My daughter was born a girly girl. Her first word after the parental syllables was "shoe." She was boy crazy at four, passing toys to the neighbor boy between the chain link fence next to our townhouse. By the time she was eight, she'd had more boyfriends than I had in my life. She did ballet for ten years. She giggled in the back seat with her friends about high school dances and holding hands with boys on the ferris wheel. Her favorite color was pink. Or purple. She adored makeup.
She was the stereotypical girl.
She also loves to play the guessing game when she's afraid to tell me something. Which she did ten days ago. It goes something like this:
D: I have to tell you something.
Me: Okay....
D: Only I don't want to.
Me: Okaaay.... (immediately irritated)
D: Well, I want to tell you, but I don't.
Me: .......... (rolling my eyes and heavy-sighing)
D: It's just... I wish you just knew already.
Me: How can I know if you don't tell me?
D: ......
Me: Fine. You had sex.
D: No.
Me: You got drunk.
D: No.
Me: You got in another accident.
No.
You quit your job.
No.
You're friends with that horrible girl again.
No.
You're pregnant. (Because after exhausting the obvious and the stupid, I start throwing out the crazy.)
No.
You're gay. (AmI right? This girly girl? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.......)
She looks at the refrigerator. The girl has zero poker face.
But you're kidding, right?
No.
You can't be serious.
Yes, Mom.
............
I'd had a cocktail at this point and quickly gulped down the equivalent of another shot. Remember the stereotypical girl? Which I asked her. Or, rather, told her. "You were always boy crazy." Yes, she thought she was, but then she wasn't. But what about her boyfriends? What about drooling over Josh Hutcherson and Ian Somerhalder? What about, what about, what about?
I took a quick break in the bathroom where I furiously texted my best friend. "Don't judge, I said." Her response? "Oh God, what did you do???" When I told her what it really was she said, "We have always supported the gay community. Now it's just time to prove it." Okay......
Yes, I was in shock. It was the last thing I imagined from D. I knew her. I gave birth to her. I held her and cradled her and met all of her needs as an infant. It wasn't that I was against it. I wasn't and I'm not. I had even commented to friends in front of her that I would accept having a gay child but I would mourn my dream of what I thought they would be. That was what she remembered. That is what stuck in her heart and why she was so afraid to tell me.
So I finished my drink and I tried to let her talk. I tried to ask the accepting questions, all the while my brain was reeling from the news. I told her over and over that I'm not disappointed. Not like she thought I would be. It's not necessarily disappointment, but an adjustment. I have to shift my thinking.
When she was a senior in high school, she was temporarily but extremely suicidal. I reminded her that I would take her and keep her any way I could get her but I never want to lose her. I told her she could see how it felt without choosing labels yet. She told me she was confused. Ah, confusion. It's not real. Just a phase.
Now, if anyone thinks at any point thus far that I said the wrong thing or reacted the wrong way, you're entitled to that opinion. But if you're just not prepared for something, you can't predict your reaction. This outcome had just never occurred to me. Not in a million years.
The next day was a struggle between reassuring her that I do love and accept her, which I completely do, and balancing my own confused feelings. I asked if she was sure because she had been confused the night before. No, she was talking about being confused when it all started for her. Oh. Well, damn.
My second concern was for her safety. My whole life has been about protecting her. It's my job. I'm not so afraid that she will be physically harmed, but the thought of someone slamming her with vulgarity while she walks hand-in-hand with a girlfriend makes me want to rip an imaginary asshole. It's hard to embrace something that I think will hurt her.
It's been a process. I'm still processing it. A few days after she came out, I asked if she was sure this isn't just a phase. I got the hateful teenage reply that basically identified me as in insensitive dinosaur.
The next day I asked how long she'd known. Since freshman year of high school, which equals five years. I had known for five days. She agreed this wasn't fair and allowed me to ask any and all questions I had, which I prefaced by saying that I'll always love her and I will get to the point where I openly accept and embrace this "new" identity but that it will take time. I asked questions I didn't really want answers to. We supported each other throughout the conversation.
My emotions have been all over the map and probably around the globe a dozen times. I'm scared for her. I felt deceived by her and lied to. I have to clarify that these are not rational emotions, but we can't control feelings. I can't. I felt that if I had been a better mom I would have known. How the fuck did I miss THIS one??
There have been other thoughts too. I was never hung up on having a son-in-law. Weddings with two brides are often beautiful. I halfway adopted a handful of her friends growing up anyway, I'm used to it. Plus she's promised me I will have grandbabies. That's all I really care about, I'm just asking for a couple extra now.
Over the last year, I have been worried about her capacity to love. We moved to Nashville and she went through half a dozen boys in a matter of months. She seemed to get bored or to lose interest really quickly. Of course I blamed myself for divorcing her father and for dragging her through the subsequent Bad Relationship. All of this must have affected her ability to be intimate, to love someone. Now it's somewhat of a relief that might not be the case. I want her to love deeply and be loved to the core of her being. I'm not going to be able to choose that person anyway, so why should I choose their gender?
She had the brilliant millennial idea of coming out on Facebook. I didn't expect that today she'd be ready. Always keeping me on my toes, that one. The shooting in Orlando over the weekend was her motivation. She's scared now. She should be. I'm scared for her. And yesterday we went to the vigil downtown because I wanted her to be with people like her and to see that there is love in the fear. I want her to know that she's supported, that even if I can't be there always to protect her, I will do everything in my power to ensure that she feels loved and supported. She said she wanted to be brave. The truth is, this wasn't just an act of bravery. Brave is what she is. She's been brave with her depression, she's been brave with making her own choices about her future and she's brave now to come out when it would be safer to hide.
Her responses so far have been overwhelmingly supportive. I suspect there are some who aren't and they're just staying quiet and that's okay. Their silence still speaks and she knows it. I wonder how my own friends and family will react. I wasn't going to say anything until she was ready, but now that she's just jumped into the deep end, I'm jumping with her.
I'm still scared. All the more so now. I've avoided much of the news from Orlando because it hits too close to home this time. My best friend says it always should have been personal, and she's right. I just lived in a smug little straight-privileged bubble when I thought my child wouldn't be targeted. I'm flying the PFLAG now. I have to be as brave as she is.
I was never in love with anyone the way I was when this precious child came into my life. Never since and I never will be again. The thought of someone taking that from me, or from any other parent, chills me to the bone. Nobody has the right to take love from us. I am scared, but I will not live in fear. I will love her and I will love people like her and I will stand with them and next to them.
I'm proud of her. I'm proud of Nashville, our city. Last night's vigil gave me hope. Hope that I won't have to be afraid forever. Hope that love will prevail. Hope that she will love and be loved.
That's all any of us can hope for, really.
Monday, June 13, 2016
Like a Giant Push-Up
Last week I was veering dangerously close to a depressive episode. I felt it coming, heard the rumbling in the distance. The days leading up to Friday were fraught with events and activities that were draining any emotional energy I was trying to hold onto. I was running on empty. The temptation to hide under my covers until the storm passed was great. This happens to me on occasion. Sometimes I know why, sometimes I don't. This time I knew exactly why and I feared exposing myself to further energy drain and risking a deeper depression.
All of this is to say that Nashville surprised me. Nashville fits me more the longer I'm here.
Friday was a long-awaited burlesque show, which included dinner beforehand with new friends. Having to be "on" around new people is risky when I'm on the edge like I was. I know I was a little bit manic in my animation to make up for what was lurking under the surface of my skin, but it was manageable. (Manageable mania - oxymoron?) The show itself was wonderful and inspiring and full of acceptance and love, the way that burlesque is intended. There were hugs and laughter and beautiful costumes and quirky routines. It was just what the doctor ordered. If the doctor prescribed boobs and pasties.
Saturday the bestie and I went to see Stephen King speak. I wasn't sure how it would play out, I knew it wasn't a typical book signing with so many people there. SO many people. So MANY. People! The line wrapped around the building. Around the alley, behind the bars on Broadway. During CMA Fest. Cigarettes and drunk people and sewage liquid on the road. In the heat. The hot, hot southern heat. The Ryman was hot. Crowded. Sold out. Over-stimulating. Between the crowds, the confusion, and the odors, I was nearing a meltdown.
Ann Patchett walked out onto the stage. I feel a bit smug knowing that I can go into her business space any time I want at Parnassus Books. It's like my little nerd privilege. So I perked up. She introduced Donna Tartt to introduce Mr. King. Her small speech reminded me that it's okay to be different. It was beautiful and heartfelt and touching, without any pandering sweetness.
When Stephen King walked onto that stage, he was greeted with a standing ovation. There was an immediate sense that we all, in that audience, shared a common ideation in our love of writing, of books, and of a certain author, if not authors in general.
I want so badly to remember every word he spoke. He didn't only talk about writing, or his creative efforts, but he also gave us glimpses into who he is as a person. Someone who is not only a brilliant and prolific writer, but a humble family man with a wicked sense of humor. He curses in the exact appropriate places and he's just academically intimidating enough without being a boorish snob.
The whole experience of being in his presence, of sharing fellowship with others who chose to forego music festivals and street revelry to talk about a shared love of books, left me with a full heart and renewed soul, knowing it will never be duplicated because momentous events like that are rare and precious.
I woke up Sunday to the news of the tragic shooting in Orlando. Tragic shooting. Act of terrorism. Loss of lives. Devastation. How do I put what happened into words that make sense when the act itself doesn't? How to define the emotions. The anger, the fear, the complete what-the-fuck and why-is-this-happening-again. The overwhelming sadness and desperation to control something that can't even be predicted because who thinks of doing things that are so terrible when you're just going about your life and you're celebrating that life in a way that doesn't hurt another person and yet you and the people you care about are targets of something that can only be described as hate. Random hate because how can you even hate faces you've never met?
I don't understand it and I will never understand it and I'm tired of trying to understand it because there is no reason, no justification. Because it wasn't 50 people. It was 50 plus those who loved them currently plus those who knew and loved them last year plus those they were meant to affect and love and be loved plus the impacts they had that they don't know and we don't know and will now never know. 50 plus 150 times 18 plus infinity. It is indirectly countless people around the world. How does one person cause so much hurt?
Our mayor in Nashville, Megan Barry, posted on Facebook. She and other members of our local government and our police department organized a vigil for the victims. I knew I had to go. Whatever it meant on whatever scale, I needed to be among that support. I needed to contribute with my paltry presence. By that point I wasn't able to connect at an individual level with anyone there and had a hard time feeling like I belonged, but my body needed to be there.
Despite the disconnect, I was proud of the people who were there. The mayor. The police. The members of the city council. Those holding flags and posters. Those who changed what plans they had to show up and be present and to be heard. I know I planned on watching Game of Thrones last night and resting up for the week, not spending yet more emotional energy on things I can't make sense of.
Our city was beautiful last night. There were rainbow lights. Candle lights. Faces of determination. Hugs and displays of support. The noise came from the music in the bars, sounds of joy. Inspirational speeches and choir voices raised in community spirit.
Although I felt sad, the storm of depression had abated. I lay in bed feeling all of the support I had received over the weekend. The support that Nashville gives to the arts, whether it be burlesque or literature. The support of the LGBT community. I felt over and over that Nashville cares about the things and the people that I care about. In each instance I felt a sense of belonging and of validation. The connections brought me back from the loneliness of depression.
So, Nashville, thank you for being the giant push-up bra that held me together, that lifted me up, and that kept my emotions from sagging and dragging me down.
All of this is to say that Nashville surprised me. Nashville fits me more the longer I'm here.
Friday was a long-awaited burlesque show, which included dinner beforehand with new friends. Having to be "on" around new people is risky when I'm on the edge like I was. I know I was a little bit manic in my animation to make up for what was lurking under the surface of my skin, but it was manageable. (Manageable mania - oxymoron?) The show itself was wonderful and inspiring and full of acceptance and love, the way that burlesque is intended. There were hugs and laughter and beautiful costumes and quirky routines. It was just what the doctor ordered. If the doctor prescribed boobs and pasties.
Saturday the bestie and I went to see Stephen King speak. I wasn't sure how it would play out, I knew it wasn't a typical book signing with so many people there. SO many people. So MANY. People! The line wrapped around the building. Around the alley, behind the bars on Broadway. During CMA Fest. Cigarettes and drunk people and sewage liquid on the road. In the heat. The hot, hot southern heat. The Ryman was hot. Crowded. Sold out. Over-stimulating. Between the crowds, the confusion, and the odors, I was nearing a meltdown.
Ann Patchett walked out onto the stage. I feel a bit smug knowing that I can go into her business space any time I want at Parnassus Books. It's like my little nerd privilege. So I perked up. She introduced Donna Tartt to introduce Mr. King. Her small speech reminded me that it's okay to be different. It was beautiful and heartfelt and touching, without any pandering sweetness.
When Stephen King walked onto that stage, he was greeted with a standing ovation. There was an immediate sense that we all, in that audience, shared a common ideation in our love of writing, of books, and of a certain author, if not authors in general.
