserve the Earth's vital resources. 

Unless you choose not to hang up your towel. In that case, go fuck yourself.

In case you're wondering, I hung up my towel before I left that day.

Now that I have my own place, I have had to become even more financially responsible than I was before, so I've started to clip coupons, and the other day, when I was paging through the latest Red Plum, I came across an ad for muumuus, in leopard print, of all things. The ad bills them as "the most comfortable lounger you'll ever wear!" I'm sure it is. However, if you buy one of these, it will also most likely be the last lounger you ever wear, because wearing one of these virtually guarantees that you will die, alone, in your apartment, and your cats will most likely end up eating your face before anyone realizes you're dead and comes to get rid of your body. Look, I'm not trying to be mean, I'm just trying to give you the facts. If you are single, wearing something like this will ensure that you stay that way. If you're married and you wear this around the house, you will probably, eventually, end up single. If you are plus-sized and just want something big and comfortable to wear, go to the Men's Big & Tall store and get some sweatpants and a fleece. But for the love of God, do not put this monstrosity on, because you deserve to live a happy life, and wearing one of these can only help you accomplish the exact opposite of that.

If you do decide to purchase one, and you wear it around your man, let me give you a little glimpse into how the conversation will most likely go:

You: "Hey stud, check out this comfortable lounger I bought... in fact, you might even say that it's the most comfortable lounger I'll ever wear. It's comfortable for me, but it's zebra-striped, so it's sexy for you, too. The kids are asleep; whaddya say we have a little fun?"

Him: "No."

And that's about the end of that.

Louis C.K. has a new comedy special out on HBO, and it's hilarious, so if you have a chance, you should definitely check it out. He has a bit in there about road rage that made me laugh my ass off, mostly because it was so true. I experienced it for myself the other day; I was driving to work, and some woman pulled out in front of me, not slowly enough that I was scared I would hit her, but slowly enough to irritate me, and then proceeded to drive 5 mph under the speed limit on a very long stretch of one-lane road, and while I was seething to myself behind the wheel, I literally said, out loud, "I hope you ram your car into a fucking tree!" And I immediately started laughing, not because what I said was funny, but because it was so ridiculous that I was so pissed about her driving so slowly that I expressed a desire for her to die. I mean, that's fucked up. Seriously, watch his special, and you'll understand what I'm talking about. He explains it much better than I do.

And last, but certainly not least, I'd just like to give a shout-out to all those brilliant marketing assholes out there that use Disney Princesses branding to sell shit to parents who buy it just to shut their kids up. Let me be very clear that I hate these people because their tricks don't just work on children; they work on me, too. I am a grown-ass woman, but any time I see something with the Disney Princesses on it, I momentarily regress approximately 25 years and must. have. it. immediately. When I was waiting in line at Toys R Us (see my last post) a display of miscellaneous travel-sized items caught my eye; Disney Princess themed soap, shower gel, q-tips, you name it, it was there... and I wanted it. I wanted it ALL. I mean, why the fuck would I buy that kind of stuff? I have an entire drawer filled with travel-sized products, since I travel a lot for work, and all of them are expensive, name-brand products, like Paul Mitchell and Lever 2000 and Vera Wang. But no. Fuck them. The Disney Princess themed shower gel was way cooler, even if it is made out of llama spit and the tears of a million unhappy migrant workers and smells like bubble gum on steroids. Who cares. JUST LOOK AT THE BOTTLE.

IT'S SO MAGICAL.

The good news is, those screaming children snapped me out of my trance before I made any stupid impulse buys. But I do already own Disney Princess band-aids, and they are pretty much the coolest fucking things ever.

Sorry I'm not sorry.

Have a good weekend, my loves!

Why I Will Never Set Foot in Toys R Us Again (Until I Have Kids)

I went to Toys R Us yesterday to pick up a gift for a baby shower.

