So it's been a while since i have written. Mostly that's because I have had possibly the busiest month of my life this past month, and since my schedule is already completely opposite from everyone Else's, I haven't had much time to do anything.
But that's another story for another day. Today I would like to discuss how Christmas on a Tuesday can completely mess with your mind. First of all, this year the holiday season seemed SO HYPED. Everyone was super excited about Xmas and the whole world knew it. It was like there was a massive push for the Christmas holiday everywhere you went, and then all of a sudden, here it is, Tuesday, December 25Th, and you're wondering how you got there. Not to mention the fact that waking up on the 26Th leaves one reeling and completely deflated, giving new meaning to the word "post Christmas blues."
I don't know how to describe it, but honestly I had never felt such an intense feeling of emptiness the day after Christmas as I did this year, and I blame that on a number of things. First of all, the hype for Christmas was just too out of control this year. It should be a rule that if XMas falls on a day of the week, we should not be allowed to get super excited for it. Reason for this? Because we get a fleeting twelve hours of actual XMas and then we have to go to bed because we all have WORK the next day- which is in itself a HUGE reality check.
Secondly, I blame the miserable post-XMas weather on the 26th. I woke that morning to torrential rain and gloomy skies, not at all befitting of all the "glory" of the hype that preceded XMas.
Then there's the fact that every person I know had a different holiday work schedule, and because everyone is returning to work on different days and trying to plan events and social gatherings before they go back home created mass chaos in my already fragile brain. For me, a student who is paying for school by bartending, this was the most stressful thing ever. I have no choice but to pack my schedule full of work at the bar during the holidays and following them because that is where the money is. People have holiday money they want to spend and what better way to spend it then on booze? So, a bartender must work the holidays. Therefore, when fifty people call this hardworking bartender and hope to get together before and after the holidays, it just doesn't work out. So then there are hard feelings and cattiness when there shouldn't be, making my anxiety levels sky rocket and irritating the hell out of me.
Honestly, people. There is one thing you must understand. I work at night. Therefore, when you are OFF work, I am just going in. So, no, I cannot get together for lunch and no I cannot get together for dinner, and no, I cannot answer your phone calls when you call me. I am working. Therefore, it is in my opinion, not fair to get mad at me because I cannot get together with you or be on point with your schedule just because a girl needs to bring home the bacon in the only way she can while in school.
But now that I am off of my soapbox, let's get back to the pitfalls of having XMas on a Tuesday. Granted, my Christmas was fabulous and I am thankful to have spent it with my whole family and boytoy in one place. However, let's be honest if Xmas had been on a Friday, the transition back into the real-world would be much easier. For me....and for those who handle stress in normal ways.
With that being said, I call for a resolution to have XMas on the weekends every year. I am sure Jesus will understand.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Thursday, December 6, 2007
It's not Valentine's Day but it might as well be
There are certain things, which are hard to explain, but valid nonetheless, which you refuse to bargain. You know who you are, and what goes against your grain, and those things have become your foundation, your core, your rock. These things make you who you are and become your moral compass, pushing you in one direction, steering clear of others.
See, I have always known I have had this foundation inside of me. In times of stress I cling to it, sometimes to a fault, compelling me to hold on and hold tight, no matter where my life leads me. But, herein lies the mystery for me. It is rare that I will let something in so deeply to my heart and to my foundation that it then becomes a part of who I am. New things...new concepts...new people....foreign elements to my life have never had a place in my core foundation. Instead I have held dear to my family...the same friends I have had since high school...the person I have always thought myself to be.
Now bear with me as I try to explain how my foundation has been cracked. Not in a bad way, mind you...let's just say I have realized my core has just expanded to include one more person.
I have always been the type of person who never believed in soul mates. I thought, sure, there are people out there who may compliment you, who you have the potential to build relationships with over time because you naturally "fit" together. And, to a certain degree, I still believe this. But, I have grown to learn over time that once you start to let someone in, and love them and get to know them as a part of your life for a certain period of time, your heart can begin to need them. You may not be predestined to be together, or connected to them in some spiritual way, but I now know it is possible to love someone with every piece of your heart.
Once you begin to love someone in this way, then they become a part of who you are. At some point, there is no turning away...they have officially played into the cliche' of "leaving footprints in your heart." Sure, you could walk away and live life without that person, but the fact of the matter is, you don't WANT to. Instead, you make a decision that the good FAR outweighs the bad. You imagine yourself without this person and you only see bits and pieces...there is no solitary YOU anymore than there would be if you decided to strip away the family, and the friends, and the life that has formed your foundation.
What I have discovered is that this person may not be predestined to me by some divine contract, but that I would never go on without him. I simply don't WANT to. It isn't a dramatic, movie-like story of two people who meet and fall in love and live happily ever after. Instead it is the story of two people who have decided life is better...and the load a little bit lighter...when they are together.
It is then that this person becomes a part of that foundation that you have guided your life by. It is then, when you decide life is simply better with that person, that you have adjusted your entire existence to include and accommodate them in your heart...forever.
See, I have always known I have had this foundation inside of me. In times of stress I cling to it, sometimes to a fault, compelling me to hold on and hold tight, no matter where my life leads me. But, herein lies the mystery for me. It is rare that I will let something in so deeply to my heart and to my foundation that it then becomes a part of who I am. New things...new concepts...new people....foreign elements to my life have never had a place in my core foundation. Instead I have held dear to my family...the same friends I have had since high school...the person I have always thought myself to be.
Now bear with me as I try to explain how my foundation has been cracked. Not in a bad way, mind you...let's just say I have realized my core has just expanded to include one more person.
I have always been the type of person who never believed in soul mates. I thought, sure, there are people out there who may compliment you, who you have the potential to build relationships with over time because you naturally "fit" together. And, to a certain degree, I still believe this. But, I have grown to learn over time that once you start to let someone in, and love them and get to know them as a part of your life for a certain period of time, your heart can begin to need them. You may not be predestined to be together, or connected to them in some spiritual way, but I now know it is possible to love someone with every piece of your heart.
Once you begin to love someone in this way, then they become a part of who you are. At some point, there is no turning away...they have officially played into the cliche' of "leaving footprints in your heart." Sure, you could walk away and live life without that person, but the fact of the matter is, you don't WANT to. Instead, you make a decision that the good FAR outweighs the bad. You imagine yourself without this person and you only see bits and pieces...there is no solitary YOU anymore than there would be if you decided to strip away the family, and the friends, and the life that has formed your foundation.
What I have discovered is that this person may not be predestined to me by some divine contract, but that I would never go on without him. I simply don't WANT to. It isn't a dramatic, movie-like story of two people who meet and fall in love and live happily ever after. Instead it is the story of two people who have decided life is better...and the load a little bit lighter...when they are together.
It is then that this person becomes a part of that foundation that you have guided your life by. It is then, when you decide life is simply better with that person, that you have adjusted your entire existence to include and accommodate them in your heart...forever.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
More Old Blogs
Blog: "Silly Girl, Coats are for Winter." Posted October 9, 2006
Well, kiddos, as the days grow shorter and the cold weather creeps in for a winter-long stay, I find myself remembering all the things I hate about winter. Today, I will broach only one winter peeve, because I want to be the first to establish this social taboo.
Okay, so it's about 30 degrees out, and you are headed out for a night on the town. What to wear, what to wear? Well, if you're one of the many brainless females out there without sense enough to decipher between a summer and winter wardrobe, chances are you reach for your trusty tank top with spaghetti straps that you wore all summer. Why not? You looked fabulous in it when you were picking crabs or downing coronas at Seacrets, right? Sure! Except for one thing, it's WINTER dumbass.
I cannot emphasize enough how much I hate when girls trek out into the TUNDRA of Maryland winter (haha, I know I know) in their tank tops and open toed shoes. What in GOD'S NAME is going through your head. There are MANY things wrong with thinking that this is acceptable.
Number One- the obvious. IT IS COLD OUT BITCHES. When you are hailing a cab at 2am, no matter how drunk you are, you still need a COAT of some sort. The ridiculous necklace you have draped over your neck does not count, either. Instead of wearing a coat, you stand in a huddle with your other friends, chattering your teeth and rubbing your bare arms, saying how "like totally cold it is out here." Well, sherlock, that's because it's WINTER.
Number Two- No one wants to see your a) pale ass winter arms or b) your desperate attempt at a fake tan in January. I am pretty sure no one is going to believe that orange color comes from the sun. Like most respectable females, you should wear long sleeves in the winter. This is only the sensible thing to do. I am not trying to be a stickler here, you can make those sleeves as tight as you want, girlfriend, just wear them.
Number Three- We already know how desperate you are to make everyone think you are hot, so we don't need another reminder. Instead of a guy admiring your "boldness" of not wearing a coat to the bar and braving the cold weather, chances are he is going to shake his head and mumble to his friends what a dumbass you are. When you talk to him, he will also ask you if you're cold, which you will of course answer with "not really." Please know you aren't convincing anyone. There is snow falling from the sky and no matter how much you have visited the tanning bed, it will still feel cold when it touches your tan.
Number Four- Your goosebumps are so obvious that it looks like you are smuggling mexican beans in your shirt. Turn your headlights off and go get a coat.
So again, I find it to be my responsibility to remind all the ladies out there how silly it is to "forget" your coat on your way to the bar. Holding it in your hand while you drink might be annoying, but atleast you can rest assure that your tic tacs stay in your purse, and not in your bra.
