Common Denominator

Situations, relationships, people, places, things – basically all your nouns – they change. They change every day. Sometimes you notice. Sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you make a choice for change, and sometimes change happens without your consent.

What I find interesting is how often it isn’t “change” at all; but rather a rerun of your life in syndication. Déjà vu, you wonder?

No. It’s just vous.

Since obviously there’s nothing crazy about you, think of that one crazy friend, ex-girlfriend, co-worker, sister, neighbor – whatever, the Crazy Girl. We all know one. Her business manager may be a psychic? She has an excuse or reason for everything bad that happens in her life and it’s all external. Someone else is responsible for her current state. She’s just trying to do the best, most right thing and she keeps getting punished for it.

*eyeroll*

Crazy Girl’s life is a dull collection of repeated “errors in judgment” which can certainly be twisted about in order to place the blame soundly on someone else. Sadly, but inevitably, the willing world can see the many iterations of the same behavior… and Crazy Girl is always in the big ole middle of it. She created it or assisted it, and was probably looking for a different outcome every time. Definition of insanity, right?

For all of the relationships, bad fashion decisions, and lost drunken weekends, there’s a common denominator. Only one person was there every time. In Crazy Girl’s life, it’s her. In your life, it’s you. That’s right. You’re your own common denominator.

I like to blame my occasionally less than stellar decision-making on the multitude of voices in my head – which at least one of whom believes is totally valid. However, when I look in the mirror, it’s just me. Since I’m not afraid to own my life, actions, or decisions it’s easier to tell the world to “piss off” if need be; apologize when I’ve actually done something hurtful (as opposed to those things I didn’t do but that are nonetheless a very real part of someone else’s imagination), and get a decent night’s sleep.

Stop pushing your retrospectively embarrassing decisions or misdeeds off on everyone else. You did it. You get to own it. If you don’t like your behavior – change it. If you don’t like my behavior, have the balls to say that to me and stop acting like a spoiled little bitch. No one is ruining your happiness but you.

[sidebar: wow… vicious. But I’ll own it. I’ll also share that after I typed it I realized it didn’t come from my usual hypothetical place, but instead was actually directed somewhere… somewhere male. Perhaps I should get off this healthy living thing to ensure I don’t see so clearly... Waiter!]

Embrace yourself before you run out of people who will. Remind yourself that not everything that happens around you is about you. Never forget that you are the only common denominator in your life, so choose your environs carefully.

“And acceptance is the answer to all of my problems today…”

Stag Nation

So in my previous post I eluded to death and the contents of my nightstand. This got me thinking about all the stuff we keep. Stuff we know we might maybe shouldn’t hold onto for posterity, and yet 15 years later, there it is, staring up at you from the bottom of a box you just pulled from your parents attic, or under your bed, or wherever you’re hiding the stuff about your past from the people in your present.

Interestingly enough, it’s been my experience that the really good stuff about people can be found in the boxes scrawled with “school” using Sharpee marker in the unmistakable male scratch.

I don’t care what anyone says about women keeping stuff, y’all men are so much worse. See, we keep everything. Romantic stuff, fun afternoon at the beach with our girlfriends stuff, first college schedule, pictures of everything and every one. Mostly we’re just holding onto lovely memories; stories for the winter of our lives. It’s a lot to sort through if you don’t know your way around, so it’s somewhat more difficult to find the “good stuff.” And of course, by “good” I mean incriminating.

But men! The stuff you keep seems to scream, “all I want in this life is to be in college again!” I get it. I do. Those were great times for all of us. But here’s the thing: You. Cannot. Live. There. Anymore. Your Stag-Nation citizenship was revoked when you left campus. You can’t just sit here reminiscing; hopelessly grappling for your glory days. Whether you’re 25, 35, or 45 you’ve got to face the facts. You’re officially accountable for your actions. Grow up. Move on.

Here are a few helpful hints for you Penis Owners who insist you cannot part with whatever it is that keeps you tied to the 22-year-old version of yourself:

If you’re single and trying to stay that way, it is absolutely unnecessary for you to do anything except continue on your merry way and prepare to die alone. You may want to look into Alumni citizenship to Stag Nation. I believe you only have to produce proof of strip club membership and your "magazine" subscriptions. And though there is no need to continue reading, I would suggest a brief perusal of the last two paragraphs here for the sake of propriety.

