I'm taking a moment to relish the good things. At the moment, I am in a beautiful city, I've never been here before but it is certainly growing on me. Vancouver, BC, is clean, green, kind and diverse people, active, vibrant. This city has everything, mountains, rivers, seaplanes, city trains. I've noticed that people seem very healthy here, everyone walks. This seems like Canada's Miami with the glass condos lining the entire length of the harbor. I've heard the "ouuut" in about, out, shout, etc. It's cute. It feels like home. I know my Mom would love it here.
Another thing I've noticed that just warms my heart is when a complete stranger calls me an affection name - like sweetie, honey, cupcake. I think it's adorable and I wish I was bold enough to say so in return. The affection makes me feel more connected, it's always given with a smile, and often it feels truly sincere. I love sincerity, feeling connected, I love happy people. It also reminds me that I'm not the only one that believes happiness is contagious.
I had an enlightening moment where I'm sitting in the middle of a strange city, completely content, eating my po'boy lunch of baget, brie and salami, with my Harp's, taking in the surroundings. How fortunate I am to have a job that allows me to see these fine places. How great is it that I get to move to a new home when I return? How awesome is it that my family, dad included, was able to spend time with each other in one place, our cabin place, last weekend. How lucky I am to have friends that look forward to sharing their time with me. There are little complaints along the line, but all in all, when I look at the big picture, life isn't that bad. In fact, it's pretty damn good. Even if I don't have balls and chains!
Monday, June 27, 2011
Keep my age to yourself
No one appreciates reminders of their advancing age, especially at 32 when a young gal still feels like 23. At one time, I saw my hairdresser because I wanted to, now I continue to see my hairdresser because I have to. My roots do not just grow out, so do my grays. At one time, my waist circumference used to be in the twenties. Evidently, waist size increases proportionally (x.5%) as age increases. And not just waist size, but jean size, bra size and panty size. And to put the nail in my puma coffin, I drive a four door tan sedan. Speaking of four door sedans, and speaking of this puma on the prowl, I was an innocent victim of high school giddy games recently that REALLY made me feel my age.
Ladies, gents, remember WAY back when... back to a time when boys and girls had little crushes that left you giddy, nervous, and excited? And do you remember being that underclassmen who totally adored that upperclassmen, that cutie patutie teacher, or that hot something-er-other working the McDonald's drive thru, or the star athlete? Do you remember being totally enamored with an older, wiser, and totally unlikely object of your realistic affections? I do. And while I'm flattered at the mere thought that a car full of barely-post-pubescent boys felt it necessary to honk (twice), yell, (thrice), and another time even louder for the full effect, and then get all giddyasaschoolgirl with big wide toothy grins from ear to ear, and wave the "helLOO!". My first thought was, "well, how cute is that?" and then it donned on me what was really going on. I've been punked. I'm not old enough to be that "woman" that gets the hollers, the looks, the silly cat calls from boys that could, in all honesty, be my offspring. I refuse to believe I've reached that point that I recall so well - doing those stupid embarrassing things, like driving in endless circles in the neighborhood of the crush, just to catch a mere glimpse in the window, add my phone number with his, write his name over and over with mine, scope out our "sign" compatability (oh, wait...). I am not old enough to be the object of fascious attention, just for $hits and giggles. I am not old enough to be that girl that waves for the sake of "making their day"! I don't want to be that girl, yet, I want teenagers to ignore me like I do them!!
Ladies, gents, remember WAY back when... back to a time when boys and girls had little crushes that left you giddy, nervous, and excited? And do you remember being that underclassmen who totally adored that upperclassmen, that cutie patutie teacher, or that hot something-er-other working the McDonald's drive thru, or the star athlete? Do you remember being totally enamored with an older, wiser, and totally unlikely object of your realistic affections? I do. And while I'm flattered at the mere thought that a car full of barely-post-pubescent boys felt it necessary to honk (twice), yell, (thrice), and another time even louder for the full effect, and then get all giddyasaschoolgirl with big wide toothy grins from ear to ear, and wave the "helLOO!". My first thought was, "well, how cute is that?" and then it donned on me what was really going on. I've been punked. I'm not old enough to be that "woman" that gets the hollers, the looks, the silly cat calls from boys that could, in all honesty, be my offspring. I refuse to believe I've reached that point that I recall so well - doing those stupid embarrassing things, like driving in endless circles in the neighborhood of the crush, just to catch a mere glimpse in the window, add my phone number with his, write his name over and over with mine, scope out our "sign" compatability (oh, wait...). I am not old enough to be the object of fascious attention, just for $hits and giggles. I am not old enough to be that girl that waves for the sake of "making their day"! I don't want to be that girl, yet, I want teenagers to ignore me like I do them!!
Friday, June 24, 2011
Like nails on a chalkboard...
.... I resent "reply all" unless it is dutifully necessary to include each and every individual on that email chain to be fully informed.
I especially hate the "reply all's" that are nothing more than a polite acknowledgement, "thanks!". What? Really?
The "reply all's" that use the critical mass of recipients to make a point, gain buy-in, and issue complaint, as if we are all part of it and are contributing authors.