I want so badly to remember every word he spoke. He didn't only talk about writing, or his creative efforts, but he also gave us glimpses into who he is as a person. Someone who is not only a brilliant and prolific writer, but a humble family man with a wicked sense of humor. He curses in the exact appropriate places and he's just academically intimidating enough without being a boorish snob.
The whole experience of being in his presence, of sharing fellowship with others who chose to forego music festivals and street revelry to talk about a shared love of books, left me with a full heart and renewed soul, knowing it will never be duplicated because momentous events like that are rare and precious.
I woke up Sunday to the news of the tragic shooting in Orlando. Tragic shooting. Act of terrorism. Loss of lives. Devastation. How do I put what happened into words that make sense when the act itself doesn't? How to define the emotions. The anger, the fear, the complete what-the-fuck and why-is-this-happening-again. The overwhelming sadness and desperation to control something that can't even be predicted because who thinks of doing things that are so terrible when you're just going about your life and you're celebrating that life in a way that doesn't hurt another person and yet you and the people you care about are targets of something that can only be described as hate. Random hate because how can you even hate faces you've never met?
I don't understand it and I will never understand it and I'm tired of trying to understand it because there is no reason, no justification. Because it wasn't 50 people. It was 50 plus those who loved them currently plus those who knew and loved them last year plus those they were meant to affect and love and be loved plus the impacts they had that they don't know and we don't know and will now never know. 50 plus 150 times 18 plus infinity. It is indirectly countless people around the world. How does one person cause so much hurt?
Our mayor in Nashville, Megan Barry, posted on Facebook. She and other members of our local government and our police department organized a vigil for the victims. I knew I had to go. Whatever it meant on whatever scale, I needed to be among that support. I needed to contribute with my paltry presence. By that point I wasn't able to connect at an individual level with anyone there and had a hard time feeling like I belonged, but my body needed to be there.
Despite the disconnect, I was proud of the people who were there. The mayor. The police. The members of the city council. Those holding flags and posters. Those who changed what plans they had to show up and be present and to be heard. I know I planned on watching Game of Thrones last night and resting up for the week, not spending yet more emotional energy on things I can't make sense of.
Our city was beautiful last night. There were rainbow lights. Candle lights. Faces of determination. Hugs and displays of support. The noise came from the music in the bars, sounds of joy. Inspirational speeches and choir voices raised in community spirit.
Although I felt sad, the storm of depression had abated. I lay in bed feeling all of the support I had received over the weekend. The support that Nashville gives to the arts, whether it be burlesque or literature. The support of the LGBT community. I felt over and over that Nashville cares about the things and the people that I care about. In each instance I felt a sense of belonging and of validation. The connections brought me back from the loneliness of depression.
So, Nashville, thank you for being the giant push-up bra that held me together, that lifted me up, and that kept my emotions from sagging and dragging me down.
Friday, June 03, 2016
Summer Book Drive
It's Friday night and for once I'm home. It's storming, I have a martini and I'm just waiting for the kid to get home so we can have pizza and watch movies. Also, Facebook is being a shit right now which limits my ability to waste time mindlessly.
So, I'm going to try to do something useful. I'm not sure how effective it will be since like two of you regularly even pay attention to what I say here, but I'm making the effort anyway. The road of good intentions or something like that.
Since we moved to Nashville, I've been listening off and on to a radio show. I say off and on because it's a country format and we all know that's not my favorite. But my drive to work is now 45 minutes and I get bored. I mean, the lake is pretty, and I look for my horse friend every day and now there are babeh donkehs, but the rest is boring.
I digress.
A couple of weeks ago, the host of the show (DJ? star? main dude?), Bobby Bones, released a book that is mostly about his life and the struggles he has overcome and how he got out of his sad little town and achieved his success thus far. D and I went to his book signing because she has a little crush on him. She was so super excited and I coached her on what to say to him. It just so happens that he gets his hair cut where she just got a job so that was an easy in. She was cute. He drew a little stick figure of himself in her book with his hair. It was all cute. Until I did my normal thing of freezing up in front of the author. It doesn't matter who it is. If my dog wrote a book, I'd just stand and stare at her while she pawtographed my book, mutter something resembling "thank you", and back away slowly. Ultimate book nerd.
A few days later, I saw this on Twitter:
Since I'd read his book (in like two days), it really confirmed that he is the person he appears to be. Honestly, sincerely good. My second thought was, why don't we all do that?? Mr. Bones has a huge following. He was #1 on the New York Times Bestseller List after about a week. There were loads of posts about how people were reading his book, even people who hadn't read in years. And I LOVE reading and I LOVE books and I want to spread this love and I don't think anyone should go without a book they want because of stupid money.
Now, this is where I become a copycat. Jenny Lawson, A.K.A The Bloggess, (if you haven't read her blog, go do it now. I want to kidnap her and make her be my friend but she lives in Texas and I'm too lazy for long-distance shenanigans) organizes gift-giving for those with less at Christmas. She's been doing it for a few years and her method last year works PERFECTLY for my little idea. She asked people to make a wish list on Amazon for things their kids were asking for and then her readers could purchase those gifts for them. It was basically brilliant.
Here is my idea. Scads of people want Bobby Bones's book. Maybe someone else wants a different book from someone they admire. Or a child is a voracious reader and her parents can't afford her disgusting reading habit. Whatever. It's not Christmas, but books aren't seasonal. I want those of us who HAVE to help those who HAVE NOT. And books aren't expensive. And Amazon is easy.
This is what you do. If you are someone who is book-thirsty but resource-poor, make a wish list on Amazon and post your link in the comments. If you are someone who feels generous and you are able, follow the link, purchase the book(s) and fulfill that wish. If you want a whole set of Harry Potter, add the whole set. The Generous People can buy one or two or the whole dang set as they wish. Don't worry about being greedy. There's no such thing when beautiful words on pages are in play.
You may notice that the woman Bobby Bones helped out also wanted a bottle of wine. I see nothing wrong with this. The only beverage better to drink with a book is Irish tea. So add a bottle of wine if that's what you need. Even if you're asking for kid books, you may need the wine to get through the bedtime process. I remember what a process it is.
If you need recommendations for good books, I have a ton. Bare Bones is not just the inspiration for this effort, it's also really good. It's honest, sometimes raw, and completely relatable. And if you're a Bones fan, you'll want other people to read it too. D and I have some favorite kid books. I've read several classics and can steer you away from the bores. I have over 200 books on my "to read" list on Goodreads if that tells you anything.
Alright. Are we ready?
1. Make your wish list.
2. Add the link in the comments here.
Or -
1. Buy a book (and wine) for someone.
2. Share with anyone who wants a good summer read or anyone who wants to participate in my book drive.
And...... go!!
So, I'm going to try to do something useful. I'm not sure how effective it will be since like two of you regularly even pay attention to what I say here, but I'm making the effort anyway. The road of good intentions or something like that.
Since we moved to Nashville, I've been listening off and on to a radio show. I say off and on because it's a country format and we all know that's not my favorite. But my drive to work is now 45 minutes and I get bored. I mean, the lake is pretty, and I look for my horse friend every day and now there are babeh donkehs, but the rest is boring.
I digress.
A couple of weeks ago, the host of the show (DJ? star? main dude?), Bobby Bones, released a book that is mostly about his life and the struggles he has overcome and how he got out of his sad little town and achieved his success thus far. D and I went to his book signing because she has a little crush on him. She was so super excited and I coached her on what to say to him. It just so happens that he gets his hair cut where she just got a job so that was an easy in. She was cute. He drew a little stick figure of himself in her book with his hair. It was all cute. Until I did my normal thing of freezing up in front of the author. It doesn't matter who it is. If my dog wrote a book, I'd just stand and stare at her while she pawtographed my book, mutter something resembling "thank you", and back away slowly. Ultimate book nerd.
A few days later, I saw this on Twitter:
Since I'd read his book (in like two days), it really confirmed that he is the person he appears to be. Honestly, sincerely good. My second thought was, why don't we all do that?? Mr. Bones has a huge following. He was #1 on the New York Times Bestseller List after about a week. There were loads of posts about how people were reading his book, even people who hadn't read in years. And I LOVE reading and I LOVE books and I want to spread this love and I don't think anyone should go without a book they want because of stupid money.
Now, this is where I become a copycat. Jenny Lawson, A.K.A The Bloggess, (if you haven't read her blog, go do it now. I want to kidnap her and make her be my friend but she lives in Texas and I'm too lazy for long-distance shenanigans) organizes gift-giving for those with less at Christmas. She's been doing it for a few years and her method last year works PERFECTLY for my little idea. She asked people to make a wish list on Amazon for things their kids were asking for and then her readers could purchase those gifts for them. It was basically brilliant.
Here is my idea. Scads of people want Bobby Bones's book. Maybe someone else wants a different book from someone they admire. Or a child is a voracious reader and her parents can't afford her disgusting reading habit. Whatever. It's not Christmas, but books aren't seasonal. I want those of us who HAVE to help those who HAVE NOT. And books aren't expensive. And Amazon is easy.
This is what you do. If you are someone who is book-thirsty but resource-poor, make a wish list on Amazon and post your link in the comments. If you are someone who feels generous and you are able, follow the link, purchase the book(s) and fulfill that wish. If you want a whole set of Harry Potter, add the whole set. The Generous People can buy one or two or the whole dang set as they wish. Don't worry about being greedy. There's no such thing when beautiful words on pages are in play.
You may notice that the woman Bobby Bones helped out also wanted a bottle of wine. I see nothing wrong with this. The only beverage better to drink with a book is Irish tea. So add a bottle of wine if that's what you need. Even if you're asking for kid books, you may need the wine to get through the bedtime process. I remember what a process it is.
If you need recommendations for good books, I have a ton. Bare Bones is not just the inspiration for this effort, it's also really good. It's honest, sometimes raw, and completely relatable. And if you're a Bones fan, you'll want other people to read it too. D and I have some favorite kid books. I've read several classics and can steer you away from the bores. I have over 200 books on my "to read" list on Goodreads if that tells you anything.
Alright. Are we ready?
1. Make your wish list.
2. Add the link in the comments here.
Or -
1. Buy a book (and wine) for someone.
2. Share with anyone who wants a good summer read or anyone who wants to participate in my book drive.
And...... go!!
Monday, May 16, 2016
Bumps and Grinds and the Bulge in the Mirror
When I started burlesque a few weeks ago, I imagined having funny stories to tell or how I would magically feel better in my own skin after a couple of weeks. The only funny story is that I started to sit down on and get up from the toilet with my butt sticking out and I did the same thing in Target stooping down to look at something on a lower shelf. I guess that could be slightly entertaining to anyone watching.
The thing I abhor about dance classes/gyms/yoga is the giant mirror on one wall. It's necessary to ensure you're using proper form and all that, blah, blah, blah. But it's also a reflection of how you look in that particular moment of time. Usually not the best moment. Workout clothes. Little or no makeup. No cute shoes. Bad hair. Sweat.
With burlesque, there is the added element of trying to appear "sexy." Boobs up and forward, shoulders back, back arched, butt out. Even this isn't that bad because, come on, what girl hasn't posed to find her best angle in a mirror? But then add movement to that. Add boobs out, hand on hip, bend over, stick that ass out, arch that back, and - OH GOD!! WHY is my stomach laying on my LEG??? This is not a good look!! This is a TERRIBLE look!! How many people are seeing this right now? This is exactly why I shouldn't have done this. Right here. Evidence that I am NOT sexy. Nope, nope, not even a little. I need a mask and a muumuu and a triple cocktail.
And that, because of what has been ingrained in me since I was a walking, talking member of society, is what I remember in the days after. That is my self-image for weeks after. The girl who can't suck her stomach in enough to keep it from touching her thigh. Who wants to see that? I mean, I don't have thigh gap and I'm good with that. It's hard to peel a stocking from your hand if you can't squeeze it between your thighs. Thigh gap is gross. But can I have a gap between my thigh and my belly? For fuck's sake??
So, no. No, I have not learned to love my body and its flaws by looking at myself during a class. Even if the song that is repeated over and over for the routine we are learning contains lyrics pontificating the virtue of confidence. Nope. It's not happening.
I'll tell you why it isn't happening. Yes, most of it comes from my inside voice. My inside critic. My inside bitch who wants to limit my happiness. It also comes from messages I've received during my life. Things like, "If you stand like that, your legs will bend the wrong way." "Did you ever break your nose? It looks like you did." "Do you EVER eat??" (This was when I was very young and very thin, a place I will never return to and don't really want to anyway, but it was still a message that I wasn't measuring up to an invisible standard.) "There's no way you still wear a size 4."
It also comes from every image we see in magazines, movies, the media, online, and on and on. There is one body type on magazine covers. There is one body type in movies and on the red carpet. There is one body type in music. There are billboards for losing weight. There are too many diet fads to count, sugar-free this and "light" that and research upon research of how to avoid killing yourself while still breathing air.
