Beer: Good or Evil in Disguise?

When I was in sixth grade I became a witch. Not like a real Wiccan witch but like a witch from my favorite movie at the time, The Craft. I was not the only one who loved this movie, so me and a few friends became "witches" together. (I was the north witch in case you were curious.)

One night at one of my witch friend's houses, three of us were in her bedroom playing with supernatural forces. We had over-used the ouiji board and didn't really have enough people for "light as a feather, stiff as a board" (i'm sure there's an actual name for that).

Anyhoo, we closed all the doors and windows and lit two candles that were sitting on the floor. The black candle represented evil, and of course, the white candle was good.

And the battle of Good v. Evil was decided on the flame of a wick.

If Evil won, the devil would/could take our souls.

If good won, then we'd believe in god. Or something.

So the three of us sat up on my friend's bed watching the flames. All the lights were off so the candles were trancing and illuminated shadows in the wall.

None of us moved for what felt like hours.

Then out of nowhere the white candle went out. We all were shocked. We looked at each other in horror. We squirmed and moved in closer to each other. Suddenly we heard a growl, it sounded like the devil cackling. Never in my life had I been so afraid. I screamed my one and only truly terrified scream--this was nowhere near the same sound they make in horror movies. This was from deep within, I could feel the tremble of the high-pitch shake my brain. I thought I was going to become a demon or be brought down to hell or become the devil's puppet human. I still haven't figured out how my friend's parents didn't hear it or care to check on us. But they didn't.

The three of us were speechless. One held a stuffed bear tight to her chest. After about ten minutes of nothing happening my friend was no longer as scared; she dropped the stuffed bear on the bed, throwing it upside down in the process. The bear made a sound. We all looked at each other. My friend picked it back up and tipped it upside down again. The bear growled. The sound was just like the devil laughing.

We all started nervously laughing too. It was the bear all along. Nothing mystical, supernatural, or evil was going to happen. It was just a candle and a bunch of silly wanna-be witches playing with ideas that were bigger than them.

But ever so often, I wonder. Mainly when I wake up with a hangover, like I did today. Is the devil torturing me? Had he stolen my soul back in 1996? Have I just been a vessel for pure evil ever since? My ex-boyfriends probably think so. But how would one know--if we consider the devil as not necessarily a red colored man with horns, but the aura of wickedness--how would one be able to determine whether the air of evil entered them, or marked them in some way?

It's sort of silly. But sometimes I question what we were messing with and why we were doing it.

On a non-hungover day I generally feel that all humans have both the "lightness" and "darkness" in them--that we're genuinely good people but when pushed in the wrong direction we turn rotten.

It's about balance. Which makes me wonder--if beer makes me feel so lovely one night but like complete crap the next--is it a creation of "goodness" or evil disguised as deliciousness? And if I had actually gone down the path of witchcraft could I cast a spell that prevents hangovers?

Because that would save me a lot of pain; if I could I would totally consider taking another gander at the Wiccan ways. (Though not drinking so much could be an easier solution.)

I'd Rather Be a Social Animal Than a Boring Human.

In a recent New Yorker there was a really great article called “Social Animal,” which talked about the exact opposite of the struggle I’ve been having recently (see Trivial Concerns blog).

The article discusses the idea of the “composure class” and how we all are so focused on “getting there” that we become really terrible about developing skills we actually need to be “happy.”

Brooks writes,

“The traits that do make a difference are poorly understood, and can’t be taught in a classroom, no matter what the tuition: the ability to understand and inspire people; to read situations and discern the underlying patterns; to build trusting relationships; to recognize and correct one’s shortcomings; to imagine alternate futures.”

I found this really interesting considering lately I’ve been upset at the idea of not being able to retain facts. Or ever win Jeopardy.

But, I understand people so I guess my life isn't a total waste.

According to the article, after much scientific research, what happiness comes down to is the ability to connect with others, which I believe to be absolutely true (unless the people you're hanging around are complete assholes).

And I’ve always felt this way. The things I look forward to are being with friends (or close family), having interesting conversation, laughing, enjoying other’s company.

Sharing my life.

I'm pretty sure I'm not writing a revelation here.

But, also I'm concerned-- I feel that this is also where a major disconnect is being created due to social networks.

Being online is not the same as being with real live breathing conversing people.

Having a face to face conversation with a friend is completely different than seeing what my friend recently wrote as a status update. Yes, in a round about way, I know what's happening in my friend's life, but there is no real connection being made.

Just like doing everything possible to get into the perfect college and get the perfect job etc. doesn't mean anything unless there are people around you that support, challenge, and love you. But we all sort of knew this all already right?