If you’re single but trying not to be, hire a maid. No, not the kind in the black fishnet stockings, though I’m sure she’d do a lovely job on your pipes. I mean a real cleaning lady: the kind that will de-gross your bathroom and scrub the unidentified sticky stuff out of your refrigerator. Ask her to pack your athletic trophies in a box and mark it “Mom’s House.” Deliver it on your next laundry day.

You seriously still have a beer bong? I… I… I… yeah. There are no words unless they are “Return to Frat House” with no return address.

I promise you that, as long as you have a pulse and a need, the raunchy text message you elicited from your ex last weekend is not the last bit of sexting you’ll ever experience. Delete it. It will only get you in trouble. Go ahead. We’ll wait…

As for your gentlemen’s magazines: women who don’t know about them, don’t mind that you have them. Should you discover that your extensive collection puts off the woman in your life, you’ve a decision to make. If you’re not going to leave them out on the coffee table or in the bathroom magazine rack for all to admire, you should consider getting rid of them altogether, or moving them to your gym locker with your squash racket. The other option is so obvious I’m embarrassed to type it. *deep breath* Get rid of her.

Finally, take the time to make a list and, if necessary, a treasure map or diagram outlining where all of the embarrassing bits of your life are located in your house, apartment, office – wherever you keep these things. Give said list, associated graphic documentation, all necessary keys, and disposal instructions to a trusted friend… for just in case. You do not want grief-stricken Granny opening a closet door only to be taken out by precariously piled bawdy videos of you and your girlfriend. Is that the conversation you want overheard at your wake?

To everyone I say this: Just keep your stuff, whether it’s sentimental or you plan to “use” it at a later date, in one easy to retrieve albeit concealed place with access for immediate disposal, if required. This really is for your own good, and the good of any relationship you may have with someone besides yourself.

*Blink* *Blink*

Wow. I am really struggling to find something to write about. I counted seven pieces that are more than half complete, all of which are disjointed, unfocused, and worst of all, brain-numbingly dull. I actually threw out two solely because if I should die suddenly, I would be utterly mortified if they were found. The contents of my nightstand would be far less humiliating than those were…


I’m beginning to wonder if this healthier lifestyle I’ve been test-driving has stymied my creativity. All this yoga, and breathing, and green food. I’ve always laughed at how dull people are on “that side of the fence,” but maybe like so many other stereotypes, it’s true. Take away the pink elephants, add some whole grain, clear out the smoke and suddenly life isn’t funny. It’s just… beige… and oddly regular.

*raises eyebrow meaningfully*

I’m in a state of mental atrophy and entirely too high-strung for it. Maybe it’s a case of nearly-Springtime anticipation. Could be paralyzing fear of bathing suit season. Perhaps I need a mini-holiday in a noisy city where no girl leaves her apartment without lipstick. I wonder if that would be tax deductible given it’s purely for mental health purposes... I feel like a doe in the headlights. Eyes wide but absolutely no movement. Whatever the case, I think we can all agree that the time is upon me / us / I / you to make something happen.

*sings*

“Now you're in New York
These streets will make you feel brand new
Big lights will inspire you
Let's hear it for New York”

Eureka, I’ve just had an idea! Sometimes you just have to sing a little song. We’d all better get a cocktail for what’s coming.

Next up: Stag-Nation!

Text This

I hate texting. I hate it for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which is the virtually non-existent regard for etiquette.

Texting is to phone calls what instant messaging (IM) is to email. The difference is that I’ve loved IM from the very beginning. Perhaps that’s because it’s confined to a specific location, not chiming at me from my pocketbook every 4 minutes. I can’t begin to imagine the amount of wasted time that could be repurposed into productivity – you know, living life instead of typing about it – with a campaign to be more elusive. Good dating advise as well, but that’s for someone else to write about.

My feeling is that if it takes more than two text messages to tell me whatever it is you need so desperately to say, how about you just save us both some time, unchain me from my phone so I can get on with my life instead of waiting to finish a “conversation,” and use one of those fancy applications to just ring me up? It’ll take half the time and be twice as satisfying!

