Men.. Can't Ever Win Anymore

To the men, I'm sure they're all throwing their arms up in the air right now and shouting "I KNOW!" Sorry boys, but this whole equality thing means lose-lose for you.

There are moments when I get really frustrated with the lack of chivalry in today's society. More often than not, doors are not opened for me. I can count the number of times on one hand that my chair has been pulled out for me. My last foot rub?  High school.

I was once seeing a guy who was very chivalrous. I was so shocked and blown away that I didn't know how to handle it. He insisted on opening doors for me, went to my side of the car first to open the car door, and shut it. (No, mom, you never met him. I'm sorry, yes, he was very nice, but you have to know I would have scared him off eventually.) Had we ever gone out to dinner, I'm sure he would have pulled out my chair for me. I thought it was an act at first, but then realized that it was genuine. Clearly he had a good mama that raised him right! Then he said that I didn't act very lady-like, and that I had a trucker mouth, and could I please not use such foul language? And that was the end of that.

So clearly, having a guy who is eager to please, always at your beck and call, the type of guy you'd love to bring home to the parents.. well we're just not into him either.

Then there's the other side of things. I can build my own furniture, shovel the driveway, kill spiders, do the heavy lifting, and even take myself out for dinner. And I know that it's partly the "tough guy" in me. For example, I'm not one to ask for help when carrying something heavy. In fact, I love carrying heavy items just to show off my muscles ([mus][kles]). They're huge... I never outgrew the "I can do it myself!" phase. And I'm sure you know where I stand on sex. Sorry parentals if you're reading.

I don't need a man to support me financially, I was raised to be independent. I was brought up to shatter glass ceilings. But does that mean that I should pay for all meals out? Or not get spoiled? (Hypothetically of course..) Just because women are now making as much money as men, doesn't mean that they don't want to be wined and dined. I feel as if in the process of women gaining more power, more control over their own lives, and being able to have a say in society, we forgot to demand respect as well. Or maybe that's the problem, we demanded. Apparently men aren't huge fans of "being told". Clearly while training them we need to be more discreet about it.

Source

So, men, you can't:

• Be too nice
• Be an asshole
• Offer your help
• Not offer your help
• Be the little spoon
• Not spoon at all
• Offer to carry her purse
• Not offer to carry her groceries
• Be her bitch
• Call her a bitch
• Call all the time
• Not call at all
• And the list goes on..

For more sage advice, you can always email this single gal who hasn't been in a relationship in.. well a really long time.

It'd be weird if it wasn't me

Warning: The following post is not recommended for pansies with weak stomachs. 

Friends and family and blog followers are by now, never shocked with any of my body misfires. It's most often TMI, but I really do enjoy sharing these little tidbits with people. I should feel sorry for the recipients of my pictures and details, but I don't. I relish their reaction. Yes, I document everything with pictures. It often takes a few pictures if it's at an awkward angle, so sometimes people get more than one. LUCKY!

One recipient described a picture as looking like an "alien fetus". We'll not get into what that image was.

Another, more recent picture was described as "AMAZING!!!". (Is this starting to feel like a movie review to you? It should.) Do you want to know what picture was described as amazing? A green pimple. Yes, friends, a green one. You can try googling it, I did. And find no information. Maybe I should be worried. But it's too late for that because I popped it. I had to clean up the blood spatter from the wall with wet paper towel. Are you grossed out yet? I hope so. I'm so lucky to have such supportive friends who enjoy receiving pictures of these anomalies.

I told my dad the other day that he's really lucky that my mom lets me send her pictures and tell her stories about my body misfires, because otherwise he'd be scarred. There's no such thing as "TMI" for my family. They get to hear all my gory details. Hmm.. maybe that's why nobody skypes with me anymore...

From swollen masses of bone, to penis shaped bruises, to alien fetuses, to green pimples, my body is not a wonderland, but an enigma. I'm ok with that, because it's not like John Mayer's ever going to tell ME that it's a wonderland, and enigmas are much more interesting.

I feel the need to add that I was going to add a picture to this post, but couldn't. First I googled "body misfire", then "body enigma" and nothing interesting came up. Then I googled weird body. DO NOT EVER DO THAT. Unless you want to be scarred. It got worst as I scrolled down. So now I can't add a picture. I just can't.

Not Quite Dead Yet..

Is anybody still there? No? Ah well, I deserve it! I didn't mean to abandon my blog, it just... happened. I went from being busy, to having the stomach flu (Norwalk... AGAIN!) to having zero creative energy. Excuses, excuses, I know. I hate me. I'm working on a stellar piece about why men can't win, but in the mean time... ok, so I haven't started writing it, but it's in my head. Anyway, in the meantime, here's a poem I found on my old hard drive. I wrote it 4 years ago. I used to write a lot, and this one found its way onto my computer! I like this one. It's called "My Dreams Betray Me" and I could have a hundred different pieces with the same title.

