Dedicated to:
All who have lost their homes in this recession, and furthermore those who have lost them because of the stubborn, ill-compassionate, rotten mortgage companies and the people that run them. This is especially dedicated to Heidi and Amy. If I had been blessed with riches, I would’ve saved your homes…
Our House
I can still see the evening summer sunlight coming in through my brother’s room and making the hallway glow. I remember asking my mother why there were “little floaty things” when the sun shined through the hallway. I had hoped she would say it was because of something magical, but she was honest and told me it was dust. Just dust. But it never looked like dust to me. It looked like heaven was spotlighting our sanctuary, the dust giving it this sort of movement and life, like the breath of angels. It’s an image that I will never forget.
There are people in this world who dream about success in a fashion that equals nothing less than being filthy, filthy rich. They dream of million dollar houses, ritzy sports cars with insurance payments that could feed a small country, gold threaded tapestries and carpets, million dollar wardrobes, and diamonds on the ceilings. Success is interpreted as “having everything” or “having all that you could ever want”. Bathing in gold coins sounds fun! But has anyone ever told them how heavy gold is? It can suffocate you.
The rest of us, however, dream of nothing more or less than owning a simple house we can call our own, a sanctuary to raise our children in, a hub for loved ones who need a vacation, a place we can meet, and live, and survive. We want nothing more than to build a home, a place where memories live forever because the environment is a constant reminder of the stories we’ve lived through. And most importantly, we want to hold onto these homes for the rest of our lives and never have to give them up. Some of us find these houses, these homes, but almost all of us have had to give them up and say goodbye. For anyone who has never lost a home, their roots, to an unwanted wind of change, you could never understand the grief that comes with it. For anyone who has lost their home to an unwanted wind of change, I understand that grief entirely.
“It’s just a house.” To some? Maybe. Not everyone builds a home in their house. Not everyone can walk through their halls and point out each scratch in the wall, or each mismatch doorknob, or every hideous picture hanging in an odd place and have a story to tell about it. Not everyone has had the successful endeavor of building both good and rotten memories in the same place, and only holding onto the good ones. Not everyone has had the success of healthy, happy, thankful, unspoiled children in an environment where they don’t “have everything” or don’t “have all that they could ever want”. Not everyone has had the success of creating a sentimental, soulful, meaningful sanctuary that becomes so much a part of the vitality of their hearts, that they mourn over the loss of it when it’s gone. They grieve, lay it to rest as if it was once a living, breathing thing. This, is the truest testament of our humanity.
Some of you may dream of giant mansions, a five car garage to fit all of your toys in, diamonds studded into everything you own, but the only thing I dream about is to find another hallway with sunlight and dust, angels’ breath breathing down into my home from heaven letting me know the home I have built for me and my family is safe and good. I had it once, we all have. And we can all have it again. It is okay to grieve. It is. But there is always hope and the pursuit of reincarnating what we’ve lost. Our house is ours for all time.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
The Creative Thinkers
The Creative Thinkers
There may not be that moment for you, but there comes a time every so often in my life that pivots my entire universe as I know it and changes everything. It’s like some great deity is taking a hold of my shoulders and spinning me round, showing me that straight is not the only way to look toward. And what I’m shown? Takes my breath away.
My love for books, film and music do not only come from what I was raised with, but come from a network of spirits that reminds me that I am connected to other creative thinkers of the world. There’s been a book, a movie, a song that has come along now and again in my life that has grabbed me by the shoulders, and has spun me round. Every time it does, it reminds me that I could attain the power to do the very same thing. I could write a story, too, that could grab someone else’s soul and change it profoundly. I struggle with the confidence part of the deal, but when other storytellers tell their tales it is with their imagination and cleverness that propels my creative wheels to follow. Great minds think alike, they say. I’ve heard my own voice and have seen my own thoughts come alive in other pioneering artists’ visions, and there’s no reason why I can't summon my ego to join the trail blaze.
This is an ode to the artists of the world. If they had stayed in their heads, they wouldn’t have led me into new horizons. If they had not committed to their stories, they wouldn’t have turned on the gears in my soul. If they had not given their gifts to the world, I would not be inspired to do the same. This is to all the creative thinkers of the world who said no to doubt, and who said yes to possibility. This is to all of my fellows who took up the responsibility of the gifts they were given, and gave back. This is to all who have led me down the very same path. Thank you for taking my breath away.