What, then, is the reason I have fallen in love with burlesque and my community in particular? Listen and I will sing you the song of the strippers.
I went to a couple of burlesque shows before I started taking classes. I have been to a handful since then. What I noticed the first times resonates with me now and that is that there are different body types on that stage. Rail thin. Chubby. Tiny boobs and flat asses and big boobs and flat asses. Toned bodies. Rolls, bumps, even dreaded cellulite. Round butts, long legs, short legs, tattoos, colored hair, shaved heads, and anything in between. The girls from two acts can be completely different and yet they have one thing in common. They're ALL fucking sexy. They're sexy because they're beautiful and what makes them beautiful is that they are talented and confident and they're all individuals.
When I see someone with my body type on stage in sparkles and glitter, shimmying and twisting and bending and teasing and getting roars of approval from the audience? I can't think of anything more validating. And when I see someone with more rolls than mine or dimply knees, I do not think, "At least I'm not that big!" Instead, I covet her curves and I envy her spirit, that in those moments, she is ALL woman, in every sense of the word.
This community I have found myself in goes beyond that. Performances aren't the pinnacle. Or they are, in a sense, but the real magic is what these women do every day, on a normal basis. They support each other. They cheer one another on. I've been part of group discussions where we've basically vomited out what we think is ugliest about ourselves and there has been no judgment. None. It's a perfectly safe, comforting, cozy den of acceptance. Behind the pink door nothing really changes but also everything changes. We don't turn into unicorns. I'm not getting on stage tomorrow. Nobody is turning the world upside down. Rather, we are changing each other's worlds. With a smile, with cheers, with a small "amen, sister." With understanding and compassion.
Will I still stare at the food baby I carry everywhere and will it to disappear? Yeah. Honestly, I will. When I try on the dress that looks so good on the hanger but squeezes in uncomfortable and obvious places, I'll admit to some self-loathing. But I'm learning to love other women's bodies. And since so many of them look more like mine than not, and definitely more like mine than anything this society has tried to force on me, I'm learning to love my body also. Or at least appreciate it.
Or to know that if someone else looks fucking hot in that pink plastic dress even though she has a tiny bit of back fat showing over the top, then screw it. I can be that hot too.
The thing I abhor about dance classes/gyms/yoga is the giant mirror on one wall. It's necessary to ensure you're using proper form and all that, blah, blah, blah. But it's also a reflection of how you look in that particular moment of time. Usually not the best moment. Workout clothes. Little or no makeup. No cute shoes. Bad hair. Sweat.
With burlesque, there is the added element of trying to appear "sexy." Boobs up and forward, shoulders back, back arched, butt out. Even this isn't that bad because, come on, what girl hasn't posed to find her best angle in a mirror? But then add movement to that. Add boobs out, hand on hip, bend over, stick that ass out, arch that back, and - OH GOD!! WHY is my stomach laying on my LEG??? This is not a good look!! This is a TERRIBLE look!! How many people are seeing this right now? This is exactly why I shouldn't have done this. Right here. Evidence that I am NOT sexy. Nope, nope, not even a little. I need a mask and a muumuu and a triple cocktail.
And that, because of what has been ingrained in me since I was a walking, talking member of society, is what I remember in the days after. That is my self-image for weeks after. The girl who can't suck her stomach in enough to keep it from touching her thigh. Who wants to see that? I mean, I don't have thigh gap and I'm good with that. It's hard to peel a stocking from your hand if you can't squeeze it between your thighs. Thigh gap is gross. But can I have a gap between my thigh and my belly? For fuck's sake??
So, no. No, I have not learned to love my body and its flaws by looking at myself during a class. Even if the song that is repeated over and over for the routine we are learning contains lyrics pontificating the virtue of confidence. Nope. It's not happening.
I'll tell you why it isn't happening. Yes, most of it comes from my inside voice. My inside critic. My inside bitch who wants to limit my happiness. It also comes from messages I've received during my life. Things like, "If you stand like that, your legs will bend the wrong way." "Did you ever break your nose? It looks like you did." "Do you EVER eat??" (This was when I was very young and very thin, a place I will never return to and don't really want to anyway, but it was still a message that I wasn't measuring up to an invisible standard.) "There's no way you still wear a size 4."
It also comes from every image we see in magazines, movies, the media, online, and on and on. There is one body type on magazine covers. There is one body type in movies and on the red carpet. There is one body type in music. There are billboards for losing weight. There are too many diet fads to count, sugar-free this and "light" that and research upon research of how to avoid killing yourself while still breathing air.
What, then, is the reason I have fallen in love with burlesque and my community in particular? Listen and I will sing you the song of the strippers.
I went to a couple of burlesque shows before I started taking classes. I have been to a handful since then. What I noticed the first times resonates with me now and that is that there are different body types on that stage. Rail thin. Chubby. Tiny boobs and flat asses and big boobs and flat asses. Toned bodies. Rolls, bumps, even dreaded cellulite. Round butts, long legs, short legs, tattoos, colored hair, shaved heads, and anything in between. The girls from two acts can be completely different and yet they have one thing in common. They're ALL fucking sexy. They're sexy because they're beautiful and what makes them beautiful is that they are talented and confident and they're all individuals.
When I see someone with my body type on stage in sparkles and glitter, shimmying and twisting and bending and teasing and getting roars of approval from the audience? I can't think of anything more validating. And when I see someone with more rolls than mine or dimply knees, I do not think, "At least I'm not that big!" Instead, I covet her curves and I envy her spirit, that in those moments, she is ALL woman, in every sense of the word.
This community I have found myself in goes beyond that. Performances aren't the pinnacle. Or they are, in a sense, but the real magic is what these women do every day, on a normal basis. They support each other. They cheer one another on. I've been part of group discussions where we've basically vomited out what we think is ugliest about ourselves and there has been no judgment. None. It's a perfectly safe, comforting, cozy den of acceptance. Behind the pink door nothing really changes but also everything changes. We don't turn into unicorns. I'm not getting on stage tomorrow. Nobody is turning the world upside down. Rather, we are changing each other's worlds. With a smile, with cheers, with a small "amen, sister." With understanding and compassion.
Will I still stare at the food baby I carry everywhere and will it to disappear? Yeah. Honestly, I will. When I try on the dress that looks so good on the hanger but squeezes in uncomfortable and obvious places, I'll admit to some self-loathing. But I'm learning to love other women's bodies. And since so many of them look more like mine than not, and definitely more like mine than anything this society has tried to force on me, I'm learning to love my body also. Or at least appreciate it.
Or to know that if someone else looks fucking hot in that pink plastic dress even though she has a tiny bit of back fat showing over the top, then screw it. I can be that hot too.
Wednesday, April 06, 2016
Partying With Women Who Sell Vibrators
This past week I attended my second Pure Romance conference, this time in Orlando. If you've ever wondered what happens when more than 3,000 women who sell vibrators get together, take a seat. It's a lot so I'm going to have to break it up over two posts.
I also must note that I resisted going to this one. My best friend had joined in the previous year or so and we attended our first conference together. I didn't want to go without her. She was my crutch as well as my partner in crime. What I learned over the last few days is that I can love my business in my own way and that's okay and I don't need her joined at my hip to know that I have her support. We grow the most when we like it the least and I ended up being exactly where and when I needed to be.
Day One.
I have another job so I left at noon and arrived in Orlando in time to take a shower, adorn my non-bridal white dress and hit the South Beach White Party. I missed opening session where our fearless and fabulous leaders Patty Brisben and Chris Ciccinelli speak. Boo.
The dress code for the White Party was all white. Self-explanatory, but harder to shop for than you would think. It actually looked beautiful - a whole room of white with pink lighting. And let me tell you, Pure Romance knows how to throw a party. There were 22 bars inside the dance room alone!! Let that marinate. Dinner was provided along with the first couple of drinks and then we danced all night!
I somehow managed to lose everyone in the groups I was hanging out with so I hung out in the area above the dance floor and that's where I met my first friend for the week. Audrey is from Oregon so we had an instant connection. We also had a mutual disdain for all of the girls throwing themselves at the adorable boy guarding the stairs we were next to. Dignity, ladies.
My roommates were still awake when I returned to our room and we stayed up until 1:00 in the morning talking about our businesses and our lives. Pillow talk at its best.
Day Two
This was a day of classes and the first one gave me loads of information that I could use and implement immediately.
I should point out that several of our classes are conducted by fellow consultants. When we say that Pure Romance is a sisterhood, it truly is. Our top consultants freely, willingly, and enthusiastically share with the rest of us what has led to their success. They don't selfishly keep their best tactics to themselves but show the rest of us how it's done. This might be the best thing I like about this company but in another few minutes I'll come up with another favorite.
The next class was a top company star sharing her information. This woman is a star in every sense of the word. She's tall, she's beautiful, she's funny, and last year her team sales were $23 million. Yes, million. A fucking 23 MILLION. I was behind her waiting for the elevator one night and I wanted to touch her dress just to see if some of her magic would rub off on me. Except you don't have to do that when she willingly TELLS you. I'm not sure girl crush covers it.
There were two more classes with doctors who research sexual health and behavior, both of whom I saw last year and present us with tremendous amounts of information. The adorably cute brunette doctor used the "p" word more than once and I would have fallen out of of my chair if I weren't sitting on the floor where my phone was charging.
When classes were over, it was time to grab some lunch and head to the room for a much-needed nap before preparing for formal awards night.
The awards ceremony is an event in itself. It's like a mini-Oscars party. There are categories based on consultant level with awards for those who attained the highest personal sales, group sales, or recruits. There is recognition for those attaining higher levels for the first time. The best and the brightest walk the stage in their glamorous get-ups while the rest of us cheer and celebrate their successes.
If you ever see a consultant post about how this company takes care of them, let me give you an example. One woman stood on stage as a record-breaker for personal sales. Now, she already made money. She made money from her team. I'm sure Chris and Patty sent her flowers during the year. She probably won a trip or two. Most likely a lifestyle bonus every month. It's a nice way to make a living. But right there, in front of everyone, Patti presented her with a personalized Louis Vuitton handbag, designed and made in Paris. Two plane tickets to anywhere in the country. And $5,000 cash. Pure Romance appreciates its consultants and rewards them beyond their dreams.
Once the ceremony was over, we filed out to the waiting banquet tables topped with meat and cheese delicacies, Asian spring rolls and dim sum, salads, bread, lobster pasta (with freaking giant pieces of lobster meat!) and stacks of desserts. We piled our plates, ordered our drinks, and made our way into the ballroom once again.
This time, aside from the multiple bars, there were women performing aerial acrobatics on silks, rings, and one hanging from a chandelier pouring champagne upside down into flutes below.
We ate, we drank, we danced, we drank some more. I ran into my new friend from the night before, met her friend, and once the last song was over, we all went to our room to drink some more and laugh our asses off playing Cards Against Humanity and toying with a Tinder dude until 3:00 a.m.
And it still wasn't over......
I also must note that I resisted going to this one. My best friend had joined in the previous year or so and we attended our first conference together. I didn't want to go without her. She was my crutch as well as my partner in crime. What I learned over the last few days is that I can love my business in my own way and that's okay and I don't need her joined at my hip to know that I have her support. We grow the most when we like it the least and I ended up being exactly where and when I needed to be.
Day One.
I have another job so I left at noon and arrived in Orlando in time to take a shower, adorn my non-bridal white dress and hit the South Beach White Party. I missed opening session where our fearless and fabulous leaders Patty Brisben and Chris Ciccinelli speak. Boo.
The dress code for the White Party was all white. Self-explanatory, but harder to shop for than you would think. It actually looked beautiful - a whole room of white with pink lighting. And let me tell you, Pure Romance knows how to throw a party. There were 22 bars inside the dance room alone!! Let that marinate. Dinner was provided along with the first couple of drinks and then we danced all night!
I somehow managed to lose everyone in the groups I was hanging out with so I hung out in the area above the dance floor and that's where I met my first friend for the week. Audrey is from Oregon so we had an instant connection. We also had a mutual disdain for all of the girls throwing themselves at the adorable boy guarding the stairs we were next to. Dignity, ladies.
My roommates were still awake when I returned to our room and we stayed up until 1:00 in the morning talking about our businesses and our lives. Pillow talk at its best.
Day Two
This was a day of classes and the first one gave me loads of information that I could use and implement immediately.
I should point out that several of our classes are conducted by fellow consultants. When we say that Pure Romance is a sisterhood, it truly is. Our top consultants freely, willingly, and enthusiastically share with the rest of us what has led to their success. They don't selfishly keep their best tactics to themselves but show the rest of us how it's done. This might be the best thing I like about this company but in another few minutes I'll come up with another favorite.