The unnecessary "reply all's" when it's out of courtesy, and one might be interested in the content, but in all likelihood, will trash it because I have 142 other emails that are addressed to me.
And lastly.
Four-way stop-signs. I think it was the other guy that had a stop-sign pet peeve that designed stoplights, where there are clear instructions and protocol when approaching them. But stop-signs are a little ambiguous, especially if one was napping during that drivers training segment. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL I STOP at my stop-sign TO ADVANCE THROUGH THE INTERSECTION!
Point made.
I especially hate the "reply all's" that are nothing more than a polite acknowledgement, "thanks!". What? Really?
The "reply all's" that use the critical mass of recipients to make a point, gain buy-in, and issue complaint, as if we are all part of it and are contributing authors.
The unnecessary "reply all's" when it's out of courtesy, and one might be interested in the content, but in all likelihood, will trash it because I have 142 other emails that are addressed to me.
And lastly.
Four-way stop-signs. I think it was the other guy that had a stop-sign pet peeve that designed stoplights, where there are clear instructions and protocol when approaching them. But stop-signs are a little ambiguous, especially if one was napping during that drivers training segment. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL I STOP at my stop-sign TO ADVANCE THROUGH THE INTERSECTION!
Point made.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Rumor Has It...
Rumor sure does have it! Word around town is that I've turned into an angry lesbian! It's funny what people start to believe when that little seed gets planted, and I have to send a shout out to David for spreading his seed. To anyone who will listen. Someone at our kickball game this past Sunday actually did ask if I liked girls...so obviously it's not a stretch that I may swing on either (or both) sides.
Picture this. Twins game at Target Field. The weather is a balmy 70-something degrees and it's about as perfect for ball watching as can be. To my right sits David, and on my left, a nice married lady around my age (or perhaps 10 or so years younger but whatever) and her husband of 3 years. I make buds with this girl relatively quickly and David points out that I seem to flirt better with women than I do men. Probably an accurate observation. I don't have the pressure of 'flirting' when I am jiving with another chick, and I don't have the interest in her being interested in whether or not I am interested in her. And, the one time I managed to get someones number instead of giving mine happened to be the time when I approached my now good friend Elizabeth on a boat cruise in attempts of setting her up with my friend Mike. In my overzealous manner, I managed to walk away with her digits and form a great friendship instead of fulfulling my 'duty of the wingman' by getting HIM the number. He still, years later, refers to me as 'The C**k Blocker.' I think David may be one of my only friends who has witnessed my experiments with flirting. It never ends well and it always becomes incredibly painful to watch. Much like a train wreck. But worse. Once, at my waitressing job, an adorable regular customer came in and for the first time, sat in my section. He struck up a conversation with me and it started to appear that he could either have been being really nice, or that he was trying to find out some dope on me. Because he's hot, I decided it was the latter. As soon as I made that decision, the build up to impress was too great and I knew it was only a matter of time before my foot would be inserted deep into my mouth without any hope of recovering from what I may say. Sure enough.... "so, Christine, do you have any kids?" he asks. I chuckle and say (as cute as I can somehow make it), "nope! Guess I haven't found anyone who wants me to have their kids yet!" Uh. What?! Who says that? This customer used to come in religiously on Sunday's...generally with his kid. After that happened, nobody has seen him (although I did see him at a local gas station not too long ago so I know he hasn't moved.) Coincidence? I promptly went searching on my iPhone for an app that'll teach me how to flirt.
All of this really shouldn't make me question why then David would start spreading around the rumor that I like girls. I mean, it has been a significant amount of time since I've proven otherwise (262,080 minutes, but who's counting?) Can I just say, without any doubt whatsoever, that I am not an angry lesbian? I am not even a non-angry lesbian. Not that there is anything wrong with either, I just wouldn't be particularily good in that role. Then again, I am clearly not particularily good at being fond of men, either.
Picture this. Twins game at Target Field. The weather is a balmy 70-something degrees and it's about as perfect for ball watching as can be. To my right sits David, and on my left, a nice married lady around my age (or perhaps 10 or so years younger but whatever) and her husband of 3 years. I make buds with this girl relatively quickly and David points out that I seem to flirt better with women than I do men. Probably an accurate observation. I don't have the pressure of 'flirting' when I am jiving with another chick, and I don't have the interest in her being interested in whether or not I am interested in her. And, the one time I managed to get someones number instead of giving mine happened to be the time when I approached my now good friend Elizabeth on a boat cruise in attempts of setting her up with my friend Mike. In my overzealous manner, I managed to walk away with her digits and form a great friendship instead of fulfulling my 'duty of the wingman' by getting HIM the number. He still, years later, refers to me as 'The C**k Blocker.' I think David may be one of my only friends who has witnessed my experiments with flirting. It never ends well and it always becomes incredibly painful to watch. Much like a train wreck. But worse. Once, at my waitressing job, an adorable regular customer came in and for the first time, sat in my section. He struck up a conversation with me and it started to appear that he could either have been being really nice, or that he was trying to find out some dope on me. Because he's hot, I decided it was the latter. As soon as I made that decision, the build up to impress was too great and I knew it was only a matter of time before my foot would be inserted deep into my mouth without any hope of recovering from what I may say. Sure enough.... "so, Christine, do you have any kids?" he asks. I chuckle and say (as cute as I can somehow make it), "nope! Guess I haven't found anyone who wants me to have their kids yet!" Uh. What?! Who says that? This customer used to come in religiously on Sunday's...generally with his kid. After that happened, nobody has seen him (although I did see him at a local gas station not too long ago so I know he hasn't moved.) Coincidence? I promptly went searching on my iPhone for an app that'll teach me how to flirt.