There may not be that moment for you, but there comes a time every so often in my life that pivots my entire universe as I know it and changes everything. It’s like some great deity is taking a hold of my shoulders and spinning me round, showing me that straight is not the only way to look toward. And what I’m shown? Takes my breath away.
My love for books, film and music do not only come from what I was raised with, but come from a network of spirits that reminds me that I am connected to other creative thinkers of the world. There’s been a book, a movie, a song that has come along now and again in my life that has grabbed me by the shoulders, and has spun me round. Every time it does, it reminds me that I could attain the power to do the very same thing. I could write a story, too, that could grab someone else’s soul and change it profoundly. I struggle with the confidence part of the deal, but when other storytellers tell their tales it is with their imagination and cleverness that propels my creative wheels to follow. Great minds think alike, they say. I’ve heard my own voice and have seen my own thoughts come alive in other pioneering artists’ visions, and there’s no reason why I can't summon my ego to join the trail blaze.
This is an ode to the artists of the world. If they had stayed in their heads, they wouldn’t have led me into new horizons. If they had not committed to their stories, they wouldn’t have turned on the gears in my soul. If they had not given their gifts to the world, I would not be inspired to do the same. This is to all the creative thinkers of the world who said no to doubt, and who said yes to possibility. This is to all of my fellows who took up the responsibility of the gifts they were given, and gave back. This is to all who have led me down the very same path. Thank you for taking my breath away.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
My Finger Concerto
For the last two minutes I’ve been moving my fingers across the keyboard like eight dancing legs to David Bowie’s “Fame”. It was fun, actually, and it inspired me to do a little music video. It did. But then the song was over and on came Nancy Sinatra’s “Boots”. And now my fingers have a mind of their own…. When I’m not writing this ridiculous, pointless essay they’re dancing again across the keyboard to the rhythm.
My music video idea is just getting better and better and better.
I can’t wait to whip out my little amateur Flip and try to do professional things with it just to entertain myself. Now Avril Lavigne is playing, “I’m With You”. Good song.
Not dancing-finger music video material though.
Let’s see what’s next… Hmm. Glee’s “Don’t Stop Believin’”. Potential. Nope. Fingers aren’t liking it. Oooo, this isn’t bad: “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” by the Hawaiian guy.
Did you just tell me to get a life?
You wait. Oscars are in my future. This finger-dancing movie video with my awesome Flip is going to rake in the millions. I’ll be swimming in dollar bills up to my eyeballs. I’ll have to go on medication for my allergic reactions to money dust. My eyebrows will be dyed with real gold, and my toenails will be studded with diamonds. I’ll be so rich that chocolate covered, fudge-dipped, double-fudge rocky road brownies will envy me.
“Evenin’”. That’s the song that’s playing now. “Red Stick Ramblers”. My fingers like it so much! This is so going into the video…
Wait. Did you just tell me to go see a doctor? Oh. “Get help”, is what you said. Same thing.
Already did. There’s nothing they can do for this condition. But thanks for caring! Aaw. You’re so sweet. But no. No cure for this.
YES! Rogue Wave’s “Harmonium”! This is SO going into the video. Wait! No. Oh ho… Folks? I just found my grand finale. Oh yessiree! Alright. I have to go. I have some practicing to do. But first I have to draw little faces on each of my knuckle tips…
My music video idea is just getting better and better and better.
I can’t wait to whip out my little amateur Flip and try to do professional things with it just to entertain myself. Now Avril Lavigne is playing, “I’m With You”. Good song.
Not dancing-finger music video material though.
Let’s see what’s next… Hmm. Glee’s “Don’t Stop Believin’”. Potential. Nope. Fingers aren’t liking it. Oooo, this isn’t bad: “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” by the Hawaiian guy.
Did you just tell me to get a life?
You wait. Oscars are in my future. This finger-dancing movie video with my awesome Flip is going to rake in the millions. I’ll be swimming in dollar bills up to my eyeballs. I’ll have to go on medication for my allergic reactions to money dust. My eyebrows will be dyed with real gold, and my toenails will be studded with diamonds. I’ll be so rich that chocolate covered, fudge-dipped, double-fudge rocky road brownies will envy me.