Blog: "I'm Just a Bimbo Stuck in Limbo" Posted November 26, 2006
Join me, folks, into my deep probe of self-analysis, today. I think it's always good to take a moral inventory of ourselves, and to stop and reflect about where we are in our lives, and where we are going.
I think they are right when they say hindsight is 20/20. Sure, it'd be easy to kick myself for not getting my teaching degree earlier, but then again I realize the trial-and-error game I was playing with other jobs may just be the spark that fuels my fire for going back to school and getting my master's degree.
But that doesn't change the fact that I feel like I am serving a two year sentence in Limbo Prison. Yes I realized what I finally want to do, but to get there it's as if I have to put my car in reverse and back that shit up about 10 miles, all the while waving at friends as they pass on their way, moving forward in their lives.
I have to continually remind myself to see only the big picture. Two years of school and bartending is nothing in the long scheme of things. But maintaining this perspective is pretty hard when I am busting my ass everyday for tips to pay for it. If I have to explain one more time what the difference between cream of crab and Maryland crab soup is I am liable to dump a cup on someone's head- the difference should be crystal clear then.
Now I am not trying to be a whiny little brat here, because there are some perks to having a grad student's schedule. For instance, while your fat ass is at a computer screen all day, plunking away at keys and gabbing to "clients" on the phone, I will be burning a ton of calories in my workplace, and toning this tush-o'-mine.
Also, after two years of getting up at 6am every day to combat traffic on 95, I get to sleep in, and walk to work. Betcha can't say that about your office job.
Nonetheless, I still feel like I am serving time in Limbo State Prison, just waiting for the Warden to grant me my Master's Degree to I can walk as a free woman. In the mean time my cellblock and I will enjoy ourselves as we pour draft beers and serve blackened swordfish.
Bon appetit bitches.
Blog: "I ain't to proud to beg...like TLC." Posted November 27, 2006
I'm feeling very bloggy lately, and by that I mean I have a lot of shit to get out of my system. Let's begin my daily tirade with a subject I know you can all relate to. People who think they are a big deal.
Okay, first I should get this disclaimer out of the way: ***I know I am a big deal, and this doesn't apply to me because I am just a big deal, no explanation required.***
But, there are folks out there who have delegated themselves into the "Big Deal Club" with no credentials to back it up.
Let's take exibit A: The person, guy or gal, who never ever had a job during high school or college, but gets a job after graduation and decides they are a big deal. Okay, to put this nicely, these assholes piss me off. I am not saying I had it hard, but these kids were born with a silver spoon in their mouths, and haven't had to work a day in their lives. YOU ARE NOT A BIG DEAL. Let's just make it a general rule that you're not a big deal if you enter college without a bank account. Or, and this is a true story, someone who doesn't know how to write a check. Let me break it down for you.
While most of us had to bust our little pre-slow-metabolism asses working dumbass jobs in high school to pay for prom, your Mom was taking you to get pedicures. For this alone, you have NO STREET CRED. Basically you are a huge sissy-boy or girl who parades around pretending they know shit when they don't. Then in college you went to the ATM and took out Daddy's money to pay for your cover at the bar. This is a downright insult to those of us who had to wait on tables, do construction or babysit snot-ridden kids to pay our bartabs.
Exhibit A People were dumb assholes then, are dumb assholes now, and will always be dumb assholes. They are also the same people who coincidentally pinch every penny, always try to get free stuff, and then will "pick up the tab" at dinner just to impress people. Or should I say let their Dad pick up the tab, since it's his name on their credit card.
Having your parents pay your way through high school and college does NOT make you a big deal. I know for certain that there are others who agree.
In light of this, I want to give a shout-out to those gals and guys out there who ain't too proud to beg for that bar tab cash. Those people who know the value of an 8-hour shift, and learn to live for the weekends. The next time you see some dumb bitch carrying a Gucci purse that her Dad bought her, remind yourself that YOUR Gucci purse was paid for whoring yourself out to the MAN, and collecting your hard-earned American wages. BOO-YAH
Blog: "Watson, fetch my snifter, it's time for my evening cocktail." Posted December 7, 2006
And if by cocktail you mean six beers and maybe a prescription drug or two, then yes, it's time.
Friends, it has lately dawned on me that there are two groups of people in this world. Those that go to a bar occasionally, maybe on the weekends, and those that make it a part of their daily routine. And what I am preparing to postulate is that it is the latter that makes this silly little world go round.
You see, these particular people, let's just call them Bar-nies for reference-sake (and because it sounds funny),go to their local bar almost every damn night. Not only do they go, but they have a routine there that includes the same drink and food order that's as predictable as a celebrity divorce.
I have had the good fortune to observe and interact with said "Bar-nies" frequently lately, and I am officially obsessed with them. Why, you ask? Well, folks, it's simple. They have life down to a fine science, which to me, is both intriguing and captivating. Barnies go about their daily business as usual during daylight hours, but emerge happily and eagerly like vampires once the sun goes down, trudging up to the local bar in even the worst weather, just to get their evening cocktail.
They take their usual place at the bar, smile kindly to the bartender (who in my case has some serious dimples) and order a drink. They expect nothing out of their bar experience but a light buzz an some good conversation. To me, this is truly endearing.
Their topic of conversation need not be sophisticated or worldly for me to enjoy their company. I take solace just knowing that their entire universe is at peace sipping thier beer and discussing which spider is the deadliest in the world or why it isn't actually beneficial to salt your walks when it snows.
You see folks, it brings me great joy and inner peace to know that there are people in this world who finish their days at their local bars, smiling, and exchanging drivel-laden conversation with the bartender.
Whatever life brings my way, it would be nice to know that life's simplest pleasures can be the most rewarding, even if the pot at the end of the rainbow happens to be a pint of draft beer and a warm bar stool.
Blog: "Who Gave Me the Key to Blackout City?" Posted December 12, 2006
Well, whomever gave it to me, I don't want it, and please, for the love of God, take it back. It is 3 a.m., and I just work up in a cold sweat, and felt the need to share my anguish with the whole world.
This last month I have totally felt like Frodo Baggins. One day I was living a peaceful and humble existence in the "shire" and the next minute I have lost all control, chasing and protecting the "Precious," which just so happens to be the bottom of a bottle of Grand Marnier.
I've have never really given any thought to the cliche of "living life in the fast lane," but they just WERE NOT KIDDING when they say it makes you lose your mind. Whomever slipped me the key to BlackOut City, which I unknowingly and naiively embraced, take it back, please. I am not P.Diddy. I did not ask for the key to this city, nor do I have the self control to own it.
Suddenly, as if a vampire came and bit me on my neck, my days became my nights and my nights became a blackhole that swallowed me whole. For the love of GOD, someone please intervene!!! I have lost all self control! Laundry? What's that? Clean clothes don't appear out of nowhere? Bills? Oh, that's right, you have to actually PAY THEM.
For the last month Peter Pan took over my body and whisked me off to Never Never Land where I am Captain Hook and the sound of the clock in the Croc is actually a shot of GM waiting to be taken. I am haunted by my alarm clock, which never goes off anymore, only reads 2pm, which are my new mornings.
Friends, if you were ever to be here for me, it should be now. I need someone to please point me the way back to my bedroom window, cause Peter Pan is really getting on my nerves. This is not me!
I write this in a puddle of self-disgust. I cannot emphasize how much I need to regain control of myself and maintain a focused mindset. I start school in January, and here I am, Queen of BlackOuts, parading Cross Street like the Pirate Whore of my alter ego, Liquorny. Yeah, it's nice to let loose once in a while, but when "once in a while" turns into 2 entire months, it's about time you took your own shoulders, shook them violently, and screamed "REGAIN CONTROL OF YOURSELF WOMAN! SCRAMBLE FOR WHATEVER SHRED OF SELF-DIGNITY YOU STILL HAVE AND HOLD ON TIGHT!"
Where is the firey abyss I can throw this ring into, to free myself, Mrs. Frodo Baggins? I don't want the Precious anymore! Sam Gangee, will you take it for me PLEASE?!?!? It sucks being Frodo!
I am throwing in the towel here, and laying off the booze for the rest of the month. No joke. You heard it here first folks. I am done drinking until New Years Eve, and even then, someone better keep a close watch on me, or I will be starting off 2007 at my new home, The Betty Ford Center.
Blog: "My Dog Can Kick Your Dog's Ass." Posted December 18, 2006
I am happy to announce that I am the proud new GodMother to Lady Lola, a Poodle-Yorkie mix, or "Porkie" if you will, daughter of Jenny, a close friend of mine. Might I also add that Molly has also announced that she will be becoming a Mommy too, as she plans to adopt a new puppy for XMas.
I know, all this is thrilling and all, but in honor of this occasion, I do want to point out how incredibly wonderful it is to become a real "Mommy" to a puppy, and how it utterly changes you forever.
As you all know, I have a son, age 3, named Snoop-dizzle, who is pretty much the center of my world. However, I did not forsee this connection with him in the beginning.
Mondo and I could not have had worse timing when we "had" Snoop. We brought him home, had no ida how to take care of him, and then got angry when he did puppy things like poop and pee all over the place. In this time, the "puppy time," Snoop was cute and everything, but I was close to suicide. I was completely and utterly overwhelmed and will admit I definitely decided to "take him back" a couple times before realizing that was impossible. I was now a Mommy and I had to deal with it.
