Duck Hunt

People are quick to jump on the censorship bandwagon. Let’s be clear, there is a difference between censorship and not providing a platform for a person to spew their crazy. The comments Phil Robertson made are insensitive and ignorant, at best. While I can agree this country is too politically correct, I am not sure that is the issue when a person is comparing homosexuals to terrorists.

I understand that when it comes to right and wrong, there is no gray area with God. Anything that is not right is unquestionably wrong. No sin is better or worse than another. So cheating and murder are equal in God’s eyes. Someone needs to tell God equality is a myth. However, with this understanding of God’s view, it is easy to compare homosexuals to terrorists. In God’s eyes, both are wrong. The issue here is that Robertson did not make the clarification that all sin is created equal. He simply said God will sort them out later, the “homosexuals, drunks, and terrorists”.

His comments about women having more to offer with their vaginas than a man with his anus is graphic and little creepy while still attempting to be complimentary towards women, but it negates what is accepted within the medical community. Homosexuality is no more a choice than heterosexuality. Obviously this comment does more than skirt the line of political correctness.

Credit does need to be given, though. Robertson does say that he loves everyone as God loves all of his children. Hate the sin, not the sinner? He acknowledges that it is not his place to judge; instead God will do that when the time comes. Unfortunately his delivery was off with everything else he said.

I am not even going to touch on his comments about working the fields. Instead, I am going to say that Christians need to remember that not everyone holds the same absolutist views they do. In fact, I would bet that if you ask most Christians, they would say lying is not as bad as stealing or killing. According God, they would be wrong, but as Robertson says “sin is not logical”.

So, A&E deciding to distance themselves from a man who makes blatantly a racist, homophobic, insensitive, and far from politically correct comment is not the same as censorship. Removing the soap box on which a person chooses to stand is not the same as putting a gag in their mouth. A&E is not saying he cannot hold these opinions, preach, do other interviews, etc. Instead A&E is saying they do not share these beliefs or opinions and do not want to be lumped in with this rhetoric; therefore they will not continue to fund a man who spouts these things.

Sure, the argument can be made that by affecting his livelihood A&E is figuratively gagging him, but I think that would be a hard stretch to make. The Robertson family is extremely wealthy. They have plenty of outlets and venues to make money. If anything, I would say this controversy has made them more popular than ever. Walmart will still sell their camouflage hunting gear. Churches are still booking Phil Robertson years in advance. Their company of duck whistles is going to continue selling and growing. This family will never hurt for money again. A&E taking a step back will hardly put a dent in the pocketbooks of Robertson’s.

A&E’s only responsibility is to themselves and their wallets. They owe this family nothing. The relationship was mutually beneficial until Robertson said some crazy things. Then it was up to A&E to protect themselves, their image, and their reputation (which could be argued started suffering long before airing such garbage as Duck Dynasty).

Lastly, can we please all agree that this is not some type of politically correct liberal conspiracy war on Christianity? Can we stop, please? There is no war on Christianity. If there is, I am pretty sure Christianity is winning. According to a recent Washington Post article, the government loses more than $70 billion a year in tax subsidies to churches. Anytime the Pope says anything, ever, at all, it is a headline story. You cannot walk down the street during winter without seeing Christmas trees and lights. Even saying happy holidays is a religious greeting if you understand the etymology of the words. Every day I see at least one person wearing a cross. Christians are more than welcome to express their beliefs. They seem to do it every day without even realizing it.

That being said, a private company does not have to agree with or support those beliefs. Backing away from these statements is not an act of war and insinuating so is leaning on hyperbole. There is no war or scandal by a company trying to protect its image and profits that is simply capitalism. 

We Are Gathered Here Today to Celebrate the Happiness...

I recently read a Huff Post article about banning weddings and baby showers. Honestly, I totally agreed with the article. The author made plenty of great points and my friend who posted the article received some backlash in the comments. So, fine banning weddings is a pipe dream, but can we please all agree that every wedding should have an open bar and allow the guests a plus one?

I know that some people get married extremely young and can’t drink at their wedding, but I have to say that is their damn fault. God forbid I get married, you better believe I am getting toasty on Champagne.  I know some people have addiction issues, but that isn’t my damn fault. I shouldn’t have to celebrate your happiness sober simply because you cannot handle your vices. Some people are on a tight budget I get it, but your open bar doesn’t have to be a full bar. Buy some bottles of wine and a keg or two, call it a day. At the very least, put a flask at every seat and make sure that flask is filled with booze. Like I said, I shouldn’t have to celebrate your happiness while sober.

The plus one issue is a little harder. I have plenty of friends who don’t allow plus ones unless the couple is in a long term serious relationship. Friends of mine have not given out plus ones to people who knew most of the guest list and also weren’t in a serious relationship because it is not like this person would really be alone (the bride and groom shared plenty of friends with this guest). People I know have picked which friends get to bring their significant other and which don’t based on the bride and groom’s feelings about that possible plus one.

I understand that weddings are expensive. I get it. But once again, your guests are being asked to celebrate your happiness and I don’t think they should have to be miserable for you to be happy. I know having wedding guests is expensive with food costs and rental fees for plates, chairs, tables, napkins, silverware, etc. I get it. However, your guests are probably spending a pretty penny on your wedding and I don’t think that should go unnoticed. Planning on sending a thank you card for the gift of ugly wine glasses you picked out is not the same as acknowledging them showing up just for you. Let them bring a date, because not everyone is guaranteed to go home with a bridesmaid or groomsmen or lonely, desperate guest. So, you might be dropping $100 per plate per person, but your guests are probably buying a new dress or suit and tie. They are buying you a gift. If your wedding is out of the area they are paying for travel and hotel. The least you could do is let them bring a guest.