“Evenin’”. That’s the song that’s playing now. “Red Stick Ramblers”. My fingers like it so much! This is so going into the video…
Wait. Did you just tell me to go see a doctor? Oh. “Get help”, is what you said. Same thing.
Already did. There’s nothing they can do for this condition. But thanks for caring! Aaw. You’re so sweet. But no. No cure for this.
YES! Rogue Wave’s “Harmonium”! This is SO going into the video. Wait! No. Oh ho… Folks? I just found my grand finale. Oh yessiree! Alright. I have to go. I have some practicing to do. But first I have to draw little faces on each of my knuckle tips…
Saturday, December 26, 2009
The Empires of the Inkwell
The Empires of the Inkwell
I was talking to an old friend not to long ago, and she and I came to a bit of a disagreement over the quality of a certain author’s writing. You may have heard of this author... JK Rowling? (note sarcasm) My friend, a brilliant intellect and avid (to say the least) book reader, remarked that JK Rowling wasn’t really that good of a writer. She’s “a really good storyteller, but her writing is simplistic…her first couple of books aren’t really written that well”. I respect my friend’s opinions in the utmost manner, but there was something about this particular statement that bristled my back hairs and curled my lip. I took it a little personal. I believe that JK Rowling’s writing style has raised the bar in literature so high that writers nowa days are scrambling to get their talents together in a panic fit of, “Damn. How do I compete with her?” I know I was one of those writers immediately after I read “The Boy Who Lived”. Now don’t get me wrong, she’s not the only author that’s made me shake in my boots. Tolkien, Barrie, Alcott, Austin, Dickens and so on and so on. But that’s just it: only good writing, excellent writing, can make a fellow writer question their own skills and talent. And Rowling did that for me. A good story teller is a good writer.
I decided that taking someone else’s opinion personally was just stupid, and that to settle my own emotions about it I should do what I normally do: write about it. So, here’s my own personal opinion on the art of good writing:
Storytelling, in whatever medium one uses to tell a story, is about entertaining an audience. Writing, in a personal sense, is for the author and the author alone. I’ve devoted years of my life to projects that I know deep in my heart will never see the light of publication, but satisfy my own esteem in the mere completion of them. But when I think about sharing with the public? I consider the market, I do. I consider the elements of what has made past blockbusters a hit, and the magic behind a great story. It all comes down to entertainment. This doesn’t negate an author’s soulful endeavor, and it doesn’t mean that an author’s personal story can’t be entertaining, but a good writer has to have more than just a good background in English. Anybody can have good grammar. Anybody can string together sentences in an orderly, sensible way. But not just anybody can sell their well written story by the millions. And I’m not the only one who thinks so.
“I think the first duty of all art, including fiction of any kind, is to entertain. That is to say, to hold interest. No matter how worthy the message of something, if it's dull, you're just not communicating.” Poul Anderson
“I have been successful probably because I have always realized that I knew nothing about writing and have merely tried to tell an interesting story entertainingly.”
Edgar Rice Burroughs
“Those who write clearly have readers. Those who write obscurely have commentators.”
Albert Camus
“The virtue of books is to be readable.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
“Tediousness is the most fatal of all faults.”
Samuel Johnson
The empires of the inkwell have been built with nothing more and nothing less than a creative use of words, and a good, meaningful, entertaining story, and an author’s ability to move people’s emotions with the simplicity of writing what they know.
I was talking to an old friend not to long ago, and she and I came to a bit of a disagreement over the quality of a certain author’s writing. You may have heard of this author... JK Rowling? (note sarcasm) My friend, a brilliant intellect and avid (to say the least) book reader, remarked that JK Rowling wasn’t really that good of a writer. She’s “a really good storyteller, but her writing is simplistic…her first couple of books aren’t really written that well”. I respect my friend’s opinions in the utmost manner, but there was something about this particular statement that bristled my back hairs and curled my lip. I took it a little personal. I believe that JK Rowling’s writing style has raised the bar in literature so high that writers nowa days are scrambling to get their talents together in a panic fit of, “Damn. How do I compete with her?” I know I was one of those writers immediately after I read “The Boy Who Lived”. Now don’t get me wrong, she’s not the only author that’s made me shake in my boots. Tolkien, Barrie, Alcott, Austin, Dickens and so on and so on. But that’s just it: only good writing, excellent writing, can make a fellow writer question their own skills and talent. And Rowling did that for me. A good story teller is a good writer.
