To Be a Lena Dunham Girl or Not, That is the Question:

Soooo . . . this show, Girls, on HBO.  Wowsa.  Have you watched it?  Winced in agony? Or winced in a “I-don’t-claim-to-know-what-the-new-generation-is-all-about-but-it’s-not-me?”

For me, I’d say it’s like watching a car pileup on the side of the highway:  you want to know what happened, but the details might be more than you can bear.    From what I have observed, the premise of the show is about 20-something girls that moved to New York City because they were taken with the ideas from Sex and the City:  every girl wants to live the Carrie, Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte lifestyle, but they want it NOW, in their 20s’, and not really having to pay their dues to get it.  Here’s the deal:  I watched Sex in the City in my thirties, laughed and cried when it mirrored parts of my life, and came to truly appreciate my woman friends.

The Nut Didn’t Fall Far From the Tree; It Just Rolled a Little to the Left

Scene:  Camera fades in on a normal weekday lunchtime ritual.  Father stands at the counter, twirling a butter knife as the toaster crisps whole wheat bread.  Daughter drums fingers on the Formica top, swaying back and forth as the kettle begins to steam and eventually boil.  The smell of tuna fish and onions permeate the air.  In the background, a radio transmits the loud, often boisterous voice of Rush Limbaugh. Both father and daughter are listening to the radio.

1993:  As the daughter is straining tea bags, Mr. Limbaugh blusters forth with some comment intended to incite his audience into some form of righteous indignity about an action taken by a crazy, misguided “Feminazi.”

Daughter:  “Dad, what a bag of hot air!  Can’t he ever say something nice about someone?”

Dad:  pauses.  Says something noncommittal.  (Truth is, I can’t remember what exactly he said.  I just know there were no liberal/conservative blowout contests between us).

In my late teens and early twenties, men like Rush Limbaugh and William Buckley Jr. were strongholds of political discourse in our house.  I never liked them much; they seemed more cocky and bombastic than I thought they should be.  If they didn’t occupy some form of presence during cocktail hour, then these men dominated the radio during the day, even more often during our lunches.  I listened to them, and sometimes my Dad and I would talk about issues brought up during the programming.  Talk.  Not yell.  Not criticize.

Yet I wonder about now.  I put myself back into the kitchen with my dad on the day Rush Limbaugh decided to lambast some well-educated woman who was speaking to a panel about the lack of options for some because birth control was not covered by their university.  I picture myself standing over the kettle, getting ready to pour tea when Rush unleashed a holy rampage over the airwaves, calling this woman a slut and advocating her to make a pornographic film so that male taxpayers could get their money’s worth.  What would my Dad think then?  What would he say?  I’m sure I would be tongue-tied at 41, wondering what else I could say in front of my father than, “Is that asshole fucking kidding?” and still be respectful.  WWDD?  What would Dad do?   Would he support me in my outrage?  Would he have a different take on Limbaugh after then?  I hope so.

I know that part of Rush Limbaugh’s job is to get ratings; naturally, that implies that he might reach for the extreme argument to prove his point.  But really?  To tear down women as agents unworthy of determining their own reproductive choices? As fathers and daughters might be listening together to your insanity?

This post really isn’t a rant on Rush.  If you read my Facebook posts a few weeks back, you heard my message.  It’s really about how I miss my Dad, and during that time, really wanted to be able to have that political conversation with him.  I wanted his viewpoint.  I wanted to hear what he thought about that whole fiasco, especially having a daughter.  How would he reconcile his choice of political viewpoints with being a parent who encouraged his daughter to be independent and assertive?

My moment of “Man, you’re like your Dad” came the day when I caught myself watching Bill Maher’s Real Time on HBO in the middle of a Saturday afternoon. Same ritual, different channel.  Dad would watch William F. Buckley, Jr. and his Firing Line.  I read The New York Times; he read The Wall Street Journal.  He subscribed to National Review; I choose The Huffington Post.  He listened to Rush Limbaugh; I like some Jon Stewart.