Now, the first time I set foot in this store as an adult was a few years ago, and I remember that I was actually looking forward to waxing nostalgic about all the enjoyable hours I had spent in there as a child, gazing in wonder at the millions of toys just sitting there on the shelves, begging for me to take them home so we could live happily ever after. Unfortunately, my experience couldn't have been further from those fuzzy pink candy-coated memories that I recalled. Instead of wandering peacefully and aimlessly down the aisles with a content smile on my face while reflecting on my childhood self, I spent about ten minutes dodging flustered parents and children hopped up on the magic of toys while searching desperately for the organic bouncy-chair-slash-high-chair-slash-personal-masseuse or whatever the hell was on my friend's registry before I gave up, grabbed an equally flustered Toys R Us employee by the arm, and demanded they find the item for me. I then obtained a $15 greeting card and a $25 pack of gift wrap (seriously, the markups at this place are ridiculous) (also, typing that sentence made me feel really old) and had to brave/muscle my way through a thirty minute wait at checkout before I could escape to the safety of my car.

"Never again," I promised myself as I pealed out of the parking lot and home to a blessedly child-free apartment and a tumbler of Johnnie Walker Black Label on the rocks.

And I've kept that promise.

I've been to a lot of baby showers in the past year, and instead of putting myself through that panic-laden obstacle course each time, I now use this magical invention they call "in-store pickup". I buy the item off the registry online, and when I get to the store, all I have to do is go to the service desk and show them my pick-up ticket; they check my drivers license, hand me my previously-purchased item, and I'm on my merry way.

At least, that's how it usually works.

After picking out a gift online for the baby shower I'm attending this weekend, I stopped into Toys R Us last night on my way to see Iron Man 3 to pick it up. It was a Wednesday night, and there were very few cars in the parking lot, so I was lulled into a false sense of security. When I walked in the doors and saw the store practically empty, I thought to myself, "Well, I have a few minutes to kill. I may as well take a look around." Maybe I'd get that candy-coated trip down memory lane after all.

Oh, Ginger. Ginger, Ginger, Ginger. Will you ever learn?

I turned the corner, and an ear-shattering screech stopped me in my tracks; in front of me was a kid in full-meltdown mode. His face was bright red, and he was alternately crying and shrieking in a car alarm-like pattern, and there was so much snot, and the noise level rendered me temporarily unable to do anything but stare. The mom was holding the child and ignoring him completely while calmly carrying on a conversation with a store employee who looked like he'd rather be fending off a pack of wild dogs with nothing but a ballpoint pen than continue said conversation. To be honest, I'm not sure how he was even able to answer her questions, because I wasn't even able to conform my features into a socially-acceptable, uninterested look, much less form any sort of cohesive sentence; I literally just stood there, completely aware that I had a look of disgust on my face, and completely unable to do anything about it.

Now, don't get me wrong. I do like kids, and I'd like to have some of my own someday. I may be turning 30 this year, but I'm okay waiting another, oh, say, five years or so before that happens. Still, I have enough kids in my life to completely understand that they're insane, and they do insane things, and that, as a parent, sometimes you just have to let them cry and scream it out. I get that. I'm not a monster. But when I see a kid having a meltdown like that in public, my immediate, gut reaction, before the "kind and gentle" half of me starts to reprimand me for being an asshole and I politely turn away, is just complete and utter disgust and disdain. And yes, I am 100% positive that, when I do have kids of my own, this will come back to bite me in the ass.

I regained my senses after a moment and wisely decided to abandon my attempts at childhood nostalgia, choosing instead to make a beeline for the service desk and get the hell out of there, when I was stopped dead in my tracks by another child who threw themselves into my path with wild, desperate, emotional-filled abandon and began to wail, something about Guppies (apparently a cartoon character, judging by the toy next to her) and "I hate you!" The frazzled mother wasn't far behind; she apologized profusely and I mustered as patient of a smile as I could in response while I weaved my way around them and then paused when I remembered that I still needed to pick up a greeting card.

Fuck.

I weighed my options before sighing heavily and turning around again, making my way back to the greeting cards where, you guessed it, I was confronted with yet another screaming child. (I can't make this shit up.) Now, here's where it gets fun; after I blindly grabbed the first card I saw that looked appropriate and finally made it to the Service Desk, there was a line of three people.

