this is me at work

Okay, so it's actually Buffy at work. But what Willow said still applies.

Bored now.

take two

* I posted this last week and then deleted it but have since decided that was just silly. So, I'm re-posting it. 'Cause I wanna.

I heart Jezebel. I do not, however, enjoy my heart being broken while reading about young girls who believe that in order to be loved and desired and respected by guys, they have to be the epitome of physical perfection.

How The "Good Guys Are Hard To Find" Narrative Hurts Women

For the most part, I didn't grow up in a world in which I felt constant pressure to be perfect; at least, it wasn't anywhere near the world in which most girls grow up these days. Of course, every girl feels pressure from everyone and everywhere to be the prettiest (but not too pretty because then you'll be a snob), smartest (but not too smart because then you'll be intimidating), sexiest (but not too sexy because then you'll be a total slut), Most Perfect Girl In The World™, but I've rarely felt ... as inadequate as some of the girls mentioned in the article seem to feel; which makes me both depressingly sad and amazingly thankful. I've never been thin and tall with flowing hair and gorgeous skin and an ass that just won't quit and to an extent, that's absolutely kept me from putting myself out there when it comes to relationships. But I'm lucky. I've always considered myself fairly capable of understanding and accepting that people are just plain different. People like different things and they look for different qualities in partners, whether they're looking for a sexual partner or long-term committed partner. What works for one may not work for another; I get that and I generally don't take it personally when someone doesn't dig me, for whatever reason(s). People have dug me, people will dig me, and if someone doesn't, he should absolutely move along to someone he does.

But as the always-awesome Dr. Elliot Reed once said, "How is it that no man understands that every woman, whether shes 16 or 60, still has that awkward, insecure, self-conscious teenage girl inside of her?"

Lately, and for the first time ever as an adult woman, I've caught myself comparing myself to ... god, I want to cower in the corner in shame and embarrassment even as I'm about to type it ... a teenager. It's utterly ridiculous for several reasons and the smart, 32-year-old, raised-and-loved-by-amazing-men-and-women part of me completely realizes that. I may not be able to immediately take myself out of that head space but when I do finally find myself thinking, "holy fuck, will you *please* think about something else?!" I remind myself that comparing like that is unnecessary and hurtful and serves not even one positive purpose.

When talking to a good friend about it, I mentioned the fact that maybe my self-esteem isn't what I thought it was; to which he responded with a bit of surprise because he's never really gotten the low self-esteem vibe from me (hello? I moved from Small Town, USA to City, USA with $62 in my pocket and no job ... fuck you, self-doubt!). I've thought about it quite a bit since that conversation and I've realized that I think I've confused the way I see myself with the way I see others because the following Jezzie comment is spot-fucking-on (emphasis mine):

It is really important to remember that who you are should not be a reflection of anyone else's opinion of your appearance. I am an older woman by Jez readership standards, not slim and not pretty, and for the most part treated like some obstacle to be gotten around by the men in the room trying to get to the Hot Chick, and have had a lifetime of this sort of treatment. This has led me to have low expectations of men in general, but it hasn't given me particularly low self esteem, although it has probably led to my holding others in low esteem. (Is there a term for the opposite of SELF-esteem?) It has led me to expect little from most men, and to appreciate the ones who behave differently and see me for the whole person. And to have healthy boundaries and not be a doormat. None of that's a bad thing.

If Jezebel didn't have that stupid 'audition to be given commenting privileges' policy, that's just about how mine would have read. I don't expect much from men but it's never been because I don't feel like I have a right to. Honesty and mutual respect are just about the only things I need when it comes to any kind of relationship with a man (anyone, really). I think everyone is entitled to make sure they get both of those things and if I feel like I'm not getting them, it's certainly not because I'm unworthy; it's simply because someone either isn't capable or isn't willing to give them. Sure, it took a few more less-than-awesome experiences than I would have liked to get to that point but the important thing is that I got there. Well, here.

So, when I do find myself comparing a 32-year-old woman to a 17-year-old girl, I get all Virgo List Maker on my own ass and think about the qualities each of us has and the reasons our mutual friend would be attracted to us. At the bottom of said mental list is a big, fat, written-with-a-permanent-black-Sharpie scribble that reads, These are *his* reasons and his alone. They may tell me a decent bit about him but they tell me absolutely nothing about either one of us.

Then I usually butt my cigarette and get back to the business of being perfectly content with my level of awesomeness. Which usually involves shaking my ass around my apartment while listening to this:

Share Gonna Be Your Boy by Leopold and his Fiction

it's been nice knowing you all

But seeing as though the owners of the media did *not* follow my very clear instructions, I'm off to have a heart attack.