Weddings have a guest list, I get that. Maybe you don’t want your wedding to exceed 100 people. But, then you have to figure that probably 25-50 of those people will want to bring a guest. Plus, if you want to have 100 people, be prepared to have more people show up. It is a party, after all. We all know what happened when our parents were out of town in high school and we told a few friends to come over. Next thing we know half the graduating class is there and the cops are being called. Having the cops called on your wedding is the sign of a true success.

In the true socialist fashion that my bleeding liberal heart believes in (/sarcasm), all I am saying is, if you are going to consummate your marriage you should allow your guests to do all but guarantee getting laid by letting them bring a guest and making sure there is an open bar. If you have to put Rohypnol in the guest bag, so be it. All I am saying is, this is a happy day for you, let it also be a happy day for your guests. 

Blogception

I think I learned my propensity for fear at an early age. My first learning experience with my lack of invincibility came when I was five. I was playing next door with a neighbor boy. I climbed on top of a chair so that I could jump to a branch. The chair was one of those old metal framed folding chair, the kind with the vinyl bands to make the back and seat of the chair. Soccer moms were never without a set of them. We had at least a dozen in our garage. They came out for everything. We brought them to my brothers’ soccer games, Fourth of July celebrations, Air Shows, neighborhood bar-b-ques. We had chairs for adults and chairs for kids. I pulled out one the little chair’s. I hauled it over the tiny fence separating my parents’ yard from our neighbors and stood it up below the branch I want to grab. I don’t know why I was trying to grab this branch? Maybe I just wanted to hang on it, or I wanted to accomplish the feat of touching it. The tree was too small for me to climb, so I know that wasn’t the goal. But the mind of my five year old self is hard to figure out. Anyway, I was all set to jump when my mom walked out of our house.

I saw my mom and panicked. I knew if she saw me on top of this chair I was going to get a strong tongue lashing. In order to avoid being yelled at, I jumped. My jump failed. White people cannot jump. To prove how bad we are at jumping and anything jumping related (See: Basketball), the fates saw fit to break my arm. I was in a cast for the rest of summer. Upside is that my cast was hot pink and totally badass.

A few years later I was in the hospital getting ready to have my appendix taken out. I was terrified that I might die. I was too young to really understand what was happening and why it was necessary for the doctors to cut me open. I begged my mom not to let them. Promised I would make good grades and keep my room clean. I didn’t understand why I was sick. I felt fine the day before, but now I was being prepped for surgery, my blood was being drawn and I was sitting in a hospital gown. I remember seeing another kid outside of the x-ray room. I don’t remember the gender, but I remember them being younger than me. The kid was really sick, something more serious than simply needing their appendix removed. My mom told me how scared that other little kid was, and that an x-ray wasn’t a big deal, they don’t hurt so I needed to put on a brave face to show this other child it would be okay. In the end, it was okay. I had my appendix removed and I don’t miss it. I have a small scar, but I think it adds character. Who needs tattoos when you have scars?

Next time I broke my wrist. I went to the skate deck with some friends. My mom didn’t want me on roller blades because she told me they are dangerous. People were breaking their wrists and arms, they were not safe. I told her I wouldn’t get roller blades; I would just rent regular skates. When I got to the skate deck, I saw everyone else on roller blades, so I paid the extra dollar and rented them instead. I was spinning with a girlfriend, she let go of me, I lost my balance and fell, hard. Broke my wrist. Fuck.

Then, a year later I decided to get back on roller blades. My elementary school has a steep hill separating the upper and lower playgrounds and the field. I decided to skate up and down this hill. Get some speed up and then fall in the sand. Well, on my last run a friend thought it would be funny to jump in front of me and move out of the way just before I crashed into them. Kids are geniuses. I fell backwards and slid on my back all the way down the hill. I was bleeding profusely. For some reason our music teacher was on campus, even though it was a weekend. She found us and gave me a ride to my house a few blocks away. I still wasn’t supposed to be on roller blades, so I told my mom I was skating again. I am not sure why she believed me, why I was ever allowed on roller skates again or why a few years later she caved and finally let me buy a pair of roller blades. Nor am I entirely sure why I thought I should keep getting on roller blades. Stupid.

I cannot count the number of times I have hurt myself doing stupid things. I broke my other wrist ice blocking; I have sprained my ankles more times than I can remember. From an early age I learned that actions have consequences and we are not immortal. We are humans, we hurt and bleed and eventually die. And while that is maybe a little dramatic and definitely morbid it has been a thought that stays with me. I carry this with me in everything I do. I am terrified of the consequences. I play them out in my head, I go over every detail, I analyze every possible scenario.

That is why I am so hesitant and scared when my friends tell me I should have a more honest blog or that I should start a website similar to TFLN or SMDS, called Text From My Friends or something along those lines. Sure, most of our conversations are absolutely hilarious, but they are not always the most friendly or PC. Others say my soul mate and I should start a podcast, and I agree. I think people would love to listen to our ridiculous rants and conversations, but once again I worry about how many people we will offend. Both of say some super racist things and talk trash about our family and boyfriends and friends and coworkers. And while we love these people in our lives, we need each other to vent when these people get to be too much to bear. Part of me wants to bare it all on the Internet, leave myself exposed, I am not sure the risk is worth the reward.

So, this is where I stand. I want to create an anonymous forum for me to lay it all out there. Friends of mine have told me I should, including friends with political aspirations. Yet, I am still completely hesitant. Obviously I would not post this anonymous blog on my own social media. I would need to find other anonymous ways of marketing it. But of course, if it does by some miracle become popular, I know it won’t be long until people piece together the puzzle. Even if I change names, the subjects will still know themselves and could probably figure out some of the others. Therefore, I would be afraid of being too honest. Dealing with the aftermath of secrets and lies is not a road I want to travel. 

Alert the PETA

Opiate addiction is nothing to joke about and that is why I am not kidding when I say that I plan on getting my parents dog addicted to opiates. If you are seriously concerned about this, I would stop reading now and simply call PETA. On that note, screw PETA. They do a lot worse to dogs than simply getting them addicted to Oxy.