So why do many of us often freak out when we're in a social situation having fun...we feel guilty because we're not doing anything productive...but are, we're actually being very productive...we're creating space for happiness and growth.

We're learning without feeling like we're being taught.

We're enjoying life.

And why feel guilt about that?

Karma is for REAL!!!!!!

So, this Karma thing must be some serious shit. Oh, yeah, I told myself I'd stop cussing so much.

So, this karma thing must be some serious poo balls. Why? Well here's why.

The other day, someone commented on a blog post of mine, basically saying that I need to focus on my "own problems" and then I, of course, said something snarky out loud, which was, "I would except I don't have problems, that's why I make fun of other people."

Then my grandma calls and tell me about her car being possessed. She said how she was out getting groceries and her car horn kept going off, like a demon car or something. She got behind people at stop signs and her car horn kept honking and honking. And of course I laughed, as it seemed like a scene straight out of Curb Your Enthusiasm. Which made me want to write a tv show. Though that would be like the only situation I'd have to go on.

So here's where the karma comes in. Make fun of my life being "problem-free" + make fun of grandma's car = problem with car.

DANG!

So yeah, my car ended up having a lot of car sex with my friend Dan's car. I was beginning to think it was addicted to his battery power (which I suppose was true). But now, after taking the car to rehab it should be fixed.

And now I will only do nice things and say nice positive comments about life so as to keep my life problem-free for real.

Ha! (I doubt that's even possible even for the most positive of people, they just don't take it as seriously).

You Are Too Fat (And I Like It).

I'm going to take a moment to be complete honest.

The best thing about facebook is seeing people from high school/ undergrad that I never liked who are now fat.

It really just gives me a a little thrill. My body tingles with joy when they come up on my newsfeed in someone else's (of whom I liked) photo albums and I catch a glimpse of the person who used to be in shape now overflowing with the left-over calories of too many naty-lights or busch lights or whatever they're drinking down in the big K-A-N.

I'm most excited when I find out an ex has put on massive poundage. My heart races, I start to perspire, I take a big breath in, wipe the sweat from my brow and sigh with relief, "at least I got out of that one in time." And, I like to think I had them at "their peak."(I'm sure they think otherwise, hence the breaking up part).

I am slightly disappointed though as I imagined more people from my past would be overweight by now. Especially those from high school. They've have plenty of time.

Isn't there some percentage that all classes must reach? Like 3/4 must gain 20 to 50 pounds, 1/2 must pop out kids and/or get married and like 1/16 must actually do something cool with their lives?

Not that I'm doing anything that cool, which is why I probably find happiness in other people's misery. Or I'm just an asshole. But, I don't really care. Why? Because I know I'm not the only one who feels this way, I'm just the only one mean/brave/evil enough to say it out loud.

Of course, this means I will have to keep hardcore working out, so, I myself, don't fall into the fat trap, but I guess that's part of the point. I say it out-loud and thus I force myself to not become a hypocrite or a walking contradiction etc. Though I've always been a curvy creature, I think they like to call it voluptuous, but that's my cross to bear.

And what about the people from back in the day who I like/d who have now gained weight? Nothing. Indifference. Why? Because they aren't assholes. So their weight means nothing to me. I don't find that it makes a difference in who they are as people, because they are still badass and/or cool.

Whereas the assholes who were assholes then are still assholes now, the only difference is that I can't take them as seriously because they look like rolly-pollies. And that makes me so happy inside.

When Your Online Article Gets Murdered: The Five Stages of Grief.

Anyone who has ever written for an online site, be it a blog or what have you, can understand the feelings of joy and acceptance when other people agree with and/or love your ideas. But many of us have been victims to online murdering—people who take no shame in completely tearing the author apart.

It is as if people online do not think what they say or do will affect anyone in real life. Now I admit, that I can’t win them all. Some of my articles are not going to be as good as other ones. Sometimes I will make mistakes. But I don’t think anyone deserves to be verbally assaulted. There should exist some sort of online etiquette—perhaps—just a question people should ask themselves before posting comments: “would I say this to her (him) in person?” And if you wouldn’t then you shouldn’t do it virtually either.

All that being said, I realized the other day, that when I do make mistakes, or my article perhaps isn’t as well thought out as it should be I will get attacked. My article will get murdered and in the process I personally will be affected by this sort-of online stoning.

And it is almost identical to the five stages of grief.

1) Denial. No one would really say that.

2) Anger. WTF. They really did say that. What a bunch of f-ing assholes.

3) Bargaining. Maybe if I explain myself they’ll understand my POV.

4) Depression. And no, they didn’t understand my POV so F-them. Nothing matters. I give up.

5) Acceptance. Well. It’s an online community so I’m sure they’re attacking someone else by now and have forgotten all about their previous murderings, so I will move on too.