My dreams betray me with visions of you

I want to be her, that girl that you look at

To feel your eyes on me, cover me completely

Denial will keep my feelings at bay

It’s not that hard when I refuse to get hurt

A hard shell has formed

To keep you away

To keep me in

To mask the weakness that grows inside

Too embarrassed to let it show

I hate the girl who cries at night

I hate the one who abandoned me when she needed to stay

Where did I go?

This is a picture I took 4 years ago. I know. Blonde.

Now.. to get cracking on this piece.. Who wants to climb into my head and write it out?

Childhood "Dreams"

I look around me, where am I? I recognize this place, that swing, those trees. I realize that I'm in the park by my house, but where is everybody? I see the jungle gym, the monkey bars, the swings, and finally the trees that border the park, my park.

I can feel something before I can see it. A vibration in the ground that almost knocks me off my feet. It reminds me of when someone jumps too close to me on the trampoline. I feel an uneasiness in my stomach, and out of the corner of my eye,  a large shape appears.

It must be my imagination, it has to be. There is no way in hell that a dinosaur the size of half the park is coming my way. But no, the earth shaking tells me that it's not an illusion, it's a stegosaurus.

I slowly back away, then try to run, but as with all dreams, my feet feel like they're stuck in cement. Suddenly I'm far away from my house, but I have to warn my family. I try screaming at people nearby, "RUN!", but nobody hears me. They wouldn't believe me anyway. My heart pounds. I know there will be more. It will be too late.

Another, more massive dinosaur looms into view, a brontosaurus. He's moving slowly, but he's not happy. He has a baby with him, and he's protective. I try to run the other way. Danger is close. I can feel it in my bones.

My house is steps away, and I slam the door, my heart thumping in my chest, as a velociraptor bangs against the door. He can't get in. But I know what comes next. It always does. I hold my breath and look for a place to hide where he can't see me. His eye, bright and yellow and glaring, is staring at me suddenly from the floor to ceiling window in our entrance. I scramble to another room, the living room, but the tyrannosaurus takes a couple steps and sees me through the bay windows. It's too late to hide anywhere here, he's going to crash into my house at any moment.

For a split second I feel he might not be looking at me, and I bolt up the carpeted winding staircase and lunge into my room. By now he's realized that I'm gone from the living room, and I have seconds to hide behind my bed. At my bedroom window, I realize, he sees me. My foot. He can smell me now. I should have hid in my closet, there are no windows there. Do I have time? I'm frozen to the spot, unable to breathe for fear that it will break his still and that will be it. I can't even cry, I can't utter a sound, I can't call out, I'm stuck here.

I feel like the house is about to be broken apart, it shakes with such violence and the noise is deafening. He calls out, that high pitch cry. This is it. I close my eyes, and then someone calls my name.

**
Words of advice: Don't ever let your kids see Jurassic Park. This nightmare (along with one where it's a giant) haunted me for years. YEARS. Sure, I'm a pansy and I hate scary movies, but if your kid has any type of imagination, do not let them watch it. I actually still watch Jurassic Park when it comes on, it's sick, I know, but I can't help it. That scene with the velociraptors still scares the piss out of me. Now, aliens, that's another story. I could write a book on how many hours I lay frozen in my bed, deathly afraid that there were aliens in  my bedroom in the shadows. I would have killed for a simple boogey man.

I wrote this as the second writing prompt from Studio 30 Plus, the first was on Concrete. They're amazing, and I am in love with these writing prompts that get my creative juices flowing. Even if this one will probably result in nightmares night terrors.

Interesting how I call myself a strugglesaurus. Noting to talk to my therapist about this.

Meme is pronounced "meeeem"

Sooo, this is going to be the most awkward video you will ever watch. Ever. It's a meme. You will see.

Anyway, Kristine at Wait in the Van (she makes me laugh a lot, and sometimes cry) did this meme. An accent meme.

The scene opens in my little cabin apartment. If the first thing you see isn't the wood (oak) paneling, then it will be the second. And then you will notice the glare from my glasses, which I thought I was able to avoid, but apparently not.

Here are the Q's

• Your name and/or username
• Where you’re from
• The following words: Aunt, Roof, Route, Wash, Oil, Theater, Iron, Salmon, Caramel, Fire, Water, Sure, Data, Ruin, Crayon, Toilet, New Orleans, Pecan, Both, Again, Probably, Spitting Image, Alabama, Lawyer, Coupon, Mayonnaise, Syrup, Pajamas, Caught, Orange, Coffee, Direction, Naturally, Aluminum, Herbs.
• What is it called when you throw toilet paper on a house? [on the night before Halloween?]
• What is the bubbly carbonated drink called?
• What do you call gym shoes?
• What do you say to address a group of people?
• What do you call the kind of spider that has an oval-shaped body and extremely long legs?
• What do you call your grandparents?
• What do you call the wheeled contraption in which you carry groceries at the supermarket?
• What do you call it when rain falls while the sun is shining?
• What is the thing you change the TV channel with?