Anyone that has ever met my parent’s dog knows she is more wild beast than she is dog. Marshawn Lynch would be jealous of this dog’s beast mode. Seriously, I think she is part coyote. She is like the dog from Marley and Me. The worst.dog.ever. Evil with a dog face. Her face is really freaking cute though.

She has these great pointy ears and a long pointy snout. Her hair is long and shaggy, but not so long that it starts to curl at the ends. Her tail is bushy and curls up. Her coat is all black and she kind of looks like a wolf. Basically she is the prettiest dog ever. Unfortunately, just like the prettiest of girls, this dog’s personality sucks. This brings me to my desire to get this dog addicted to the form of opium prescribed by doctors.

It is impossible to walk into my parent’s house without the damn dog jumping all of you. This dog isn’t a crappy little lap dog; this is a 70+ pound beast of a dog. She is large and lean and Satan. No matter how much you yell, or ignore, or try to train this dog she just doesn’t give a fuck. Chai does what Chai wants. Therein lays the problem. Dogs are supposed to serve their master. However Chai gives the middle finger to that convention whenever it is possible. One of these days she is going to run into the street and get hit by a car, assuming she doesn’t die (because God has a sick sense of humor) she will hopefully learn her lesson.

My parent’s make excuses for her as if she were a rational human. They tell me that she lost her mom early, she was taken from her siblings, that my dad lets her do whatever she wants, and while all of these things may be true it doesn’t change the fact that this dog is the worst creature I have met.

Really, I am trying to help her and my parents. If I give this dog a Vicodin every day, hopefully she will just chill out and relax. Not jump on me and claw my legs until they bleed. She will be too high to jump on the counter and eat the pork chops mom is thawing for dinner. She won’t have the energy to put a rabbit in her mouth and run off on a walk. Jumping on the sliding back door will be a thing of the past.

Now, I recognize the flaw in this plan is putting this poor dog through withdrawals. But, my parents have plenty of Benadryl on hand to put her to sleep.

Maybe that is the real answer, just putting this dog to sleep. I don’t think Caesar Milan could fix this terrorist, but I am pretty sure a few hundred dollars and some sodium thiopental could. 

I am Patricia Pan, nice to meet you!

I read an article on HuffPost, much like I do every day. However, this article in particle had my wheels turning. It hit a little closer to home than I am used to. I sent a link to my girlfriend and soul mate, asking her what she thought. She told me I am this article, it hit me like a nail on the head. Boom.

Now, I have to say that I don’t fully agree with her and this article is directed at women about 10 years older than me, but knowing I might be heading down this path was not a pleasant thought or realization for me. The piece is called Nine Signs You’re a Female Peter Pan. Later, the author calls these women Princess Pan, or PP. The list goes as followed:

1. You’re the center of your universe

2. You’re cool.

3. You’re uncommitted.

4. You’re over it. By “it” I mean everything.

5. You’re uncompromising

6. You love reality shows

7. You sleep with Peter Pans

8. You live downtown. Or in a loft. Or in Portland.

9. You think you’re immortal.

The author goes on to describe what she means in all of these and the article is quick and funny, it doesn’t point fingers but makes the reader think.

On the surface, I would say that I fit all of these like a glove, but when I look a little deeper I am not sure that I do. Sure, I am the center of my own universe, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about other people that and I don’t inconvenience myself to go out of my way for my friends and coworkers. The people that are close to me mean more to me than anything else in the world, I would do anything for them. So, while I love myself a lot, probably too much, and I am one of the most selfish people I know, at the end of the day I would never leave my friends or family high and dry.

I have never been cool and never will be cool. If I am cool, no one told me. I am not rocking the glasses for fashion instead of function, I don’t own a single plaid item, I have never worn a top knot and my hair is too short to do it now. Being cool would require me to give fucks about other people’s opinions and because I am so selfish I do not.

I am super uncommitted. I think this may have hit the closest to home. I really do like plans, I like knowing that my friends are going to follow through and I like having something in which to look forward. When it comes to being in a relationship, I am not trying to have any of that noise. I just got out of a three year relations and a few months before I met him I was in a two and a half year relationship. It is time for me to be single and explore and have fun. Maybe 27 is a little old to be doing that, but I know what I need. This is not about what society needs or society expects from me, this is about what I need, want, and expect for myself. I don’t want to settle.

Uncompromising. When it comes down to buying the white car or the black car I am not going to compromise. I am getting what I want, deal with it. When it comes to getting into a relationship I am not going to compromise. Taking the next step of moving in, I am not ready and will not compromise. If I haven’t seen my girlfriends in what feels like forever and I want to go out with them, I am not going to compromise. I am going to do what I want, but that does not mean that I don’t think there is a time and a place. I have bills to pay and I have responsibilities. So, if that means working six days a week to make ends meet, I will work six days a week. I have done it before I will do it again. But, because I have bills and responsibilities I cannot always compromise and take the job of my dreams that pays me pennies. I cannot financially make that compromise, realizing that is an unfortunate truth about adulthood. Moving back in with my parents is NOT an option, relying on someone else is NOT an option. So, sometimes that means passing on the amazing job offer or last minute weekend trip. It sucks, but that is compromise.

Loving reality shows? Guilty as sin. Jersey Shore is by far one of my favorite shows of all time. I love it. But, I think I am in the clear with this one. The author says guilty pleasures are fine (and was even on a reality show), it is the people that are on the message boards and talk about these reality stars as if they know them personally. While I wish I were BFF’s with Snooki, I know that I am not. It makes me a little sad every time I look at her Instagram feed, but it is a sadness I know I can bare.

I do not sleep with Peter Pans. Like I said, I just got out of a three year relationship with a great guy who loved me, wanted to settle down with me. He is amazing, but I couldn’t do it. The boyfriend before him was also great, two and a half years of great. Going back even further, was another great guy whom I dated for a year and wanted to put a ring on my finger. Just because I am a commitment phobe does not mean that I am attracted to other commitment phobes. 