The next class was a top company star sharing her information. This woman is a star in every sense of the word. She's tall, she's beautiful, she's funny, and last year her team sales were $23 million. Yes, million. A fucking 23 MILLION. I was behind her waiting for the elevator one night and I wanted to touch her dress just to see if some of her magic would rub off on me. Except you don't have to do that when she willingly TELLS you. I'm not sure girl crush covers it.
There were two more classes with doctors who research sexual health and behavior, both of whom I saw last year and present us with tremendous amounts of information. The adorably cute brunette doctor used the "p" word more than once and I would have fallen out of of my chair if I weren't sitting on the floor where my phone was charging.
When classes were over, it was time to grab some lunch and head to the room for a much-needed nap before preparing for formal awards night.
The awards ceremony is an event in itself. It's like a mini-Oscars party. There are categories based on consultant level with awards for those who attained the highest personal sales, group sales, or recruits. There is recognition for those attaining higher levels for the first time. The best and the brightest walk the stage in their glamorous get-ups while the rest of us cheer and celebrate their successes.
If you ever see a consultant post about how this company takes care of them, let me give you an example. One woman stood on stage as a record-breaker for personal sales. Now, she already made money. She made money from her team. I'm sure Chris and Patty sent her flowers during the year. She probably won a trip or two. Most likely a lifestyle bonus every month. It's a nice way to make a living. But right there, in front of everyone, Patti presented her with a personalized Louis Vuitton handbag, designed and made in Paris. Two plane tickets to anywhere in the country. And $5,000 cash. Pure Romance appreciates its consultants and rewards them beyond their dreams.
Once the ceremony was over, we filed out to the waiting banquet tables topped with meat and cheese delicacies, Asian spring rolls and dim sum, salads, bread, lobster pasta (with freaking giant pieces of lobster meat!) and stacks of desserts. We piled our plates, ordered our drinks, and made our way into the ballroom once again.
This time, aside from the multiple bars, there were women performing aerial acrobatics on silks, rings, and one hanging from a chandelier pouring champagne upside down into flutes below.
We ate, we drank, we danced, we drank some more. I ran into my new friend from the night before, met her friend, and once the last song was over, we all went to our room to drink some more and laugh our asses off playing Cards Against Humanity and toying with a Tinder dude until 3:00 a.m.
And it still wasn't over......
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Teaching Old Hips New Twists
I decided to take a giant, running leap outside of my comfort zone and signed up for a Burlesque class. Why learn to tap dance demurely or take piano lessons from a woman with a house full of cats when I can learn to strip to music? In front of other stripping women. Yep. Going for it.
I'm two weeks into a six-week workshop. What I feared so much before I now can't remember as it's really very much like a regular workout class. My legs and back hurt after the first night. My hips pretty much laughed at me when I asked them to shimmy. And, aside from the tall gazelle with the great ass, we're all just regular women in there. Learning the same awkward moves. Some of us have body parts that move better. Apparently butt reverb is a thing. I don't have it.
The side effect of taking a dance class of any type is that you start to notice more about how your body moves. Notice what different muscles actually do and what they can do. And muscle has memory. Whether you want it to or not. So you might fell yourself standing up from the toilet differently. Or you might be bent down to look at something on a lower shelf in Target and not realize until you're done that you just stuck your ass out and straightened yourself provocatively. Luckily nobody saw you that time. You hope.
Also? Your daughter doesn't want to see you practice because you're a mom and it's "sexual and weird." At least I'm getting the sexual part down. Probably in a weird way.
I do have a stage name in mind, but will still take suggestions. Must be sexual and slightly weird.
I'm two weeks into a six-week workshop. What I feared so much before I now can't remember as it's really very much like a regular workout class. My legs and back hurt after the first night. My hips pretty much laughed at me when I asked them to shimmy. And, aside from the tall gazelle with the great ass, we're all just regular women in there. Learning the same awkward moves. Some of us have body parts that move better. Apparently butt reverb is a thing. I don't have it.
The side effect of taking a dance class of any type is that you start to notice more about how your body moves. Notice what different muscles actually do and what they can do. And muscle has memory. Whether you want it to or not. So you might fell yourself standing up from the toilet differently. Or you might be bent down to look at something on a lower shelf in Target and not realize until you're done that you just stuck your ass out and straightened yourself provocatively. Luckily nobody saw you that time. You hope.
Also? Your daughter doesn't want to see you practice because you're a mom and it's "sexual and weird." At least I'm getting the sexual part down. Probably in a weird way.
I do have a stage name in mind, but will still take suggestions. Must be sexual and slightly weird.
Ode To a Mockingbird
Harper Lee was not a prolific writer. I didn't even read To Kill a Mockingbird until after the age of 30. And yet, she is one of the most important writers in my life. When I found out last week that she died, I felt like a small part of my childhood died as well.
When I was growing up, without DVD's or Netflix or Hulu or any of the other couch-potato accoutrements, we watched movies on TV the night that they came on. There were a handful of them we watched every year. Some I still crave, like Sound of Music, and one or two I could never see again. (I'm looking at you, African Queen.) To Kill a Mockingbird was one of my favorites. I don't even know if my dad had read the book, but he insisted we watch the movie any time it was on.
I loved it.
I had difficult relationships with my dad(s) so I loved Atticus Finch. He was so wise and strong and Good. I wanted be be brave and saucy like Scout was. I wanted a brother like Jem and I wanted mystery and adventure on summer days. The film is black and white, but so easy to fall into. I swear I could smell Calpurnia's cooking, the dusty roads, feel the bark on the tree where Boo hides his gifts.
And Gregory Peck. I mean, come on. I didn't even know who Robert Duvall was for years and didn't realize he was in this movie until after I'd fallen in love with him as an actor. I don't think that's a coincidence.
Finally reading the book was just as glorious. Every page I lived in Maycomb, walked the dirt road to school, sat at the kitchen table with Atticus, Jem, and frequent guests, watched Atticus in the court room, listened to Tom Robinson tell his story, and learned the same lessons as Scout.
I like to think that my parents passed on important lessons they didn't know how to otherwise tell me through that story. I knew to never use the "n word" and that life just isn't fair a lot of the time. That there are injustices and some things can never be made right but that doesn't make the world a dark place. And people can surprise you in the loveliest ways.
I owe a fathomless debt of gratitude to Harper Lee for the memories of my childhood, for a book that I can dive into and emerge a better person each time I read it. Her words are forever etched onto my heart.
When I was growing up, without DVD's or Netflix or Hulu or any of the other couch-potato accoutrements, we watched movies on TV the night that they came on. There were a handful of them we watched every year. Some I still crave, like Sound of Music, and one or two I could never see again. (I'm looking at you, African Queen.) To Kill a Mockingbird was one of my favorites. I don't even know if my dad had read the book, but he insisted we watch the movie any time it was on.
I loved it.
I had difficult relationships with my dad(s) so I loved Atticus Finch. He was so wise and strong and Good. I wanted be be brave and saucy like Scout was. I wanted a brother like Jem and I wanted mystery and adventure on summer days. The film is black and white, but so easy to fall into. I swear I could smell Calpurnia's cooking, the dusty roads, feel the bark on the tree where Boo hides his gifts.
And Gregory Peck. I mean, come on. I didn't even know who Robert Duvall was for years and didn't realize he was in this movie until after I'd fallen in love with him as an actor. I don't think that's a coincidence.
Finally reading the book was just as glorious. Every page I lived in Maycomb, walked the dirt road to school, sat at the kitchen table with Atticus, Jem, and frequent guests, watched Atticus in the court room, listened to Tom Robinson tell his story, and learned the same lessons as Scout.
I like to think that my parents passed on important lessons they didn't know how to otherwise tell me through that story. I knew to never use the "n word" and that life just isn't fair a lot of the time. That there are injustices and some things can never be made right but that doesn't make the world a dark place. And people can surprise you in the loveliest ways.
I owe a fathomless debt of gratitude to Harper Lee for the memories of my childhood, for a book that I can dive into and emerge a better person each time I read it. Her words are forever etched onto my heart.
Thursday, February 11, 2016
It's Enough
I did a Pure Romance party the other night for a repeat customer. There was a woman there I hadn't met before. She was nice, open, easy to talk to. I liked her almost immediately. Throughout the evening, she readily participated with the other women.
In the ordering room, she told me that she had once worked at a big adult store. One of those with four stories and everything imaginable and vibrateable under the sun. With her experience and easygoing nature, I thought she would be a great consultant and I told her so. I'm used to people saying no. "Oh no, not me. I could never!" Followed by giggles.
But this time the "no" wasn't from embarrassment or being silly. Her reason was, "Nobody would take me seriously. You have to be pretty to talk about sex and I'm just not. Nobody wants to look at someone like me."
And my heart broke a little.
If I'm completely honest about her appearance, sure. Her hair was a little big and frizzy. She's a little chunky. Who isn't? Put some conditioner in her hair and throw on a cute scarf and there is nothing about her that isn't approachable. I wasn't relating to her looks, I was relating to her as a person, as a woman. There was nothing that made her less of a woman than me or anyone else there.
Why do we do this to ourselves? To each other? When are we going to stop making shallow judgments about ourselves? And how do we honestly communicate to each other that we are enough? That we're more than enough?
A main tenet of Pure Romance is empowerment. We talk about it. We think we practice it, but do we? Because empowerment is about more than speaking up for yourself. Right? It's great that you can ask for what you want in the bedroom, or at work, or from your friends. Our voices should be heard and we should be respected and we should be able to buy what we want without being treated like "the little lady."
But it also means we should do all of these things without worrying about what we look like. If we can't be open in a room with women who have the same insecurities, the same struggles, the same relationship worries, how are we going to overcome this?
It has to start with us. We have to encourage one another. Validate one another. Celebrate the accomplishments we each make. Pay a compliment to a random stranger. Tell a mom she's doing a good job. Motivate, celebrate, appreciate. Do it over and over until you believe it. Until you believe your women friends believe it.
Enough is enough. Being a woman is, gloriously, enough.
In the ordering room, she told me that she had once worked at a big adult store. One of those with four stories and everything imaginable and vibrateable under the sun. With her experience and easygoing nature, I thought she would be a great consultant and I told her so. I'm used to people saying no. "Oh no, not me. I could never!" Followed by giggles.
But this time the "no" wasn't from embarrassment or being silly. Her reason was, "Nobody would take me seriously. You have to be pretty to talk about sex and I'm just not. Nobody wants to look at someone like me."
And my heart broke a little.
If I'm completely honest about her appearance, sure. Her hair was a little big and frizzy. She's a little chunky. Who isn't? Put some conditioner in her hair and throw on a cute scarf and there is nothing about her that isn't approachable. I wasn't relating to her looks, I was relating to her as a person, as a woman. There was nothing that made her less of a woman than me or anyone else there.
Why do we do this to ourselves? To each other? When are we going to stop making shallow judgments about ourselves? And how do we honestly communicate to each other that we are enough? That we're more than enough?
A main tenet of Pure Romance is empowerment. We talk about it. We think we practice it, but do we? Because empowerment is about more than speaking up for yourself. Right? It's great that you can ask for what you want in the bedroom, or at work, or from your friends. Our voices should be heard and we should be respected and we should be able to buy what we want without being treated like "the little lady."
But it also means we should do all of these things without worrying about what we look like. If we can't be open in a room with women who have the same insecurities, the same struggles, the same relationship worries, how are we going to overcome this?
It has to start with us. We have to encourage one another. Validate one another. Celebrate the accomplishments we each make. Pay a compliment to a random stranger. Tell a mom she's doing a good job. Motivate, celebrate, appreciate. Do it over and over until you believe it. Until you believe your women friends believe it.
Enough is enough. Being a woman is, gloriously, enough.
Sunday, January 17, 2016
The Year of Me
For a while, I was forcing myself to do things that scared the shit out of me. Public speaking via Toastmasters was a big one. I started my own business. When I went to Ireland I got a tattoo that says, "Without fear" to remind me of how I wanted to live. I moved across the country.
Then last year a couple of things happened that shook my confidence and my belief in myself. I felt vulnerable and exposed and I allowed myself to be judged. I crawled inside of Fear because it was comfortable. It was safe. When you don't risk anything, you don't lose anything. I told myself it was being lazy, because that sounded like I was in control. I just chose not to do things. Sloth may be a deadly sin, but it sounded better than being afraid and Not in Control of Me.
Yesterday I had a conversation with a friend about how she spent her New Year's. She told me that how you spend your New Year's is how you will spend your year. Hers included an evening at a comedy club, so her year would be about laughter. I had spent my 46th New Year's Eve completely alone for the first time ever. No parents, no boyfriend, no friends, no kid. Just me and the dogs. For about 75 seconds that night I thought I should feel sorry for myself. I mean, only spinsters with 49 cats spend the Party of the Year alone, right? And then I thought, fuck it. I'm good company. I'm a damn good date. I'd rather snuggle with my pups than freeze my ass off or hang out around a bunch of drunk strangers. Or drink and drink and lose three hours of my life and waste the next day hungover.