Thank you, Buzzfeed and the friend who sent me the link

And ... aalsdkfa;lskfdjlaskjdlkjadgj;lasdjfljadslkfj;dasljfl.

Dead.

one tequila, two tequila ... oh god, where am I?

I went to high school with a guy who had an absolutely adorable full head of blonde, curly hair. I always really liked him as a person and knew that years down the road, when I got to talking about the glory days of high school, I would most likely wind up asking, "hey, remember him? I wonder whatever happened to him and that gorgeous friggin' hair?" His hairstyle is different now but I still remember him as Cute, Curly-Haired Blonde Guy.

Okay, I told you that tidbit of a story in order to tell you this one.

There were many nights in college that involved a ridiculous amount of drinking at a local watering hole but one during my Junior year of college has always stood out. A group of us gals went out gallivanting in big ol' Olean, New York and wound up at a bar whose name I have long forgotten but could probably give you if I were to drive by it today.  It was like most other nights and involved sitting around a table while talking, throwing some darts, doing some mingling, and drinking many, many bottles of Labatt Blue. While making one of my trips to the bar to get the next round, I found myself standing next to some guy who was cozied up to said bar and I immediately noticed his hair; nearly identical to the gorgeous curly gold locks that belonged to the guy from high school.

Oh my god, I'm so totally close to shitfaced right now that I have no problem telling you how much I love your hair and immediately running my fingers through it as if we're the best of pals and I'm not a completely random, pretty-close-to-drunk-girl getting all up in your 'do.

We must have struck up conversation because the next thing I knew, I was telling him I'd never had tequila before and in a flash, there are two shot glasses in front of us. And then there are two more. And I believe another two. This was, of course, after having had several Labatt Blues to start off the night.

Now, plenty of times, I've managed to drink so much that I've spent the evening getting sick. I can't mix things for shit. Beer, wine, liquor ... I can drink those tasty beverages if I drink only one of those tasty beverages. But the minute I start combining them, it is not a sight you want to see, I assure you. For reasons that still baffle me, I didn't get sick that night but like most things in life, it was a trade-off. I swapped my ability to hold my booze for my ability to remember what immediately followed that last shot of tequila.

I bet you're thinking events of a questionable nature transpired with Random Blonde Curly-Haired Tequila Provider, aren't you?

They did not.

Somewhere in the midst of the tequila shots, my memory up and left me and I don't remember anything that happened between the last shot and walking into Shay-Loughlen Hall (not my dorm) with the bartender from the bar. I was told the next day that we took a cab back to campus but I have absolutely no recollection of getting from Point Drunk to Point You Stupid, Stupid Girl. Oddly enough, once we got back to the dorms, I remember the rest of the night as clear as day. I kissed said bartender once we got to his dorm room, I remember Titanic was on the television in the background, I remember lying on the floor in blankets, and I remember ... stuff. Many times, I've thanked whatever higher power may or may not be out there that I also clearly remember that what did not happen was *the* full-on drunken mistake that easily could have happened.

I no longer drink tequila unless it's in a margarita and even then, I will only have two. I no longer can watch Kate Winslett and Leonardo DiCaprio join forces in any cinematic endeavour without giggling. I still hate Celine Dion (although that may be because she's simply annoying as fuck). And I most certainly no longer make out with strangers when I'm drunk.

So, let this be a cautionary tale. A ginormous passenger steamship may take two hours and forty minutes to sink but I assure you, sinking one's memory may only require a cute boy and a few shots of tequila.

oh, i have some additions

People You Might Not Want to Have Casual Sex With

Since I'm a woman who prefers having sex with men, my suggestions are going to be dude-focused. And while the suggestions in the linked article are casual sex-specific, a few of mine definitely apply across the board; no matter the level of seriousness.

- People who want to suggest a new sexual activity but phrase it, "will you let me ...?"
- People who give their cock a nickname
- People who assure you you'll have an orgasm because "they've never had a problem giving a girl one in the past."
- People who refer to a woman's nether regions as her "kitty."
- People who have ever uttered the phrase, "oh, I don't read for fun."
- People who have ever sent you a text that used "u" as a substitute for "you."
- People who equate casualness with a lack of emotion
- People who refuse to do it with the lights on
- People who request you landscape your ladies bits first
- People who are in high school unless you're in high school with them
- People who, before you've even gotten naked, say, "just don't expect me to ..."
- People whose hands are filthy
- People who start sentences with, "I'm not racist / sexist / homophobic / etc, but ..."
- People who assure you they are discreet
- People who assure you they were wrongly convicted
- People who suggest you 'break the ice' with booze

Hey, list I just wrote, I'ma let you finish but only when I think of more things to add.

imagine that

I heart the hell out of it when friends are inspirational. Well, Ms. Thompson and I aren't friends but a friend did inspire this post by posting the following video to Facebook, in which Professor Trelawney says ...