Living in downtown Redmond is not like living downtown in any real city. There are a handful of bars within walking distance, three are chains, two are dives. I want to live in downtown Seattle because it is amazing. Sure, part of me wants a loft, but okay, I don’t have an excuse. I am guilty of this one. Not about Portland, fuck that city, but the rest of it.

Immortality is not something I have ever desired. I am not at all afraid of death because it is not like I will know better. I don’t want Botox and I have great skin that will age well. I am not worried about looking old because the women in my family age extremely well. As long as I don’t have kids, I am going to remain pretty. I don’t deny being vain, but immortality is not my goal.

This article hit close to home. Like I said earlier, it was directed towards women about 10 years older than me, cougars that dress and party like they are still 21. Some of these things I am totally guilty of like wanting to live downtown and loving terrible television. But I guess what really bothers me is the assumption that these Princess Pan’s have always been that way, that they are women who never grew up. These women probably had kids and raised those kids well (fingers crossed), and now they are in their late 30’s, early to mid 40’s and living their second childhood. They get to be selfish after taking care of everyone else.

Not everyone is meant it grow up. Some people have a young soul and like my mom always told me “you are only as old as you act and I will never act old, so I will never be my age”. It seems to be working for her. My mom doesn’t go out and party, she shows up to work every day and logs too many extra hours. She has been married to my dad for 38 years, she has never had cosmetic surgery and loves bad television (not reality). But my mom is young at heart and it is something I really respect and admire about her.

It is easy to label these PP as irresponsible women that need to grow up. Maybe they do. But who is to say they cannot walk the line of both worlds. Maybe they don’t want to compromise and be locked down by one guy, maybe they want to live in the city and watch The Bachelor. But, doesn’t mean they don’t show up to work on time and pay their bills. It is possible to be a productive member of society and be true to yourself, even if yourself is what this author calls a Princess Pan. 

You've Got Mail

I am starting to worry about LinkedIn. At first, when we met, things were fine. I rarely ever connected with LinkedIn and LinkedIn mostly left me to my business, always there when I needed but never needy or pushy, the perfect relationship. Lately LinkedIn has started to take a turn. It started off slowly, sending me emails to update my profile, telling my about my contacts updated information, asking me to endorse my friends. However, now LinkedIn is like that overly attached girlfriend, you know the meme I am talking about.

It seems that every day I have a new email from LinkedIn. Michael has endorsed me, John has endorsed me, I should endorse Rob, Ryan has a new job! I get it! Jeeze. When did LinkedIn get so attached?!

The worst part about LinkedIn being such a Stage 5 Clinger is that I don’t know a single person who has ever actually benefitted from their LinkedIn profile. Who seriously gets clients or job offers from LinkedIn? I have yet to meet a single person. Sure, potential employers can stalk me on the Internet if they want, I will gladly give them my LinkedIn profile if they really desire, but I am not sure they will find any information on my page that they couldn’t simply read on my resume. I suppose they could look at who all has endorsed me and what skills they have endorsed, but even then, that means very little. A friend of mine has endorsed me for my skills in the service industry, I get emails about it every.single.day but this person has never worked in the service industry, therefore all he has to go off of is what I tell him and what he sees when he comes into my work, so should his endorsement be taken as seriously as a former manager or someone else working in the industry?

At the end of the day I suppose it doesn’t matter. I highly doubt any of my potential employers are looking at my LinkedIn profile and I highly doubt they care about my service industry endorsements, but damn does LinkedIn care about my endorsements.

Maybe I should be thankful that LinkedIn cares so much. It is kind of nice to know this website wants the best for me and wants to encourage me. LinkedIn is just trying to remind me that my friends also want me succeed. So, while I may not need to get the same reminder every single day, maybe I should look at the bright side of things.

LinkedIn doesn’t want to be forgotten. I can understand that feeling. However, a website having feelings is super creepy. But, I get it. LinkedIn is feeling neglected and maybe a little useless in this relationship. I guess the least I could do is update my profile every once in a while and maybe visit LinkedIn so it knows I have gotten its 300 emails about Michael endorsing my vast array of skills. Or maybe it is time to end this relationship, rip off the Band-Aid and admit that maybe this isn’t a mutually beneficial relationship. I suppose only time will tell if it is meant to last. 

Shamed at the Gym

I have been a member of LA fitness for years now. I actually joined the first gym in the state. I was 18 or 19 years old and I had my first “big girl” job. I figured joining a gym would be a good step towards adulthood. After all, having your own gym membership seems like a very grown up thing. So, I took my dad with me and I looked at the facility and talked to a sales person. My dad agreed that it seemed like a good idea, although he was skeptical on my reasons, and I joined the gym.

I lived just a few miles up from the gym and assuming there was no traffic, police activity, and before they changed the speed limit to 25 on the main road, I could make it to the gym in 10 minutes, easily. The gym was brand new and so was the equipment. It was usually empty so my gym phobia rarely ever kicked in, although I did go during a peak hour once and after walking past the reception desk walked back out. I could feel the blonde teenage receptionist staring at my back as I left. This was my first experience with gym shaming.

A few months after I signed up for the gym they noticed I didn’t have a picture attached to my file, so when I was scanning in that day the young girl behind the counter suggested we take a picture. At least she suggested the picture before my work out, although maybe a day when my eyes weren’t puffy from sleep and yesterday’s make-up would have been nicer. So, I took the picture and it wasn’t a big deal until I stopped going for a while. Like I said, I had a big girl job at the time, but I also worked odd hours and the gym closes at midnight (the biggest downfall to my fitness, in my opinion). So, it was difficult to get the gym after work when I was getting off work around 10-11pm and I am far too lazy to go to the gym regularly before work. But when my hours changed I started making an appearance again. I handed my gym card to the girl high school girl behind the counter who obediently swiped it in the scanner and looked at me quizzically “You changed your hair? You haven’t been here in a while.” Yes. My hair had changed. And No, I hadn’t been here in a while. Glad we could clear that up.