I decided that taking someone else’s opinion personally was just stupid, and that to settle my own emotions about it I should do what I normally do: write about it. So, here’s my own personal opinion on the art of good writing:
Storytelling, in whatever medium one uses to tell a story, is about entertaining an audience. Writing, in a personal sense, is for the author and the author alone. I’ve devoted years of my life to projects that I know deep in my heart will never see the light of publication, but satisfy my own esteem in the mere completion of them. But when I think about sharing with the public? I consider the market, I do. I consider the elements of what has made past blockbusters a hit, and the magic behind a great story. It all comes down to entertainment. This doesn’t negate an author’s soulful endeavor, and it doesn’t mean that an author’s personal story can’t be entertaining, but a good writer has to have more than just a good background in English. Anybody can have good grammar. Anybody can string together sentences in an orderly, sensible way. But not just anybody can sell their well written story by the millions. And I’m not the only one who thinks so.
“I think the first duty of all art, including fiction of any kind, is to entertain. That is to say, to hold interest. No matter how worthy the message of something, if it's dull, you're just not communicating.” Poul Anderson
“I have been successful probably because I have always realized that I knew nothing about writing and have merely tried to tell an interesting story entertainingly.”
Edgar Rice Burroughs
“Those who write clearly have readers. Those who write obscurely have commentators.”
Albert Camus
“The virtue of books is to be readable.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
“Tediousness is the most fatal of all faults.”
Samuel Johnson
The empires of the inkwell have been built with nothing more and nothing less than a creative use of words, and a good, meaningful, entertaining story, and an author’s ability to move people’s emotions with the simplicity of writing what they know.
Monday, December 21, 2009
I Do Not Believe in Miracles
When Time Stood Still
December 18, 2009
Friday, 11:44pm
I confess, Reader, that I’m always rather emotional this time of year. But, if it be possible, I believe this year has tugged harder and more viciously on the strings of my heart more than any other year. My emotions have been a mixture of things, all deriving from separate channels. I’ve cried for good things as well as bad. Some things have moved me, and some things have shattered me. I’m trying desperately to hold onto hope and faith, consoling myself that some day everything and everyone will eventually be saved. I want so desperately to believe in salvation, but it is still just a fairy tale to me.
And yet… and yet I still search the skies for answers. Every year I remember the stars I saw that night, twelve years ago. Twelve. Twelve shooting stars twelve days before Christmas. It was supposed to mean something. Now, dear Fates, it is twelve again… will the miracle finally happen? I’m not even sure what sort of miracle I’m expecting… I don’t want to be foolish enough to believe in these sorts of things, but I feel like now that I’m at the end of all that is left in me, I have nothing to loose.
It happened by accident, Reader. I use the word “accident” because I’m cautious of the word “miracle”, or the phrase “divine intervention”. This accident, as I call it, however was a strange, profound, emotional happening. I’m not sure it’s the “miracle” I’ve been waiting for or not, but regardless of what one wishes to label it, it has begun a new spiritual journey for me.
I was wanting to post something “Christmassy” on my blog. I had written about my twelve stars in a writing class in high school, and hadn’t read it in many, many years. I wondered if it was really as good as my then audience had declared it to be. I was seventeen years old. I wasn’t expecting anything. I wasn’t even sure if it was on this particular computer or not. So I did a file search: I typed “twelvestars”. Two folders popped up that had nothing to do with these words. One said “journals”, so I thought to myself, “Maybe it’s one of my really old folders…” So I clicked on it.
It wasn’t my journal, but I couldn’t resist reading it when I realized instantly what it was. It was my mother’s journal, a quick type up of things she wrote about us four siblings when we were children. I couldn’t close it up. I was rapidly addicted.
Goodness. Love. A family that was whole. I was three years old, becoming “more active” and “enjoys singing and Sunday school”, and apparently enjoyed wrapping my little brother’s head in a blanket and then hugging it. I had also apparently “painted his face twice now, once with her paints and once with Jason’s paints.”
I was eight years old, and my kitten had just died, and my two older brothers held me and comforted me in my grief. Kyle gave me a book mark he won at camp to cheer me up.