I would really like to think if I had unleashed that day on Mr.  Limbaugh with whatever choice words I wanted to use, Dad would have listened.  And we would have talked about it.  More than likely, we would have had a great conversation.  A quiet debate, if you will.  Truth is, I wish we could have.  I miss not being able to talk with him like that, especially as I get older and more defined in my beliefs.

So, on what would have been your 69^th birthday, Dad, I hope you are finding some good conversation partners wherever you are.  You’re going to need to be on your game when I see you again, because I’ve had some time to sharpen my skills, gather some facts, and get my composure together.  The nut truly didn’t fall far from the tree, it just rolled a little to the left.  I’d like to think you’d be all ears.

Why that Pained Expression Appears on my Face When You Ask Me if I’ve Tried Online Dating

I don’t completely vilify online dating:  obviously, it’s worked well for many couples.  I can see and accept its place as a social convention that has been in place for quite a while now.  And yes, I’ve dipped my toe into the Online Dating Pool a few times.  Not with much success, however.  (note:  still single!)

Whenever a well-meaning family member or acquaintance asks if I’ve tried any of the major online dating sites, an expression comes over my face that does not convey excitement in any form.  I am not necessarily feeling pain; I’m trying to figure out how to tell you about my last two encounters.  Do I want to go down the path of offending your sensibilities or just gloss over the whole moment with an airy noncommittal statement?

Here’s why.

Bachelor #1.  Goes by the moniker of “Daddy_FatSack.”  Do I need to explain further?  Would you want your daughter/niece/friend/granddaughter/co-worker subjected to the advances of a man who is advertising the largesse of an intimate body part before even getting to know her?  Can’t that kind of information come up later, say, on a dinner date, perhaps after polishing off some crème brulee?  (“By the way, babe, as you can see, not only am I financially stable and culturally hip – as evidenced by this swank restaurant we’re dining in – but I also have a sizable scrotum.  Would that be something you would be into?”)

His initial message was friendly:  God knows he’d have to have a sense of humor to weather that nickname.  My curiosity was getting the best of me:  who, in their late 30s, sends emails to women in their late 30s (ahem, okay, early 40s) with that name?  I wasn’t so much interested in any physical aspect of the guy as I was in the decision making process that went into choosing that screen name.

So I replied to his message.  “Dude, seriously, which friend told you to use that name?” Smiley face included – I wasn’t trying to be a snarkmonster about it.  Answer back?  It’s a fraternity nickname.  From ALMOST TWENTY YEARS AGO.

We’re done here, right?

Bachelor #2.  I can’t honestly remember anything about his name.  Or what he looked like.  But I do remember that he is a template for almost any thirty-something man that enjoys Dragon-Con.  He listed the types of activities, online games, hacker associations, etc., that he enjoyed.

Then he mentioned that he was “a bit of a perv.” Wait, what?  I’d never seen that one before.  In a situation when everyone is trying to put their best foot forward, what does “a bit of a perv” entail?  I do appreciate the upfront honesty, but if I was interested, I would kind of like to know what area of perv we’re talking about here.  Strange fetishes?  Furry conventions?  Role play?  The sad irony is, if a man is admitting to a perverted streak on his online profile, girls like me tend to cheerfully skip over his profile.  On the other hand, if a woman were to add “I’m a bit of a perv” on her online profile, the site’s server might melt down from all the online activity.  Strange bedfellows, indeed (pardon the pun).

Now do you understand the pained expression?  Online dating can make for some awesome stories, but I’m pretty clear on where I want to spend my energy these days.  I’d like to meet someone who’s just this side of normal, thankyouverymuch.  For certain, there are those guys out there in the online world.  It’s just what you have to wade through to get to the real Big Kahuna.

C’mon Baby, Light My Fire . . .

Standardized testing example time, ya’ll!  Ready?