The beginning was rough. I didn't understand why this small, brown, living creature could hate me so much to pee and poop all over everything and then on top of it, chew my favorite pair of Guess by Marciano heels.
Whomever said patience is a virtue said it when they had a dog and thought that perhaps jumping off the nearest bridge was a better option.
Slowly and surely, it began to dawn on me that soon enough Snoop would come around, and soon enough (and after countless rolls of toilet paper and bags of pigs-in-a-blanket treats) he did.
It was then that I started to fall madly, truly, and deeply head over heels in love with this dog. They say in every meaningful relationship there is a moment when you know that it will last forever. Well, folks, the moment I knew that Snoopy was the dog for me was one day, when he was around 2, I came home from work and walked in the door. Snoop was so excited to see me he did, not one, not two, but EIGHTEEN (I counted) loops around the coffee table with his Snowman toy in his mouth shaking his tail (or nub) avidly. For some reason, this moment made me melt. To know that here was this creature who, no matter what, would always be there to greet me at the door, and who would always be THIS excited to see me blew my mind.
Ever since I have been a true advocate of becoming a Doggy-Mommy. (or Daddy). Yeah, it might suck having to take the dog out at 6am in the searing cold weather, and having a vet on speed-dial, but those times when you get a voluntary paw while watching tv and a cuddle-buddy when you're upset make it all worth it.
To be honest, some of the best moments in my day are spent with and made by Snoop. When we first get up in the morning and his paws on the cement are the only noise on the street, or when he falls asleep and he is dreaming about chasing squirrels and his paws move, his tail wags, and he makes muffled barking noises...I can't help but find myself smiling and bending down to rub his belly.
So, for all those new "Mommies" out there or to those who already know about these precious moments between mother and dog, I can only sit in complete anitcipation for you, knowing what kind of pure joy you will get out of being a Doggy-Mommy! Feel the warmth of a cold nose!
*** This blog is dedicated to the memories of Gus, Sandy, and Brandy, and to their Mommies, who still feel their loss.***
Well, kiddos, as the days grow shorter and the cold weather creeps in for a winter-long stay, I find myself remembering all the things I hate about winter. Today, I will broach only one winter peeve, because I want to be the first to establish this social taboo.
Okay, so it's about 30 degrees out, and you are headed out for a night on the town. What to wear, what to wear? Well, if you're one of the many brainless females out there without sense enough to decipher between a summer and winter wardrobe, chances are you reach for your trusty tank top with spaghetti straps that you wore all summer. Why not? You looked fabulous in it when you were picking crabs or downing coronas at Seacrets, right? Sure! Except for one thing, it's WINTER dumbass.
I cannot emphasize enough how much I hate when girls trek out into the TUNDRA of Maryland winter (haha, I know I know) in their tank tops and open toed shoes. What in GOD'S NAME is going through your head. There are MANY things wrong with thinking that this is acceptable.
Number One- the obvious. IT IS COLD OUT BITCHES. When you are hailing a cab at 2am, no matter how drunk you are, you still need a COAT of some sort. The ridiculous necklace you have draped over your neck does not count, either. Instead of wearing a coat, you stand in a huddle with your other friends, chattering your teeth and rubbing your bare arms, saying how "like totally cold it is out here." Well, sherlock, that's because it's WINTER.
Number Two- No one wants to see your a) pale ass winter arms or b) your desperate attempt at a fake tan in January. I am pretty sure no one is going to believe that orange color comes from the sun. Like most respectable females, you should wear long sleeves in the winter. This is only the sensible thing to do. I am not trying to be a stickler here, you can make those sleeves as tight as you want, girlfriend, just wear them.
Number Three- We already know how desperate you are to make everyone think you are hot, so we don't need another reminder. Instead of a guy admiring your "boldness" of not wearing a coat to the bar and braving the cold weather, chances are he is going to shake his head and mumble to his friends what a dumbass you are. When you talk to him, he will also ask you if you're cold, which you will of course answer with "not really." Please know you aren't convincing anyone. There is snow falling from the sky and no matter how much you have visited the tanning bed, it will still feel cold when it touches your tan.
Number Four- Your goosebumps are so obvious that it looks like you are smuggling mexican beans in your shirt. Turn your headlights off and go get a coat.
So again, I find it to be my responsibility to remind all the ladies out there how silly it is to "forget" your coat on your way to the bar. Holding it in your hand while you drink might be annoying, but atleast you can rest assure that your tic tacs stay in your purse, and not in your bra.
Blog: "I'm Just a Bimbo Stuck in Limbo" Posted November 26, 2006
Join me, folks, into my deep probe of self-analysis, today. I think it's always good to take a moral inventory of ourselves, and to stop and reflect about where we are in our lives, and where we are going.
I think they are right when they say hindsight is 20/20. Sure, it'd be easy to kick myself for not getting my teaching degree earlier, but then again I realize the trial-and-error game I was playing with other jobs may just be the spark that fuels my fire for going back to school and getting my master's degree.
But that doesn't change the fact that I feel like I am serving a two year sentence in Limbo Prison. Yes I realized what I finally want to do, but to get there it's as if I have to put my car in reverse and back that shit up about 10 miles, all the while waving at friends as they pass on their way, moving forward in their lives.
I have to continually remind myself to see only the big picture. Two years of school and bartending is nothing in the long scheme of things. But maintaining this perspective is pretty hard when I am busting my ass everyday for tips to pay for it. If I have to explain one more time what the difference between cream of crab and Maryland crab soup is I am liable to dump a cup on someone's head- the difference should be crystal clear then.
Now I am not trying to be a whiny little brat here, because there are some perks to having a grad student's schedule. For instance, while your fat ass is at a computer screen all day, plunking away at keys and gabbing to "clients" on the phone, I will be burning a ton of calories in my workplace, and toning this tush-o'-mine.
Also, after two years of getting up at 6am every day to combat traffic on 95, I get to sleep in, and walk to work. Betcha can't say that about your office job.
Nonetheless, I still feel like I am serving time in Limbo State Prison, just waiting for the Warden to grant me my Master's Degree to I can walk as a free woman. In the mean time my cellblock and I will enjoy ourselves as we pour draft beers and serve blackened swordfish.
Bon appetit bitches.
Blog: "I ain't to proud to beg...like TLC." Posted November 27, 2006
I'm feeling very bloggy lately, and by that I mean I have a lot of shit to get out of my system. Let's begin my daily tirade with a subject I know you can all relate to. People who think they are a big deal.
Okay, first I should get this disclaimer out of the way: ***I know I am a big deal, and this doesn't apply to me because I am just a big deal, no explanation required.***
But, there are folks out there who have delegated themselves into the "Big Deal Club" with no credentials to back it up.
Let's take exibit A: The person, guy or gal, who never ever had a job during high school or college, but gets a job after graduation and decides they are a big deal. Okay, to put this nicely, these assholes piss me off. I am not saying I had it hard, but these kids were born with a silver spoon in their mouths, and haven't had to work a day in their lives. YOU ARE NOT A BIG DEAL. Let's just make it a general rule that you're not a big deal if you enter college without a bank account. Or, and this is a true story, someone who doesn't know how to write a check. Let me break it down for you.
While most of us had to bust our little pre-slow-metabolism asses working dumbass jobs in high school to pay for prom, your Mom was taking you to get pedicures. For this alone, you have NO STREET CRED. Basically you are a huge sissy-boy or girl who parades around pretending they know shit when they don't. Then in college you went to the ATM and took out Daddy's money to pay for your cover at the bar. This is a downright insult to those of us who had to wait on tables, do construction or babysit snot-ridden kids to pay our bartabs.
Exhibit A People were dumb assholes then, are dumb assholes now, and will always be dumb assholes. They are also the same people who coincidentally pinch every penny, always try to get free stuff, and then will "pick up the tab" at dinner just to impress people. Or should I say let their Dad pick up the tab, since it's his name on their credit card.
Having your parents pay your way through high school and college does NOT make you a big deal. I know for certain that there are others who agree.
In light of this, I want to give a shout-out to those gals and guys out there who ain't too proud to beg for that bar tab cash. Those people who know the value of an 8-hour shift, and learn to live for the weekends. The next time you see some dumb bitch carrying a Gucci purse that her Dad bought her, remind yourself that YOUR Gucci purse was paid for whoring yourself out to the MAN, and collecting your hard-earned American wages. BOO-YAH
Blog: "Watson, fetch my snifter, it's time for my evening cocktail." Posted December 7, 2006
And if by cocktail you mean six beers and maybe a prescription drug or two, then yes, it's time.
Friends, it has lately dawned on me that there are two groups of people in this world. Those that go to a bar occasionally, maybe on the weekends, and those that make it a part of their daily routine. And what I am preparing to postulate is that it is the latter that makes this silly little world go round.
You see, these particular people, let's just call them Bar-nies for reference-sake (and because it sounds funny),go to their local bar almost every damn night. Not only do they go, but they have a routine there that includes the same drink and food order that's as predictable as a celebrity divorce.