In the end, I know that I am going to have to develop a thicker skin. Which I am afraid will turn me into an asshole—as anyone who survives in the world of online monsters for very many years must have to be.

But, I’m sure if I continually check myself I will be able to live harmoniously; I am aware I need to get over what other people are saying; I need to just “be”. But, at the same time, it would be ridiculous of me to pretend they are not, in some shape or form, making an impact on my life—whether I want them to or not.

I'm just glad I was able to find a parallel to the emotional responses that were happening within me, for future reference I will at least be better prepared.

Why I Wouldn't Want to be a Vampire

I just finished the second season of Tru Blood. Since we watched them on DVD, 2 to 3 at a time I've had vivid dreams, not quite nightmares but not really pleasant. The show is rather silly if you think about it, humans falling in love with vampires, humans shape shifting into other animals, maidens of satan warping human minds causing orgies and over-indulgence.

In any case, vampires today are "it"; they are our human obsession, everyone seems to want to be one or do one and well I doubt I'd shoo a hot vampire away if he wanted to get it on, I know that I would never want them to turn me, to "make me." And here are the only two reasons I need.

1) Food. Vampires only drink blood, because well, they're dead. I enjoy eating food (and drinking) too much, ice cream, lasagna, apples, strawberries, vodka tonics, margaritas, french bread, salsa, giant over-stuffed burritos, smashed potatoes, chocolate, garlic! All of that and more would be gone for eternity, which brings me to my next point.

2) Immortality. Ick. If I can no longer eat, which is one of my main pleasures in this life why would I want to live FOREVER? I've met people. I don't think I'd want to be here forever and watch the stupidity repeat itself over and over again. The only positive thing about being a vampire would be my ability to help with population control. But seriously. I know, the idea of immortality seems beautiful and grand in theory, but the more I've thought about it the more boring living forever has become. Of course I am aware that I will never be able to experience all that life has to offer, but isn't that kind of the point? To not regret or neglect each day you're given. To take in as much as you can?

Sure vampires are "hot" right now but undoubtedly that sucking blood thing will lose it's charm eventually and become, well, gross. In the meantime I will enjoy my garlic bread and sunlight and the thoughts of my certain ultimate demise (I hope later than sooner).

For Love of Basketball

Today, while doing jump-shots during my P90X Cardio workout a breeze stumbled in through the window at just the right time making me, for a moment, miss doing real basketball jump shots. Yes, for a minuscule moment in time I actually missed a sport. But after carefully analyzing my feelings I realized what I really miss is the social connections made through sports.

For example, when I truly enjoyed playing basketball I played it outside on my grandparents cement court, with my family--my grandpa teaching me proper follow-through, my dad, never backing down from blocking me, my mom never letting me win (though eventually I would).

I missed playing at other outdoor courts in Greeley, Garnett, even in Hays with friends who I always beat. And I didn't have that flashback of reminiscing and longing just because I am a born winner and would enjoy kicking someone's ass again. I think there is something about spring that always makes me think of basketball in a joyful manner instead of in that trapped-gym feeling I got later in life when the sport became more of a chore, more of an obligation, when I started to realize how silly it was to run back and forth for 40 minutes putting the same ball through the same hoop over and over again for no real apparent reason besides saying at the end when I would most definitely have more point than anyone else--that I was indeed "better" than them.

But I have so many good memories attached to basketball. One of my favorite memories is of a moment that happened in 6th grade when a scrawny pencil thin boy with a rat tail thought that because of his gender alone he could beat a girl—a girl (me) who was ten feet taller and at least a hundred pounds bigger than him. I remember how he drove me nuts, like a rodent, always nipping at my heels, and then once when I when rebounding a shot, he thought he could get the ball from me and attached to it like his hands were covered in super glue. I remember being amazed at my own Amazonian-like strength, watching as his body lifted from the ground, watching as I swung him from left to right, right to left, until finally he lost his grip and he flew 10 feet or more across the court. That moment really made my year. I felt powerful. I felt like a confident winner. It didn’t hurt that I hurt both his pride and his physical body and he never again thought he could compete against me. And I remember receiving admiration from both the girls and the boys who knew at that moment that I was a badass.

So, I guess in a way, basketball helped develop my badass persona, which is why when I do fake jump shots in my living room I am slightly disappointed that I am not playing for real. Playing outside against worthy friendly opponents. Playing as a way to have fun, to share an experience, to get off the fucking couch, not playing as a militarized machine, an obligatory dim gym pawn for a dim-witted coach which is what made me quit in high school.