1988, my mother was having a stressful morning trying to get all of her children up and ready for school, and my little brother rose from his bed, bright eyed and full of smiles asking my mom, "Mom? Did you notice what a beautiful day it is outside?" And it saved her.
On and on it went, little snippets of each of us, all giving praise to our goodness, our worthiness, and our love as a family. It was the story of our lives that I had long forgotten. And to hear the voice of my mother behind these memories was a new feeling, a new emotion that I have yet to find a vocabulary for.
I then read a passage of prayer she prayed, a personal giving of thanks for each of her children, and something very old, and very forgotten moved within me. Two of her prayers had come to be, and for a fleeting moment I believed in the magic of what people with faith call “miracles”. I cried. I sobbed. I read it over and over and over again, feeling both grief and rejoicing. Grief for the part of the prayer that was yet to be or no longer is, and feeling an overwhelming joy for the part that had come to pass.
It changed me. I still doubt my senses like any other Scrooge would, but I’ve been shaken. I can surely say that I just might be looking toward the night sky more often again, awaiting a sign from the heavens that I’ve long forsaken to believe in. I don’t know if this qualifies or not as a Christmas miracle, but it was something my soul has been without far too long, and even though the grief weighed heavy in some ways, the joy brought a new hope back to life again. The remembrance and evidence of love when love is said to never die, makes me believe again that maybe, just maybe, everyone and everything will eventually be saved in the end. That would make a good ending, and all endings should be good lest the story be untold.
December 18, 2009
Friday, 11:44pm
I confess, Reader, that I’m always rather emotional this time of year. But, if it be possible, I believe this year has tugged harder and more viciously on the strings of my heart more than any other year. My emotions have been a mixture of things, all deriving from separate channels. I’ve cried for good things as well as bad. Some things have moved me, and some things have shattered me. I’m trying desperately to hold onto hope and faith, consoling myself that some day everything and everyone will eventually be saved. I want so desperately to believe in salvation, but it is still just a fairy tale to me.
And yet… and yet I still search the skies for answers. Every year I remember the stars I saw that night, twelve years ago. Twelve. Twelve shooting stars twelve days before Christmas. It was supposed to mean something. Now, dear Fates, it is twelve again… will the miracle finally happen? I’m not even sure what sort of miracle I’m expecting… I don’t want to be foolish enough to believe in these sorts of things, but I feel like now that I’m at the end of all that is left in me, I have nothing to loose.
It happened by accident, Reader. I use the word “accident” because I’m cautious of the word “miracle”, or the phrase “divine intervention”. This accident, as I call it, however was a strange, profound, emotional happening. I’m not sure it’s the “miracle” I’ve been waiting for or not, but regardless of what one wishes to label it, it has begun a new spiritual journey for me.
I was wanting to post something “Christmassy” on my blog. I had written about my twelve stars in a writing class in high school, and hadn’t read it in many, many years. I wondered if it was really as good as my then audience had declared it to be. I was seventeen years old. I wasn’t expecting anything. I wasn’t even sure if it was on this particular computer or not. So I did a file search: I typed “twelvestars”. Two folders popped up that had nothing to do with these words. One said “journals”, so I thought to myself, “Maybe it’s one of my really old folders…” So I clicked on it.
It wasn’t my journal, but I couldn’t resist reading it when I realized instantly what it was. It was my mother’s journal, a quick type up of things she wrote about us four siblings when we were children. I couldn’t close it up. I was rapidly addicted.
Goodness. Love. A family that was whole. I was three years old, becoming “more active” and “enjoys singing and Sunday school”, and apparently enjoyed wrapping my little brother’s head in a blanket and then hugging it. I had also apparently “painted his face twice now, once with her paints and once with Jason’s paints.”
I was eight years old, and my kitten had just died, and my two older brothers held me and comforted me in my grief. Kyle gave me a book mark he won at camp to cheer me up.
1988, my mother was having a stressful morning trying to get all of her children up and ready for school, and my little brother rose from his bed, bright eyed and full of smiles asking my mom, "Mom? Did you notice what a beautiful day it is outside?" And it saved her.
On and on it went, little snippets of each of us, all giving praise to our goodness, our worthiness, and our love as a family. It was the story of our lives that I had long forgotten. And to hear the voice of my mother behind these memories was a new feeling, a new emotion that I have yet to find a vocabulary for.