I have had the good fortune to observe and interact with said "Bar-nies" frequently lately, and I am officially obsessed with them. Why, you ask? Well, folks, it's simple. They have life down to a fine science, which to me, is both intriguing and captivating. Barnies go about their daily business as usual during daylight hours, but emerge happily and eagerly like vampires once the sun goes down, trudging up to the local bar in even the worst weather, just to get their evening cocktail.
They take their usual place at the bar, smile kindly to the bartender (who in my case has some serious dimples) and order a drink. They expect nothing out of their bar experience but a light buzz an some good conversation. To me, this is truly endearing.
Their topic of conversation need not be sophisticated or worldly for me to enjoy their company. I take solace just knowing that their entire universe is at peace sipping thier beer and discussing which spider is the deadliest in the world or why it isn't actually beneficial to salt your walks when it snows.
You see folks, it brings me great joy and inner peace to know that there are people in this world who finish their days at their local bars, smiling, and exchanging drivel-laden conversation with the bartender.
Whatever life brings my way, it would be nice to know that life's simplest pleasures can be the most rewarding, even if the pot at the end of the rainbow happens to be a pint of draft beer and a warm bar stool.
Blog: "Who Gave Me the Key to Blackout City?" Posted December 12, 2006
Well, whomever gave it to me, I don't want it, and please, for the love of God, take it back. It is 3 a.m., and I just work up in a cold sweat, and felt the need to share my anguish with the whole world.
This last month I have totally felt like Frodo Baggins. One day I was living a peaceful and humble existence in the "shire" and the next minute I have lost all control, chasing and protecting the "Precious," which just so happens to be the bottom of a bottle of Grand Marnier.
I've have never really given any thought to the cliche of "living life in the fast lane," but they just WERE NOT KIDDING when they say it makes you lose your mind. Whomever slipped me the key to BlackOut City, which I unknowingly and naiively embraced, take it back, please. I am not P.Diddy. I did not ask for the key to this city, nor do I have the self control to own it.
Suddenly, as if a vampire came and bit me on my neck, my days became my nights and my nights became a blackhole that swallowed me whole. For the love of GOD, someone please intervene!!! I have lost all self control! Laundry? What's that? Clean clothes don't appear out of nowhere? Bills? Oh, that's right, you have to actually PAY THEM.
For the last month Peter Pan took over my body and whisked me off to Never Never Land where I am Captain Hook and the sound of the clock in the Croc is actually a shot of GM waiting to be taken. I am haunted by my alarm clock, which never goes off anymore, only reads 2pm, which are my new mornings.
Friends, if you were ever to be here for me, it should be now. I need someone to please point me the way back to my bedroom window, cause Peter Pan is really getting on my nerves. This is not me!
I write this in a puddle of self-disgust. I cannot emphasize how much I need to regain control of myself and maintain a focused mindset. I start school in January, and here I am, Queen of BlackOuts, parading Cross Street like the Pirate Whore of my alter ego, Liquorny. Yeah, it's nice to let loose once in a while, but when "once in a while" turns into 2 entire months, it's about time you took your own shoulders, shook them violently, and screamed "REGAIN CONTROL OF YOURSELF WOMAN! SCRAMBLE FOR WHATEVER SHRED OF SELF-DIGNITY YOU STILL HAVE AND HOLD ON TIGHT!"
Where is the firey abyss I can throw this ring into, to free myself, Mrs. Frodo Baggins? I don't want the Precious anymore! Sam Gangee, will you take it for me PLEASE?!?!? It sucks being Frodo!
I am throwing in the towel here, and laying off the booze for the rest of the month. No joke. You heard it here first folks. I am done drinking until New Years Eve, and even then, someone better keep a close watch on me, or I will be starting off 2007 at my new home, The Betty Ford Center.
Blog: "My Dog Can Kick Your Dog's Ass." Posted December 18, 2006
I am happy to announce that I am the proud new GodMother to Lady Lola, a Poodle-Yorkie mix, or "Porkie" if you will, daughter of Jenny, a close friend of mine. Might I also add that Molly has also announced that she will be becoming a Mommy too, as she plans to adopt a new puppy for XMas.
I know, all this is thrilling and all, but in honor of this occasion, I do want to point out how incredibly wonderful it is to become a real "Mommy" to a puppy, and how it utterly changes you forever.
As you all know, I have a son, age 3, named Snoop-dizzle, who is pretty much the center of my world. However, I did not forsee this connection with him in the beginning.
Mondo and I could not have had worse timing when we "had" Snoop. We brought him home, had no ida how to take care of him, and then got angry when he did puppy things like poop and pee all over the place. In this time, the "puppy time," Snoop was cute and everything, but I was close to suicide. I was completely and utterly overwhelmed and will admit I definitely decided to "take him back" a couple times before realizing that was impossible. I was now a Mommy and I had to deal with it.
The beginning was rough. I didn't understand why this small, brown, living creature could hate me so much to pee and poop all over everything and then on top of it, chew my favorite pair of Guess by Marciano heels.
Whomever said patience is a virtue said it when they had a dog and thought that perhaps jumping off the nearest bridge was a better option.
Slowly and surely, it began to dawn on me that soon enough Snoop would come around, and soon enough (and after countless rolls of toilet paper and bags of pigs-in-a-blanket treats) he did.
It was then that I started to fall madly, truly, and deeply head over heels in love with this dog. They say in every meaningful relationship there is a moment when you know that it will last forever. Well, folks, the moment I knew that Snoopy was the dog for me was one day, when he was around 2, I came home from work and walked in the door. Snoop was so excited to see me he did, not one, not two, but EIGHTEEN (I counted) loops around the coffee table with his Snowman toy in his mouth shaking his tail (or nub) avidly. For some reason, this moment made me melt. To know that here was this creature who, no matter what, would always be there to greet me at the door, and who would always be THIS excited to see me blew my mind.
Ever since I have been a true advocate of becoming a Doggy-Mommy. (or Daddy). Yeah, it might suck having to take the dog out at 6am in the searing cold weather, and having a vet on speed-dial, but those times when you get a voluntary paw while watching tv and a cuddle-buddy when you're upset make it all worth it.
To be honest, some of the best moments in my day are spent with and made by Snoop. When we first get up in the morning and his paws on the cement are the only noise on the street, or when he falls asleep and he is dreaming about chasing squirrels and his paws move, his tail wags, and he makes muffled barking noises...I can't help but find myself smiling and bending down to rub his belly.
So, for all those new "Mommies" out there or to those who already know about these precious moments between mother and dog, I can only sit in complete anitcipation for you, knowing what kind of pure joy you will get out of being a Doggy-Mommy! Feel the warmth of a cold nose!
*** This blog is dedicated to the memories of Gus, Sandy, and Brandy, and to their Mommies, who still feel their loss.***
Some Old Blogs from my old Blog
Blog: "White Girls Can't Jump?!?!?" Posted on June 14, 2007
If there was a volcano inside of me it's done burst. And although this may seem irrelevant or even immature, I am so damn sick of being judged based on my music tastes. YES, I like hip hop. Oh, and YES, I like rap music. NO, I don;t listen to obscure bands that play at the goddamn 8by10 on Cross Street, and NO, I don't think that's abnormal.
This has happened many times. I'll be minding my own, here and there, doing whatever, and someone says, "what kind of music do you listen to?" For me, this is a moment of truth. "Anything with a beat," I say, and I look them right in the eye. "A beat? Like what, RAP MUSIC?" "Yes. As a matter of fact, I like rap music."
Here's where the rage comes in. Usually the "asker," we shall call them that, will laugh hysterically and climb way up on their high horse where they gawk and condescend to me about my music choices. "You like RAP?!?! You mean you don't listen to [insert band with name designed to shock older generations and appeal to people who don't excersize or even those who work retail]" They look back and forth at eachother, rolling their eyes and feigning suprise. Then they say "What? A white girl like YOU, likes rap?!?!?"
Insert Bethany's fantasy: At this point I wish someone would come over and either vomit all over their all-black outift or take their wallet chain and beat them over the back with it.
Back to reality: At this point I smile, and say, "why is that so weird that I like hip hop and rap music?"
They then retort with thier oh-so-witty banter, saying how crappy and fabricated rap/pop/hip hop music is, and how it is far inferior to their beloved bands called names like "monkeys throw poo" or "when i cry tears come out." They then ask questions like "So I am guessing you LIKE Justin Timberlake?!?!"
YES I LIKE JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE. YES I LIKE 50 CENT AND EMINEM AND ALL THOSE OTHER "POMPOUS RAP ARTISTS." Atleast they don't name their songs after ridiculous aspects of human nature like every humans apparent need to hate God and masturbate.
Actually, I am sick of being ashamed of liking pop/rap/hip hop. Why is it so shameful, this day and age to like Top 40 music? Does it mean I am not cultured? Because I like music that makes me come alive and dance, or even, God forbid, SING ALONG?!?!? Why should I be ashamed of liking Justin Timberlake, who is incredibly talented and musically-diverse?!?!
I'm sorry but I have had just about enough of people making me feel inferior because I like music associated with black people or teenagers. White girls like rap too. I know so because I know a whole SLAB of white twenty-something females who would bang Llloyd Banks or JT in a HEARTBEAT. I also know they buy thier CD's, listen to their songs in the gym, and quote their music all over the place. We young females probably identify with the lyrics of Lil Wayne more than the lyrics of your obscure "monkeys throw poo" bands who sing about being atheists and anarchists.