Given that thought, I am declaring this year The Year of Me. Once again I will step outside my comfort zone (or leap out of it in the case of the burlesque workshop I'm starting this week), face my fears, try new things, and set goals. It's time to aim high again. Even falling from heights (figuratively, of course!) is more satisfying what wishing and wondering "what if."
So. There it is. It's in the Universe now.
Let's go.
Then last year a couple of things happened that shook my confidence and my belief in myself. I felt vulnerable and exposed and I allowed myself to be judged. I crawled inside of Fear because it was comfortable. It was safe. When you don't risk anything, you don't lose anything. I told myself it was being lazy, because that sounded like I was in control. I just chose not to do things. Sloth may be a deadly sin, but it sounded better than being afraid and Not in Control of Me.
Yesterday I had a conversation with a friend about how she spent her New Year's. She told me that how you spend your New Year's is how you will spend your year. Hers included an evening at a comedy club, so her year would be about laughter. I had spent my 46th New Year's Eve completely alone for the first time ever. No parents, no boyfriend, no friends, no kid. Just me and the dogs. For about 75 seconds that night I thought I should feel sorry for myself. I mean, only spinsters with 49 cats spend the Party of the Year alone, right? And then I thought, fuck it. I'm good company. I'm a damn good date. I'd rather snuggle with my pups than freeze my ass off or hang out around a bunch of drunk strangers. Or drink and drink and lose three hours of my life and waste the next day hungover.
Given that thought, I am declaring this year The Year of Me. Once again I will step outside my comfort zone (or leap out of it in the case of the burlesque workshop I'm starting this week), face my fears, try new things, and set goals. It's time to aim high again. Even falling from heights (figuratively, of course!) is more satisfying what wishing and wondering "what if."
So. There it is. It's in the Universe now.
Let's go.
Friday, December 18, 2015
A Black Guy, a Hawaiian, and an Iraqi Walk Into a Bar......
So it's actually an office where the previous day's potluck leftovers have been sitting overnight.
Hawaiian: J, you want some potato salad?
Black Guy: No way, man.
Iraqi: There's some chicken.
BG: What are you trying to say? Is there watermelon too??
H: Yeah, there's probably some watermelon in the fruit salad.
BG: I know you didn't just say that. I'm the only person who knows you're Hawaiian.
I: You're Hawaiian?
BG: See? Nobody knows!!
H: Hey, I'm just trying to take care of my people.
BG: Your people? Like you got people?
H: Yeah man, my people.
If I got paid for laughing here, they couldn't afford me.
Hawaiian: J, you want some potato salad?
Black Guy: No way, man.
Iraqi: There's some chicken.
BG: What are you trying to say? Is there watermelon too??
H: Yeah, there's probably some watermelon in the fruit salad.
BG: I know you didn't just say that. I'm the only person who knows you're Hawaiian.
I: You're Hawaiian?
BG: See? Nobody knows!!
H: Hey, I'm just trying to take care of my people.
BG: Your people? Like you got people?
H: Yeah man, my people.
If I got paid for laughing here, they couldn't afford me.
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
I Might Have a Problem. Just a Little One. Maybe.
I stream Kidd Kraddick in the Morning on my phone when I'm getting ready for and driving to work. I've been listening to them for more than a dozen years now so they're kind of family. Love them.
Anyway.
Today they talked about and showed a video of one of the kids they took on their Kidd's Kids trip to Disney World this year. Memphis developed meningitis and became a quadruple amputee as a result. He gets around quite well, seems well-adjusted, and had a great time on the trip with his dad. In the video Memphis meets Travis, a former army sergeant, who shares the same disability. Only he lost his limbs defending our country. He now works as a motivational speaker and supports veterans with disabilities.
Travis has some pretty cool prosthetics. They have robotic hands and other cool shit. Memphis also has prosthetics but doesn't like wearing them. His dad and doctors have struggled with this. Well, after playing with Travis' removable arm, Memphis declared he now wants an arm for Christmas. It was all very sweet and touching and inspirational.
Halfway through the video, which took place in a gym, I spotted something interesting. Something white and tailless. Something smooshy-faced. Holy-everything-wonderful-in-the-world, there is a fucking bulldog hanging out in that gym!!!!!
Oh my dog, oh my dog, oh my dog, show him again I have to see that wrinkly butt what is he doing does he work there is he there every day where is this gym how do I get a membership there and will this dog be my personal trainer?!?????!!?!???!!!
Yep, inspiration and feel-good messages were all lost on me at that point. I'm happy for Memphis and Travis is motivated to encourage those with disabilities and injuries that aren't only military and war-related. Awesome. But you guys!!!! There is a bulldog in the gym!! I spent the rest of the segment looking for that dog. At the end he was kissing Memphis. Because that's what bulldogs do.
Day. Made.
Anyway.
Today they talked about and showed a video of one of the kids they took on their Kidd's Kids trip to Disney World this year. Memphis developed meningitis and became a quadruple amputee as a result. He gets around quite well, seems well-adjusted, and had a great time on the trip with his dad. In the video Memphis meets Travis, a former army sergeant, who shares the same disability. Only he lost his limbs defending our country. He now works as a motivational speaker and supports veterans with disabilities.
Travis has some pretty cool prosthetics. They have robotic hands and other cool shit. Memphis also has prosthetics but doesn't like wearing them. His dad and doctors have struggled with this. Well, after playing with Travis' removable arm, Memphis declared he now wants an arm for Christmas. It was all very sweet and touching and inspirational.
Halfway through the video, which took place in a gym, I spotted something interesting. Something white and tailless. Something smooshy-faced. Holy-everything-wonderful-in-the-world, there is a fucking bulldog hanging out in that gym!!!!!
Oh my dog, oh my dog, oh my dog, show him again I have to see that wrinkly butt what is he doing does he work there is he there every day where is this gym how do I get a membership there and will this dog be my personal trainer?!?????!!?!???!!!
Yep, inspiration and feel-good messages were all lost on me at that point. I'm happy for Memphis and Travis is motivated to encourage those with disabilities and injuries that aren't only military and war-related. Awesome. But you guys!!!! There is a bulldog in the gym!! I spent the rest of the segment looking for that dog. At the end he was kissing Memphis. Because that's what bulldogs do.
Day. Made.
Monday, December 14, 2015
I Need Humanity to Come Back
This is going to sound weird, especially coming from me, especially to those who know me. Yesterday, as I was watching my dogs pee (I don't know why then, usually I do my best thinking in the shower) the word "service" came to mind. The odd part to me is that I usually equate this word with religious connotations. Church service. Servicing others. And I'm not a church person. I don't spontaneously combust when I enter one, it's just not a place I choose to visit regularly.
So I've been thinking about it and what it means to me.
I got an email at work about how we should all be prepared in today's world. Lock doors, wear badges, park in visible areas, etc. We live in a very scary time. And while I feel relatively safe at work, being out in the boonies a bit, I still have friends and family to worry about. I worry for people I don't know because there are so many uncertainties and the news is bad every day.
Between the events in the world at large and our own political debates and in-fighting at home, I feel lately that we have lost our humanity. There is no compassion for people who are different from us, we're bombarded with messages that we have to protect ourselves at all costs. I don't think this is true, but voicing it results in me being labeled a "bleeding heart."
And it's a struggle for me to remain calm and rational when I hear all the rhetoric being thrown around. My mother and I disagree on one particular presidential candidate who I believe to be one of the worst people to come on the scene for a while. He constantly spews hate and fear-mongering and I think my mother is smarter than that. That's when I realize I'm doing it too. Making judgments. Putting on labels. We have to be better than that.
Working back to service. It is said that you must first help yourself before you can help others. Maybe that's why this is coming up for me now. I've spent the last several years working to be someone I can be someone I like, who I can spend time with. And I do. Some of my favorite evenings are the ones I spend alone, with a cocktail, blogging or listening to music or watching TV with my dogs. I'm a pretty fun date for myself. So maybe I've opened up some room to be able to give back.
The problem is, I don't know how. I don't know what that looks like for me. Many of the consultants in Pure Romance talk about making a difference in the lives of women. And that might be one way. I have a customer whose husband only likes to have sex one way and it's pretty demeaning for her. Her own mother encourages her to submit because "He'll find it elsewhere if you don't." Her mother perpetuates the idea that her body doesn't belong to her, that she must sacrifice her personal boundaries in order to keep a man that doesn't respect them. There wasn't a lot I could tell her, but I hope my suggestions in some small way empowered her to start thinking about standing up for herself. Maybe a tiny seed was planted.
I try to advocate for animals. I celebrate when a dog is rescued and finds a new home. The only problem is, there are 25 more waiting behind him for their own families. I cheer when animal rights become something to fight for, to vote on even. And then I hear that their are only two of a rhino species left in the entire world and poachers are running rampant.
I don't know where to begin. I don't know where I'm needed. Do I start small by being kinder? Is this where a return to humanity is sparked? How does it spread? Do you know you're making a difference or is it like parenthood, where you're just in the trenches day after day and one day when she's able to reflect and sit in your shoes for a minute, your daughter tells you that she appreciates you and understands you've only tried your best?
If you practice being of service, what do you do? Do you give your time, your money, your home? How do you not flash with anger at the injustices in the world? Is there something that lasts longer than giving money to a homeless person or donating to a Gofundme for someone in need or buying a Christmas gift for a needy child at the office? How did you find where you fit to offer the most?
So I've been thinking about it and what it means to me.
I got an email at work about how we should all be prepared in today's world. Lock doors, wear badges, park in visible areas, etc. We live in a very scary time. And while I feel relatively safe at work, being out in the boonies a bit, I still have friends and family to worry about. I worry for people I don't know because there are so many uncertainties and the news is bad every day.
Between the events in the world at large and our own political debates and in-fighting at home, I feel lately that we have lost our humanity. There is no compassion for people who are different from us, we're bombarded with messages that we have to protect ourselves at all costs. I don't think this is true, but voicing it results in me being labeled a "bleeding heart."
And it's a struggle for me to remain calm and rational when I hear all the rhetoric being thrown around. My mother and I disagree on one particular presidential candidate who I believe to be one of the worst people to come on the scene for a while. He constantly spews hate and fear-mongering and I think my mother is smarter than that. That's when I realize I'm doing it too. Making judgments. Putting on labels. We have to be better than that.
Working back to service. It is said that you must first help yourself before you can help others. Maybe that's why this is coming up for me now. I've spent the last several years working to be someone I can be someone I like, who I can spend time with. And I do. Some of my favorite evenings are the ones I spend alone, with a cocktail, blogging or listening to music or watching TV with my dogs. I'm a pretty fun date for myself. So maybe I've opened up some room to be able to give back.
The problem is, I don't know how. I don't know what that looks like for me. Many of the consultants in Pure Romance talk about making a difference in the lives of women. And that might be one way. I have a customer whose husband only likes to have sex one way and it's pretty demeaning for her. Her own mother encourages her to submit because "He'll find it elsewhere if you don't." Her mother perpetuates the idea that her body doesn't belong to her, that she must sacrifice her personal boundaries in order to keep a man that doesn't respect them. There wasn't a lot I could tell her, but I hope my suggestions in some small way empowered her to start thinking about standing up for herself. Maybe a tiny seed was planted.
I try to advocate for animals. I celebrate when a dog is rescued and finds a new home. The only problem is, there are 25 more waiting behind him for their own families. I cheer when animal rights become something to fight for, to vote on even. And then I hear that their are only two of a rhino species left in the entire world and poachers are running rampant.
I don't know where to begin. I don't know where I'm needed. Do I start small by being kinder? Is this where a return to humanity is sparked? How does it spread? Do you know you're making a difference or is it like parenthood, where you're just in the trenches day after day and one day when she's able to reflect and sit in your shoes for a minute, your daughter tells you that she appreciates you and understands you've only tried your best?
If you practice being of service, what do you do? Do you give your time, your money, your home? How do you not flash with anger at the injustices in the world? Is there something that lasts longer than giving money to a homeless person or donating to a Gofundme for someone in need or buying a Christmas gift for a needy child at the office? How did you find where you fit to offer the most?
Wednesday, December 02, 2015
How My Job Might Ruin My Dating Life
When I moved to the south from Oregon, I expected that things would be different. There were some things I hoped would be different. Like the way people dress up for weddings. Also sweet tea and pimiento cheese being readily available.
Mostly I hoped for the men to be different. I'm going to generalize and say that men in the Pacific NW (and probably the entire west coast) are very self-involved. They're more concerned with their image and care far more about themselves to spend a modicum of effort on the women around them. The loves of their lives are inanimate - mountain bikes, snowboards, and craft beer. There is very little room left over for women or for doing things that women like. Such as being taken to dinner. Or even being paid a small compliment.
So yes, things are different in the south and I feel particularly so at my present job. I'm in a room with at least a dozen men and only two other women. A lot of the time I'm the only woman. And they treat me like one. They tell dirty jokes but then they apologize (because they don't know me very well). If I voice that I would like something, say an extra monitor on my desk, it's on my desk and hooked up before I finish my sentence. When I got my new docking station, three of them swarmed over to help me set it up. Nobody says anything when I take the last cookie.