All of this really shouldn't make me question why then David would start spreading around the rumor that I like girls. I mean, it has been a significant amount of time since I've proven otherwise (262,080 minutes, but who's counting?) Can I just say, without any doubt whatsoever, that I am not an angry lesbian? I am not even a non-angry lesbian. Not that there is anything wrong with either, I just wouldn't be particularily good in that role. Then again, I am clearly not particularily good at being fond of men, either.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Stranger Danger 2
In much the same way as Christy-Misty-Coco (CMC for short, from henceforth) appreciates the acknowledgement of her presence by strangers in a polite and courteous manner, I want people to leave me the (f expletive) alone! My story takes yet a different twist on (f expletive ing) people. I still agree with CMC, folks are rude, self-absorbed, unkind, and disrespectful, but I'd rather encounter an individual who wants nothing more than to pretend I don't exist than the (b expletive) who more than made her presence known to me yesterday.
My story begins at the end of my work day at the beautiful U. Each Wednesday and Thursday evening, I scramble from my office to arrive just in time to teach my BodyPump fitness class at the Y in South Minneapolis. To this day, eight years of teaching, I have never been late, once. And for those who know me, this is a great accomplishment. I really, admittedly, deserve a plaque for this. This particular Wednesday afternoon, we have a flash rainstorm, campus is surrounded by road construction in each direction, and I have been sitting in my car for 20 minutes, having moved no more than a few feet in that time. I start to get nervous, I still have my entire commute to the Y, now in less than 30 minutes, it's still raining and I'm convinced I'm not going to make it in time. I weasel my way around campus, and attempt a secret (although I discover it is not so secret) way to exit the area. And my futile attempt found me in another snag with road construction. As I'm sitting on Washington Ave bridge with nothing to do but wait, I decide that I need to initiate a Plan B, in case I cannot escape the gridlock and arrive to my class in time. As I am browsing my phone, in my lap, for phone numbers of other instructors, I am startled by the "excuse me!, EXCUSE ME!" from the woman in the car ahead of me, standing outside of her car. Immediately I begin to think, "oh no, did I leave something on the hood of my car, is my bike dangling from my rack in the back, are my high-beams on?" To my utter surprise, my confusion seems to spark a fuse and she begins yelling "Would you please (how polite, right?) get off your (f expletive ing) phone and pay attention to how you are (f expletive ing) driving?" Really? I am absolutely stunned. There is no one behind me, so I couldn't have be mistaken for someone else. I am not moving. I am not evening DRIVING at that point. I am at a complete dead stop on a road, marred by construction and when we move (which we hadn't been for a significant amount of time) we are moving only inches at a time. Perhaps she didn't like that I wasn't advancing with the traffic as they moved a few centimeters from moment to moment. Well, anyone who has driven a manual transmission knows, it (f expletive ing) sucks to continuously clutch and unclutch in rush hour, let alone, road construction. I laugh. I sit there and laugh at the stupidity of this woman. I am trying to be a responsible instructor by getting a sub and taking care of the participants that will be waiting for me. I am being a responsible driver by being completely aware of my surroundings and not moving while I'm accessing my phone. I am minding my own (f expletive ing) business. Who is she? The No Distracted Driving Police? Who do people think they are? Not to mention, who cusses someone out completely unwarranted, undeserved, and unprovoked? I am absolutely appalled by people. And this (b expletive) is so fortunate that I am who I am that all I chose to do was turn the other cheek.
My friend Elizabeth Becklin recently share the Four Agreements with me, to be a better person and to live a better life. I believe these to be so true. I had to put number 2 into practice immediately, to fend off my anger and to forgive a complete a (f expletive ing) stranger.
BE GOOD TO PEOPLE!
The Four Agreements are:
1. Be Impeccable with your Word: Speak with integrity. Say only what you mean. Avoid using the Word to speak against yourself or to gossip about others. Use the power of your Word in the direction of truth and love.
2. Don’t Take Anything Personally
Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.
3. Don’t Make Assumptions
Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want. Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness and drama. With just this one agreement, you can completely transform your life.
4. Always Do Your Best
Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick. Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgment, self-abuse, and regret.