Frankly, when people ask me about my music choices, I think they should do just what I do when they say they like "monkeys throw poo," which is stifle laughter, smile and nod. Do I condescend to you about how much you like the psuedo gay undertones of your WASPY, secretly Hitler-loving band!??! NO. So don't make me feel bad for loving Timbaland. Just because I am white...and also a GIRL, does not in any way mean I have to fall into line and listen to only Mariah Carey and Amy Grant. There is a deep,dark, fucked-up person inside of me too that needs music with struggle and drive...music that makes me feel alive on days when I just want to crawl back into bed. Why should I not get that from Hip Hop or *GASP* Justin Timberlake?!?!?
Here's the deal, I am never one to judge your musical tastes. I don;t even express my secret distain for heavy metal when you say how much you love it. So, what gives you the right to condescend to me about my musical tastes? Yes, I like Broadway musicals and an occasional country tune. God forbid you should keep your mouth shut and opinions to yourself about it, right? Instead you bombard me with how superior your obscure garage-band tastes are to my more mainsteam tastes. To that I say eat the shit your monkey throws and have a nice day.
Blog: "So I guess things got weird...hot pocket?!?!" Posted on April 24, 2007
Okay so about 6 months ago I decided I wanted to start reading non-fiction, in an attempt to learn some new things. What new things, you ask? I wasn't really sure but something inside me was calling out to find some new information and put it inside my head.
It started with non-fiction about British History and had slowly evolved into anything ancient history. And by ancient I am talking beginning of time here...like B.C. as in before Christ. Normally people would think, wow, that's a unique interest to have, Bethany. But no, it's really not normal. I am 25 years old and I can't pull my head out of books about Ancient History. Not only that, but I am a female, I like things like celebrity gossip and how to get Seven jeans for cheap, and here I am asking my professors questions about Genesis and views of Creationism. It's not normal. And it's starting to scare me.
In fact, I have started studying old stories from the Old Testament for FUN. Am I an exceptionally religious person? No. Do I normally read the Bible? NO. Then, WHY, people, am I becoming borderline obsessed with finding out how the Death Penalty ties into Noah's Covenant with God in the Old testament?
I know what you're thinking. This is getting weird. I think so too. If you are getting the urge to tune out because only freaks read up on shit like this, I don't blame you.
The only explanation I can offer is that I am going through a time in my life where I am looking for answers. Yes, I am an ancient history buff and plan on teaching history when I am done school, but why resort to reading things you would normally associate with sacrificial cults who only sleep during the day? I don't know.
I guess I am on some quest here for some answers from SOMEONE. I am certainly not going to get any answers from Politics, especially the ever-intelligent Bush administration, and I am not about to burden any of my friends with my questions about why Eve was punished by God in the garden of Eden. They'd contact authorities. Not only that, but it's not like the Church would actually pull their head out of their asses long enough to give me logical answers about why certain things happen. I would need to take matters into my own hands.
To do so, I suppose turning to stories from History provides clarity for me. After all, History continues to repeat itself over and over again, century after century. Some say America is the second Roman Empire...I could totally see it. And why shouldn't I scour these books for my own interpretation on life, and what is going on around me?
I guess the moral to my story is that yes, this obsession with reading up on obscure topics and dissecting the Old Testament for meaning is dorky and borderline schizo. And God knows by writing this I am pretty much committing social suicide right here and right now. But the next time a topic comes up and you want MY opinion on the matter, you better BELIEVE I did my research.
Blog: "You May Have Ass, but I got Class." Posted on February 13, 2007
t's been a little while since I've last written...why? Well, I got sucked into that world we call "endless episodes of Lost via DVD." I know, I know, I have no life. But that's not exactly my point.
I had to get glasses last week. I know it's not a big deal and all, but let me just say I was a bit taken aback. I'll explain.
I guess it was the moment I realized I was an actual living, breathing adult woman who is no longer invincible. Age had taken it's toll. I had lost my 15/20 vision, and for some reason this represented the loss of everything that once was. Long ago, in the age of my adolescence, I had it good. A super fast metabolism, endless energy, and perfect vision. With that came the idea that nothing could ever "get" me and that even if the monster in the closet DID come out to eat me, I'd be in good enough shape to atleast put up a fight.
Then, all of a sudden, here I was at 25 years old, squinting my eyes in class to read the overhead projector. I hadn't showered in 2 days, had about 16 chapters to read, and a car payment to make. It hit me like a ton of bricks that this was "it." I was all "grown up."
So, needless to say, the glasses situation took me back a few strides. I don't know why that of all things made me feel so vulnerable, but I guess eyesight is just one of those things you start to take for granted if it's never been an issue before.
I DID pick out a cute pair of red, Sally Jessie Raphael glasses to purchase, and I did feel comfy cozy in them. I must admit, there was a part of me that began to enjoy the dorky-librarian feel to them. After all, of all people you know, who would more enjoy a physical connection to those who read and sort books all day? BUT, it certainly took me a while to actually realize that yes, I WAS in Lens Crafters, and yes, I DID need glasses to see 10 feet in front of me.
Suddenly I saw that there was only two choices. Either I continue down the road of denial that no, I was NOT getting old and fat, or I take a deep breath, consult my life map, and take the high road. This road, oh, let's call it, "yeah I need glasses, what you gonna do about it?!?!"
It slowly became a source of pride. Oh yeah? I read books SO much that it messed with my eyes and I needed glasses. That makes me REALLY RIDICULOUSLY smart, cap-i-tan. So what, I wear glasses. They became my Superwoman glasses. Instead of wallowing in shame, I decided to wear them as much as possible. They became a symbol of every challenge I face in this world of "adulthood."
Bills? I baulk in the face of bills! School? Give me a break, remember how smart I am? The Gym?!?!? See ya there, bitches. Atleast now I can see the cardio tv's. Why? BECAUSE YES, I AM FLAWED, but baby, I AM PROUD.
Instead of the cliched "hot" in the magazines, I'll instead shoot for the sexy librarian/teacher hot. After all, aren't THOSE the type of girls you'd rather take home to Mommy? And anyway, what does it matter? I got BRAINS. When those other bitches are at the bar showing off their rock hard abs, I'll be rattling off the capitals of foreign countries and listing the dynasty of English monarchs. It may not have the same sex appeal, but it's something, right?
So, to all those out there rockin' four eyes, POWER TO YOU. We may not be able to see 10 feet in front of us, but atleast our vision on life is a-o-kay.
Blog: "The Jog Whisperer" Posted January 29, 2007
o, the latest news here is that I signed up for a 10k in May. Now, you may be thinking, wow, that's great Bethany...way to take the horse by the reigns. And you'd be right, except it's a Lot of work on my behalf, as the most I have ever ran at one time was 4 miles. A 10k, as you already know, is about 2+ miles more than that, and I am pretty much in the worst shape of my life. Not to mention that all this "training" has made me realize a few things about myself.
By "training" I basically mean slow jogging, or if you prefer a soft "j", "yogging", panting and producing looks on my face as I run that are synonymous with those I use to express severe pain. The first thing I had to realize about myself is that the only way i can make it past the first mile is to listen to either REALLY hardcore gangsta rap, or intense emo Avril Lavigne music. My Ipod volume is at it's peak, and by tapping into the anger that resides deep in my soul, I am able to make it through these runs. If it weren't for emotional songs or threatening, vulgar, hardcore rap groups like G-Unit, I wouldn't stand a chance at this 10k.
The second thing I had to learn about myself was much harder to come to terms with. I am not a cardio person. By that I mean at the first onset of fatique my face turns bright scarlet and I breathe like a Howler Monkey in the rainforest. Never before had I really thought anyone noticed this less-than-appealing aspect of my workouts until recently.
You see, I had always wondered how I had ended up lucking out at the gym. The treadmills next to mine were always empty, and I had free reign over my cardio territory. I never thought that perhaps there was a reason as to why no one would hop on my surrounding machines. Well, sadly, today I had a lightbulb moment.
At one point I noticed a lady pass me and stare at me. I thought maybe she was admiring my intensity. But this was not a nice look. It was one of shock. I let it roll off my back- perhaps she was shocked by my electric pink Ipod?
But it happened again- this time with a different lady. At this point I had to take a moment and determine what about me was causing the looks and avoidance. It was then that I realized that during all my workouts I "whisper-yelled" the words to my Ipod songs while I worked out.
By "whisper-yelled" I mean I whispered them with a painful intensity equal to that of the blister that was forming on my foot as I ran. The lightbulb went off- not only do I constantly huff and puff on the treadmill, but I mouth and whisper the words to "Smack My Bitch Up," or G Unit's "Don't Push Me" as I try to make it past the 2nd mile.
It wasn't that I was "getting lucky" with my treadmill selection, it was that no one in their right mind wanted to work out next to "The Jog Whisperer." You know, that weird girl over there who is sweating profusely and "whisper-yelling" the vulgar lyrics to Wu Tang Clan (ain't nuthin to f$@k wit)?
I then realized the line I was whisper-yelling when the lady went by earlier was Eminem threatening Ja Rule, and I wanted to crawl in a hole and die.
Yes, ladies and gents, might I introduce you to myself, known on the cardio circuit as "The Jog Whisperer." If you can, pick a machine REALLY far away from me so you can avoid me if possible. Cause not only do you want to avoid the spit that sprays as I mouth and whisper-yell to JayZ, but you already know the lyrics to Gravel Pit, and don't need a refresher course.