Basically my gym membership went on like this for years. I would be really good and diligent, going to the gym getting my fitness on, then I would get sick or my gym partner would change schedules, or my schedule would change and I would stop showing up. Then the last 3 years happened. In those 3 years I went to the gym exactly no times. Not once, not never. In that time I tried calling up to cancel and they insisted that I go online to print off a cancellation document. Apparently they don’t know the year and that no one owns a damn printer. Everything in my life is done via email. If I ever really need to print something off I have someone that works at Microsoft or the government do it for me. Occasionally I will go to school and use their paper and toner. But never do I print something at home or anyone else’s home because no one I know owns a printer. Seriously.

Not to mention, their website is like a damn labyrinth and swears I am not a member and that my gym doesn’t actually exist. And because I am not a member I cannot log in to the website to print off a cancellation page, so even if I did know someone with a printer, it would still do me no kind of good. So, I had no file filled out and therefore couldn’t send it in by the certified mail that they ask their cancellation forms are sent by.

By this time I had moved out of the area and didn’t want to make the 30 minute drive to the nearest LA Fitness to get the cancellation sheet to fill it out and send it by certified mail so that they would hopefully - assuming the planets were aligned and my fingers were crossed at the exact time the envelope reached the mail room - they would cancel my membership and stop taking money from my account.

But! I had a lucky day and they built a new LA fitness a few miles from my house. It is near where I bought my car and after taking it to the dealer to be serviced I decided I should go in to get the stupid form to cancel my stupid membership. So, I walked into the brand new and giant facility and was greeted by a friendly young girl who smiled and asked what she could do for me. I told her I needed a cancellation form. To my complete and utter surprise, she told me I could cancel in the gym that day! Victory! Then she yells out across the gym for her manager I don’t remember her managers name, so let’s call him Steve. She says “STEVE!!!! We have a cancellation!!!” Sigh. The treadmills full of bored housewives are facing the door, I imagine this is on purpose, so that they feel like they on escaping the gym with each step on the revolving belt. They all seem to stare at me as Steve takes his merry sweet time coming up to the desk to help me cancel. I see the middle aged women staring me up and down wondering what would possess me to hate my body so much that I am willing to cancel my gym membership. They seemed to envision my spinsterhood with each passing second.

As these Stepford’s judged, the perky girl behind the counter asked me why I was cancelling, her eyes bulged a little when she saw the low rate of my membership. I told her I haven’t been in 3 years - she knows - I know she knows. She asked how I got such a good deal. She knows she can see when I signed up. I told her I started my membership shortly after the first gym opened, memberships were cheaper then. She told me I should probably just hold my account and not quit all together. I reminded her that I haven’t been to the gym in 3 years, freezing my account for a few months is not going to somehow magically encourage me to start working out again. I am lazy! Awkward silence ensues.

Shortly before I became eligible for Social Security, Steve waltzed up the desk. He asked me a series of similar questions to Miss Sunshine and I gave him a similar list of responses. Then he cancelled my membership, but first he warned me that cancelling would be permanent and I would never get my super low rate back. I assured him I understand the consequences of my quitting.

Then, I got an email from LA Fitness. The computer generated stock letter told me they were sorry to have lost me. This was turning into a bad break-up with a stage-5 clinger. Then a few days later I got another email. It begged me to come back and asked me why I wouldn’t take my fitness seriously. “Please come back to us. We are so sorry to have lost you. If you change your mind and want to start taking your fitness seriously again, you can keep your old rate. It is still yours for a few more weeks; don’t miss this chance to stay healthy.” Apparently LA Fitness knows what a lazy bitch I am and feels the need to remind me that they know. LA Fitness is a real life Miss Cleo.

But I am American and I will not be intimidated and I will not negotiate with terrorists. In my eyes LA Fitness is a terrorist. So, I ignored the emails and kept going about my day. Then today happened. I got another email from the Fitness of LA. They told me I can’t get my old rate back, but I can get a similarly low new rate (plus tax of course) and I would still have to put down first and last month and I would have to pay an initiation fee, again, but it is really low also. So, if I will just come back I can get this low rate, but the rate isn’t guaranteed forever, they can change my rate whenever I want. But, then it is kind of like playing Russian Roulette with my bank account, so why wouldn’t I want to take advantage of this completely mediocre deal?!

Honestly, I don’t know how these people even got my email address. All I know is that they really, really want my ass back in their gym, shedding the pounds. At least when I get emails I can’t see the stares of cosmetically altered women pitying my lack of resolve to get to the gym. So, I suppose there is an upside to everything. 

Mirror, Mirror on the wall...

A high school classmate of mine posted something on Facebook today comparing herself to a well-known and extremely thin celebrity. The gist of the post was why bother competing if we have already lost. It is a very good question but it got me thinking about body image and the way we view ourselves as women.

I don’t think any female wakes up every day and thinks she is supposed to look like Barbie or Kim K or Gwyneth Paltrow. I do, however, think we wake up every day and are told that we should want to look this way. This puts us in this weird middle place where we know that the whole world is not judging us on a daily basis, watching the number of calories we take in, the number of hours we spend in the gym, and how flattering our outfits are on these rock hard Pilates bodies. No. We might be judged by the people we know, our friends, family, coworkers; and we might be judged in passing by strangers we walk by in the mall or at a restaurant, but in general we do not experience the same type of scrutiny to always look amazing as celebrities do, and yet we feel we should put ourselves through that experience.