"Imagine getting up in the morning and seeing, like, you’ve got a spot (I just found a spot this morning myself, actually). And you’ve got a spot and you don’t think that the world’s come to an end. You just put a bit of ... dab a bit of something on it and then walk out in the world because you’re so happy with yourself and your space that you can just take that space and you don’t need to apologize for yourself. Imagine that. That would be a great place to be. Imagine getting up in the morning and just putting on your clothes without even having to think about whether they make you look one way or another. Because you know that ... your space in the world is assured. You’re allowed to be whatever you want or need to be. You’re welcomed like that. Imagine that."

The video ends with the following text on the screen: Loving the natural you should be an everyday occurrence. Constantly worrying about your reflection and criticizing your body, shape and size is an act of violence against yourself.

For the past three weeks or so, I've been getting reacquainted with the gym and doing so on a much more regular basis than I ever have in the past. My motivations for returning to voluntarily sweating my tits off on a regular basis are varied and you should know by now that I'm an orderly kind of gal so a list, it is!

A. Every year, February kicks my ass; it's just a suckass month. And every time it ends, I notice how positively lazy and unhealthy I feel, both physically and mentally. I've never been a girl who loves being on-the-go and I value my relaxing alone time something fierce but a month of it is enough to drive a girl batty. What better way to actually regain some energy than to go expend some?

B. While I've never considered myself to be overly self-conscious when frolicking between the sheets, most women will tell you there *are* some positions that are more likely to challenge one's self-esteem and body consciousness. Being in the "lucky as hell to have had the partners I've had" category, the number of times that's been an issue for me has been next to never. But I did catch myself thinking it not too long ago and while part of it is the fact I don't fall under what I consider to be that partner's ... historically-proven preferred body type, that 'excuse' only goes so far. Mrs. Roosevelt wasn't lying; that's my thing, not his. And when I really thought about it, I realized I wasn't worried so much that he was unhappy with me (because as far as I'm concerned, even if you *are* having sex with someone you're not physically attracted to, that says worlds more about you than it does the other person), I found me being unhappy with me. Not because it makes me feel like a lesser person (it doesn't) and not because I think it makes me hideous (I don't) and not because it's going to change how I frolic between the sheets (it's not) but because I remember when I didn't feel that and I simply prefer that feeling to this one. So, as Mayor Wilkins assured the concerned citizens of Sunnydale, "never again," I've assured myself of the same thing.

C. At some point in February, as a way to combat its suckiness, I decided to start revamping my non-existent style. I still don't believe clothes make the (wo)man but I do feel there's some truth to the statement, "if you look good, you feel good." I bought whatever size I needed regardless of what number that was, I bought whatever I liked and wanted, and I've worn it. I've also found that actually giving a shit and making a conscious effort to not give in to the constant desire to just blend in feels pretty fucking great.

D. My favourite aunt was recently diagnosed with breast cancer, had a double mastectomy, and starts chemo in a couple weeks. Thankfully, it was found early enough to not be an immediate death sentence but when a girl starts thinking about losing one of the most important people in her life, she starts thinking about the best way to go about hangin' around in this world for as long as possible.

So. Seeing as though I suck at goals, I didn't set a specific one so much as tell myself, "If you go to the gym twice a week and both weekend days, that would be awesome. But three days a week and both weekend days would be super awesome." Technically, a goal? I suppose so. But a ... lenient one. I don't plan on altering my ridiculously picky eating habits much because ... well, simply put, I don't want to. Food has never been my vice of choice and while I do have an aversion to just about all things green (save for leafy lettuce), I'm fairly content with what and how I eat. The last time I knew my weight was maybe six or so months ago at my last doctor's appointment and I have no intention of tracking whether or not that number has or will go down. Simple Evil math tells me it will because when a girl who spends a good 9 hours a day sitting on her ass starts spending at least an hour or so at the gym four or five times a week, it's gonna show. Okay, if I wind up at the point of having to buy new clothes, chances are I will weigh myself our of pure curiosity. But I don't have a goal weight and I don't have a pair of three-sizes-too-small-but-maybe-I'll-get-back-into-them-someday jeans that taunt me from the depths of my closet.

We *are* all allowed to be whatever we want or need to be and I'm opting for happier and healthier. If thinner winds up being a side effect, cool. But if not, I'm still gonna have the happier and healthier part, which is really the only part that matters.