God have mercy on my soul. May's a long way off.
Blog: "The Birth and Death of an Alter Ego." Posted January 26, 2007
or those of you who frolicked with me in college, you know my alter ego as Liquorny/Beerthany. Well friends, I am sorry to say that she has passed away recently, and it was me who performed her euthanasia. I have decided to put her to rest, you see, as she causes only strife and pestilence in my life. Yes, she was funny and entertaining, but to be honest, when she'd pass out at the end of the night and Bethany would awake in her place, hungover and regretful, she would almost sign her own death warrant.
Let me explain. Liquorny was born during those wild college days as a result of too much hard liquor mixed with Red Bull. To some this combination was known as Liquid Cocaine, and Liquorny would come out, uninvited, and suck those things down like a thirsty camel in the desert. Then, Liquorny would proceed to get angry, cause fights, or, on a good night, she would dance crazily- or what she thought was dancing but was actually more of a general pelvic thrust with a lot of thrown elbows. Most of my friends grew to like Liquorny, and some would taunt her and ask her to come play. I had no control over her, you see, she would basically do what she wanted, no matter the circumstance.
Finally, after some serious thought, I decided to retire Liquorny from the scene for a bit. I guess her "death" is a little harsh here- let's call it more of a formal resignation from my life. She may come back and make guest lectures here and there, when the moment is right and the liquid cocaine is flowing- but for the most part, Liquorny has been asked to formally resign her position in my life. Come on now, it's for the best. I'm 25 now, and it is no longer funny when Liquorny challenges guys to push up contests or falls down multiple staircases in one night. Let her rest, she's had a busy couple of years.
Instead, may I announce the birth of a new alter-ego, BLANCHE. Her namesake arose on a night at the Thirsty Dog, when one of my co-workers RUDELY forgot my name. He then proceeded to say my name was Blanche, which everyone thought was an utter riot, and it stuck. "Blanche baby, can you go change the keg?" "Hey Blanche, I didn't know you were working tonight!" I grew to answer to it. Bethany? Who is that? Blanche works here, not Bethany.
So, Blanche it was. I kinda like Blache. She's hip, yet not too crazy, and she doesn't take shit from anyone. I think Blanche will represent all the things I aspire to be in this new phase of my life. Blanche the straight-A student. Blanche the not-so-fashionable, yet she tries. Blanche the one who holes herself up on a Friday night to read novels about the Tudor Dynasty.
Yes, she was the name of the slutty Golden Girl- but that only adds an element of mystery and elegance to my new self. After all, I did write and produce the new definition of the word "slutty," did I not?
So, from this day forth, Bethany's new alter ego will go by Blanche. R.I.P Liquorny. We have many memories, ones that thankfully did not involve jail cells, but it's time for me to move on. I've fallen in love with someone else, Blanche, and she's one hell of a model-American.
Blog: "Pride and Prejudice." Posted January 18, 2007
Today it hit me like a ton of bricks. After making lists and lists of "things to do" and trying to monitor what it takes to "have my life together" I suddenly realized that I in no way, have to have it together. In fact, at the young age of 25, I realized it is completely okay to have a perpetual load of laundry in the works, have a little bit of dust collecting on my bookshelf (okay a LOT), and to not have a strict work out regiment. After all, my life is always in upheaval anyway, the last thing I need is pressure on myself to make it more "acceptable."
As you all can see from previous blogs and ramblings, it seems I have been going through a bit of a life change lately. For some reason my soul is screaming for some sort of change. Although I have always been a curious person, I find myself more interested in finding out more about the old Tudor Dynasty and the Roman Empire than about what kinds of beer I could try and what the new "it" accessory is. I don't know why but I think I am rebelling against all the meaningless things in my life that have started to take over. I keep searching for some creative and organizational outlet that does not include having an impeccably neat house or a perfectly decorated urban dwelling. Screw that. I live with a 60-pound dog and a Portuguese stallion...let's face it, there's no way my house is going to be in any way perfect. Nor is my life.
Perhaps I have just reached a boiling point inside of me where I would rather please myself than please others. I know who my friends are. I know who will be there for me and who won't. And I know who is worth my time and attention. At this point it is as if there is just no need to do things because others will find it "cool." In fact, that only makes me plummett more and more into my hole of self-loathing. I just feel like now I have perhaps finally found a place where I am content socially and mentally, and now I am feeling the person inside of me urging to get out and BE....me. Now that I have reached in, pulled out every skeleton in my closet, had two-hour conversations with each, and made peace...perhaps the person I am supposed to be is ready to BE.
Who says it is imperative to have a "perfect" life? And who decides who is perfect anyway? I am 25 years old and frankly I am sick of all other 24/25 years old who prance around pretending to have everything completely figured out. What, so you graduated college, got a job and a house in the city, and now you are perfect? Oh, so you somehow magically took care of every deep, dark, and twisty part of yourself that haunted you in your college days and your 9 to 5 made you somehow the epitome of togetherness? I am going to guess that no, you don't have it all together and instead the reason why you're going out and getting completely shit-faced every weekend is because you still wretsle with the Hulk Hogan of Demons every day at your desk. Just because you have perfect Ethan Allen furniture in your room and you always wear the trendiest of outfits does not in any way make your life more "perfect" than anyone elses.
The sad part is, you are very good at acting the Mary-Tyler Moore part. You have me constantly self-analyzing myself, making me think I am less than adequate because my house looks like the FEMA trailers given out after Hurricane Katrina and I don't go to the gym everyday. So, I have to give it up to you in some convoluted way. Kudos, my friend. Because of you and your farce, I am a self-critical mess.
When in reality, the fact of the matter is, I am very happy. I am actually quite satisfied with my life at this time. I finally decided what I want to do with my life, and I am in a safe and healthy relationship. When I stop and reflect on this issue, I realize that instead of going home to clean my room or put in my minutes on the elliptical, I am going to go have a beer and celebrate the fact that I have graduated from the "Please Others" College, Summa Cum Laude, and I am now moving on to the "Please Bethany" University, where I plan to study my ass off.
If there was a volcano inside of me it's done burst. And although this may seem irrelevant or even immature, I am so damn sick of being judged based on my music tastes. YES, I like hip hop. Oh, and YES, I like rap music. NO, I don;t listen to obscure bands that play at the goddamn 8by10 on Cross Street, and NO, I don't think that's abnormal.
This has happened many times. I'll be minding my own, here and there, doing whatever, and someone says, "what kind of music do you listen to?" For me, this is a moment of truth. "Anything with a beat," I say, and I look them right in the eye. "A beat? Like what, RAP MUSIC?" "Yes. As a matter of fact, I like rap music."
Here's where the rage comes in. Usually the "asker," we shall call them that, will laugh hysterically and climb way up on their high horse where they gawk and condescend to me about my music choices. "You like RAP?!?! You mean you don't listen to [insert band with name designed to shock older generations and appeal to people who don't excersize or even those who work retail]" They look back and forth at eachother, rolling their eyes and feigning suprise. Then they say "What? A white girl like YOU, likes rap?!?!?"
Insert Bethany's fantasy: At this point I wish someone would come over and either vomit all over their all-black outift or take their wallet chain and beat them over the back with it.
Back to reality: At this point I smile, and say, "why is that so weird that I like hip hop and rap music?"
They then retort with thier oh-so-witty banter, saying how crappy and fabricated rap/pop/hip hop music is, and how it is far inferior to their beloved bands called names like "monkeys throw poo" or "when i cry tears come out." They then ask questions like "So I am guessing you LIKE Justin Timberlake?!?!"
YES I LIKE JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE. YES I LIKE 50 CENT AND EMINEM AND ALL THOSE OTHER "POMPOUS RAP ARTISTS." Atleast they don't name their songs after ridiculous aspects of human nature like every humans apparent need to hate God and masturbate.
Actually, I am sick of being ashamed of liking pop/rap/hip hop. Why is it so shameful, this day and age to like Top 40 music? Does it mean I am not cultured? Because I like music that makes me come alive and dance, or even, God forbid, SING ALONG?!?!? Why should I be ashamed of liking Justin Timberlake, who is incredibly talented and musically-diverse?!?!
I'm sorry but I have had just about enough of people making me feel inferior because I like music associated with black people or teenagers. White girls like rap too. I know so because I know a whole SLAB of white twenty-something females who would bang Llloyd Banks or JT in a HEARTBEAT. I also know they buy thier CD's, listen to their songs in the gym, and quote their music all over the place. We young females probably identify with the lyrics of Lil Wayne more than the lyrics of your obscure "monkeys throw poo" bands who sing about being atheists and anarchists.
Frankly, when people ask me about my music choices, I think they should do just what I do when they say they like "monkeys throw poo," which is stifle laughter, smile and nod. Do I condescend to you about how much you like the psuedo gay undertones of your WASPY, secretly Hitler-loving band!??! NO. So don't make me feel bad for loving Timbaland. Just because I am white...and also a GIRL, does not in any way mean I have to fall into line and listen to only Mariah Carey and Amy Grant. There is a deep,dark, fucked-up person inside of me too that needs music with struggle and drive...music that makes me feel alive on days when I just want to crawl back into bed. Why should I not get that from Hip Hop or *GASP* Justin Timberlake?!?!?