I then read a passage of prayer she prayed, a personal giving of thanks for each of her children, and something very old, and very forgotten moved within me. Two of her prayers had come to be, and for a fleeting moment I believed in the magic of what people with faith call “miracles”. I cried. I sobbed. I read it over and over and over again, feeling both grief and rejoicing. Grief for the part of the prayer that was yet to be or no longer is, and feeling an overwhelming joy for the part that had come to pass.
It changed me. I still doubt my senses like any other Scrooge would, but I’ve been shaken. I can surely say that I just might be looking toward the night sky more often again, awaiting a sign from the heavens that I’ve long forsaken to believe in. I don’t know if this qualifies or not as a Christmas miracle, but it was something my soul has been without far too long, and even though the grief weighed heavy in some ways, the joy brought a new hope back to life again. The remembrance and evidence of love when love is said to never die, makes me believe again that maybe, just maybe, everyone and everything will eventually be saved in the end. That would make a good ending, and all endings should be good lest the story be untold.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Breeding the Non-Sexist, Respectable Man
I have carefully reviewed my observations (twenty some years of research), and have come to the conclusion that the absolute non-sexist, respectable man is so incredibly rare that we ought to start picketing for the survival of their extinction.
But here's the funny thing:
they're not really on the verge of extinction, but rather on the rise of coming into existence. It's not like there used to be millions of non-sexist,respectable men in the country and now they're dying out due to an alarming growth rate of manhood aliances and wars. No. They're actually beginning to emerge, and I'm hoping that maybe, just maybe, with the power of the written word I might be able to assist the reproduction.
I'm not quite sure who to address, to be perfectly honest. The men, or the women? Who shall I call to rise? Many of you reading this will find it ridiculous that I'm even considering any kind of "ralley" at all. Believe me, a few years ago, and all growing up, I never thought that my future would still have women having to demand respect. But it does. And I've finally decided to actually do something about it.
Growing up with three brothers I learned a few basic things that they themselves have told me point blank about men. 1)Men only think with their penis. 2)A man will say anything he needs to, to get a girl, so never believe a thing he says. 3)Men think about sex 24/7.
I know my brothers were only trying to protect me, but that's where my confusion came in. I mean, if this was all true then why the hell are women even attracted to men at all? I'm sorry, but if all men's brains are in their pants... it sort of makes them out to be monkeys. Right? And if he never tells a woman the truth...well, why would I want to pro-create with a liar? And if sex is all they think about 24/7, well, that just stirs up some sypathy, right? Poor guys! Thinking about it all the time! How cruel!
Something isn't adding up.
Expectations. If you expect a monkey, then what more can you ask for? If he only thinks with his penis, well, then a woman needs to just deal with that. If you expect him to always lie, well, then a woman needs to just always be on her guard. She's been warned. If he thinks about sex 24/7, well, then, his needs suddenly become more important to fulfill than ours. This is the way men are. "Don't expect anything more out of us."
I'm fully aware that my brothers were only trying to keep me from having fairy tale like ideas about men, but instead it made me realize that this is what most men want us to think of them so that we don't expect anything more from them. I'm sorry, Ladies, but even if it means me being unmarried till the end of time, I'm waiting for that prince I deserve. I'm not expecting perfection. I'm not expecting literal royalty (let's just be clear about things for those who like to misconstrue words...). But I am going to be raising that bar a few notches higher than "brain-in-the-pants". I am going to be expecting the truth. I am going to be expecting that my own needs get met, too.
I’ve addressed it a few times in my life, but have never really, really realized how openly I've had to battle sexism. Looking back, I remember all the times in my life that I was regarded as “silly” or "emotionally unstable" or told that I was "overreacting" when I was doing nothing more than sticking up for myself. Or, how about the times when my ideas were always ignored until a man (after long, unnecessary debate) had the same idea (stealing it from me), and suddenly POOF! My (stolen) idea was magically heard, and then used. Or how I’ve had to work double hard to get the respect I deserve for my cleverness, my creativeness, my comedy. Sexism was everywhere as it was for all of us. It was at school when our sixth grade teacher blatantly stated that men are smarter than women, and the entire class of boys whooped and hollered leaving us girls completely enraged and helpless and humiliated. It was at the park with the building of the forts when the boys stole our tools, we retaliated, and then they sought revenge on our retaliation, and started our infamous war. The worst part about that, the topper on it all, was that the boys went and retold their story to another girl in the neighborhood, manipulated her into thinking they were the victims, and got her to help ran sack our fort. All because they stole our tools to begin with, and we stood up for ourselves.