My story begins at the end of my work day at the beautiful U. Each Wednesday and Thursday evening, I scramble from my office to arrive just in time to teach my BodyPump fitness class at the Y in South Minneapolis. To this day, eight years of teaching, I have never been late, once. And for those who know me, this is a great accomplishment. I really, admittedly, deserve a plaque for this. This particular Wednesday afternoon, we have a flash rainstorm, campus is surrounded by road construction in each direction, and I have been sitting in my car for 20 minutes, having moved no more than a few feet in that time. I start to get nervous, I still have my entire commute to the Y, now in less than 30 minutes, it's still raining and I'm convinced I'm not going to make it in time. I weasel my way around campus, and attempt a secret (although I discover it is not so secret) way to exit the area. And my futile attempt found me in another snag with road construction. As I'm sitting on Washington Ave bridge with nothing to do but wait, I decide that I need to initiate a Plan B, in case I cannot escape the gridlock and arrive to my class in time. As I am browsing my phone, in my lap, for phone numbers of other instructors, I am startled by the "excuse me!, EXCUSE ME!" from the woman in the car ahead of me, standing outside of her car. Immediately I begin to think, "oh no, did I leave something on the hood of my car, is my bike dangling from my rack in the back, are my high-beams on?" To my utter surprise, my confusion seems to spark a fuse and she begins yelling "Would you please (how polite, right?) get off your (f expletive ing) phone and pay attention to how you are (f expletive ing) driving?" Really? I am absolutely stunned. There is no one behind me, so I couldn't have be mistaken for someone else. I am not moving. I am not evening DRIVING at that point. I am at a complete dead stop on a road, marred by construction and when we move (which we hadn't been for a significant amount of time) we are moving only inches at a time. Perhaps she didn't like that I wasn't advancing with the traffic as they moved a few centimeters from moment to moment. Well, anyone who has driven a manual transmission knows, it (f expletive ing) sucks to continuously clutch and unclutch in rush hour, let alone, road construction. I laugh. I sit there and laugh at the stupidity of this woman. I am trying to be a responsible instructor by getting a sub and taking care of the participants that will be waiting for me. I am being a responsible driver by being completely aware of my surroundings and not moving while I'm accessing my phone. I am minding my own (f expletive ing) business. Who is she? The No Distracted Driving Police? Who do people think they are? Not to mention, who cusses someone out completely unwarranted, undeserved, and unprovoked? I am absolutely appalled by people. And this (b expletive) is so fortunate that I am who I am that all I chose to do was turn the other cheek.
My friend Elizabeth Becklin recently share the Four Agreements with me, to be a better person and to live a better life. I believe these to be so true. I had to put number 2 into practice immediately, to fend off my anger and to forgive a complete a (f expletive ing) stranger.
BE GOOD TO PEOPLE!
The Four Agreements are:
1. Be Impeccable with your Word: Speak with integrity. Say only what you mean. Avoid using the Word to speak against yourself or to gossip about others. Use the power of your Word in the direction of truth and love.
2. Don’t Take Anything Personally
Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.
3. Don’t Make Assumptions
Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want. Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness and drama. With just this one agreement, you can completely transform your life.
4. Always Do Your Best
Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick. Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgment, self-abuse, and regret.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Stranger Danger
It dawned on me not too long ago, how another frustration was growing into a new pet peeve. I realized one day, while walking my dog Lucy, that as we passed by people on the sidewalk, they refused to look at me. Or her. Neither one of us got so much as a look, a smile or that stupid head nod to acknowledge our presence. Since then, I find that it happens all of the time, every single day. I give people the stare down on their approach because I want the eye contact. I crave the eye contact. I need the eye contact. If I get the eye contact and a smile, I am happy. If they add in a, "hello!" I find myself drunk with delight.
I decided that perhaps it was just those lacking manners who were standing out to me. That, surely, there cannot be that many passive men and women in this 'Minnesota Nice' state we're residing in. So, one day I kept a running tab of everyone I passed on the way in to and out of work. Along with those I came across at Target while running in to grab a bag of Cheetos. And on top of all of those people, the ones I walked by as I hoofed it with Lucy during the 6 mile hike we took that day. In total, I came into contact with 37 people. Shockingly, I got a smile, look or hello from only 6. 7, if I count the cyclist who came up from behind me during my walk and shouted "on your left!" (incidently, she was the only one on a bike who let me know she was coming up on me. Most never tell you so you get to be shocked when they pass by and scare the heck out of your dog. Apparently, telling someone you are "on their left" is too much work.)
So, why can't we say hello these days? Does a smile indicate someones interest in you and therefore we hold back so they don't think we're a creep? I know I come off a bit aggressive in my stance here, because as I see someone approaching me, I'll literally stare at them until they look at me. I just want to say hi! Let me say hi! Most times, they stare straight ahead, like a woman in the delivery room finding her focal point to control her pain and breathing. They must think, "holy cow...someone is approaching me. What do I do? WHAT. DO. I. DO?" I'll just look away. Or stare off into the distance. Anything but make eye contact!
The worst experience during this sampling was my encounter at Target. I was in the express lane with my Cheetos, and a gal blew by me in order to make her way to the door, knocking into my side. She did this to the man in front of me as well, only knocking into him a bit harder. There wasn't even an "excuse me" whispered. She wasn't running out of the store because she was in that much of a hurry (at least, that's not how it appeared), she was simply walking by and decided it'd be better for all if she just bumped people without instead letting them know she was coming up and needed to get past. I found that incredibly rude. What is wrong with people?
I'll quit with the Tuesday gripe session. Here's the thing. I know when I do actually get a smile or acknowledgement from someone, it makes my day a little brighter. Maybe your smile can impact someone more than you'd ever realize. So tape your cheeks up and just smile. I want to see them teeth! Hell, be bold and offer up a high five. Or maybe even hug it out with another.