Here’s another time-saver. There is absolutely no need to text me with “OK” – or worse, “K.” Unless specifically asked for confirmation, acquiescence is implied.

I get what an inconvenience it is to type full words; saying “dis” when what is meant is “disrespect” tells that story.
*sarcasm*
Nevertheless, “c u l8r”? Why? WHY? I’m not in the 6^th grade. It’s not clever. Can someone please tell me why select grown adults find it impossible to use whole words – even with that auto-word completion feature thingy turned on?

How about we don’t text while driving. I know this girl who has wrecked two new cars because she was either reading or responding to a text message. I don’t even try. You can blow that phone up trying to get my attention with a text message, it’s staying right there in the console. If it’s that urgent CALL ME!

[sidebar: yes, I’m aware that in many states it’s illegal to take or place a call while driving, but it’s certainly safer than typing.]

In New York City, most restaurants ban the use of cell phones for verbal conversation. Not only should this be instituted countrywide, I think an addendum should be inserted banning texting as well. It’s just as rude to have a text message exchange as it is to have a phone conversation at the dining table. It’s 30-90 minutes out of your day. Have a modicum of respect for your dining partner. No one is that indispensable.

I think texting should be saved for clandestine conversations in very public places, signaling a friend across the bar of impending doom, quietly getting someone’s attention unnoticed, or other situations when time is of the essence and silence is required. Under these circumstances I get that texting can be a real ass-saver.

Check your 6:00. White patent leather thigh high boots on 400 pound bleached blonde!

Your ex just rolled into the bar. Boobs up!

Bat in the cave…

What I don’t need is anyone’s traffic update when I’m not going that way. I’m not interested in your current state of sobriety – or lack thereof – if I’m not sitting next to you. If you want to know “wassup” begin by accepting that “wassup” is not an actual word, then just call me. Hours can go by before I realize I’ve missed 6 calls and 37 texts because my phone and I are easily separated. The calls I’ll check. But the text messages? I don’t have that kind of time.

*clicks Inbox*
*Erase*
*Erase All*

Speak No Evil!

“The opposite of courage in our society isn’t cowardice, it’s conformity.” ~ Rollo May

I’m not going to pretend like I don’t partake in some juicy gossip sessions with my girls from time to time. It’s true that on occasion we’ll sit about with glasses of wine and vodka, speculating about people for hours. It’s horrible and juvenile and I’ll admit, occasionally a bit mean-spirited, but have you ever laughed harder than when you’re wildly creating random conjuncture about people, situations, or hook-ups?

Believe it or not, I do actually have two rules about gossip.

1. You just don’t air people’s real life personal business on the street. If someone confided in you, you must respect that confidentiality. Only the rudest of the rude would pursue information after you've plainly stated, “It’s not my story to tell.”

There’s no power in other people’s pain. Putting the real life crisis of another person out for all the neighbors to chat over the hedge about is not just in unspeakably poor form. It speaks volumes about the person doing the telling. This is the same person who generally takes obvious delight in the unfortunate circumstances of others. Sadly, don’t we all know one of those?

*shakes head*

For me, the second rule is like telling the bartender not to waste valuable liquor space with that lime – something that must be said:

2. “He/she is my friend. I really need you not to talk ugly, spread vicious gossip, or carry on like this in front of me. And yes, it does make me wonder what you say about me behind my back. Surely you can understand that.”

This takes the courage of non-conformity because I’ll tell you what, it does not always go over well. Sure, you have the choice to just suck it up and sit quietly while others degraded your friend; to try to change the subject, or to walk away. Anyone can do that – it’s spineless. The true test of a person’s character can readily be seen in the face of adversity. Do you excuse yourself to go to the bar, or do you have the balls to speak up?

The only people who can truly speak to whatever story is on Today’s Top Ten are the people who were actually there when the gossip-inciting incident occurred. Not the best friend, not the neighbor, not the guy lurking in the bushes. You want to bounce around a theory? Who can blame you! Just don’t try to pass it off as fact.

Besides, we all know the only person who knows the whole truth about anything is your bartender!

Color Conundrum

"She's got a lip ring and five colors in her hair
Not into fashion but I love the clothes she wears,
Her tattoo's always hidden by her underwear.
She don't care." ~ McFly

It’s true that if you leaf through my writing, you’ll find more than one snarky remark about blondes. I should clarify before going any further that those always refer to women who bleach their hair blonde, and are not so much directed at those born with the soon-to-be extinct color.