Most days after showering I look at my naked body in the mirror and I see some really positive things. I have great collar bones, my back is really nice, I have a stellar ass, my legs are long and toned (even if there is a tiny bit of cellulite). But I also seem to focus on the negative aspects of my body. My stomach is not flat, my hips are too large, I have back fat that cosmetic surgeons refer to as flanks (I know this from looking up liposuction), my breasts are too small, the backs of my arms are not as toned I would like them to be, my nose is slightly crooked, my upper lip is too thin, my eyebrows are different shapes, my ankles are too skinny, and so on. Yet, with all of my imperfections, most days, I look in the mirror and can overlook the things I hate about my body. I can put on clothes and know they flatter my body. I can walk out of the house with my head held high and know that I look good.

The paparazzi don’t follow me around every single day, and I think that helps my self-confidence, living in the PNW doesn’t really hurt it either. But I guess my point is, who decides what is beautiful and why do we all expect to fit into the same box of beauty? Why do we even want to? We all have different hair color, eye color, skin color. We come in different shapes and sizes, so why are we trying to force ourselves to change? Of course, I am not saying to accept being overweight, or people shouldn’t get cosmetic surgery if that is what they really want, but I am saying that striving to look like a celebrity is ridiculous. Those women are paid to be beautiful whereas the rest of us are paid to show up to work every day and perform our job duties. Sure, being pretty helps me in my profession of slinging margaritas, but my job is not to be pretty.

Comparing ourselves to knockouts such as Jennifer Lawrence is like comparing ourselves to aliens. We seem to forget that we do not live in the same world as these beauties. Sure, we might inhabit the same planet, but we are not actually competing with them. I wake up every day having no fear that my boyfriend might one day leave me for Angelina Jolie, partly because he has never done a movie with her, but also because it is never going to happen. We spend so much time worrying about how we look and wondering why the girls that grace the covers of gossip rags have these perfect bodies while we slave away trying to maintain a reasonable BMI that we forget these starlets are freaks of nature. We forget to look around the grocery store and see the women we are actually competing with, and usually against those women, we are safe.

But the bigger problem is that we seem to forget we are more than just our outside appearance. For all of my physical flaws, I am pretty fucking awesome. I am smart and creative, I dance and laugh at myself, I make my friends and family laugh (usually at my own expense), and generally I am a pretty cool chick. So, while being pretty might be what gets me free drinks, being rad is what makes guys, friends, family, strangers, whoever want to continue a conversation with me. That has to count for something, and honestly I think that has to count for a lot more. I was born with this body type. I came out of my mother’s womb destined to have a pear shaped body and be mistaken for a lesbian throughout my formative years, I cannot change that. Being awesome is something I had to groom, not a lot because I was also born pretty freaking awesome, but it has been honed, slightly. That is what I think we should be focusing on. Not who looks the most like some famous actor or singer, but who can hold a conversation and have an original thought and make a joke and laugh at themselves. Maybe if we started focusing more on those things we would be jealous of how funny or smart a celebrity is instead of how thin or large breasted. And maybe it is just me, but I would rather look up to a smart person than a pretty person. 

Epiphany

Some days it just hits me. Most days I float through life, I worry about the future in the same way most people do, but I rarely do anything to change my future. But sometimes it all hits me like a ton of bricks. I have these epiphanies that are so strong is seems at is if the world stops. My breath catches and I am paralyzed by my realization that I am too scared to really live.

I was at a show last night, a show that I have been looking forward to for months. One of the opening bands was playing. Their music wasn’t overly good, but it was decent. I could tell that beneath the synth and the loops and stupid stage theatrics that these artists were really talented singers. And I liked the music, but I liked it in the same way I like other bad music, it is entertaining to listen to, but it isn’t really thought provoking or soulful in the way Taylor Swift sings about every single guy that has ever broken up with her, which is apparently a lot. Regardless, I was at this show and I was watching these performers and it hit me. These people are not doing what I want to do, what I am passionate about, but they are putting themselves out there! I want to write and the best part about writing is that I can lay my heart and soul for the world, but I am doing it with the written word and have the privilege of anonymity. But these people that were on stage, doing that exact same thing, opening themselves and their lives out for criticism and they were rocking it. They were good, the crowd loved them. And if they could put themselves out there without the benefit of being anonymous, why can I not put myself out there behind my blog?

Watching others be fearless made me want to be just as fearless. I have always hated myself for being crippled by my own fear. It is very sick and very cyclical. I hate that I am afraid, but I am too afraid to change it. With each passing piece I write, I am feel I am one step closer to someone realizing that I have no idea what I am doing. That me putting words on to paper is nothing more than that, simply words on paper. I am terrified that one day someone is going to realize I am hack and they are not going to hold back in telling me so. One day some is going to tell me everything I already fear and know. But, I also realize that letting this fear hold me back is cheating myself and the person that will mostly likely one day force me to come to the harsh realization that I am possibly not as talented as I think I am, or my friends tell me I am.

And as if the universe were pushing me in this direction, you know, in case my Earth shattering epiphany wasn’t sign enough I opened a fortune cookie that told me “Keep in touch with some form of the arts”. Even the damn Chinamen is all up in my business, pushing me to do the only thing that I am good at doing.

So, I have to say “Thank you” to Flavr Blue, Watsky, and the Chinamen down the road, Grand Peking, for putting that damn cookie in my take-out. Now, I just need to hold myself accountable and follow through on my most important promises, the ones I make to myself, and maybe one day when my dreams come true, I can thank myself for ignoring that damn voice in the back of my head that will not shut up about how hard I am going to fail and how terrible I really am. If I can quiet that bully that lives inside me and I can overcome my fears, I think I stand a real chance of making something of myself. 

Solo Paradise

Preface
I am far too lazy to proof read this. Sorry and enjoy...
And for the person that said I wouldn't write this, it might be a week or so late, but it is written. Boom!