I decided that perhaps it was just those lacking manners who were standing out to me. That, surely, there cannot be that many passive men and women in this 'Minnesota Nice' state we're residing in. So, one day I kept a running tab of everyone I passed on the way in to and out of work. Along with those I came across at Target while running in to grab a bag of Cheetos. And on top of all of those people, the ones I walked by as I hoofed it with Lucy during the 6 mile hike we took that day. In total, I came into contact with 37 people. Shockingly, I got a smile, look or hello from only 6. 7, if I count the cyclist who came up from behind me during my walk and shouted "on your left!" (incidently, she was the only one on a bike who let me know she was coming up on me. Most never tell you so you get to be shocked when they pass by and scare the heck out of your dog. Apparently, telling someone you are "on their left" is too much work.)
So, why can't we say hello these days? Does a smile indicate someones interest in you and therefore we hold back so they don't think we're a creep? I know I come off a bit aggressive in my stance here, because as I see someone approaching me, I'll literally stare at them until they look at me. I just want to say hi! Let me say hi! Most times, they stare straight ahead, like a woman in the delivery room finding her focal point to control her pain and breathing. They must think, "holy cow...someone is approaching me. What do I do? WHAT. DO. I. DO?" I'll just look away. Or stare off into the distance. Anything but make eye contact!
The worst experience during this sampling was my encounter at Target. I was in the express lane with my Cheetos, and a gal blew by me in order to make her way to the door, knocking into my side. She did this to the man in front of me as well, only knocking into him a bit harder. There wasn't even an "excuse me" whispered. She wasn't running out of the store because she was in that much of a hurry (at least, that's not how it appeared), she was simply walking by and decided it'd be better for all if she just bumped people without instead letting them know she was coming up and needed to get past. I found that incredibly rude. What is wrong with people?
I'll quit with the Tuesday gripe session. Here's the thing. I know when I do actually get a smile or acknowledgement from someone, it makes my day a little brighter. Maybe your smile can impact someone more than you'd ever realize. So tape your cheeks up and just smile. I want to see them teeth! Hell, be bold and offer up a high five. Or maybe even hug it out with another.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
The Cost of the Feminist Movement*
I may ruffle some feathers with this, but it must be done and I am fully prepared.
As a female, I have to say that the Susan B. Anthony's of the world are amazing (how can you not think someone with their own coin is anything but?) I appreciate what she, and her fellow feminists, did for the lives of women. But I sometimes want to kick her in the throat. All of them, actually. The Women's Movement was making great strides. Allowing women to vote. Getting birth control recognized, approved and accepted. Equal rights in the work place and no discrimination against you barefoot and preggo ladies. All of this is rockstar status awesome. But let me tell you what isn't.
Since the Women's Movement, we have, as women, become more and more independent and free thinking. Again, coo. Somewhere along the way though, we decided to tell men that it was ok for them to stop opening doors for us, because, well, "I can take care of that on my own!" or that he didn't have to act chivalrous at all, really, because we were too strong for that. Being strong and independent kicks arse. Taking care of yourself is essential and all people, men and women alike, should be able to do just that. But that doesn't mean I need to cut the balls off of every man I meet and tuck them away in my purse! It doesn't mean that I don't want a man to treat me with the respect a lady truly deserves (perhaps then I'd actually act like a lady.) I really have no use for a pair of balls in my purse anyway. It just isn't practical to take up space for something that really doesn't do me any good in having.
Back in the day, there was courting, there was true flirting, and there was kindness. You know what dating has become since this Women's Movement? A headache. A mess of games and tricks and fear and frustration. As independent and strong as I am (I am woman, hear me roar!), I can't lie and say that I wouldn't love for someone to come along and be a M-A-N. When I say that, I don't mean I want someone to come in and dominate me (snicker snicker), but instead just to come in with the confidence a man should have and treat me like a man should. Dating should be fun. It should be exciting and knock-you-off-your-feet wonderful. There should be butterflies when you get ready. And he should be knocking at your door at the start of the date rather than meeting you on a random bar stool or honking the horn waiting in the car. We should want to dress nicer, have our nails did, look a bit prettier than normal and care about exactly how we're coming across versus tossing on a pair of jeans, shrugging our shoulders and thinking, "here we go again..." I believe this still exists in a small percentage of people, so maybe I'll just hold out for that man to show his face. And his balls.
As a female, I have to say that the Susan B. Anthony's of the world are amazing (how can you not think someone with their own coin is anything but?) I appreciate what she, and her fellow feminists, did for the lives of women. But I sometimes want to kick her in the throat. All of them, actually. The Women's Movement was making great strides. Allowing women to vote. Getting birth control recognized, approved and accepted. Equal rights in the work place and no discrimination against you barefoot and preggo ladies. All of this is rockstar status awesome. But let me tell you what isn't.