Three people. Think about it for a moment...

Yep, you guessed it; it was the same three sets of parents and screaming children that I had encountered on my way through the store. Why were they all in line at the Service Desk? Well, because it was a Wednesday night, and the store was slow, so they didn't have any registers open. 

Let me say that again, because it's just so fucking ridiculous.

They didn't have any registers open; the only register open was the service desk, which was also the only place where I could pick up the item that I had already purchased and was sitting patiently right there on the back counter... so close, but so, so far away. So, I sat there for five minutes, listening to a cacophony of deafening shrieks, with what I knew was a look of complete impatience, frustration, and disgust on my face, and even though I felt bad for being such an asshole, there absolutely nothing I could do about it. Literally. When one of the kids stop to take a breath and her eyes caught mine, I tried to smile, in an effort to be nice, but I'm fairly sure it came out as some kind of terrifying grimace, because she immediately turned away and started screaming even louder.

I think the best part of it all was that the woman who was being rung up when I got in line was clearly what I refer to as a "Brookfield Mom" - gigantic diamond ring, Louis Vuitton purse, perfectly coiffed hair, and her child, who was still screaming, was clutching an Organic Apple Juicebox - and, ignoring all the chaos around her and the fact that there was only one register open and a line forming, still made the employee go get the item that she wanted to exchange from halfway across the store instead of going and getting it her damn self.

It was at that point that I was finally able to abandon my look of disdain in favor of shooting murderous daggers at the back of that woman's head.

Another employee noticed my expression, had mercy on me, and walked me back to the register by the video games so I could get the hell out of there. He even said to me as he was ringing up my purchase, "I hate waiting in line, too, so I thought I'd help you out." I felt a little bit like an asshole for being so obviously impatient, but mostly, I really just wanted to go let the air out of the tires on the Brookfield Mom's BMW, and/or force-feed her child a McDonald's hamburger and 15 Pixie Sticks.

And that, my friends, is why I will never, ever set foot in a Toys R Us again... until I have children of my own. And when I do, I will be armed with travel-size bottles of alcohol and $20 bills, and when my kid starts throwing a tantrum, and I see that single woman with a look of disgust on her face, I'll just hand her one of each, wink, and say, "Enjoy it while you can, sweetcheeks. Enjoy it while you can."

How I Know I'm Finally an Adult

I've been thinking, and joking, a lot lately about things I do and say that sometimes make me take a step back and go, "Holy crap. When did I become an adult?" Some things are funny, and some make me sad, but they are all inevitable proof that, for better or worse, I have grown and changed more in these past few years than I sometimes realize.

For instance, I now get really excited when I buy new things for my house; a new vacuum, a coffee maker, a new painting that sets off the color of my throw pillows on my couch. I mean, the fact that I even HAVE throw pillows on my couch is proof enough. I even got ridiculously excited when I discovered the, well... magic... of Mr. Clean's Magic Erasers. (I mean, it took all the stains off the walls! ALL of them! It was fucking incredible!) And I always buy everything on sale after conducting a thorough price comparison cross-check via the internet to make sure I'm getting the lowest price. (Hello, 20% off coupon for Bed, Bath and Beyond. If you had the right parts, I would marry you.) Gone are the days when I'd blow my paycheck on a cute pair of shoes. Now, I do things like budget, and save, and clip coupons, and while yes, these are very smart things to do, they make me feel like a responsible adult.

Gross.

My drunken nights out on Water Street and North Avenue have turned into one glass of wine after dinner, which usually leads to yawning around 10 pm. If I make it to 11, it's generally only because an attractive man is involved. (Not to mention the fact that I originally wrote "cute boy" instead of "attractive man", which briefly made me feel like a pedophile, prompting me to go back and edit. Ka-blamo. Further proof.) And when I do go out and get a little crazy, it takes me a minimum of two days, 20+ hours of sleep, and shit-ton of coconut water & ibuprofen to recover.