It’s safe for me to say that I miss the feeling of the perfect release, the ball spinning beautifully swooshing the net in an almost soundless score. The smell of dirt and grass and concrete, the feeling of skinning a knee on a futile attempt to steal the ball, the feeling of a worthy opponent guarding me, all the while me knowing that I will get around said opponent, and they will have to buy me dinner or a drink or be my servant for the rest of the day because that was the terms of the bet before beginning. Because what is a game without an incentive to win? I guess it’s just like a fake jump shot—good for the body, but it does nothing for the mind or the soul.

(P.S. I am being a bit overdramatic on my actual ability to play this sport…sure I have won games, but I can admit to losing a few over the years as well, though as you can tell, I do not really care to admit it.)

When I was Younger. . .

I believe there is a reason most parents throw away their children’s drawings and homework, they do it to rid away evidence of the child’s incompetence. But what do my parents do? They keep every piece of paper I have ever scribbled on. Going through it while I was home really freaked me out. I could see the progression of my intelligence. I could see that a drawing one year, a drawing that could not even be classified as an abstract piece of work, transform by the next year into a structured drawing of a rainbow, a swing set, a house. As Sandra Cisneros pointedly puts it, when you’re 9, you’re also 8 and 7 and 6 and 5 and 4 and 3 and 2 and 1. At 25 there are so many layers to what I know and yet at 25 I realize there is so much that I have yet to learn. I get scared thinking that in 10 years I’ll look back on all my work and laugh at how naïve and stupid I seemed to be, how if I had only known such and such how my life would be so much better.

What really made me laugh was going through all the gossip-filled notes I exchanged with friends in grade/middle school (yes, I kept most of them—I guess at the time I thought I could use them as blackmail if needed haha). Anyway, reading through them and seeing sentences like, “are you mad at her?” “who do you like right now?” “I don’t really like her, she acted stuck up to me in gym will you not be friends with her with me?” etc. etc. Makes me want to go back in time and yell at myself. What I didn’t realize, and what most kids don’t realize after going grade after grade with the same people their whole lives is that everyone wants to be liked, even the most popular kids struggle to find acceptance, and going to such a small school actually gives you a bigger group of people to relate to in the long run. When I look back on the people I didn’t really like at the time I realize that I didn’t like them for the most trivial of reasons and a part of me wishes I would have gotten to know them better. That I wouldn’t have been intimidated. That I myself wouldn’t have been so mean.

But alas, such is life. And I seem to have a talent for meanness that hasn’t faded with time. But luckily I have learned to balance it with thoughtfulness towards the people I care about, even if sometimes my 6^th grade tongue unleashes its venom. I learned how to put up a protective wall at an early age and ever since have been tearing it down for love and friendships and then re-building it after each heartache.

I guess it’s good that I can look back on my grade school and middle school days and see the humor and the pain and understand that I didn’t have it so bad even if at the time I thought I did.

While looking through my stuff I found a coloring contest drawing of mine. We all had to color a picture of a stained glass candle. At the time I thought I had done a really amazing job (and so did other people since I was one of the winners), I remember having it on the fridge for at least a year and how every time I passed it the brightness of all color made me happy. And I remember how much confidence it gave me to know I could create something beautiful from something as simple as an outlined picture. But recently when I pulled the picture out of the pile and looked at it closely I noticed how I didn’t color it in that neatly, how there were still white spots, and how it was actually not really very pretty at all. This sort of bothered me. I’ve been thinking about it though; I feel we all have things that get us through—whether it’s something we create ourselves, a movie we watch over and over, a person, chocolate chip cookies etc. etc. And what got me through at the time was a drawing I managed to make beautiful in my 5^th grade eyes; whether or not it is beautiful now is beside the point. Just sort of like whether or not I liked Clayton or Joe or Todd or if I was mad at Nicole or Margo or Alisa; at the time it is what we needed to learn about who we were and who we wanted to be.

All of the reminiscing makes me put my current situation into a clearer perspective. If I look within, at my own singular life (and not pay attention to all the shit that’s happening outside it) then I really can’t complain….well, I could complain, but I shouldn’t. I have it pretty well. And even if I look back in ten years and laugh at what I’ve created at least I’ve created something to laugh at.

Time: It's on "The Man"s Side.

Daylight Savings Time always seems to highlight the arbitrariness of clocks. I know I’ve talked about this before but it’s a good topic to delve into…this time yesterday it was 2 but today it’s 3, or yesterday it was 5 but today it’s 4. It’s a contained and controlled Wonderland. Cats can’t talk here but many know how to use the toilet and that my dears is just as weird. It’s funny how we’re all tied to time, yet how it can be collectively moved a whole hour if we want it to…it makes you wonder what else we could move… I know what I would choose…what would you?