The other men in the building are just as accommodating. They go out of their way to hold doors open, hold the elevator, let me off the elevator or through the door first. The guys I think who are too busy to really pay attention to me remember the single conversation we had and refer to the thing I told them. Guys I don't even know notice when I get my hair cut and compliment me. Even the security guys, who I think have the most boring job in the building, cheer me up on cloudy days.
I went to Pittsburgh for training three months after I started here. I mistakenly asked someone at the help desk if he had a power cord I could borrow for the week and he started at me blankly and then told me to go downstairs and find one. What?? You mean you're not going to stop what you're doing and clamber to get one for me???
Do you see the problem? I now can't date a guy who doesn't treat me at least as well as my co-workers. At my age, I've already learned to have higher standards. I am further being spoiled and (mis)led to believe I am some sort of actual lady.
Thus, my wish list has changed a bit. Future boyfriends must use ma'am on occasion. But only in a cute, charming way, not like in an I'm-an-old-lady way. They must open doors and let me through first. They must give up their seat and not just to me, but to pregnant women and the elderly, even when I'm not present. They must anticipate my needs and provide them before I've finished my sentence. As in, "I'd like some hot chocolate right about..... Oh, thank you!" They should probably assume I know nothing about electronics and insist on assembling things. Even if I can figure it out, I don't want to.
And they should always, always give me the last cookie.
Mostly I hoped for the men to be different. I'm going to generalize and say that men in the Pacific NW (and probably the entire west coast) are very self-involved. They're more concerned with their image and care far more about themselves to spend a modicum of effort on the women around them. The loves of their lives are inanimate - mountain bikes, snowboards, and craft beer. There is very little room left over for women or for doing things that women like. Such as being taken to dinner. Or even being paid a small compliment.
So yes, things are different in the south and I feel particularly so at my present job. I'm in a room with at least a dozen men and only two other women. A lot of the time I'm the only woman. And they treat me like one. They tell dirty jokes but then they apologize (because they don't know me very well). If I voice that I would like something, say an extra monitor on my desk, it's on my desk and hooked up before I finish my sentence. When I got my new docking station, three of them swarmed over to help me set it up. Nobody says anything when I take the last cookie.
The other men in the building are just as accommodating. They go out of their way to hold doors open, hold the elevator, let me off the elevator or through the door first. The guys I think who are too busy to really pay attention to me remember the single conversation we had and refer to the thing I told them. Guys I don't even know notice when I get my hair cut and compliment me. Even the security guys, who I think have the most boring job in the building, cheer me up on cloudy days.
I went to Pittsburgh for training three months after I started here. I mistakenly asked someone at the help desk if he had a power cord I could borrow for the week and he started at me blankly and then told me to go downstairs and find one. What?? You mean you're not going to stop what you're doing and clamber to get one for me???
Do you see the problem? I now can't date a guy who doesn't treat me at least as well as my co-workers. At my age, I've already learned to have higher standards. I am further being spoiled and (mis)led to believe I am some sort of actual lady.
Thus, my wish list has changed a bit. Future boyfriends must use ma'am on occasion. But only in a cute, charming way, not like in an I'm-an-old-lady way. They must open doors and let me through first. They must give up their seat and not just to me, but to pregnant women and the elderly, even when I'm not present. They must anticipate my needs and provide them before I've finished my sentence. As in, "I'd like some hot chocolate right about..... Oh, thank you!" They should probably assume I know nothing about electronics and insist on assembling things. Even if I can figure it out, I don't want to.
And they should always, always give me the last cookie.
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Anatomy of a Breakup
You meet a guy. It starts with a smirk directed your way in a training at work. You resist because it's a bad idea to date a co-worker but he makes you laugh. He says it's a free country. You acquiesce.
But you worry, because you are already in a relationship with Depression. You try to tell him this. He assures you that nobody is perfect and if you feel bad, then just feel bad for a bit. It's a risk, you're not sure how jealous of a lover Depression is, but you go with it because it's nice.
You fall in love. He falls in love. It's the way it's supposed to be, glorious and comforting. It's so nice to have a person. There are moments you look at him and imagine a life. That he could be The One.
Early on, Depression pays a visit. It tells you the normal lies, like you're not in love, you have no feelings, you aren't worthy of them. It's scary because you were so sure just the day before. You don't say anything to him because you don't want to worry him. And, sure enough, when Depression leaves and you can breathe again, your heart melts and you're so glad you didn't say something to scare him away.
The two of you talk about The Future. It's nice to think it could happen. You ask each other questions about what it would be like and how compatible are you. The usual things. There are small arguments, like any couple would have, but it's mostly easy. Depression comes and goes, but it never stays long. When it does, you hide it. That way you know how. Because you've had practice.
A year goes by. An anniversary is celebrated.
A week goes by after that.
Depression stops in. It settles in to stay for a while.
One week you are perfectly happy and the next you feel nothing. He notices. You talk about it. I'm feeling sad, you say. He makes jokes but you can't laugh like you usually do. There are more sad days and you fall inside yourself. He asks if you care. Yes. Yes, I care. It isn't you. It isn't us. I just need some time.
More days go by and you are drowning, He is not concerned, he is alarmed. He says he doesn't feel connected anymore and inside you are screaming, I feel that way with everyone. I'm disconnected from the world. I'm alone. You're right here and I'm alone and I can't stop it and I can't get to you and why don't you understand me??
It doesn't stop. You are waiting and he can't wait. You are more alone than ever. He thinks he's alone and you can't say the words that will help him because you can't help yourself. You might be dying inside but he can't see it. He can't see the wounds and the scars. He can't see that you're bleeding out on the inside so he thinks you're making it up.
You give up. You both give up. It's mutual. There is no more anger, only resignation. There are tears on both sides because it's sad. Endings always are. You hold onto each other for a little while knowing it's the last time. You say you're sorry but those aren't the words. They're not enough for what this is.
Depression comes in after he leaves. You are smart enough to know that there were other problems along the way. It's never just one thing because life is complicated and relationships have three sides. Your story, his story, and the truth that is mixed in the middle. Depression, though, is a bitch and mindfucks you when you're down. It was your fault. You are not lovable and you will never be happy with someone because of it. You are doomed and should just stop trying right now.
So you cry. You will cry. You will hide under blankets and miss the good days. You will go through the motions and move so carefully so that you don't break because you are made of glass. People can see into your soul and see you are damaged and broken but they are whole so they keep going by.
You will surrender to Depression for a little while. You hope that you can slip under that dark water and not feel for a while. Not feeling is easier. Numbness is welcome when it doesn't scare you because now you have nothing to lose.
And then one day you will breathe again. One day you will realize that you stopped crying even though you're not sure when it happened. You will reach out to friends and you will do things that comfort you and you will come back to the world. You will be able to give back again and you will mean it when you laugh.
You might even allow yourself to hope again.
Some day.
But not today.
But you worry, because you are already in a relationship with Depression. You try to tell him this. He assures you that nobody is perfect and if you feel bad, then just feel bad for a bit. It's a risk, you're not sure how jealous of a lover Depression is, but you go with it because it's nice.
You fall in love. He falls in love. It's the way it's supposed to be, glorious and comforting. It's so nice to have a person. There are moments you look at him and imagine a life. That he could be The One.
Early on, Depression pays a visit. It tells you the normal lies, like you're not in love, you have no feelings, you aren't worthy of them. It's scary because you were so sure just the day before. You don't say anything to him because you don't want to worry him. And, sure enough, when Depression leaves and you can breathe again, your heart melts and you're so glad you didn't say something to scare him away.
The two of you talk about The Future. It's nice to think it could happen. You ask each other questions about what it would be like and how compatible are you. The usual things. There are small arguments, like any couple would have, but it's mostly easy. Depression comes and goes, but it never stays long. When it does, you hide it. That way you know how. Because you've had practice.
A year goes by. An anniversary is celebrated.
A week goes by after that.
Depression stops in. It settles in to stay for a while.
One week you are perfectly happy and the next you feel nothing. He notices. You talk about it. I'm feeling sad, you say. He makes jokes but you can't laugh like you usually do. There are more sad days and you fall inside yourself. He asks if you care. Yes. Yes, I care. It isn't you. It isn't us. I just need some time.
More days go by and you are drowning, He is not concerned, he is alarmed. He says he doesn't feel connected anymore and inside you are screaming, I feel that way with everyone. I'm disconnected from the world. I'm alone. You're right here and I'm alone and I can't stop it and I can't get to you and why don't you understand me??
It doesn't stop. You are waiting and he can't wait. You are more alone than ever. He thinks he's alone and you can't say the words that will help him because you can't help yourself. You might be dying inside but he can't see it. He can't see the wounds and the scars. He can't see that you're bleeding out on the inside so he thinks you're making it up.
You give up. You both give up. It's mutual. There is no more anger, only resignation. There are tears on both sides because it's sad. Endings always are. You hold onto each other for a little while knowing it's the last time. You say you're sorry but those aren't the words. They're not enough for what this is.
Depression comes in after he leaves. You are smart enough to know that there were other problems along the way. It's never just one thing because life is complicated and relationships have three sides. Your story, his story, and the truth that is mixed in the middle. Depression, though, is a bitch and mindfucks you when you're down. It was your fault. You are not lovable and you will never be happy with someone because of it. You are doomed and should just stop trying right now.
So you cry. You will cry. You will hide under blankets and miss the good days. You will go through the motions and move so carefully so that you don't break because you are made of glass. People can see into your soul and see you are damaged and broken but they are whole so they keep going by.
You will surrender to Depression for a little while. You hope that you can slip under that dark water and not feel for a while. Not feeling is easier. Numbness is welcome when it doesn't scare you because now you have nothing to lose.
And then one day you will breathe again. One day you will realize that you stopped crying even though you're not sure when it happened. You will reach out to friends and you will do things that comfort you and you will come back to the world. You will be able to give back again and you will mean it when you laugh.
You might even allow yourself to hope again.
Some day.
But not today.
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
What a Difference a Dollar Makes
Last week I went to see one of my very favorite bands, Pink Martini. They were playing with the Nashville Symphony and were more fantastic than any other time I have seen them because of the concert hall. Extraordinary. Really. If you have never seen them, shame on you and change that very soon. But that's not what this is about.
Lately I've been hearing about people being shot and kidnapped downtown. It seems a bit too much for Nashville where everyone is so friendly and nice, but we have to remember it's still a city. I parked in the expensive lot right across from the concert hall.
As I was about to use the pay machine, I heard someone yelling at me and when I turned to look, it was a dirty, old, frightening-looking homeless man. "Hey lady! Girl! Excuse me, lady!!!!" He was gruff and loud and I have to admit I was frightened and tried to ignore him. He walked right up to me and proceeded to tell me that I could save $11 if I parked in the lot a block away. I was quite surprised that someone who appears to not own a car knew the prices of the parking lots in the area. He did quiet down once he had reached me so I thanked him for the advice and hoped he would just move on. He was holding a small handful of pansies and offered me one. "I carry these around to hand out to the ladies." I thanked him and chose the purplest one.
He then asked me if I could help him get a hotel. Excuse me???? "Could you help me get a hot dog?" Oh, a hot dog. Yes, of course. I don't usually carry cash but I knew I had change from earlier in the week so I gave him the $6 I had. You would think I had bought him a house. "Six dollars!!! I can go to Burger King. My sweetie and I are pretty hungry. We can both get a meal there because they're $2.89 so we can each get one. Thank you. Thank you so much."
I waited to use the pay machine while he walked away but then he turned around again. "God bless you. And you know he does. Bless you."
That encounter stayed with me all night and throughout the weekend. Who the fuck gets excited to go to Burger King? That's what I settle for when I'm starving and nothing else is close. Starving. I really don't know what it's like to starve. Not truly. Not like that man. I think he told me his name was Jeff. He had manners and shook my hand. And, stupid me, in my flustered state, I shook his hand while still holding my debit card. I don't think he could have gotten far in his state or at his age, but he didn't even touch it. He was a gentleman.
My depression has been nearly overwhelming lately. The attacks in Paris. Political posturing and daily arguments from both sides. Sex slave trading. Shootings and kidnappings. The complexities of the world are too much for me to bear most days. I cry and moan over these things while I sit inside my dry house, sipping wine and snuggling puppies. Reading books that are easily bought; I can even have them delivered to my home. Under cozy blankets. Those things do fill me with gratitude. I have the love of friends, I have a job. I am thankful for these things.
But I'm also grateful that I had a small glimpse into the life of someone without these things. I'm grateful to know that people who live with so much less have so much to offer. He gave me advice on the price of parking and offered me a cheap flower he probably picked from an empty lot, but it was more than that. It sounds trivial even trying to describe it in words, but I think what he gave me is hope. Hope that even when you have nothing, when your belly is empty and you have let your pride go far enough that you will ask a stranger to buy you a hot dog. That even then, you can be kind to someone who has so much more than you. You can use manners. You can offer help. You can change someone's night or their weekend.