Here's the deal, I am never one to judge your musical tastes. I don;t even express my secret distain for heavy metal when you say how much you love it. So, what gives you the right to condescend to me about my musical tastes? Yes, I like Broadway musicals and an occasional country tune. God forbid you should keep your mouth shut and opinions to yourself about it, right? Instead you bombard me with how superior your obscure garage-band tastes are to my more mainsteam tastes. To that I say eat the shit your monkey throws and have a nice day.
Blog: "So I guess things got weird...hot pocket?!?!" Posted on April 24, 2007
Okay so about 6 months ago I decided I wanted to start reading non-fiction, in an attempt to learn some new things. What new things, you ask? I wasn't really sure but something inside me was calling out to find some new information and put it inside my head.
It started with non-fiction about British History and had slowly evolved into anything ancient history. And by ancient I am talking beginning of time here...like B.C. as in before Christ. Normally people would think, wow, that's a unique interest to have, Bethany. But no, it's really not normal. I am 25 years old and I can't pull my head out of books about Ancient History. Not only that, but I am a female, I like things like celebrity gossip and how to get Seven jeans for cheap, and here I am asking my professors questions about Genesis and views of Creationism. It's not normal. And it's starting to scare me.
In fact, I have started studying old stories from the Old Testament for FUN. Am I an exceptionally religious person? No. Do I normally read the Bible? NO. Then, WHY, people, am I becoming borderline obsessed with finding out how the Death Penalty ties into Noah's Covenant with God in the Old testament?
I know what you're thinking. This is getting weird. I think so too. If you are getting the urge to tune out because only freaks read up on shit like this, I don't blame you.
The only explanation I can offer is that I am going through a time in my life where I am looking for answers. Yes, I am an ancient history buff and plan on teaching history when I am done school, but why resort to reading things you would normally associate with sacrificial cults who only sleep during the day? I don't know.
I guess I am on some quest here for some answers from SOMEONE. I am certainly not going to get any answers from Politics, especially the ever-intelligent Bush administration, and I am not about to burden any of my friends with my questions about why Eve was punished by God in the garden of Eden. They'd contact authorities. Not only that, but it's not like the Church would actually pull their head out of their asses long enough to give me logical answers about why certain things happen. I would need to take matters into my own hands.
To do so, I suppose turning to stories from History provides clarity for me. After all, History continues to repeat itself over and over again, century after century. Some say America is the second Roman Empire...I could totally see it. And why shouldn't I scour these books for my own interpretation on life, and what is going on around me?
I guess the moral to my story is that yes, this obsession with reading up on obscure topics and dissecting the Old Testament for meaning is dorky and borderline schizo. And God knows by writing this I am pretty much committing social suicide right here and right now. But the next time a topic comes up and you want MY opinion on the matter, you better BELIEVE I did my research.
Blog: "You May Have Ass, but I got Class." Posted on February 13, 2007
t's been a little while since I've last written...why? Well, I got sucked into that world we call "endless episodes of Lost via DVD." I know, I know, I have no life. But that's not exactly my point.
I had to get glasses last week. I know it's not a big deal and all, but let me just say I was a bit taken aback. I'll explain.
I guess it was the moment I realized I was an actual living, breathing adult woman who is no longer invincible. Age had taken it's toll. I had lost my 15/20 vision, and for some reason this represented the loss of everything that once was. Long ago, in the age of my adolescence, I had it good. A super fast metabolism, endless energy, and perfect vision. With that came the idea that nothing could ever "get" me and that even if the monster in the closet DID come out to eat me, I'd be in good enough shape to atleast put up a fight.
Then, all of a sudden, here I was at 25 years old, squinting my eyes in class to read the overhead projector. I hadn't showered in 2 days, had about 16 chapters to read, and a car payment to make. It hit me like a ton of bricks that this was "it." I was all "grown up."
So, needless to say, the glasses situation took me back a few strides. I don't know why that of all things made me feel so vulnerable, but I guess eyesight is just one of those things you start to take for granted if it's never been an issue before.
I DID pick out a cute pair of red, Sally Jessie Raphael glasses to purchase, and I did feel comfy cozy in them. I must admit, there was a part of me that began to enjoy the dorky-librarian feel to them. After all, of all people you know, who would more enjoy a physical connection to those who read and sort books all day? BUT, it certainly took me a while to actually realize that yes, I WAS in Lens Crafters, and yes, I DID need glasses to see 10 feet in front of me.
Suddenly I saw that there was only two choices. Either I continue down the road of denial that no, I was NOT getting old and fat, or I take a deep breath, consult my life map, and take the high road. This road, oh, let's call it, "yeah I need glasses, what you gonna do about it?!?!"
It slowly became a source of pride. Oh yeah? I read books SO much that it messed with my eyes and I needed glasses. That makes me REALLY RIDICULOUSLY smart, cap-i-tan. So what, I wear glasses. They became my Superwoman glasses. Instead of wallowing in shame, I decided to wear them as much as possible. They became a symbol of every challenge I face in this world of "adulthood."
Bills? I baulk in the face of bills! School? Give me a break, remember how smart I am? The Gym?!?!? See ya there, bitches. Atleast now I can see the cardio tv's. Why? BECAUSE YES, I AM FLAWED, but baby, I AM PROUD.
Instead of the cliched "hot" in the magazines, I'll instead shoot for the sexy librarian/teacher hot. After all, aren't THOSE the type of girls you'd rather take home to Mommy? And anyway, what does it matter? I got BRAINS. When those other bitches are at the bar showing off their rock hard abs, I'll be rattling off the capitals of foreign countries and listing the dynasty of English monarchs. It may not have the same sex appeal, but it's something, right?
So, to all those out there rockin' four eyes, POWER TO YOU. We may not be able to see 10 feet in front of us, but atleast our vision on life is a-o-kay.
Blog: "The Jog Whisperer" Posted January 29, 2007
o, the latest news here is that I signed up for a 10k in May. Now, you may be thinking, wow, that's great Bethany...way to take the horse by the reigns. And you'd be right, except it's a Lot of work on my behalf, as the most I have ever ran at one time was 4 miles. A 10k, as you already know, is about 2+ miles more than that, and I am pretty much in the worst shape of my life. Not to mention that all this "training" has made me realize a few things about myself.
By "training" I basically mean slow jogging, or if you prefer a soft "j", "yogging", panting and producing looks on my face as I run that are synonymous with those I use to express severe pain. The first thing I had to realize about myself is that the only way i can make it past the first mile is to listen to either REALLY hardcore gangsta rap, or intense emo Avril Lavigne music. My Ipod volume is at it's peak, and by tapping into the anger that resides deep in my soul, I am able to make it through these runs. If it weren't for emotional songs or threatening, vulgar, hardcore rap groups like G-Unit, I wouldn't stand a chance at this 10k.
The second thing I had to learn about myself was much harder to come to terms with. I am not a cardio person. By that I mean at the first onset of fatique my face turns bright scarlet and I breathe like a Howler Monkey in the rainforest. Never before had I really thought anyone noticed this less-than-appealing aspect of my workouts until recently.
You see, I had always wondered how I had ended up lucking out at the gym. The treadmills next to mine were always empty, and I had free reign over my cardio territory. I never thought that perhaps there was a reason as to why no one would hop on my surrounding machines. Well, sadly, today I had a lightbulb moment.
At one point I noticed a lady pass me and stare at me. I thought maybe she was admiring my intensity. But this was not a nice look. It was one of shock. I let it roll off my back- perhaps she was shocked by my electric pink Ipod?
But it happened again- this time with a different lady. At this point I had to take a moment and determine what about me was causing the looks and avoidance. It was then that I realized that during all my workouts I "whisper-yelled" the words to my Ipod songs while I worked out.
By "whisper-yelled" I mean I whispered them with a painful intensity equal to that of the blister that was forming on my foot as I ran. The lightbulb went off- not only do I constantly huff and puff on the treadmill, but I mouth and whisper the words to "Smack My Bitch Up," or G Unit's "Don't Push Me" as I try to make it past the 2nd mile.
It wasn't that I was "getting lucky" with my treadmill selection, it was that no one in their right mind wanted to work out next to "The Jog Whisperer." You know, that weird girl over there who is sweating profusely and "whisper-yelling" the vulgar lyrics to Wu Tang Clan (ain't nuthin to f$@k wit)?
I then realized the line I was whisper-yelling when the lady went by earlier was Eminem threatening Ja Rule, and I wanted to crawl in a hole and die.
Yes, ladies and gents, might I introduce you to myself, known on the cardio circuit as "The Jog Whisperer." If you can, pick a machine REALLY far away from me so you can avoid me if possible. Cause not only do you want to avoid the spit that sprays as I mouth and whisper-yell to JayZ, but you already know the lyrics to Gravel Pit, and don't need a refresher course.
God have mercy on my soul. May's a long way off.
Blog: "The Birth and Death of an Alter Ego." Posted January 26, 2007
or those of you who frolicked with me in college, you know my alter ego as Liquorny/Beerthany. Well friends, I am sorry to say that she has passed away recently, and it was me who performed her euthanasia. I have decided to put her to rest, you see, as she causes only strife and pestilence in my life. Yes, she was funny and entertaining, but to be honest, when she'd pass out at the end of the night and Bethany would awake in her place, hungover and regretful, she would almost sign her own death warrant.
