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.