Here’s the question: could coloring your hair blonde, when your natural color so obviously is not, really change your personality? Or do you just pretend to be stupid in order to fit in with the rest of the blonde pack? For no apparent reason, I got to wondering if maybe I was just buyin’ what someone was sellin’ for the sake of a laugh…

With this in mind I gathered my courage and began the 3 phases of change:

1. I decided I would take the plunge – albeit VERY temporarily – into Blondedumb…umm… Blonde-dom
2. I told a friend what I was planning
3. I made the appointment with my hairdresser

Nothing left to do but sit back, wait, and mull.

At one time or another, my hair has been every color found in nature – and some that are not. Through it all I can honestly say I’ve never, ever had any desire or even whimsical curiosity to venture into Blonde-dom. Why would I? It appears to be full already, and I understand the grammar there is abhorrent.

Ouch! See? That’s what I’m talking about... unnecessarily mean.

I remember a girlfriend’s mom saying once that, “a man looks once at a pretty blonde, but twice at a pretty brunette.” In an effort to be somewhat scientific about confirming this idea, I decided to find myself a cozy spot somewhere to watch. I was utterly intrigued. In addition to confirming the original hypothesis, some other interesting reactions were observed.

I noticed an obvious blonde-to-fake-boob ratio that held the attention of most men for an extra moment, but it was rare to catch one over the age of 18 turning around for a second look. More dark-haired women seemed to be exercising which garnered a good amount of attention; and an even higher number of brunettes seemed to be pushing strollers. Now, I don’t know if that last bit is hot or not, but I noted it as fact all the same. I couldn’t really identify what men do with the redheads among us; maybe red hair is more a fetish thing.  Nevertheless, I still thought whole experiment was very interesting, and the wine was extraordinary.

I wonder if, then how many, personality traits can truly be pinned on hair color. I have a blonde sibling who doesn’t have the sense her God gave a stump. A dear boy-friend of mine is dating this girl who is so fake blonde and acts like such a ridiculous dim-wit, I suspect one day I may actually slap her solely for perpetuating stereotype. (See! That’s me sticking up for the naturally blonde among you!) Brunettes are said to be the most sensual; redheads have a fiery disposition. Whether it’s all right or all wrong, those stereotypes started somewhere. I can live with people thinking I’m “fiery” (read: quick-tempered or sharp of tongue). Actually, I can live with people thinking just about anything based on how I look. But what I absolutely could not possibly accept, is being thought vacuous.

Pending blonde status update:

1. Came to senses
2. Cancelled hair appointment with all due speed
3. Poured cocktail

Whew. Crisis averted.

I suppose we all have a preference, for ourselves and for the opposite gender. I love to look at blonde boys, but every relationship has been with a brunette… with the notable exception of the brunette who regularly colored his hair blonde. Yeah. Don’t ask, People… just let it go.

“What gets a gal
Asked out to lunch
Is it brains, is it dough?
No, it's hairspray!”

Is Anybody Home?

No, I'm not on hiatus. I'm thinking...

I wrote something that I'd intended to elevate; however, upon further editorial review, I've decided it's too mean-spirited and snarky even for ME. To make matters worse, I've been a bit lazy lately so I've nothing left in reserve. I've disappointed you, loyal Readers. Please forgive me... or restock my vodka cabinet... either one...

I've kept up my short entries at March Madness (link to the right)... I'll be back within a couple of days with something for you here. In the meantime, if someone wants to guest blog... just throwin' it out there. Step right up!

Rejectioooon! Rejection!

It’s the bane of my very existence. It’s the reason I don’t always finish what I start. Case in point: there is a “book,” several chapters and ten’s of thousands of words long, mocking me from my desktop. I’ve worked on it off and on for longer than I’m willing to admit – and y’all know I tell you everything. Adding insult to injury, there are a number of people in my life who have finished their books, while I just sit here staring at that icon wondering if it’s worth it to double-click.