Let me explain. Liquorny was born during those wild college days as a result of too much hard liquor mixed with Red Bull. To some this combination was known as Liquid Cocaine, and Liquorny would come out, uninvited, and suck those things down like a thirsty camel in the desert. Then, Liquorny would proceed to get angry, cause fights, or, on a good night, she would dance crazily- or what she thought was dancing but was actually more of a general pelvic thrust with a lot of thrown elbows. Most of my friends grew to like Liquorny, and some would taunt her and ask her to come play. I had no control over her, you see, she would basically do what she wanted, no matter the circumstance.
Finally, after some serious thought, I decided to retire Liquorny from the scene for a bit. I guess her "death" is a little harsh here- let's call it more of a formal resignation from my life. She may come back and make guest lectures here and there, when the moment is right and the liquid cocaine is flowing- but for the most part, Liquorny has been asked to formally resign her position in my life. Come on now, it's for the best. I'm 25 now, and it is no longer funny when Liquorny challenges guys to push up contests or falls down multiple staircases in one night. Let her rest, she's had a busy couple of years.
Instead, may I announce the birth of a new alter-ego, BLANCHE. Her namesake arose on a night at the Thirsty Dog, when one of my co-workers RUDELY forgot my name. He then proceeded to say my name was Blanche, which everyone thought was an utter riot, and it stuck. "Blanche baby, can you go change the keg?" "Hey Blanche, I didn't know you were working tonight!" I grew to answer to it. Bethany? Who is that? Blanche works here, not Bethany.
So, Blanche it was. I kinda like Blache. She's hip, yet not too crazy, and she doesn't take shit from anyone. I think Blanche will represent all the things I aspire to be in this new phase of my life. Blanche the straight-A student. Blanche the not-so-fashionable, yet she tries. Blanche the one who holes herself up on a Friday night to read novels about the Tudor Dynasty.
Yes, she was the name of the slutty Golden Girl- but that only adds an element of mystery and elegance to my new self. After all, I did write and produce the new definition of the word "slutty," did I not?
So, from this day forth, Bethany's new alter ego will go by Blanche. R.I.P Liquorny. We have many memories, ones that thankfully did not involve jail cells, but it's time for me to move on. I've fallen in love with someone else, Blanche, and she's one hell of a model-American.
Blog: "Pride and Prejudice." Posted January 18, 2007
Today it hit me like a ton of bricks. After making lists and lists of "things to do" and trying to monitor what it takes to "have my life together" I suddenly realized that I in no way, have to have it together. In fact, at the young age of 25, I realized it is completely okay to have a perpetual load of laundry in the works, have a little bit of dust collecting on my bookshelf (okay a LOT), and to not have a strict work out regiment. After all, my life is always in upheaval anyway, the last thing I need is pressure on myself to make it more "acceptable."
As you all can see from previous blogs and ramblings, it seems I have been going through a bit of a life change lately. For some reason my soul is screaming for some sort of change. Although I have always been a curious person, I find myself more interested in finding out more about the old Tudor Dynasty and the Roman Empire than about what kinds of beer I could try and what the new "it" accessory is. I don't know why but I think I am rebelling against all the meaningless things in my life that have started to take over. I keep searching for some creative and organizational outlet that does not include having an impeccably neat house or a perfectly decorated urban dwelling. Screw that. I live with a 60-pound dog and a Portuguese stallion...let's face it, there's no way my house is going to be in any way perfect. Nor is my life.
Perhaps I have just reached a boiling point inside of me where I would rather please myself than please others. I know who my friends are. I know who will be there for me and who won't. And I know who is worth my time and attention. At this point it is as if there is just no need to do things because others will find it "cool." In fact, that only makes me plummett more and more into my hole of self-loathing. I just feel like now I have perhaps finally found a place where I am content socially and mentally, and now I am feeling the person inside of me urging to get out and BE....me. Now that I have reached in, pulled out every skeleton in my closet, had two-hour conversations with each, and made peace...perhaps the person I am supposed to be is ready to BE.
Who says it is imperative to have a "perfect" life? And who decides who is perfect anyway? I am 25 years old and frankly I am sick of all other 24/25 years old who prance around pretending to have everything completely figured out. What, so you graduated college, got a job and a house in the city, and now you are perfect? Oh, so you somehow magically took care of every deep, dark, and twisty part of yourself that haunted you in your college days and your 9 to 5 made you somehow the epitome of togetherness? I am going to guess that no, you don't have it all together and instead the reason why you're going out and getting completely shit-faced every weekend is because you still wretsle with the Hulk Hogan of Demons every day at your desk. Just because you have perfect Ethan Allen furniture in your room and you always wear the trendiest of outfits does not in any way make your life more "perfect" than anyone elses.
The sad part is, you are very good at acting the Mary-Tyler Moore part. You have me constantly self-analyzing myself, making me think I am less than adequate because my house looks like the FEMA trailers given out after Hurricane Katrina and I don't go to the gym everyday. So, I have to give it up to you in some convoluted way. Kudos, my friend. Because of you and your farce, I am a self-critical mess.
When in reality, the fact of the matter is, I am very happy. I am actually quite satisfied with my life at this time. I finally decided what I want to do with my life, and I am in a safe and healthy relationship. When I stop and reflect on this issue, I realize that instead of going home to clean my room or put in my minutes on the elliptical, I am going to go have a beer and celebrate the fact that I have graduated from the "Please Others" College, Summa Cum Laude, and I am now moving on to the "Please Bethany" University, where I plan to study my ass off.
The Doldrums...Not Just an Equatorial Phenomenon
The Doldrums. When most people hear the word they think of a state of mind...the "blah" zone, if you will. A time when things seem to move at the speed of melting roof tar and escapes are few and far between.
About.com defines the Doldrems as: Sailors noticed the stillness of the rising (and not blowing) air near the equator and gave the region the depressing name "doldrums." The doldrums, usually located between 5° north and 5° south of the equator, are also known as the Intertropical Convergence Zone or ITCZ for short. The trade winds converge in the region of the ITCZ, producing convectional storms that produce some of the world's heaviest precipitation regions.
As tacky as long allegorys and metaphorical comparisons between my life and trade winds are, I will go ahead and do it. After all, it's my first post and as far as I'm concerned, it can only go up from here.
But basically the term doldrums is absolutely perfect. No, my life isn't boring, so I wouldn't call it tedious. In fact, I'm pretty busy, rushing from school to work to school to work. But let's just say that my life at this time isn't exactly an episode of 24. Just as those alleged trade winds seem to sit still, rising and not necessarily blowing (no pun intended), I seem to just bask in my world of coming and going, not stirring up any gusts of drama-filled wind but not having any fun either.
My life in the doldrums simmers in non-gusting glory, just waiting for a convection storm to come a-blowin'. In my efforts to try and keep my bows tied and the dots on my "i's" I have forgotten that I'm sitting in a virtual Intertropical Convergence Zone. Gosh darnit, if I don't blow off some steam soon I am going to "produce some of the world's heaviest precipitation," (see above). And in case you aren't following my haphazard metaphor here, I'm basically asking for a mental breakdown on my equator sometime very soon unless I blow off some of this "still air."
Time to wake out of my turkey-induced food coma and hit the elliptical...get some of those wonderful "endorphines," pumping through my system. Time to breathe, stretch, shake like Mase and put on my hot jeans with some stiletto boots and hit the town. In other words, it's time to shed the Doldrums. Cause kiddos, this broad has been baking in the "stillness" of the equatorial weather system for too long...it's time to get my winds a-blowin'.
About.com defines the Doldrems as: Sailors noticed the stillness of the rising (and not blowing) air near the equator and gave the region the depressing name "doldrums." The doldrums, usually located between 5° north and 5° south of the equator, are also known as the Intertropical Convergence Zone or ITCZ for short. The trade winds converge in the region of the ITCZ, producing convectional storms that produce some of the world's heaviest precipitation regions.
As tacky as long allegorys and metaphorical comparisons between my life and trade winds are, I will go ahead and do it. After all, it's my first post and as far as I'm concerned, it can only go up from here.
But basically the term doldrums is absolutely perfect. No, my life isn't boring, so I wouldn't call it tedious. In fact, I'm pretty busy, rushing from school to work to school to work. But let's just say that my life at this time isn't exactly an episode of 24. Just as those alleged trade winds seem to sit still, rising and not necessarily blowing (no pun intended), I seem to just bask in my world of coming and going, not stirring up any gusts of drama-filled wind but not having any fun either.
My life in the doldrums simmers in non-gusting glory, just waiting for a convection storm to come a-blowin'. In my efforts to try and keep my bows tied and the dots on my "i's" I have forgotten that I'm sitting in a virtual Intertropical Convergence Zone. Gosh darnit, if I don't blow off some steam soon I am going to "produce some of the world's heaviest precipitation," (see above). And in case you aren't following my haphazard metaphor here, I'm basically asking for a mental breakdown on my equator sometime very soon unless I blow off some of this "still air."
Time to wake out of my turkey-induced food coma and hit the elliptical...get some of those wonderful "endorphines," pumping through my system. Time to breathe, stretch, shake like Mase and put on my hot jeans with some stiletto boots and hit the town. In other words, it's time to shed the Doldrums. Cause kiddos, this broad has been baking in the "stillness" of the equatorial weather system for too long...it's time to get my winds a-blowin'.
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