If time is money and we can change time, couldn’t we also change money? Could we somehow make it so it stops fucking so many people over? More sunlight—ookay thanks, that’s great, but what else ya got? I bet you have more tricks than that up your sleeve dear government. I want to see the show. I hope it’s even more magical than when Alice falls down that hole.

I don’t know ya’ll. All I can think about is the tick tocking of control. The watch is watching. How would life be different if time wasn’t so divided, so rigid, so by the clock? If time wasn’t money. If time was just moments and segments of a life and money was a figment of our imaginations?

Creeping on the down low because TLC says so...

I would like to introduce a new vocab word into your every day speech.

Creepisode: A moment of time that is particularly creepy.

For example: The other night, a woman informed me that she did not have the boobs nor the butt to fill out the dress I was wearing, but she loved the dress anyway. Her fiance’ continued by informing me that it was true, I was in fact very curvy, he then did the whole-body-check thing that single horny men often do after too many bud-lights. CREEPISODE. From both sides.

Send me your creepisodes stories... I want to know I am not alone...

The 25 (or so) Albums Most Influential on my Young 25-year-old Life

1) Bob Segar—Against the Wind

I have listened to him ever since I grew ears in my mother’s womb.

2) Salt N Pepa—Very Necessary

Grade school rap parties at my grandparent’s house. The album also came in handy later in life when I needed to passively express my annoyance toward old boyfriends—“somebody’s getting on my nerves” and “none of your business” were superb examples of that expression.

3) Fiona Apple—Tidal

6^th grade consciousness alternation—I became aware of my sexuality, my built up emotional anger, longing and sadness. I found an album I could channel all of that through.

4) Missy Elliott—So Addictive

Dance parties with Kelsi, either in one of our cars or out in grocery store parking lots during lunch. “One Minute Man” became a brilliantly dedicated song later in my high school career as well. “Work It” has gotten me through many days.

5) Tom Petty—Wildflowers

Or any song by Tom Petty—reminds me of going over to Zac’s, Marisa and the county fair tilt-a-whirl. Tom Petty reminds me of summer days and reservoirs, and of course, the obvious drug infusions.

6) Kittie—Spit

Women-anger. Women-growling. Women-in-bands. This changed my perception on what I was capable of doing musically. I was young and sheltered and unaware of any riot grrrl movement, and well, that movement was fading before I even knew it started so Kittie was my main inspiration.

7) Korn—Follow the Leader

How lame to have listened to Korn as much as I did, but it was where it was at and I cannot pretend it didn’t happen.

8) Marilyn Manson—Anti-Christ Superstar

Made being a freak acceptable and cool.

9) Britney Spears—Oops I did it Again

Theater and kissing boys and breaking hearts and being sexy cool.

10) Slipknot--Slipknot

The best album ever for angst anger and just getting all that built up shit out of your system.

11) Nirvana—Nevermind

Duh. It is impossible to have not been influenced by Kurt Cobain and especially for me, Courtney Love.

12) System of a Down— Toxicity

Drinking with Andrea and Mary and Marisa. Teasing and pleasing and cruising around the countryside. And also, that one guy, with the IMAGOD license plate, OMG.

13) The Doors—Strange Days

People are strange. And that’s okay.

14) Led Zeppelin I-VI

Of course, the albums cannot be separated. I mean they could and they were but they all mesh together into beautiful harmony for me.

15) Weezer— Blue Album

Undergrad. 308 dance parties. Pete. Mario. Jumping. Always Jumping through the whole album. Say it isn’t So.

16) Beulah—Yoko

Opening the mind.

17) My Uncle is a Cannibal – My Uncle is a Cannibal

Jeering commentary at Semolino with Alicia. Trying to get the band to get naked. Falling heavy for the guitarist/lead singer; who hasn’t yet left me, which is still quite a shock.

18) The Beatles—Abbey Road

Yes. I was able to pick one Beatles album, so there. Why Abbey Road? Because it’s the best.

19) Yeah Yeah Yeahs—Fever to Tell

Brings me to tears imagining a life without Karen O.

20) Madonna—The Immaculate Collection

Express yourself. Don’t repress yourself.

21) Sleater-Kinney— The Woods

Don’t push me I am not okay. They were there when I was cubicalized. They got me through rush hour and downtown Chicago bullshit every day for a year.

22) Bikini Kill—The Cd Version of the First Two Records

Seriously. Suck My Left One. My only regret is that I didn’t hear them sooner.

23) Patti Smith—Horses

Complete and total change of consciousness. I don’t know if it was just time or if it was the album, but she moved me along.

24) The Gossip—Standing in the Way of Control

Because they are necessary for change.