I hope my friend Jeff got to go to Burger King twice that weekend. I hope his flowers were accepted graciously. I hope he had somewhere dry and warm to sleep. I hope someone hugged him and appreciated his presence.
I hope we all have reminders of how lucky we are. How we're not alone. How it's the little things that bind us together. I hope we never lose this humanity.
Lately I've been hearing about people being shot and kidnapped downtown. It seems a bit too much for Nashville where everyone is so friendly and nice, but we have to remember it's still a city. I parked in the expensive lot right across from the concert hall.
As I was about to use the pay machine, I heard someone yelling at me and when I turned to look, it was a dirty, old, frightening-looking homeless man. "Hey lady! Girl! Excuse me, lady!!!!" He was gruff and loud and I have to admit I was frightened and tried to ignore him. He walked right up to me and proceeded to tell me that I could save $11 if I parked in the lot a block away. I was quite surprised that someone who appears to not own a car knew the prices of the parking lots in the area. He did quiet down once he had reached me so I thanked him for the advice and hoped he would just move on. He was holding a small handful of pansies and offered me one. "I carry these around to hand out to the ladies." I thanked him and chose the purplest one.
He then asked me if I could help him get a hotel. Excuse me???? "Could you help me get a hot dog?" Oh, a hot dog. Yes, of course. I don't usually carry cash but I knew I had change from earlier in the week so I gave him the $6 I had. You would think I had bought him a house. "Six dollars!!! I can go to Burger King. My sweetie and I are pretty hungry. We can both get a meal there because they're $2.89 so we can each get one. Thank you. Thank you so much."
I waited to use the pay machine while he walked away but then he turned around again. "God bless you. And you know he does. Bless you."
That encounter stayed with me all night and throughout the weekend. Who the fuck gets excited to go to Burger King? That's what I settle for when I'm starving and nothing else is close. Starving. I really don't know what it's like to starve. Not truly. Not like that man. I think he told me his name was Jeff. He had manners and shook my hand. And, stupid me, in my flustered state, I shook his hand while still holding my debit card. I don't think he could have gotten far in his state or at his age, but he didn't even touch it. He was a gentleman.
My depression has been nearly overwhelming lately. The attacks in Paris. Political posturing and daily arguments from both sides. Sex slave trading. Shootings and kidnappings. The complexities of the world are too much for me to bear most days. I cry and moan over these things while I sit inside my dry house, sipping wine and snuggling puppies. Reading books that are easily bought; I can even have them delivered to my home. Under cozy blankets. Those things do fill me with gratitude. I have the love of friends, I have a job. I am thankful for these things.
But I'm also grateful that I had a small glimpse into the life of someone without these things. I'm grateful to know that people who live with so much less have so much to offer. He gave me advice on the price of parking and offered me a cheap flower he probably picked from an empty lot, but it was more than that. It sounds trivial even trying to describe it in words, but I think what he gave me is hope. Hope that even when you have nothing, when your belly is empty and you have let your pride go far enough that you will ask a stranger to buy you a hot dog. That even then, you can be kind to someone who has so much more than you. You can use manners. You can offer help. You can change someone's night or their weekend.
I hope my friend Jeff got to go to Burger King twice that weekend. I hope his flowers were accepted graciously. I hope he had somewhere dry and warm to sleep. I hope someone hugged him and appreciated his presence.
I hope we all have reminders of how lucky we are. How we're not alone. How it's the little things that bind us together. I hope we never lose this humanity.
Thursday, November 12, 2015
Some Kind of Woman
George, the security guy at work, likes to ask me what I'm doing for the evening as I'm leaving. This was today's conversation.
George: Is it a salsa night?
Me: No, I'm going to see Pink Martini with the Nashville Symphony.
George: You are a special kind of woman.
Me: ......
George: You're like a woman on TV.
Me: You mean like Cops?
George: No, like those women who drink martinis. Like Sex and the City.
Me: Well, Pink Martini did do the opening credits music, so I guess it fits.
Also, I do drink martinis. But you'll have to guess which Sex and the City broad I am.
George: Is it a salsa night?
Me: No, I'm going to see Pink Martini with the Nashville Symphony.
George: You are a special kind of woman.
Me: ......
George: You're like a woman on TV.
Me: You mean like Cops?
George: No, like those women who drink martinis. Like Sex and the City.
Me: Well, Pink Martini did do the opening credits music, so I guess it fits.
Also, I do drink martinis. But you'll have to guess which Sex and the City broad I am.
Friday, October 23, 2015
An Open Love Letter to Nashville
Dear Nashville,
In case I haven't told you lately how much I love you, I'll tell you now. I can't even be mad at you for turning me into a Basic White Girl and making me fall in love with fall. You give me nights for open windows and 80-degree days. I love your sweet tea and pimiento cheese, your southern drawls and country roads.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
1. Endless music opportunities. I've been to at least 10 concerts and that doesn't count the random music I've walked into eating bbq or getting coffee.
2. Four ballets, one opera, one musical, and Cirque du Soleil.
3. Meeting one of my favorite authors and two of my favorite bloggers at book signings.
4. Petting hundreds of dogs at the many dog events held here. Dog Festival, Pittie Day, Barktoberfest, dog costume contests, yappy hours. Wagging tails everywhere.
5. Going to my first hockey game. I'm hoping we'll see a football game this year.
6. Seeing three of the funniest comedians. Including my boyfriend Hal Sparks.
7. Whiskey everywhere. (But please, for the love of bourbon, please teach someone how to make a proper Manhattan.)
8. I will never tire of being the first out of an elevator full of men or having doors held open for me.
9. Ghost tours and "trash" tours.
10. Celebrity sightings at a tiny Christmas parade. (This is the only one and it's been almost a year though, so step it up in that area please.)
11. Going to the Governor's House.
12. A bookstore that rivals Powell's in price, if not sheer selection.
13. I can wear my heels through October without worrying about falling on ice or trudging through snow and freezing my ankles off.
14. You have natural beauty. Shady trees, rolling hills, lakes and rivers.
15. You feed me delicious things like biscuits, grilled cheese, bbq, and fried anything when I want to be bad while still satisfying my sushi cravings or healthy options.
Yes Nashville, I have fallen in love with you.
Here's to more adventures!
Love,
Me
In case I haven't told you lately how much I love you, I'll tell you now. I can't even be mad at you for turning me into a Basic White Girl and making me fall in love with fall. You give me nights for open windows and 80-degree days. I love your sweet tea and pimiento cheese, your southern drawls and country roads.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
1. Endless music opportunities. I've been to at least 10 concerts and that doesn't count the random music I've walked into eating bbq or getting coffee.
2. Four ballets, one opera, one musical, and Cirque du Soleil.
3. Meeting one of my favorite authors and two of my favorite bloggers at book signings.
4. Petting hundreds of dogs at the many dog events held here. Dog Festival, Pittie Day, Barktoberfest, dog costume contests, yappy hours. Wagging tails everywhere.
5. Going to my first hockey game. I'm hoping we'll see a football game this year.
6. Seeing three of the funniest comedians. Including my boyfriend Hal Sparks.
7. Whiskey everywhere. (But please, for the love of bourbon, please teach someone how to make a proper Manhattan.)
8. I will never tire of being the first out of an elevator full of men or having doors held open for me.
9. Ghost tours and "trash" tours.
10. Celebrity sightings at a tiny Christmas parade. (This is the only one and it's been almost a year though, so step it up in that area please.)
11. Going to the Governor's House.
12. A bookstore that rivals Powell's in price, if not sheer selection.
13. I can wear my heels through October without worrying about falling on ice or trudging through snow and freezing my ankles off.
14. You have natural beauty. Shady trees, rolling hills, lakes and rivers.
15. You feed me delicious things like biscuits, grilled cheese, bbq, and fried anything when I want to be bad while still satisfying my sushi cravings or healthy options.
Yes Nashville, I have fallen in love with you.
Here's to more adventures!
Love,
Me
Thursday, October 08, 2015
When "This Many" Becomes Too Many
Remember how when you were little you counted every month of your age? Or your kids did when you had them? Five wasn't just five unless it was your birthday. It was five and three quarters because you wanted everyone to know you were "growing up." And then in college you convinced your roommate to "lose" her license so she could go get a new one and give you her "lost" one? (That wasn't me, it was my roommate. And I did do it. And we went to the same place at the same time and nobody ever noticed. But don't try this at home.)
There are also other milestones you pass. Like you get to the age where married men hit on you instead of boys with acne. Or you become to kids what is really old, like 28. Or you become that parent who can't believe your kid was ever as small as whatever baby you pass by.
And that's pretty much when you don't add quarters or halves or anything to your age. And then something really weird happens. At least it has to me. I now notice just how much older I am. Or I remember the movies celebrating 25 years and I think it couldn't have been that long ago because it was just like a couple of years ago and then I remember how old my kid is and that was before she was born or before I was married or before I had any idea of who I would marry because I imagined my life completely differently.
Which brings me to my list. This is a list of things/people younger than me.
1. John Lennon was 40 when he died. Younger than me.
2. Elvis was 42. Still younger than me.
3. I am probably as old as Mrs. Robinson was when she seduced Benjamin Braddock, but I am older than Anne Bancroft was when she played her.
4. I was in high school when Fox (the channel) started. That means that no matter how many more seasons there are of The Simpsons, I'll always be older than Bart.
5. I was born before Picasso died. He was born in 1881.
6. I played video games when they were cool.
7. I wanted my MTV because there was no reality TV.
8. I'm two years older than Kennedy was when he was elected president.
9. Princess Diana was 36 when she died. I watched both her wedding and that of her first son. And cried watching her funeral.
10. The Hackey Sack, post-its, and liposuction were all invented after I was born.
There really isn't a point to any of this. But if you want to make me feel better by telling me you're older than me, I'll take it.
There are also other milestones you pass. Like you get to the age where married men hit on you instead of boys with acne. Or you become to kids what is really old, like 28. Or you become that parent who can't believe your kid was ever as small as whatever baby you pass by.
And that's pretty much when you don't add quarters or halves or anything to your age. And then something really weird happens. At least it has to me. I now notice just how much older I am. Or I remember the movies celebrating 25 years and I think it couldn't have been that long ago because it was just like a couple of years ago and then I remember how old my kid is and that was before she was born or before I was married or before I had any idea of who I would marry because I imagined my life completely differently.
Which brings me to my list. This is a list of things/people younger than me.
1. John Lennon was 40 when he died. Younger than me.
2. Elvis was 42. Still younger than me.
3. I am probably as old as Mrs. Robinson was when she seduced Benjamin Braddock, but I am older than Anne Bancroft was when she played her.
4. I was in high school when Fox (the channel) started. That means that no matter how many more seasons there are of The Simpsons, I'll always be older than Bart.
5. I was born before Picasso died. He was born in 1881.
6. I played video games when they were cool.
7. I wanted my MTV because there was no reality TV.
8. I'm two years older than Kennedy was when he was elected president.
9. Princess Diana was 36 when she died. I watched both her wedding and that of her first son. And cried watching her funeral.
10. The Hackey Sack, post-its, and liposuction were all invented after I was born.
There really isn't a point to any of this. But if you want to make me feel better by telling me you're older than me, I'll take it.
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
The Boozy Douche Cruise
A few years ago I went on my first cruise and sailed with Carnival. It was five nights of some of the most fun I've ever had. I got lots of sun on the deck, ate delicious Mexican food, including real fish tacos, drank margaritas on the beach, and unplugged from the rest of the world. I even saw a flying fish outside the window of the cabin. I loved it and couldn't wait to do it again.
So when an opportunity to cruise with my friends in The Little Black Dress Club came up, of course I signed up for it. Cruising with the girls, new destinations, and another vacation with the bestie. It had all of the ingredients for a really good, really fun girl time. Plus, I'd sailed on Carnival before so I knew what to expect.
Only I didn't. Carnival is the "fun ship," which many people have equated to being the party ship. Because that wasn't my experience the first time, that wasn't my expectation this time.
I'm not sure when it started, exactly. I think it might have been during the muster safety review. First of all, nobody would shut up long enough to get it over with so I stood there glaring at people every time the cruise director got on the intercom and asked everyone to be completely silent. But that wasn't the worst. The worst was when one of our girls texted us to say that a guy in their area was "aroused" and rubbing said arousal on people around him. It was later reported that he was drunk and didn't know what he had done. We hadn't even left port yet and already someone was nicknamed Boner Boy.
I did, admittedly, get white girl wasted that first night. I'm going to blame it on the guys we met next door who probably thought they'd get a little lucky if we got a little (or a shit ton) liquored up. Little did they know my tolerance level is a hundred times higher than the bimbos they are probably used to, and that I also prefer hanging out with older men and the one extremely flamboyant gay that I found. They were so unhappy with his presence they were smashed up against the wall on the other side of the room from him. Haters.