When movies show a pretty girl, assigned to a plane seat next to an attractive boy, they hit it off and spend a whole vacation together, they fall in love and something dramatic happens, then they find their way back to each other and live happily ever after, know that is all a complete lie. Trust me. Sure I didn’t really want to spend my entire vacation with a complete stranger, or anyone, nor did I want to fall in love, have something dramatic happen, find my way back to him, and spend the rest of my life happily ever after with him, but maybe having a conversation for part of the entire six hour plane ride would have been nice. Instead I got on the plane, was sat next to an attractive boy, and that boy kept his hood up, pulled the window shades down, and slept. Occasionally he would wake up, tear open a snack, and hungrily shove it in his mouth before inevitably falling back asleep, hood up, nursing what I imagine to be a killer hangover.


Eventually the plane landed. It took me a while to navigate the Honolulu airport, but eventually I found my way outside to a taxi. The taxis in Oahu are not yellow and uniform like they are on the mainland, they are a normal Ford Focus, Honda CR-V, Chevy Suburban like you would see a person driving down the road, but these have a cab sign on top, the only thing that sets them apart from the rest of the cars driving down the road.  I think I pulled in to a Ford Expedition. We drove around the island and the driver tried to make some small talk for a little bit, about the weather, but he had such a thick Japanese accent I could only understand about a third of what he was saying. It was a relief to finally pull up to my hotel, $50 after pickup.

I checked-in, was told about all the extra fees for the amenities in the hotel which include DVD rental but not a pool or bar, and left my bags in the lobby while I went to explore the beach because my room would not be ready for a few more hours.

My first stop was a bar called Margaritaville, a Jimmy Buffett owned restaurant with a beautiful view of the strip and beach. The hostess at the lobby told me they bring my food to me instead of me having to go looking for it, apparently this is uncommon in restaurants. I let her continue with her spiel, smiling and nodding, before I pressed the button to take me to the bar. For a place called Margaritaville you would think they might have a decent selection of margaritas and tequila and you would be wrong, my friend. But the view is nice and the bartender was friendly enough, so the place sufficed.

A few hours later, I decided to leave the bar and head to my hotel to check-in. My plan was to shower up, put on a bathing suit and head to the beach. I walked in, got my key, headed to my room. The room was small, but in a perfect way. The whole room was white washed with the exception of a single bright blue wall and an orange throw on the bed. The lights, rug, curtains, bedding, tile, everything was bright, clean white. It was beautiful. Unfortunately my view was mostly of other apartments, hotels, and office buildings. The bathroom was completely different from the room. It was as if I was stepping in to a different hotel when I entered the bathroom. I could tell the hotel must have been remodeled recently. The tile along the shower was a strange shade of yellow, one that might have been popular in the ’70’s. The bathroom was trying to really hard to match the bedroom, but it was failing miserably. But, the water worked, even if it was hard to regulate shower temperature, so I didn’t care too much. However my plan of exploring at night fell through because my bed was so comfortable and I was so tired from closing the night before my flight, waking up early to fly, and then flying. Something about travel makes me sleepy, so I slept.

One of my favorite things about Hawaii is the time difference. When it is noon in Seattle it is only 10 in Hawaii. I am able to wake up early and I have the rest of my day to do whatever I want. So, I woke up early, grabbed some brunch, and went back to my room to change into my bathing suit, grab my book and I headed to the beach where a very attractive surf instructor stopped me to offer lessons. I declined and kept walking until I found a nice spot of lay out and read while working on my tan. As a female, I am obviously really good at multitasking. When the sun started going down, I decided to head back. The same attractive surf instructor stopped me again, asking how long I planned on staying in Waikiki. I told him when I got in and when I leave and he asked if I would like to grab a beer. I was thrown off by his bluntness and asked if it was getting weird. He assured me nothing was weird and gave me his number in case I wanted to meet up later. I seriously considered calling him later that night, then I decided the potential for date rape was too high and stayed in yet again, finished my book and slept.

I finally went out my last night. Waikiki at night is a completely different place! I saw the city transform. Instead of people with strange accents pandering with metal laser cut wind chimes and silk skirts that can apparently be worn 100 ways, the street are filled with street performers and artists. There was the Santa violinist, the two silver robot men that move and dance when you give them money, the break dancing crew, the astronomist with a giant telescope pointed at one of the planets, a caricature cartoonist, scenery artist, and of course the couple of prostitutes, drug dealers, and homeless people. Still, at night it seemed magical, full of energy and life. All of the tiki torches are lit, the open air bars all seem to have live music, the beach had a luau going on, people were still walking around the streets but instead of looking for a place to eat or shop or taking pictures people are out looking for a good bar or club. Lost is the laidback attitude of the morning.

So, I went through the heavily populated streets looking for food. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and the options seemed overwhelming. I knew I wanted to avoid a place like MargeritaVille and Cheeseburger in Paradise, but that still left hundreds of options. Eventually I ended up in a gay bar, the only gay in Waikiki. It seemed to be a slow night, the disco ball wasn’t spinning and no one was on the dance floor, so I was a little disappointed, but their TVs did say they have viewing parties of RuPaul’s Drag Race and the live musician was very talented and attractive, so benefit of the doubt was given. The nice thing about being a straight female in a gay bar is not worrying about getting hit on, because I did get hit on in the only Irish bar I could find by a much much older man the previous day. Although, it was hard for me to turn down his offer for a nice steak dinner, it was nice to not feel the need to reject anything more than another drink from the bartender.

Anyway, the food was great along with the music, but I decided to go find some food that was slightly more filling in a place that was slightly less gay. Back into the hopping streets I went to find myself in a hotel bar. The bar overlooked the beach and had local singers playing relaxing music while their friends’ hula danced for the small crowd. After sitting there for a few minutes trying to decide what to eat and drink a gentleman sat next to me carrying a bag from a jewelry store. He was probably in my father’s peer group and looked like my childhood Ken dolls. Tall, slightly too tan, tight skin, blonde hair that was blow dried and coiffed. But, he was nice and married so he made a great drinking partner. We ordered our food and drinks, ate and talked then decided to head downstairs to the bar on the beach. We were able to sit outside under the tiki torches and drink blended tropical concoctions listening to a different live musician. Strangely, our waitress is from an area of Washington not too far from me. The older gentleman and I talked long into the night before paying our tab and heading our separate ways.