When should a nice, crackling fire be used as a tool of seduction?

a)     When young children are running around the blaze, waving marshmallows impaled on sticks, screaming at the top of their lungs.

b)     When it gets out of control.  Dangerously.  Like, oh shit, this got bigger than I ever thought it would, and it might be a good idea to call the fire department NOW.

c)      When the object being burned turns out to be the most chemically noxious smell you’ve ever been around, possibly decimating the delicate tissue in your lungs as you flee for the safety of your hopefully-filtered, air-conditioned house.

d)     When it’s on a DVD, playing on your high-definition television and a girl is sitting next to you.  On an 80-degree night in a loft.  And a dog who growls at anyone not his master.

Can you guess?  Can’t decide?  Neither can I.  Which pretty much explains my mindset on a particularly confusing night a few weeks back.

To say I’m a master of the dating game would be to say that Kim Kardashian should be the next Nobel Prize candidate for Organic Chemistry.  I admit, I really like the caveman approach:  bop me over the head and drag me back to your lair (but not in a creepy way).  If you need to rely on subtle clues to communicate your interest so as not to damage your fragile sense of self, then I’m probably not the best girl for you.  I just don’t get subtle.  Sorry.

Here’s how the evening went down:

1. Invite my friends and me over to a bar to listen to some music.
2. Have a great conversation.  Also mention a few times about your girlfriend from the West Coast who will be moving to be with you in a few weeks.
3. Ask me for my number.  Ostensibly, if memory serves (I’m not saying there may or may not have been some adult beverages in the mix), for getting together if you happen to be in my hometown.
4. Proceed to initiate activities that say you do NOT want the evening to end:  going to get breakfast, or as a substitute, hanging out on the rooftop patio for a while longer.
5. Invite my friend and I back to your apartment to “check out what a studio looks like.”

Stop:  possibility of a threesome check.  Nope.  Friend’s boyfriend had left us only a few minutes earlier to go to bed.  Evidence of a committed relationship fully on display.

6. Introduce your dog, who proceeds to growl at me and snap at my hand when I try to pet it.
7. Say, “ I know!”  Walk over to the TV and put on a DVD with a crackling fire.

Moment when my evening took a hard right onto What The Hell Avenue?  Right. Then.

As I sat on the couch, trying to figure out what exactly was going on, my mind could not make sense of the juxtaposition of an 80-degree night and a roaring fire playing on the television screen in front of me.  Even more, that this was an attempt to be seductive?

Ohhhhh, no.  Not really.  Sorry. Not to this girl.

Not that he wasn’t cute, but the whole process was taking a little too long.  Plus, a potential romantic partner mentions he has a girlfriend, and well, that is a turn-off.  To me, at least.  And a fire?  When it’s 80 degrees outside?  No.  Unfortunately for him, he was not lighting my metaphorical fire.

To be fair, I think this was one of those moments where in a beer-induced haze, what exists inside your mind sounds FAR better than what actually is in reality.  We’ve all had those, right?  Can’t blame a guy for trying, but this night went downhill faster than an inexperienced climber onMount Everest.  Thud.  Time for bed.  Goodnight.

There’s a scene in When Harry Met Sally where Jess and Marie are tucked into bed, contemplating the aftereffects of Harry and Sally sleeping together.  Marie says to Jess, “Promise me that I’ll never have to be out there again.”

I wish.

Soapbox: Women and Susan G. Komen

Before you read:

http://jezebel.com/5882133/the-complete-guide-to-the-susan-g-komen-debacl

For years, I have watched the right wing organizations of America defund, defile, and destruct basic healthcare for women.  I get it:  you are strongly Christian, and inherent in your beliefs is that God created life; therefore, we, as mere humans, should not be in charge of determining who should live or die.  You hold sacrosanct that life begins at that magical moment that sperm meets egg:  cells begin to divide and create something. So, no birth control.  No abortion, no matter what the situation.  Legislation that holds the life of the fetus above the life of the mother. You were raped and got pregnant?  Still a sacred life, no matter what the mental, emotional, or physical trauma you endured at the hands of a psychotic stranger who had no respect for your body, your mind, or you as a basic human.  Should it matter that you need birth control to possibly alleviate and/or regulate painful, heavy periods for a hormonal matter?  Well, if you live in a small town and your pharmacist believes birth control is taboo, then, frankly, you’re screwed.  How many pharmacists see the medical record that requires that kind of intervention?  None that I know.  These small-minded people only see that you require birth control: You heathen!!! You slut!!! You blasphemer!!!!