I get more bills in the mail than anything else. I have a filing cabinet with file folders inside with labels that say things like 401K, Health and Life Insurance, Medical Records, and Warranties. Teenagers piss me off. I say things like, "God, remember the 90's? Skip-It's and C&C Music Factory and Hammer Pants and Saved By the Bell? And we actually played outside instead of playing video games all day? Things were so much simpler back then." I buy shoes that are comfortable and easy to walk in instead of just slutty hot. I cook for myself, and "cooking" means veggies and meats and complex carbs, not just throwing a pizza in the oven. I go to bed early during the week, and never get drunk on a night when I have to work the next day. I mispronounce band names like Skrillex (Skill-Rex. True story. I still can't say it right to this day.) And, neither last nor least, but as a way of wrapping up this list for now, I worry about things like eating organic food, avoiding GMO's, and using water and air filters in my house to avoid toxins.

All of these things are funny for me to realize, usually prompting me to laugh and shake my head and then check my face for premature wrinkles. (I have the worst crow's feet already, but I like to think they're from smiling too much, and I'm okay with that. I find them kind of endearing.) But there are somethings about being a somewhat-responsible, nearly-thirty-year-old adult that I really struggle with... like love.

Especially love.

How, ten years ago, all it took was a mutual interest and attraction, and you were willing to give a relationship a try. Now, you have a list to check off, and with every item on that list, the pool of eligible men gets smaller and smaller. How now, you're no longer dating just for fun; you're dating because you want to find someone to share the rest of your life with. How because of that, you're pickier than you ever were before, but you have to be, because if you're not, at least on some level, you'll never find the person who is right for you. I've dabbled in online dating recently, and I didn't realize until I started filling out my profile just how many things I had on that list. He has to be able to, at least for the most part, spell correctly and use appropriate punctuation. Preferably someone who is college-educated with some type of professional career. Dogs, no cats. Divorced or never married, that doesn't matter, as long as he can make me laugh. That one's a must. A bit of humbleness wouldn't hurt. Kindness is important. Willing to make his relationship a priority in his life. Financially stable. Doesn't live with his parents. Wants to have kids. Faithful. Patient, because I am most definitely not. Doesn't do drugs. Willing to compromise and try new things. Someone active and at least semi health-conscious. There are all these things that I'd like the man that I marry to have, and yes, on some, I am willing to compromise. But it's both crazy and somewhat of a relief to look at that list. It's crazy, because I'm scared I'll never find someone who meets at least the important ones, and enough of the unimportant ones to not drive me crazy on a daily basis. It's a relief, because something good did come out of all of those not-so-healthy relationships; I can finally stop wasting my time and call it quits when I discover true deal-breakers instead of having to test the waters each time to see if I can handle them or not.

And how most nights, I'd rather cuddle, because as I get older, emotional and physical intimacy begin to become more important than just getting laid.

How, as an adult, you get to a point when you realize how difficult love can really be; and no matter how much you want to believe it, sometimes, love doesn't always find a way. How you can understand that someone is selfish and damaged and completely and totally wrong for you on every single level, and still love them anyway, so much, while simultaneously forcing yourself to turn around and walk away; and how, in that moment, love and hate become two entities that are no longer mutually exclusive. These days, even in my weakest moments, I am learning to stay far away from those men when they enter my life, because even though sometimes it's hard to let go of something so potentially beautiful, knowing we would burn so brightly for a while, I am finally learning to love myself first and foremost, and I know that giving in will accomplish nothing; all I will end up with is a hell of a lot of heartache and "what coulda been's" and empty handfuls of wasted time.

Because what proves to me more than any of the above that I've finally become an adult is that I'm learning to the right things for me, even though it's almost never easy. In fact, it's generally the more difficult path to take... but I am learning to take it, anyway.

It would appear that purging all these thoughts has allowed me to settle down enough to get some sleep. I am exhausted. But I got a kick-ass workout in today, and I made it to 12:30 am, and neither of those things involved an attractive man.

This one's for the books, kids. Sweet Dreams. :)