25) Lady Gaga—The Fame Monster

To grow on, for a good year, I’m going to “Just Dance.”

Reflection: Hitting Balls

When I was in 2nd grade I started playing fast pitch softball. I got to start a year early because our town was so small and there weren’t enough girls to make up a whole team. I was an only-child, shy, reserved. But softball gave me a push to own a certain amount of confidence. Stepping into the batters box on a game day with at least 20 or more people watching is scary. You’re all alone in that space and though you may be too frightened to take a swing, to frightened to do anything but watch the ball wiz by, you still had to have the initiative and strength to step in front of everyone and at least attempt to try.

And though now it’s easy for me to have issues with sports because of the parallelisms sports have to the military (patriarchical institutions) I do have to say that they are not completely evil. I made friends, I started talking. I gained confidence in myself, and I didn’t get fat. I still have that competitive edge, I love to win and, okay, it’s true, I hate to lose, I mean pouty-face tantrum hate, but at least sports gave me the will-power to exert effort into being successful in whatever I do, even if what I am doing is deconstructing the power dynamics within and outside those very games.

But, in the end all that fear, all that energy, anxiety, and hope that swims through ones brain upon entering the batters box makes the hit all the more joyous; the connection is what we’re all going for, the moment when everything falls into place and our confidence sails over the fence.

School Lunches: My Frightful PB Experience

When I was in grade school I gave myself fake allergies. I did this so I wouldn’t have to take a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch everyday; this worked out most of the time except when we ran out of lunch meat and I ended up having to eat a Velveeta yellow-mustard white-bread sandwich; this hunk of lunch could really have only been worse for me if I slathered it with mayo—luckily I was “allergic” to mayo too so I saved a few sacred calories. I don’t know why anyone believed me, especially since I was not allergic to peanut butter if it was covered in chocolate. I especially don’t know why any one believed me when the list began to elongate. It started with food products, peanut butter, mayo, gravy, tomatoes, but then it moved into other territories: dish soap, mowing the lawn, and once in the 6th grade I even faked being allergic to shaving cream so I didn’t have to play some stupid obstacle rely game where I was forcedly partnered up with some creepy fat boy who had a crush on me, probably the best use of a fake allergy ever.

But then, I had to actually go to a doctor and get an allergy test.

And the truth befell. I wasn’t allergic to peanuts or mayonnaise or tomatoes or dish soap.

I was allergic to cats. And I had a cat. Oh, the karmic world came down on me hard that day.

Poor ole’ Taz was given to a family friend. Poor ole Taz was mauled by the family friend’s dog within hours.

Thus, in the end, I learned not to push my luck; it was better to just state the truth, I didn’t like PB or Mayo or doing the dishes, but that didn’t mean I should lie to people about it just to get what I wanted (or didn’t want). It’s just too bad Taz had to die over the whole event. Oh, what the animal sacrifices.

Corporatocracy: What Your $ Buys

Is there even a point in bothering with politics anymore? Since the recent Supreme Court decision to allow corporations to spend as much money on political campaigns as they want, I am wondering why they don’t just come out and blatantly admit that the government doesn’t run the country at all; big business does. We have no democracy but a corporatocracy. It really has nothing to do with who the better candidate is, but which one has more money stuffed in his or her pockets. The candidate isn’t even a person, but a puppet used to pull strings so corporations can do whatever they want—hence why corporations are considered individuals. I’m sure, when given enough money (under the table of course) Justices (or any human) would call a building a tree if they were bribed with enough cash to do so. But hasn’t it gotten tiring, hasn’t that theme, that plot-line, been over-played? Sure, money can buy control, but do you, personally, want to be controlled by people with the most money? Have you ever met an extremely rich person? They have no concept of living under capitalism because they are capitalism. What you’re buying is their freedom. What you’re buying is their control over you. It’s their vote, not yours.

Associating with Guilt

Lately layers of guilt have been piling upon my conscious like I’m getting ready to make a guilt-laced phyllo tart. I can not believe some of the thoughts I’ve been having. For example, I went to get a glass of water; I saw a bowl of crackers and thought I’d have a few—then I had to start justifying why it was okay for me to eat a few crackers that I made with my own hands (and food processor) with my own groceries that I had bought. I knew if I ate them, they’d be gone and I wouldn’t be able to eat them anymore. Which sort of made me sad. And I also felt like I was sneaking them because I wasn’t bringing them out in the living room to share with Ryan. Then I felt more guilty that I was behaving like an only child, then I felt paranoid because I knew even people who have siblings or partners don’t share everything with each other. I almost had a heart attack.