Segue:  I live in a major city in the United States.  I have health insurance subsidized by my employer.  I have to pay high deductibles and large co-pays for medicine my doctor deems necessary.  My doctor:  you know, the one who went to medical school to help navigate the conditions and diseases of the human body?  The one who chose a specialization in an area that I might need more help than others?

I don’t work part-time and have to fund my insurance by outside means.  I don’t rely on COBRA.  I am not below the poverty line; therefore, I am not in need of Medicaid or any other state, county, or federal source of health care.  But, Jesus Christ, how many people have lost their health insurance in the past six years as a result of the recession?  How many people have gone bankrupt paying for catastrophic health care bills?  More than I believe I like to think about, while I sit in my doctor’s office as she nonchalantly prescribes my steroid nose spray in advance of the impending allergy season, knowing that I will benefit from my pharmaceutical co-pay.

I have been lucky to never need to rely on a government-funded facility for my obstetrical or gynecological care.  I get to walk across the hall from my OB/GYN to the mammogram office and wait for, maybe, 30 minutes until the nurse calls me into a yearly mammogram that my insurance covers as part of my yearly premium.  Out of pocket cost to me: nothing.

Unfortunately, the reality is there are many women in the United States that don’t have that option.  They either pay out the nose for these services, possibly missing a day’s pay from work to go to the doctor, in addition to the high co pays their single insured status requires, or they go to a publicly funded clinic to get them for free or reduced cost. For example:  Planned Parenthood.

Before I go further:  Please do not mistake my rant here as an all-encompassing rant for pro-choice.  Planned Parenthood does provide abortion services.  Good for them. If a woman has made an informed choice, then I believe that is her business, and that decision is strictly between her and her doctor, and Planned Parenthood can offer that service for her, then okay.  I have no judgment:  I have not walked in her shoes and cannot offer a bias either way. I am a dyed-in-the-wool believer that the government has no business telling me what to do with my body; please let me have options, and we’re okay.  Just the options.  Let me repeat:  LET ME HAVE MY OPTIONS TO DO WHAT IS BEST FOR ME.

Which brings me to the current debacle with Susan G. Komen foundation, institutions that receive grants, and the whole idea over abortion.  When can we step back and let someone make the decision for themselves?????  I cannot understand how I, as a woman, can take that away from another woman.  So, to defund an entire organization as a result of the providing of the services, no matter how small the percentage of their total service portfolio, is incomprehensible to me.

Well, hold on:  no, it’s not.  Because if it’s private money, you can damn well do whatever you want.  You can support whoever you want.  But! If you’re the organization that is arguably the highest-profile supporter of a woman-only disease, and you choose to throw the baby out with the bathwater because a small percentage of their services goes to abortion services, and YOU DON”T EVEN TRACK STATISTICALLY WHY THE WOMEN ARE USING THE FACILITY FOR SUCH SERVICES . . . uh . . .is that really supporting women?  Really?

Rick Santorum told women recently that he opposed abortion in the case of rape because women “should make the best out of a bad situation.”  Ho-lee Shit.  This obviously comes from someone who has never gestated a living being in their body.  So, it’s okay that a woman can’t start putting behind an obviously physical and emotional traumatizing event for the sake of a zygote she doesn’t even know?  Let’s put her emotional healing on hold for nine months? (sound of head falling onto keyboard here).  Yeah, Rick:  how about we traumatize an orifice of yours and let you hold onto a physical and hormonal reminder for the next nine months, followed by a physical endurance race of  about ten hours, pushing an average-weighing eight pounds out of your body.  I’m willing to bet he caves at a damn kidney stone.