Since the Women's Movement, we have, as women, become more and more independent and free thinking. Again, coo. Somewhere along the way though, we decided to tell men that it was ok for them to stop opening doors for us, because, well, "I can take care of that on my own!" or that he didn't have to act chivalrous at all, really, because we were too strong for that. Being strong and independent kicks arse. Taking care of yourself is essential and all people, men and women alike, should be able to do just that. But that doesn't mean I need to cut the balls off of every man I meet and tuck them away in my purse! It doesn't mean that I don't want a man to treat me with the respect a lady truly deserves (perhaps then I'd actually act like a lady.) I really have no use for a pair of balls in my purse anyway. It just isn't practical to take up space for something that really doesn't do me any good in having.
Back in the day, there was courting, there was true flirting, and there was kindness. You know what dating has become since this Women's Movement? A headache. A mess of games and tricks and fear and frustration. As independent and strong as I am (I am woman, hear me roar!), I can't lie and say that I wouldn't love for someone to come along and be a M-A-N. When I say that, I don't mean I want someone to come in and dominate me (snicker snicker), but instead just to come in with the confidence a man should have and treat me like a man should. Dating should be fun. It should be exciting and knock-you-off-your-feet wonderful. There should be butterflies when you get ready. And he should be knocking at your door at the start of the date rather than meeting you on a random bar stool or honking the horn waiting in the car. We should want to dress nicer, have our nails did, look a bit prettier than normal and care about exactly how we're coming across versus tossing on a pair of jeans, shrugging our shoulders and thinking, "here we go again..." I believe this still exists in a small percentage of people, so maybe I'll just hold out for that man to show his face. And his balls.
*the name of this creation is brought to you by Big Poppa. David and I were in a chat sesh and he dropped the title like it was hot so I stole it. But at least I am giving him credit (that's new for me. Usually I thieve and take sole credit for things.)
Monday, June 6, 2011
Dibs
We all know what it feels like to be the third wheel. And the fifth wheel. What about the seventh or the ninth wheel? Do we all know how it feels to be paired up with the bachelor uncle, 20 years senior, when the family pairs off in two? How about getting the couch during the holidays when the other “pairs” retreat to the bedrooms for “private” time? Who said I don’t need “my” “private” “time”? The bathroom is my private time. And who is forced to wake up against their will because the parents can no longer seem to sleep past 5 am? Who is obligated to stand in the center of family photos, due to no other half to make this spinster whole? Who is not referred to in the plural sense because she’s still singular? What about the sole contributor among pairs when splurging for Christmas, birthday and Mother’s day gifts? So the “pairs” get to claim two names as gift giver, and I take my credit, all…to…my….self. Time is not of the essence as a Missus, having no balls (men) and no chains (children); we are on-call at their beck and call. Who has to single-handedly prepare a dinner for the pairs? Who gets the short end of the stick because there are fewer responsibilities like babies and husbands and families? Who seems to get saddled with assignments that require more flexibility, willingness and time? Sometimes it’s okay not to have that +1, other times, it feels like a -1.
And hell yes, next Christmas, I claim dibs!
And hell yes, next Christmas, I claim dibs!
Like a dog to a Fire Hydrant....
Sigh. I don't even know where to kick this one off.
Love is great. It really is. Possibly the best feeling in the entire world. What I find so incredibly funny in this day and age, is that we feel the need to utilize social networking to shout our love for one another from the rooftops. Taking this a bit further, I am starting to liken the women of today as the proverbial dog to a fire hydrant. Pissing on the Facebook walls of their men, so to speak. You rarely see men doing this to their women. Hell, he probably just told her he loved her 2 minutes ago via text, so why blab about it on Facebook or Twitter, too? Does doing so make their love stronger? Their connection more real? No. I'll tell you what it does. It makes every mutual friend that couple has (or at least one friend - that being me) want to puke from seeing the constant one sided stream of love. Keep it in the bedroom, people. Leave me out of it.
Have we become such an insecure breed that we must constantly make sure every female friend on your mans Facebook account knows, without any uncertainty, that he is taken? I'm not trying to be a hater, I just don't understand is all. What did we do before the days of social networking to ensure our loved ones knew they were just that - loved? Did we actually - GULP - tell them? Like, to their face? Wow.
I am a Facebook junkie just like many. I especially love my daily Facebook stalking sessions and have come to really look forward to that. But, come on already. The only time pissing on someones page is funny is when Alyssa and I do it to one another, sitting right next to eachother at the bar and having the time of our lives. Not that any of our mutual friends find it funny...but then, they're too busy spewing out their undying love for their mates to really even read our drunken mess.
Love you all! ooxx
By the way, I am still looking for cat donations for this Christmas card idea. Please people. I know you're out there.
Love is great. It really is. Possibly the best feeling in the entire world. What I find so incredibly funny in this day and age, is that we feel the need to utilize social networking to shout our love for one another from the rooftops. Taking this a bit further, I am starting to liken the women of today as the proverbial dog to a fire hydrant. Pissing on the Facebook walls of their men, so to speak. You rarely see men doing this to their women. Hell, he probably just told her he loved her 2 minutes ago via text, so why blab about it on Facebook or Twitter, too? Does doing so make their love stronger? Their connection more real? No. I'll tell you what it does. It makes every mutual friend that couple has (or at least one friend - that being me) want to puke from seeing the constant one sided stream of love. Keep it in the bedroom, people. Leave me out of it.