Part of the problem is that I have no idea what I want to do with the book when it’s finished. I mean, obviously I want it picked up by a major publisher who falls in love with me, my rapier wit and raucous sense of humor, and who wants to spend tons of money to promote it and ultimately, I end up on Oprah discussing it as part of her book club and reaping huge accolades for having changed the lives of people worldwide.

Since the chance of that happening is equal to that of me divesting my shoe collection, I have to look at what the outcome of sending off the completed manuscript would do to my psyche. I'm certain that in no time I’d be in the bottle doing my impression of Hemmingway without the Parisian café.

Rejection is hard. I’m fairly certain that’s why so many people just stare across a crowded bar or create a “sausage row” against the wall instead of, oh I dunno, taking the initiative to see what could happen. I figure the worst possible scenario is that you introduce yourself to someone and they turn out to be déclassé enough to scorn your effort. Upside: You found out before the first date. That’s a nice little money saver. Like getting a dating coupon for use at another venue.

I ate a gigantic pile of edamame for dinner last night, while lying on the floor and pondering this rejection thing. I started to list different types of rejection then decided it was entirely too depressing that I could come up with nine without much hesitation. Needing a new perspective, naturally I hauled my 15 pound International Dictionary out – the only one I trust since the dark day the online dictionaries decided that “dis” is a word, not a prefix.

I seriously laughed and snorted when I read these:

Re-ject’: To refuse to have, use, or take for some purpose.

Re’-ject: One rejected as not wanted, unsatisfactory, or not fulfilling standard requirements.

Yep. Standard requirements are the criteria and these are definitely the definitions I’m most familiar with. I’ve probably used one or both individually or in tandem in an effort to eliminate some newly identified unnecessary person from my life. Bottom line is that rejection, in most forms, is pretty damned funny. Aren’t most of your best stories based in that, or some variation of humiliation? Oh hell, all of mine are! If you didn’t have rejection stories to tell, you’d most likely end up like those sad-sacks on Jeopardy whose “best story” is about the time they lost a shoe in a creek then had it returned to them a week later because they’d had the foresight to write their name in Sharpie marker on the inside.

Now to appease what I’m sure is your rampant curiosity (*sarcasm*) I will tell you that I have no intention of double-clicking that icon on my desktop today. My bathroom scale already informed me I’m not allowed back until I’m willing to step on one person at a time, so my rejection quota for the day has been satisfied.

March Madness

I had this idea… The plan was to post something here every day in March. Every day. When I first dreamed up this obviously ill-conceived idea, it seemed totally plausible. After all, it’s not unusual for me to write a couple thousand words a day. All I had to do was tear these into bite-sized pieces for easy digestion.

Right. Flaws a-plenty. There are reasons I don’t post thousands of words at a time. The first is for you, Dear Reader. I figure anyone can enjoy 400-600 words in a sitting, but you find yourself staring down the barrel of losing 5+ minutes of your day, and you’re out. Hey, I’m not judging. I get it.

The second reason comes directly from my shameless ego. The stuff I cut in editing is crap. Oh sure, it seems brilliant as my fingers fly across the keyboard and I giggle along. Unfortunately, what I discover during the editing process is that about two-thirds of what goes on in my head is a big swing… and a bigger miss. Why would I subject you to that?

I always wanted to be one of those women in movies who kept a secret box filled with dusty journals hidden in the back of the attic or under the bed. She wrote in them every day of her life and her entire history was saved on those pages. I know that somewhere I have a couple of random hardcovers with the first few pages written in them from equally random years. Apparently I just don’t have the wherewithal to commit to immortalizing my life. OR…. More likely it's the memory of my sibling’s mother screeching in a drunken tirade not to ever put anything in writing.

[sidebar: Ladies and Gentlemen, this is true of texting, email, or little Post-It notes. Don’t write it if you’re not going to own it. These things have a way of resurfacing at the most inopportune moments. *blinks*]

Back to the March Madness idea. After careful mulling, I’ve decided that if I’m not interested enough to give daily insight by updating my Facebook status, I can’t possibly make this idea a success.

 I “finished” this entry – meaning I blinked several times and decided I didn’t have anything more to say – when I got distracted by a new idea! How about a separate page? Just for March. So I switched computers and quickly elevated March Madness. Click the link on the right beneath For One Month Only to get there. Let’s see if I can hold my own attention for 31 days.