Again:  I am not pro-abortion. But, it’s my blog, and it’s my hot button.  Why are we letting the religious right/Republican Party systematically dismantle health care decisions for women in the year 2012?  When will some factions of the political landscape finally abandon their puritanical views and give women the chance to control their own bodies as they see fit? Why are we, as women, letting a hell-bent, pro-life, woman who has chosen politics as her career, influence an organization that has done so much to promote a woman-only disease and raise funds for its cure, to disparage another organization that provides screening services for breast, cervical, and uterine cancer because a very small percentage of their services is abortion?  When we don’t know the cause for each woman?  Because, here is what I do know:  Karen Handel has had private insurance all her life.  She has never had to rely on state/federal/public assistance to provide her basic healthcare.  And if she did, there would be hell to pay.

So, Karen Handel:  when you have had to rely on the only provider around for 45 miles, and it happens to be Planned Parenthood, for your basic pap smears, cervical cancer screenings, and mammograms, would you change your tune?  When the only pharmacist in your town is opposed to birth control, even if it’s just to regulate hormonal irregularities?  The right-wing, ultra- conservative movement has systematically eliminated your options for low-cost health care.  Where would you go?  Who would you trust to manage your hormonal and female issues?  I bet the most vetted choice would be Planned Parenthood, a time-honored beacon in their field.  But just because you oppose it doesn’t mean that we all should.

God, I’ve been so mad this week.  Why are we not emulating other countries in allowing females make decisions concerning their bodies?  Unfortunately, it comes down to me being a woman in 2012 and not believing that I am totally at the whim of a) some male leader, 0r b) some woman who feels that her ideals of life should be held higher than my ideals.

So, Rock On, Planned Parenthood.  I hope you get all the funding you need and then some.  I know my contribution is meager compared to Mayor Bloomberg’s and others’, but by god, if I lived in New York City, he’d about have my vote for the next election.  I know where my charitable contributions will go next year.  I support my friends who have lost someone to breast cancer, but I will support them privately, and not to the Susan G Komen Foundation.  It took a backlash to change that organization’s mind, not a principle I believe you should have supported for all women from the beginning.  In fact, if nothing else, I will avoid your pink yogurt lids and support organizations that help all women across all socio-economic levels.

Because if I find out that Pfizer, who recently announced that, whoops, their birth control packets were hormonally erroneous in preventing pregnancy, is one of your main sponsors . . . there will be some hell to pay.  BIGTIME.

There’s a [Primer] for That . . .

I can certainly say that I am not a stranger to most makeup counters found in your average mall these days.  There are my favorite counters, and I am a pretty good target for being conned into a lipstick or lipgloss on top of a necessary purchase.

But Good God, when did purchasing makeup change from buying a simple eye shadow to buying a primer for the eyelid to “prepare” it for the eyeshadow, combined with the purchase of the eyeshadow itself? When did buying makeup turn into an exercise of multiples? Now, it’s not about lipstick, one needs to purchase a lip “primer”, a lip liner, a lipstick, and a matching gloss to finish the ensemble.  Who has time for all this?

Case in point:  my local Clinique counter the other day.  In an impulse moment, I decided to swing by to check out a navy eye liner.  Apparently, navy eye liner is the “new” trend in keeping your eyes ever so young-looking.  As I approach the overeager sales lady to ask her about the eyeliner, her eyes did a quick scan over my face and apparently found a “sucker” sign posted on it.

As she rummages through the tray containing almost every known product to enhance the eyes, she asks, “Do you need a new mascara today?”

I pause, thinking to myself, “No, that big wand of mascara I just bought last month is just fine.”  Out loud I say, “I’m good.  Just bought some last month.  You know, the defining one in the green case.”  Hopefully, she won’t sense the bright orange package of CoverGirl mascara emanating from my makeup bag about 5 miles away at home.

Ah – but she has a trick:  “Well, do you have primer for your lashes?”  Pause.

Me: “What?”