Have we become such an insecure breed that we must constantly make sure every female friend on your mans Facebook account knows, without any uncertainty, that he is taken? I'm not trying to be a hater, I just don't understand is all. What did we do before the days of social networking to ensure our loved ones knew they were just that - loved? Did we actually - GULP - tell them? Like, to their face? Wow.
I am a Facebook junkie just like many. I especially love my daily Facebook stalking sessions and have come to really look forward to that. But, come on already. The only time pissing on someones page is funny is when Alyssa and I do it to one another, sitting right next to eachother at the bar and having the time of our lives. Not that any of our mutual friends find it funny...but then, they're too busy spewing out their undying love for their mates to really even read our drunken mess.
Love you all! ooxx
By the way, I am still looking for cat donations for this Christmas card idea. Please people. I know you're out there.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Get Your Read On...
I am not counting this as a blog entry (basically, if it's not snarky, it's not an entry. Period!) Just doin a little pimping of a site I think is pret-ty pret-ty pret-ty pret-ty goooood. (that was my shout out to Larry David, if you couldn't tell.)
Lyss turned me on to something she likes to call Pass It Forward. After you read a book, instead of popping it back on that bookshelf to accumulate dust, likely never to be opened again, she would give the book to someone she thought would enjoy it. I really liked that idea and started doing it myself. Then I stumbled on this website (actually, I think I found it one morning while doing my daily Facebook stalk) which basically allows you to swap out your books. I find the concept a cool one. Find a book you want to read, if there happens to be one available in the swap (there is a good chance it will be) then you request said book, pay only the shipping ($3-$4, typically) and the owner sends it to you. And you can do the same for others. The site keeps track of your swap history and for every 10 books you send, you get credit for them to pay shipping charges for the next one you request. It also tracks where the book has been, so sometimes you see one book having made it's way to 10 or so people, and there is just something cool about that to me. If some of the books you want aren't available for swap, you can add them to your wishlist and you can check that as often as you want to see if any have since come available, and you can receive email notifications of the books on your wishlist available for swap. Ok. Enough already.
It's maybe pathetic that I get so geeked up over this, but I do. If you're a fan of the book, you should do yourself a favor and check out the site. Instead of paying $20 for a new book you'll probably only read once, why not pay $3 instead?
http://www.goodreads.com/
Lyss turned me on to something she likes to call Pass It Forward. After you read a book, instead of popping it back on that bookshelf to accumulate dust, likely never to be opened again, she would give the book to someone she thought would enjoy it. I really liked that idea and started doing it myself. Then I stumbled on this website (actually, I think I found it one morning while doing my daily Facebook stalk) which basically allows you to swap out your books. I find the concept a cool one. Find a book you want to read, if there happens to be one available in the swap (there is a good chance it will be) then you request said book, pay only the shipping ($3-$4, typically) and the owner sends it to you. And you can do the same for others. The site keeps track of your swap history and for every 10 books you send, you get credit for them to pay shipping charges for the next one you request. It also tracks where the book has been, so sometimes you see one book having made it's way to 10 or so people, and there is just something cool about that to me. If some of the books you want aren't available for swap, you can add them to your wishlist and you can check that as often as you want to see if any have since come available, and you can receive email notifications of the books on your wishlist available for swap. Ok. Enough already.
It's maybe pathetic that I get so geeked up over this, but I do. If you're a fan of the book, you should do yourself a favor and check out the site. Instead of paying $20 for a new book you'll probably only read once, why not pay $3 instead?
http://www.goodreads.com/
Thursday, June 2, 2011
I Think I Might be Allergic to Boyfriends and Babies
When the hell did I make the turn right into Crazytown? Can somebody tell me precisely when it happened? Perhaps I can't remember the dream where I was told to walk into the doorway of doom, but clearly it happened. Somewhere. At some point.
Actually, not one word of that is true. I am not crazy - at least I don't think so and surely if I thought I was crazy, I'd gleefully admit that to anyone who would listen. What seems to make me crazy, by the standards of society, is that I am knocking on the door to 33 and am in that category with the never been marrieds. And I am pretty damn old for this group, I guess. What makes me stand out as completely crazy, is the fact that not only am I without child, I can't think of a more hated notion for myself than becoming a mother. That's right. I said it. Shank me. I don't want kids. They scare the bejaysus out of me. They don't listen. They're creepy (seriously, my neighbor kids are the creepiest children I've ever laid eyes on. They make the twin girls from The Shining look like sweet little angels as they're screaming REDRUM or something along those lines.) Truth is, I adore children....as long as they are not my own, and they choose to keep themselves at a fair distance from me.
When did we decide that the only thing in life is marriage and children? Why is it so foreign to live without one, the other, or - GASP - both? Why am I looked at as though I am Satan in disguise whenever I say out loud that I never intend on either for myself? "Ohhhhhh, Christy! YOU JUST WAIT!" (which is generally followed by some insane laugh that is, apparently, supposed to make me jump up and down with excitement over waiting for IT to happen to me.)