And this was just on a simple matter of flour mixed with spice. I cannot even begin to tell you the guilt that packs on when it comes to bigger things like not working out, or not eating enough fruit or not getting everything I want done in a day or Ryan not having a job. I know it’s not my fault that Ryan doesn’t have a job, but sometimes I feel guilty because 1) I don’t want to keep paying all the rent 2) I don’t want to keep paying all the bills 3) I definitely don’t want to keep paying for all those crackers. I get mad watching him eat thinking about the interest collecting on my loans that are being used to pay for that black bean burger he just scarfed down in 3 seconds. Then I feel guilty that I am mad for him just wanting to eat food like the rest of humanity.

I feel the most guilt when he has a job interview and he gets back and we wait. We wait and we wait to hear something. Generally, in that time period, I go through a series of thoughts starting with positive rainbow happy thoughts of him finally leaving the apartment on a daily basis, coming home tired but with a 12 pack of beer for me to consume merrily. Then the next day comes with no word and the colors start to fade--I try not to notice or think about it at all. Then the next day everything turns gray and I know he’s not going to get a call back. And I start thinking really terrible thoughts. And then I feel really guilty for thinking negatively; followed by a sudden rush of paranoid thoughts that maybe it was my fault for not believing in him 100% and the only reason he’s not getting a new job is because I am sending so much negative energy into the world. Which just completely pisses me off. Forcing me to find it really hard to believe in this positive thinking bullshit, which then makes me think that is why I’m never happy and other ‘plus-sign’ people are.

It is quite the predicament.

So if there is anyone out there that wants to give Ryan a job, or just, you know, give me money for being the awesomely awesome person I am so I can pay off my college debt, pay the rent and buy some more crackers I would more than greatly appreciate the assistance.

Raging the Road

I was a little shocked to discover the amount of anger that was lingering deep within me, waiting for me to get back behind the wheel and release its self. I thought after 3 months of non-driving I’d come back to my blue neon, calmer, happier, but that lasted for about 3 minutes. I’d like to blame the blizzard who left ice and snow all over the road causing major distraction and obstacles. I’d also like to blame all the other people who thought that they, for some reason, should drive on the same streets as myself. What were they thinking? But deep down, I know the only person to blame is Ryan…I mean myself. Myself. I am the only one to blame for the growling and yelling and flipping off and the consent bitching that exudes out my body when I am behind the wheel of any vehicle. Let's all take a moment to thank public transportation for keeping me off the road (most of the time). 

Kansas: Bigger (and better) Than You Think

Besides the obviousness of seeing amazing friends and family (including Sugar and Edie) here are 10 things I love about going home.

10) Running into people I know everywhere I go

I’m still not sure if this is a huge positive…

9) Row Row Row Your Boat, Gently down… the Road?

There are many quirks that set my home apart from everyone else’s, one of those occurs when the creek can’t drink enough rain and decides to burp it out all over the road. Rowing across the road can be quite the hassle, but it’s a story every time and Ryan sure likes to paddle so no one complains anymore.

8) Pizza Hut

I know, there are a million pizza places in Chicago, but the Pizza Hut has a distinct flavor that is nostalgic to me. And nothing can beat their cheesy breadsticks. And the buffet has a distinct place in my heart as well.

7) Thrift stores/prices

I love the Arc. I love the flea market. I really am too cheap to shop anywhere else. Yesterday I went into an antique store close to my apartment and I saw a necklace I bought at the Flea Market for $1 on sale there for $55. There are really no better places to go if you’re looking to buy stuff. The biggest problem is that it’s hit or miss. The Arc obviously rotates their merchandise, but I’m not so sure about the Flea. I think I’ve been going through the same boxes of jewelry for about six years now.

6) Open Spaces/Walking Places

There are certain things that are going to be missed going from the country to the city. The most obvious is the change in scenery. It’s a relief to come back and view a more beautiful, more simplistic canvass. It’s also nice to be able to walk around with no specific destination, to stare at the cows or tackle a hike up the hill and gaze for miles at the changing colors and rolling plains.

5) Sonic

Okay. I know. I worked at a sonic off and on for like six years, but that doesn’t keep me from enjoying my favorite (non-alcoholic) drink: cherry limeade along side some greasy-as-ever-tater tots with cheese. Yum. I’m salivating.

4) Driving my car

My poor blue neon misses me so much. Creatures like mice and snakes have been visiting it trying to keep it company, but it just gets so sad that even they can’t cheer it up. It rumbles and grumbles now, (probably from too many visitors up in its hood) but, it always plasters a big smile upon my return, wagging its tail, excited to see me. And I reciprocate the excitement, as I prepare to hit the pavement after months of non-driving--it is always an adventure.