Her:  “Primer.  To prepare your lashes so the mascara will stay on them much longer.”  She starts to go into her corporate spiel about the many benefits of said product.

My mind literally snaps back into my head from its outer orbit circling the Planet known as “You’re Kidding, Right?”

I pause.  I sigh.  I say to her, “You know, I have such a simple approach to makeup.  I don’t even use lip liner.  Anything that takes more than five minutes is a little outside my zone, if you know what I mean.”

Of course not!  She is a Clinique ambassador! She has been sent to save me from the mundane routine of minimal makeup application!

God Bless Her – I would imagine in this economy, she needs all the sales she can get.  I can only imagine working in the makeup/cosmetic section of a department store today is quite like being a hunter, lurking around the community pond of the African veld.  You have to strike, quickly, before the suspect even knows what happened.  One cunning sales woman vs. one lady needing retail therapy = someone who’s bought more primer than a house painter at Sherman Williams.

It’s been a long time since I bought my first eyeshadow at Kroger:  the pink/blue/light blue shimmer Cover Girl trio with a blue eyeliner to match.  But I didn’t need primer then, and just can’t find a reason to now.  Nor do I think my lashes are suffering as a result of their non-exposure to vitamins and moisturizers before a bath in chemical-laden enhancers.

Long live the Clinique lady.  But let’s leave primers to the real pros:  the people who do makeup for funerals.

Terms of Endearment

The first email I received leapt off the subject line like a cricket being threatened with a rolled newspaper:  “Hello, Blossom.”

Blossom.  Blossom?

I know he’s trying to be complimentary, but “Blossom”?

While I’m struggling to be open to the endearment, the thing is: I’m not open to unbidden endearments, ones who are bestowed without any knowledge of my personality, feminist-ish views, political standings, likes and dislikes, or any other facet of my personality one can’t determine within a few email exchanges.  Give me an endearment after we’ve spent time together, and then you will have a platform on which to build.  I don’t care if you call me “Stinky;” if it’s deserved, and it’s based on time and knowledge, then I will love it.  Because it fits ME.

For the record, I am not a blossom.  While I can recognize some personality traits that may have bloomed late, I am SO not a blossom. I have fought and struggled and endured and practiced and realized and read and observed and instrospected and cried and laughed and pondered for each and every bit of the being that I am today.  I like this person, but she did not “blossom.”  I am more like a thistle, strong enough to withstand the sometimes harsh climate of a rocky Scottish moor, prickly enough to discourage unwanted attention from bugs, but beautiful in its own right and purpose.  Standing strong, weathering all types of change, and yet maintains a sense of beauty in spite of all that nature can throw at it.  The Scots don’t have the thistle as their national flower because it is a pale, fragile, shoot that needs constant attention and care, fussing over and high-maintenance maneuvers in order to live.  They chose a flower with substance.

So, what’s a word for that?  Journeyer?  Sojourner?  Survivor?  Those don’t exactly fall into the sweet nothings category for romantic endeavors.  I’m a thinker, a debater, a reader, a ponderer; I don’t “sit” for pictures.  I don’t pose for moments of beauty.  I jump into the fray and become a part of it.  I don’t care if my petals get dirty.  They wash.

I know I’ve taken this to a farther place than need be.  However, I am an English major and it’s what I do.  I am sensitive to the meaning of words.  The dating world is hard enough to navigate without tacking on the additional layer of interpreting words.  I am just so discombobulated by being called a word (nicely, nonetheless) that couldn’t begin to describe me in the slightest.

We’ll see how this new nickname works out.  I’ll still try and be open to new nicknames coming from new people, but I think this idea will take some serious getting used to.

The (Granola) Mother of all Shoe Ruts

Lawsamercy, I am in a shoe rut. A HUGE one. I have trolled the aisles of quite a few shoe stores, looking for that one pair that will lift me out of my Burlington, Vermont hippie commune collection and transform me into a veil of power and sass. But like a shopping cart with a bum wheel, I veer towards the Borns, Danskos, and Clarks of the world with astonishing regularity. Look at that thick, clunky heel! As if my brain never transported out of the mid-90s and the grunge, goth, clunky look. My God, it’s been almost 20 years and still I ache for clunky heels to come back (maybe a little less so than pegged jeans from the 80s).