Still, the only embarrassing thing I did was to follow my new gay friend to the nightclub in my tank top and boxer shorts with no shoes. I was barely dressed, but the crew members had a problem with my lack of shoe attire and told me I couldn't be on the dance floor. I guess being half naked and without-a-doubt wasted wasn't a problem for them. I had a brief moment of cognizance where I realized how idiotic I probably looked and also that I needed to not leave my best friend in our room with strange, unattractive men.
The next night we became aware of the frat boy bachelor party on board. The groom stumbled past us on the way to his dinner table. We saw him in various states of undress as the night progressed. Shirt untucked. Shirt halfway unbuttoned. Shirt all the way unbuttoned. Finally, he careened past us, alone, with no shirt on close to one in the morning. Honestly, I'm surprised he was upright at all.
On subsequent nights we watched half of this group of boys cougar hunting. Over 40 and married? This was their targeted prey. Huntress becomes the hunted.
The women on the cruise weren't any better. There were all kinds of body parts falling out of articles of clothing. I don't know if there is less gravity at sea or what I have to thank for not seeing anything actually exposed to truly obscene limits.
And the gossip. When have you ever heard of gossip between vacationing strangers? Well, it appears that one of the guys from the frat boy bachelor party hooked up with the bride in one of the bachelorette parties. Maybe that's where I went wrong. I might not be divorced now if I had celebrated my impending nuptials by sleeping with a random douchebag days before the ceremony.
Now, ladies. Listen up and never let me catch you behaving so ferociously to your fellow womankind. We overheard (or, rather were meant to hear) the most hateful remarks directed our way. "I hope you bring your beer goggles" was the first gauntlet thrown. Another favorite? "And I thought we were old!" I saw more women trying to pee on "their" trees in one hour than I've seen my dog do in his lifetime. Not to mention the up-and-down looks, glares, and sneers. Girls, girls. This behavior is unattractive, unappealing, and completely unnecessary. Do you really want to act out against your sisters like this for a guy who won't remember your name the next day because he's too focused on his next conquest? Respect yourselves and each other.
If any of this isn't enough to deter you from booking with Carnival, I can tell you all about how bad the food was. Or how our cabin steward couldn't remember to leave more than one glass for two people. Or how he was too lazy to hang up our towels. Or that there was a ghetto girl fight in the dining room. No punches were thrown, but a dish was broken.
There were times I felt so uncomfortable that I didn't mind it raining half the trip. It gave us an excuse to take naps under our cozy covers and watch movies in peace. Take a vacation from the assholery outside our door.
Oh, yes. Fun ship indeed.
So when an opportunity to cruise with my friends in The Little Black Dress Club came up, of course I signed up for it. Cruising with the girls, new destinations, and another vacation with the bestie. It had all of the ingredients for a really good, really fun girl time. Plus, I'd sailed on Carnival before so I knew what to expect.
Only I didn't. Carnival is the "fun ship," which many people have equated to being the party ship. Because that wasn't my experience the first time, that wasn't my expectation this time.
I'm not sure when it started, exactly. I think it might have been during the muster safety review. First of all, nobody would shut up long enough to get it over with so I stood there glaring at people every time the cruise director got on the intercom and asked everyone to be completely silent. But that wasn't the worst. The worst was when one of our girls texted us to say that a guy in their area was "aroused" and rubbing said arousal on people around him. It was later reported that he was drunk and didn't know what he had done. We hadn't even left port yet and already someone was nicknamed Boner Boy.
I did, admittedly, get white girl wasted that first night. I'm going to blame it on the guys we met next door who probably thought they'd get a little lucky if we got a little (or a shit ton) liquored up. Little did they know my tolerance level is a hundred times higher than the bimbos they are probably used to, and that I also prefer hanging out with older men and the one extremely flamboyant gay that I found. They were so unhappy with his presence they were smashed up against the wall on the other side of the room from him. Haters.
Still, the only embarrassing thing I did was to follow my new gay friend to the nightclub in my tank top and boxer shorts with no shoes. I was barely dressed, but the crew members had a problem with my lack of shoe attire and told me I couldn't be on the dance floor. I guess being half naked and without-a-doubt wasted wasn't a problem for them. I had a brief moment of cognizance where I realized how idiotic I probably looked and also that I needed to not leave my best friend in our room with strange, unattractive men.
The next night we became aware of the frat boy bachelor party on board. The groom stumbled past us on the way to his dinner table. We saw him in various states of undress as the night progressed. Shirt untucked. Shirt halfway unbuttoned. Shirt all the way unbuttoned. Finally, he careened past us, alone, with no shirt on close to one in the morning. Honestly, I'm surprised he was upright at all.
On subsequent nights we watched half of this group of boys cougar hunting. Over 40 and married? This was their targeted prey. Huntress becomes the hunted.
The women on the cruise weren't any better. There were all kinds of body parts falling out of articles of clothing. I don't know if there is less gravity at sea or what I have to thank for not seeing anything actually exposed to truly obscene limits.
And the gossip. When have you ever heard of gossip between vacationing strangers? Well, it appears that one of the guys from the frat boy bachelor party hooked up with the bride in one of the bachelorette parties. Maybe that's where I went wrong. I might not be divorced now if I had celebrated my impending nuptials by sleeping with a random douchebag days before the ceremony.
Now, ladies. Listen up and never let me catch you behaving so ferociously to your fellow womankind. We overheard (or, rather were meant to hear) the most hateful remarks directed our way. "I hope you bring your beer goggles" was the first gauntlet thrown. Another favorite? "And I thought we were old!" I saw more women trying to pee on "their" trees in one hour than I've seen my dog do in his lifetime. Not to mention the up-and-down looks, glares, and sneers. Girls, girls. This behavior is unattractive, unappealing, and completely unnecessary. Do you really want to act out against your sisters like this for a guy who won't remember your name the next day because he's too focused on his next conquest? Respect yourselves and each other.
If any of this isn't enough to deter you from booking with Carnival, I can tell you all about how bad the food was. Or how our cabin steward couldn't remember to leave more than one glass for two people. Or how he was too lazy to hang up our towels. Or that there was a ghetto girl fight in the dining room. No punches were thrown, but a dish was broken.
There were times I felt so uncomfortable that I didn't mind it raining half the trip. It gave us an excuse to take naps under our cozy covers and watch movies in peace. Take a vacation from the assholery outside our door.
Oh, yes. Fun ship indeed.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
The Cities List
Somehow I have done more traveling to new places this year than usual. Or ever. These places are all so vastly different from one another I thought I'd make up a little list, ranking them from first to last. First being my favorite, to last being a place I never want to go again. Agree or disagree, but this list is how I feel about my experiences.
1. Savannah
Of course this is number one. It's charming, it's historic, it's beautiful, and it's romantic. It's easily walkable and there are plenty of things to do or you can just sit on a bench in a park square and watch life go by under a canopy of Spanish moss. I love it and can't wait to go back.
2. Cincinnati
This one was a surprise, although I didn't really have any expectations. It's a fairly easy drive from Nashville and also easy to get around. I was there with a huge group of women and it was really easy to find each other at the local restaurants, plus the view from the observation deck of our hotel was incredible. Another plus - the downtown area we were in seemed pretty clean and really safe. Also - Tiffany.
Bonus points for homeless people with a great sense of humor.
3. Pittsburgh
Pittsburgh was another nice surprise. It wasn't the dirty, sooty, industrial wasteland I had envisioned. On the pros side, there are gorgeous, ornate, historical old homes on every single block. I found one of the best book stores I've ever been to and walked out with an entire armful of new literature. In the neighborhood of my hotel I visited a pretty cool dive bar where I boozed it up to my heart's content for less than $30. And that included the city's best mac n' cheese. The Carnegie Museum needs no explanation. Visiting spots where Flashdance was filmed only needs explanation if you don't know me.
On the con side of the page, I alternated about every other block between feeling safe and freaking out at every stop sign because I was back in the ghetto. There is no bad side of town, just a bad side of the street. On every street. The streets are narrow and winding and I could never figure what direction I was going in, and the roads are very narrow. Pittsburgh drivers aren't the worst, but they're not the best.
4. Key West
Key West is suffocatingly hot and miserably humid. Real key lime pie is disgusting. It's deceptively larger than the descriptions I read so it's not really walkable for an afternoon. But I did walk through Ernest Hemingway's house and I pet cats. Lots of cats with lots of toes. Possibly extra limbs. Still, I would never recommend going there hungover.
5. Cozumel
Oh, Mexico. It's always just as impoverished as you imagine, so there's no disappointment there. I wouldn't want to spend a whole vacation there; an afternoon to evening is plenty and kept me from getting too depressed because people really do have to live like that. These are very nice people and they deserve better from their government. Apart from their hospitality, their food is among the best I've ever had. Even something as repulsive-sounding as frozen avocado pie was mostly pleasant. (Why, oh WHY can't Nashville figure out how to do real Mexican food???)
6. Miami
I know, I know. Miami Vice. CSI Miami. A hundred movies and Dexter can't be wrong, can they? Oh, but they can. They can be so, so wrong. It's hot as balls there with a humidity index of like a thousand. It's huge and confusing. Really, really spread out. People actually live in giant, high-rise condos. I think most people that live there don't have a backyard and even the ones who do regularly find alligators in them.
South Beach is supposed to be the end-all, be-all of luxury living. Eh. The buildings are kind of plain and the shopping isn't anything you can't find in the suburbs of any other city. Except for Dash, maybe, and that place just makes me want to declare that butt implants be illegal for everyone in the world. The thing is, you expect it to be all glitz and glamour, but there's no character. And, with the majority of people not knowing English, it's like being in another country without the benefit of another stamp on your passport.
And guess what? Not even Dexter lives there anymore.
1. Savannah
Of course this is number one. It's charming, it's historic, it's beautiful, and it's romantic. It's easily walkable and there are plenty of things to do or you can just sit on a bench in a park square and watch life go by under a canopy of Spanish moss. I love it and can't wait to go back.
2. Cincinnati
This one was a surprise, although I didn't really have any expectations. It's a fairly easy drive from Nashville and also easy to get around. I was there with a huge group of women and it was really easy to find each other at the local restaurants, plus the view from the observation deck of our hotel was incredible. Another plus - the downtown area we were in seemed pretty clean and really safe. Also - Tiffany.
Bonus points for homeless people with a great sense of humor.
3. Pittsburgh
Pittsburgh was another nice surprise. It wasn't the dirty, sooty, industrial wasteland I had envisioned. On the pros side, there are gorgeous, ornate, historical old homes on every single block. I found one of the best book stores I've ever been to and walked out with an entire armful of new literature. In the neighborhood of my hotel I visited a pretty cool dive bar where I boozed it up to my heart's content for less than $30. And that included the city's best mac n' cheese. The Carnegie Museum needs no explanation. Visiting spots where Flashdance was filmed only needs explanation if you don't know me.
On the con side of the page, I alternated about every other block between feeling safe and freaking out at every stop sign because I was back in the ghetto. There is no bad side of town, just a bad side of the street. On every street. The streets are narrow and winding and I could never figure what direction I was going in, and the roads are very narrow. Pittsburgh drivers aren't the worst, but they're not the best.
4. Key West
Key West is suffocatingly hot and miserably humid. Real key lime pie is disgusting. It's deceptively larger than the descriptions I read so it's not really walkable for an afternoon. But I did walk through Ernest Hemingway's house and I pet cats. Lots of cats with lots of toes. Possibly extra limbs. Still, I would never recommend going there hungover.
5. Cozumel
Oh, Mexico. It's always just as impoverished as you imagine, so there's no disappointment there. I wouldn't want to spend a whole vacation there; an afternoon to evening is plenty and kept me from getting too depressed because people really do have to live like that. These are very nice people and they deserve better from their government. Apart from their hospitality, their food is among the best I've ever had. Even something as repulsive-sounding as frozen avocado pie was mostly pleasant. (Why, oh WHY can't Nashville figure out how to do real Mexican food???)
6. Miami
I know, I know. Miami Vice. CSI Miami. A hundred movies and Dexter can't be wrong, can they? Oh, but they can. They can be so, so wrong. It's hot as balls there with a humidity index of like a thousand. It's huge and confusing. Really, really spread out. People actually live in giant, high-rise condos. I think most people that live there don't have a backyard and even the ones who do regularly find alligators in them.
South Beach is supposed to be the end-all, be-all of luxury living. Eh. The buildings are kind of plain and the shopping isn't anything you can't find in the suburbs of any other city. Except for Dash, maybe, and that place just makes me want to declare that butt implants be illegal for everyone in the world. The thing is, you expect it to be all glitz and glamour, but there's no character. And, with the majority of people not knowing English, it's like being in another country without the benefit of another stamp on your passport.
And guess what? Not even Dexter lives there anymore.
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