Now, I am not knocking anyone who has tried marriage and had it either work for or against them. It's a wonderful institution for some. Just. Not. Me. Living in sin with some nice gentle soul would suit me just fine. But kids are out of the question. This is what my sister and brother reproduced for (not with one another, but with their respective spouses. I have some questionable redneck stuff going on in my family, but not my immediate peeps!) My adorable niece and nephews are available for me to love up all over whenever I want. And the best part about that is, I get to give them back when I am done! I implore people to stop puking all over the spinsters of the world. Maybe we don't want your puke on us! Maybe we look forward to adopting 76 cats and living happily ever after (or until someone calls Hoarders due to that horrendous smell wafting from the home of someone with, now, 70 cats and 6 dead somewhere in the house. Not that you can keep count of 70 cats.)
I understand that "it's different when they're your own" and that life changes for the better when you birth out 3 children. I get it. That doesn't make me want it any more than I did before hearing it. The older I get, the more frustrated the "look" from people is making me. Mind your bidness and tend to those creepy kids instead of telling me to have my own.
All this aside, I am a wonderful babysitter and would be willing to donate a Saturday night or two for something as simple as a Big Mac and a Redbox rental. I'm easy. Maybe this is why I am not married.
The little cat blurb made me remember that the annual Christmas card this year will be of me posing with as many cats as I can find (all vaccinated for rabies, of course.) If any readers (do we even have any readers?) have cats they'd be alright with me using for this Kodak moment, I would be greatly appreciative. I figure if I get cards of kids saying "Happy Holidays from The Anderson's!" then I can do the same with my cats.
(By the way, as much as many of you will want to do, please don't call me out on my being allergic to babies when, suddenly, I become pregnant at 35 years of age. I don't want to be reminded of my hypocritical views. I think anyone who knows me knows this entire blog was a joke. No, I don't dream of being married someday. And no, I don't want to give birth to children. But I don't loathe or think kids are creepy. You think I am some sort of monster or something? Actually, I love kids. They always pick me for their server when they come into the restaurant so obviously I don't hate them. I more despise poor parenting and lack of discipline which has created demon children.)
Actually, not one word of that is true. I am not crazy - at least I don't think so and surely if I thought I was crazy, I'd gleefully admit that to anyone who would listen. What seems to make me crazy, by the standards of society, is that I am knocking on the door to 33 and am in that category with the never been marrieds. And I am pretty damn old for this group, I guess. What makes me stand out as completely crazy, is the fact that not only am I without child, I can't think of a more hated notion for myself than becoming a mother. That's right. I said it. Shank me. I don't want kids. They scare the bejaysus out of me. They don't listen. They're creepy (seriously, my neighbor kids are the creepiest children I've ever laid eyes on. They make the twin girls from The Shining look like sweet little angels as they're screaming REDRUM or something along those lines.) Truth is, I adore children....as long as they are not my own, and they choose to keep themselves at a fair distance from me.
When did we decide that the only thing in life is marriage and children? Why is it so foreign to live without one, the other, or - GASP - both? Why am I looked at as though I am Satan in disguise whenever I say out loud that I never intend on either for myself? "Ohhhhhh, Christy! YOU JUST WAIT!" (which is generally followed by some insane laugh that is, apparently, supposed to make me jump up and down with excitement over waiting for IT to happen to me.)
Now, I am not knocking anyone who has tried marriage and had it either work for or against them. It's a wonderful institution for some. Just. Not. Me. Living in sin with some nice gentle soul would suit me just fine. But kids are out of the question. This is what my sister and brother reproduced for (not with one another, but with their respective spouses. I have some questionable redneck stuff going on in my family, but not my immediate peeps!) My adorable niece and nephews are available for me to love up all over whenever I want. And the best part about that is, I get to give them back when I am done! I implore people to stop puking all over the spinsters of the world. Maybe we don't want your puke on us! Maybe we look forward to adopting 76 cats and living happily ever after (or until someone calls Hoarders due to that horrendous smell wafting from the home of someone with, now, 70 cats and 6 dead somewhere in the house. Not that you can keep count of 70 cats.)
I understand that "it's different when they're your own" and that life changes for the better when you birth out 3 children. I get it. That doesn't make me want it any more than I did before hearing it. The older I get, the more frustrated the "look" from people is making me. Mind your bidness and tend to those creepy kids instead of telling me to have my own.
All this aside, I am a wonderful babysitter and would be willing to donate a Saturday night or two for something as simple as a Big Mac and a Redbox rental. I'm easy. Maybe this is why I am not married.
The little cat blurb made me remember that the annual Christmas card this year will be of me posing with as many cats as I can find (all vaccinated for rabies, of course.) If any readers (do we even have any readers?) have cats they'd be alright with me using for this Kodak moment, I would be greatly appreciative. I figure if I get cards of kids saying "Happy Holidays from The Anderson's!" then I can do the same with my cats.
(By the way, as much as many of you will want to do, please don't call me out on my being allergic to babies when, suddenly, I become pregnant at 35 years of age. I don't want to be reminded of my hypocritical views. I think anyone who knows me knows this entire blog was a joke. No, I don't dream of being married someday. And no, I don't want to give birth to children. But I don't loathe or think kids are creepy. You think I am some sort of monster or something? Actually, I love kids. They always pick me for their server when they come into the restaurant so obviously I don't hate them. I more despise poor parenting and lack of discipline which has created demon children.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)