As I was walking back to my hotel on the mostly empty streets, past the couple of prostitutes standing outside of a clothing shop, I reflected on my stay. I can honestly say it was the best and most relaxing vacation I have ever had. Sure, I wish I had done more, maybe not spent so much time in my clean cozy hotel room, I wish I had taken more pictures and maybe joined that beach luau, but in general I learned about myself and I learned how much I love to explore and travel alone. It was worth the sideways glances to being a single female in a paradise usually frequented by couples. The culture shock was immense but at the end, it was completely worth it. I came home recommending that every person I know take at least one vacation in their lifetime by themself.

But, I do also have to recommend extra sunscreen if you go to Hawaii. If you think you have enough on, you don’t, I promise. If you don’t believe me have a conversation with my burnt butt cheeks! 

Adventures in car buying pt 1

Today I cleaned out my car for what is possibly the last time ever. I expected to feel nothing, or if anything excitement, nervousness, maybe a little bit of anticipation. Instead, I became very emotional. Maybe it was the coffee mug or two full of wine, but I would like to think it is because that car holds so many memories for me.

My father one day told me we were going to go look at cars. He didn’t tell me to bring my checkbook, but I had an idea of what might happen. So, I grabbed my checkbook and followed him out the door. We drove about an hour to the car dealer he had picked out with the selection of new cars he thought would be good for me. I was 17 at the time, a few weeks shy of turning 18. The dealership had a decent selection of Focuses. Some were that ugly hatchback, some were sporty, some were manual transmission. But one had nearly everything I was looking for. A four door sedan with an automatic transmission, the only downfall being the color, “Inferred”. I hate red cars, sick. But, I couldn’t turn my back on a brand new car just because of the color.

So, I got out my father and I got out our checkbooks and left the dealer with a brand new car.

The law in Washington State says a new driver cannot have passengers (other than family) in the car for either six months, or until the driver turns 18, whichever comes first. I was about two week shy of being 18 when my parents and I purchased my car. Of course, my parents told me to wait to give rides to my friends and of course I did not listen. Immediately I was giving two girls that lived down the road (MD and EE) rides to school. EE was always super annoying because she was NEVER ready on time and she was always having some type of earth shattering, life ending drama with her much much older boyfriend. MD was usually funny and quiet and always down to skip first period for some Shari’s.

(For the sake a funny tidbit MD’s dad thought I was a cheerleader because I was a wearing a white pleated miniskirt when I needed him to change the tire on my car because a boulder jumped in front of me on the road)

Soon, I turned 18 and I was driving with passengers legally, shortly after EE stopped getting rides from me. I don’t remember why, but I was none too upset about it. Also soon, I was parking in the high school parking lot without a permit. I knew Coach Nick (our school coach, security guard, etc) was far too super obese (this is a real term and completely fitting) to fit between the cars in order to put a ticket on my front windshield, so I parked along the fence in the parking lot almost every single day. I never got a ticket.

I made plenty of completely stupid driving decisions in the car like racing on the streets and getting into the turn lane to pass my friends, taking turns at 45, doing 100+mph on the freeway, and other general young and reckless ideas. But, by the time I turned 21/22 I had calmed down a lot. For the most part I rarely sped more than with the speed of traffic, I stopped racing my friends, didn’t make stupid risky decisions like taking turns way too fast. Yet, my parents knew I was of legal drinking age and were convinced a DUI was on the horizon.

As of writing this I am DUI free and have every intention of remaining that way.

But as I cleaned out my car today, this flood of memories came back to me. I remember riding with my group of friends with nowhere in my mind, I remember picking up my high school boyfriend (BK) from the airport dressed like a sexy chauffer, I even found a box of his things in the trunk of my car. I saw the glittery heels in my car from long nights dancing and listening to great DJ’s. I found my salsa shoes in my car, reminding me of taking lessons and going out dancing with my Columbian friends. I found about 5 single socks without mates. I found paystubs and old bills, letters I never opened, accident report forms, receipts from a tow company to help me get in my car after one of the many times I locked my keys in my car. I found my permanent protection order that I am supposed to keep on me at all times.

I had make-ups in that car and break-ups in that car. I probably had a first kiss or two in that car. I have some really great memories in that car and some really terrible ones. And while most of those memories will still be with for a long time coming, it is still hard to know as I am cleaning my life out from this vehicle a piece of these memories is getting sold with the car.

It will be nice not to see where my crazy ex (MDW) keyed my car and scratched his initials in the gas cap. It will be nice to not look at the car and remember him sitting in it so I couldn’t leave, until I called the cops, or chased me down in my car on the infamous night to make sure I wasn’t going to tell anyone, to make sure I didn’t have a key to get back in to our place or the garage. I won’t sit in the car and remember how it would smell like booze and cigarettes for days after picking him up from a party.

I won’t have the memory of being sexually assaulted by random guys that I knew who were usually drunk. I would reach across them to open their door and push them out.

But, I also won’t have the memory of going to Jack in the Box instead of fourth period with MD, or making out like high school kids with MC, or talking and laughing for hours about nothing with KAM, or making out in front of MD’s parents with MJ. That Focus is more than just a car; it is an emotional scrap book of my early adulthood. It is a security blanket of memories and life events.

So, while I am excited to get a new car and move closer to real adulthood, it is sad to lose this part of my adolescence. And this is a feeling I did not expect. But, that car has gotten me through a lot. It has put up with its fair share of abuse and I am a little sad to see it leave. I hope it has a better future than just being scrapped for parts.