Anywho, the video is already too long for what it is so I'll stop talking.. errr... writing.

Oh god... enjoy.

Yayy my first vlog.... oh wait. No, it's totally embarrassing. Is it too late to do another take??

Etched in Concrete

I often look down when I'm walking. At first, it was because I didn't want to catch others' eyes, and sometimes it was to avoid stepping in something that would probably ruin my shoes, and my day. But then I really started to look down. I started to see things etched or buried in the sidewalks. Testimonies of love, dates, messages written in permanence.

Someone once stood where I stand now, hunched over, writing R + L, then slowly scraping the perfect heart around those letters. Was it day time? Was their lover with them? Did they have to avoid getting caught by the construction workers? Did they run off together afterward, giggling; did they realize that someone like me would be looking down on it years later? I wonder if R + L are still together. Maybe they still walk by this very etching, hand in hand. I hope they didn't forget. They captured a moment in time, after the cement had started to dry, but before it completely solidified, where R really did love L.

I see a key amongst rocks embedded in the cement on 82nd and Broadway in Manhattan. I stop and stare and bend down. That key could have just as likely been layers further down and not visible, hiding. But it is here for me to see. Someone may have lost that key. What did it open? Did it keep any secrets? Was it the only one, momentarily keeping its prisoners captive, safe, locked away? How long has this key been here for, how many people have stepped over it unknowingly? Looking at the stones in the cement surrounding it, it has been here for quite some time. Cement has changed over the years, it is now white and opaque, or black. I imagine that this here section of cement is decades old. This key has seen a lot; many shops have come and gone, fashions have changed, cars have evolved and are maybe a bit quieter than when that key first ended up there.

1959. Fifty two years ago, the cement had a lot more character. I know this because where I live, the cement is dated. For whatever official purpose it serves, to me it tells a story. From the slabs dated 1959 to 2009, they become gradually less interesting, flawed, beautiful. The story begins to fade, each year the cracks between the slabs get further and further apart. Will kids soon forget the rhyme we grew up with? It plays over and over in my head: "Don't step on a crack, or you'll break your mother's back". I never stepped on the cracks.

As these sidewalks slowly get ripped up and replaced with new, cleaner looking cement, stories are erased, declarations of love are forgotten, hidden jewels become lost forever.

Rabbit Stew

I have seen more Max and Ruby episodes than some parents have, and I don't have kids. At the kids' store that I manage, we have a pint sized couch and flat screen TV (read: best kids' store ever), and for a long time Max and Ruby was on loop. Then I found other DVDs and so now I cuddle up on the tiny couch and watch the original Winnie the Pooh. I mean... it's for the kids.

That's not even what this is about. This is about RUBY. That manipulative little bitch of a sister that Max has to deal with. Is this actually a show that parents allow their kids to watch? If you are unfamiliar with the show, let me sum it up for you.

"Maaaax, you're doing it wrong! Silly, you need to do it MY way."
"No Max, your job is to watch us play. That's way more fun than playing with us."
"Max, you can do what you want to do after we do everything that I want to do, and even then, we won't do what you want to do."
"See Max? This is the right way to it. Your way is wrong, you see that now, right?! Right?!"
"Max why aren't you massaging my bunions?"
"Max, Max? Where are you? Why are you hiding from me?"
"What's that behind your back Max? Is that a knife?"
"Oh you're going to cut me a slice of cake! How sweet, but I'm going to eat the whole cake. You won't like it."
Max glares at sister, sees red and murderous rage ensues.

Ok, so maybe I exaggerated a bit, but you get the point, right? Right?

I would cut a bitch if that was my sister. Then I would make rabbit stew.

But really, this is the type of kids' shows that's out there these days? Creating "healthy" sibling rivalry? If that show was out when I was a kid I'm pretty sure my brother would have looked at me, then Ruby, then me.. then strangled me in my sleep. Seriously.

What ever happened to quality shows like Bugs Bunny and The Muppets and Fraggle Rock and Mr. Dressup? Don't even get me started on "In the Night Garden", or whatever it's called. That show gives me the heebie jeebies. There is something not right with that program. Every night at 7:30 pm, toddlers everywhere zone into this weird show that would make oompa loompas look trustworthy. See? I can't even mention it without getting my "panties" in a bunch.

I really need to do some psychotherapy where I draw out my  feelings...

"And why do you feel that you have these angry thoughts against a fictional rabbit?"

"Flopsy."