I aspire to confidently wear the soaring stiletto heels with thick platform soles. To own a pair of Manolo Blahniks or Jimmy Choos would be an item to check off the bucket list. Clearly, I’ve been brainwashed by watching every episode of Sex and the City. But when I see a celebrity teetering on these small spikes, my ankles involuntarily cringe in agony. I know better: my celebrity red carpet walk would feature me taking two steps, tripping, cracking an ankle bone (or two), and splaying my not-so-elegant form a few feet down the aisle. No thanks.

See, vertical and me do not often fit in the same sentence. If I have worn some kind of shoe that is not properly “supportive,” you will find me sprawled on the ground within a good two hours of donning said shoe. Not something I like to repeat on a regular basis. Now, I don’t think that hippie (or earth-mother, climate-saving, tree-hugger, spine-protector, friend to all who inhabit Mother Earth) really quite describes my style. I do know enough to flee from overly “ageist” shoes. You know the ones I am describing. The grandma-type shoes. The overly orthotic ones. I also know enough to check my inner chiropractor at the door and not always think about arch support.

But, quite frankly, I spend about a good ten hours a day on my feet on cold, hard linoleum. I need something that will satisfy some conditions: I want nice toes when I am 70 (a genetic miracle in our family, actually), I do need some arch support (damn those high arches), and they need to be comfortable. I do like height: I’m down with whatever provides a few inches of lift without snapping my ankle like a Wheat Thin. So, yes, for work, I can rock a Dansko clog. They make some cool ones!

But for play? Who ever heard of a CFM clog? No one. Because they wouldn’t exist even if God was a transgender Al Gore and wanted everyone to procreate if only in order to make humans who were adverse to getting into any mode of transportation with an exhaust pipe. So, back to my dilemma. There is not a whole lot between flimsy ballet flats, vertigo-inducing heels accompanied with thick platform soles, the entire Ugg line, and granola shoes.

I guess the only thing left is to either a) pray for me, or b) offer suggestions. Anyone?

Lead, Follow, or GET OUT OF THE WAY!!!!!!!!!!

Christmas is in the air, according to most retail outlets, and it seems to be the time of year to be a little reflective on what I’d like this year for the traditional gift-giving holiday.

Here’s what I REALLY want:  for the United States to up their driver education game. For everyone.  All of us, from van-driving soccer moms to Confederate-flag waving rednecks in their trucks to business men surreptitiously texting while driving to teens anxiously testing the gas pedal like is the first time they touch the opposite sex.  We need a serious lesson in HOW TO DRIVE LIKE SANE PEOPLE.

Didn’t see that one coming?  Probably not.  It’s not something that I am vocal about on a daily basis.

I am so jealous of those Germans and their Autobahn.  To have the ability to speed in a controlled fashion and everyone knows the rules.  If you stupidly decide not to follow them, you’ll more than likely have a BMW or Mercedes logo burned into your ass, as well as a frightfully angry German cursing you out in a very Teutonic language.

We could never have an Autobahn here.  Our American sense of entitlement is exactly why there are those people that persist in being in the left hand lane, cheerfully bumbling along at the speed limit.  Talk about a massive Charlie Foxtrot:  allowing an express lane for those who have been indoctrinated in how to control a car well at high speeds.  Except for the driver from (insert your state of choice here).  The one who, for whatever unintelligible reason, has decided to take their time in front of the fast cars.  These drivers are like the proverbial cockroaches coming out of the woodwork when winter sets in.  Daily, they gum up the works on major highways much like oatmeal down a drain.

My Dad taught me 3 simple places to be when driving on the highway:  lead, follow, or out of the way.  Some octogenarian wants to teach me, the young whippersnapper, a lesson about speeding?  Fine, but not in the left hand lane.  I respect your right to drive the speed limit:  IN THE CORRECT LANE.