3) Boulevard

BEST BEER EVER. Okay. Maybe not EVER. Since I haven’t drank every beer ever made. But the Wheat fills my days with sunshine and the Pale fills my evenings with drunken bliss. I have to admit though, I’ve switched my #1. The Wheat used to be my favorite, but my palate has changed and now the Pale has hit the top of my list. I just can’t get enough hops. The hoppier the better.

2) Dance Parties

They just cannot be beat. Anywhere. Seriously. The best dancers. Of all time. More talented than any reality-tv show can imagine, and they happen to exist in the wide open spaces of Kansas. Probably because we’ve had more room to move and groove than any other souls. All I can say is that it is a magical experience every time. It can’t be missed, it can’t be duplicated, it is what it is.

1) Stars

The real bling bling is up above your head. Light-years out of your reach. Worth more than any ring, diamond, jewel on earth. On the darkest nights they glimmer through the sky like a bedazzler gone berserk. They help me re-center. They help me realize my true size on this planet. I am humbled and awed every time. I never need to make a wish because I’m always exactly where I want to be. Amongst the true bling bling.

Christmas Trees: Revised

In many different cultures from many different eras of time, green in the winter has been used to symbolize life in the time of death.

In Egypt they used palm leaves; in Rome they used green lights; in Great Britain they used holly, mistletoe and tree branches. People would also decorate firs and pines that were right outside their doors.

But then, Americans decided to, of course, do it differently. Yes, some jackass thought it made sense to start chopping down trees and putting them inside one’s home. Isn’t this symbolic of killing life instead of celebrating it?

And now the National Christmas Tree Organization has a site dedicating to “myth busting;” an entire article argues why a person should pick a Real Tree over a fake one.

I have the solution. How about no tree at all? Instead of farmers growing trees specifically to be chopped down for Christmas, how about those farmers growing something that is more beneficial for the world, like I don’t know, FOOD.

I am in no way attempting to be a scrooge. I think if people want to celebrate the winter, by all means. I am only suggesting that we all be more compassionate about what we’re doing. How many people have really thought about why they put a tree up versus how many people just put trees up because that’s what they’ve always done?

I truly believe we should celebrate life. I believe this can be done without killing trees.

Here are 3 Alternatives
1) Decorate the green plants you already have
2) Decorate the trees outside your house
3) Buy a potted tree that you can replant outside when the holidays are over

Eye Attack: What the Jalapeño Taught Me

I haven’t been having the best of times lately, and it all accumulated into a climatic finish two mornings ago when I gave myself jalapeño eye. I had cooked late the night before, rather drunkenly I might add, using my fingers to take out the middle part of the spiced out green instead of the knife. I honestly do not know how I got my contacts out that night without severe pain; I remember a slight burn, but nothing freakishly overwhelming. The next morning, hung over and looking rather whitetrashish with my braless tank top and oversized nike sports shorts, I stepped into the bathroom to partake in my morning rituals of peeing, cleaning, brushing etc. I never got to the brushing part. While lazily putting in my right contact I was abruptly shocked awake by an intense burst of spicy directly in my looker. I thought my eye was going to liquefy before me and I would never be able to see again. My contact decided it was going to envelop my eyeball and my eyeball decided it was not going to open again. Ever. Then my nose started running. My throat started coughing. And I couldn’t decide if it would be a good idea to cry or not, though I really really wanted to. I then stuck my face under the sink and made a cold pond of water for my pain to sit in. After about 15 minutes of crying and moaning my eye could stay open long enough for me to finally grab the contact out and throw it away---along with the other one I had yet to torture myself with—and the case itself—to clear away any possible culprits of that continuing another day.

While lying on the couch trying to recover I kept thinking of everything I could be doing if I could see. I couldn’t even watch TV, which is what I would normally do when I’m sick. I couldn’t even get on the computer to complain about my eye. And the lights. They were so bright it was disgusting.

As I mentioned, lately, I’ve been off balance, perhaps a bit tense, anxious, annoyed. Of course, when the jalapeño attacked me my initial thought was “OMG, I can’t even wake up right,” which is how I had started to see my life…a continual movement of failure and insecurity. But the hot shock managed to calm me down some. While in a state of healing I had time to reflect. I decided I needed to cool down, soak in the beauty of the world, not let every little thing get to me because when something really shitty (like a vegetable attack) happens I need to be prepared to take in the pain and let it go. To wear my glasses for a day and look at life from an alternative perspective. And most importantly, I need to laugh. When the old woman at the grocery store yells at me in Polish, when I drop a steaming container of food on the floor, when people won’t move over on the sidewalk, when dishes aren’t clean, when my underwear is falling off my ass, and definitely when foods attack—laughter--or I will die of high blood pressure at 33.