So, especially if you are driving in a highway that happens to run between Norcross and Woodstock, GET IN THE RIGHT HAND LANE IF YOU WANT TO GO THE SPEED LIMIT.  Check your ancient driver’s manual (and the new 2011 edition) for the rules- you’ll happen to see what I am explaining validated in very informational print.

Lead, follow, or get out of the way:  it’s that simple.

Ta-da! I Have a Feeling!

I always find times in my life where I say, “Wow:  I’ve really grown as a person, “ or something to that effect.  Then, however many months later, I look back and say, “NOW I’ve really grown,” and feel a little silly about my previous thoughts.  As long as that keeps happening, I should be grateful – I am continuously growing, right?

The past few weeks have been an emotional roller coaster combined with a very hectic schedule.  In the relentless pursuit of trying to improve my economic situation, I’ve been tutoring on the weekends and sacrificing my time (and my sanity, it seems) to make some extra money.  I finally gave into the realization that I WAS TIRED.  Here’s what’s different, though.  In the past, I would have found something to eat to try and boost my energy, something my body obviously needed.  Sleep?  For wussies!  I had a moment on a Friday after school where I was wiped.out.  I stumbled around Trader Joe’s, looking for the magic elixir that would restore my body to optimum energy (or, in my world, normality).  And there. Was. Nothing. To. Be. Found.  I realized that no amount of wine, chocolate, sugar, meat, cracker, etc., would save me from my stupor.  What I needed, desperately, was sleep, and nothing else would do.

That’s a new one for me:  just realizing I’m tired.  For whatever reason in my past, I somehow learned to not recognize and experience a feeling as it was in my reality.  I somehow learned that I had to push past it, almost like a superhuman, and not give into it. I have some pretty strong ideas how I came to such a process, but I don’t have to give into those ideas anymore.  I was tired.  In a strange simultaneous twist, I realized that a chance of the immediate sugar rush of chocolate wasn’t going to save me anymore.  That kind of sucked, to be honest.  A bittersweet (pardon the pun) realization:  sugar wasn’t going to help this one.  And so, I felt this little empty spot where sugar would have filled it up before.  It sat in my chest, and wouldn’t you know, only went away after I honored that I was tired and maybe going to bed at 9:30 was a better option for me.

This sounds so simple, doesn’t it?  Identifying a feeling, validating it, experiencing it?  It seems to be so natural for some people, but it’s a new concept for me.  There was a great moment in a past Sex in the City episode where Miranda teases Samantha for accepting her wayward beau’s behavior:  “Wow.  I am sad.  Ta-da!  I just named an emotion!” All the while criticizing the beau for saying he was scared as the reason he cheated on Samantha.  I’m going off topic a little bit, but identifying those emotions has been difficult for me.  I was taught that I was either feeling the wrong emotion or I shouldn’t feel this way, but that way.

A few days ago, I was very distraught (ta-da!) because my beloved cat had been missing for over 5 days.  I had this hole where my heart used to be; I wasn’t eating, and I would crash into bed at night, exhausted from the mental energy of trying to figure out what to do next.  As it happens, I was standing in a gift shop over a selection of magnets tailored to pet owners.  Cute magnets that said thoughts like, “Cat hair is a compliment in this house,” or “Thank you for rescuing me” (this one with an orange cat on it).  My heart hurt, hurt, hurt so much.  And again, there was nothing I could do to stop it.  I couldn’t figure out if I was going to throw up right then and there or finally dissolve into a fit of tears.  I had to sit there and experience the weight of the sorrow and just let it be.  No cupcake, beer, smash of a glass item, anything would change it. I could identify it and just let it be.

Wow.  That is a new experience for me:  experiencing the feeling and not trying to push it away or mitigate it somehow.  Not that I have this experience down or anything, but it’s a good realization to know it’s another step on this journey.  Wonder how I’ll look back on this moment in six months?