Or,
how about when I did something wrong, made a mistake, and it was instantly blamed on my gender instead of my humanness.
Here's an example I'd like to lead into and use: Years ago, I took my friend and her boyfriend to a tattoo and piercing parlor. I had just met the boyfriend, for one, and he had the audacity to ask to borrow money from me for the piercing (of his nipple...). For my friend's sake, I did. I lent it to him. But when we pulled into the parking lot, he was having second thoughts. So, being distracting from his concerns, I never put the car into Park. He finally made his decision to do it, so I turned off the car. I couldn't get the keys out of the ignition because it was still in Drive. None of us could figure out what was wrong (including him, mind you). When I finally figured out what the problem was, we all laughed about it until he had to ruin the moment with: "That's why women shouldn't drive." OH YEAH. HE DID. (And for those men who are reading this and are in denial, no he wasn't joking) I went into my usual rant, of course, told him what I thought of him, made a point or two about him being a coward about the piercing, and how any human being in the world could've made the same mistake I just made, and if he ever says something that sexist again it'll be the last thing that ever comes out of his mouth. He was scared of me from that point on, and for the three years she dated him, he never said anything sexist again.
And there it is. Who do I address? The men or the women? Strange things happen when we stick up for ourselves, Ladies. There's absolutely no reason at all that any of us should accept this sort of bullying just because "guys will be guys". "They only think with their penises, what else should we expect?" Um, we should expect a hell of lot more. But some situations are a little more subtle, and harder to address. There's plenty of nice guys out there who treat women with a decent amount of respect, but can't come to terms with the fact that being nice has nothing to do with sexism.
Stupid little things, right? What about all the really nice guys who couldn't find it in their egos to laugh at my jokes? What about how one my guy friends thought he was being chivalrous by letting me know he let me win a game of chess? What about when I was on the church softball team and I was out in the outfield, and a super easy-peasy grounder came rolling at me and as I swooped down to scoop it, my own team mate came running in front me and snatched it up? I gave him a look that could kill, but that was about all I could do… Or was it? Sure I made my friend's boyfriend want to wet himself, but that case was easy. The harder part is getting the less blatent stuff confronted.
Most of my life I’ve done nothing but grit my teeth and allow this fury to build up and flash out at the most inconvenient times. And then what? Well, that just makes us women look emotionally unstable, right? I must be on my period, right? No. NO. There’s more that can be done than just an angry look, or a clenched fist. I was given a gift of voice, of words, and a defiance to be told that I am less of anything. And any respectable man or woman who agrees with me, should follow my lead.
So. How do we, as a society, breed the non-sexist, respectable man? Women: you need to expect more, and not be afraid to demand it. Men: try not to be defensive when a woman speaks out agaist sexism or demands to be respected. Please, open your mind at least a little to the possibility that you just might, just maybe, truly see yourself as a higher being, and us as lessers. That's about all I can really say. It's up to a man to actually want to not be sexist, and so few do because it means they have to give up so many of their priveledges. So few do because women are often used as bonding tools between men, and the minute they have to regard a woman as a human being instead of "getting some tail", then they've lost the respect of their caveman buddies. If you need an incentive, men, try racing your fellow mankind out of the next stage of evolution. Because I truly believe that a non-sexist, respectable man is far more evolved than all the other men, and in turn is far more desirable. The trick is, to get women to stop settling for the cavemen. Men would be quicker to try harder if they knew they'd loose out on us. My mission may seem impossible, no doubt, but that's not going to stop me from trying.
But here's the funny thing:
they're not really on the verge of extinction, but rather on the rise of coming into existence. It's not like there used to be millions of non-sexist,respectable men in the country and now they're dying out due to an alarming growth rate of manhood aliances and wars. No. They're actually beginning to emerge, and I'm hoping that maybe, just maybe, with the power of the written word I might be able to assist the reproduction.
I'm not quite sure who to address, to be perfectly honest. The men, or the women? Who shall I call to rise? Many of you reading this will find it ridiculous that I'm even considering any kind of "ralley" at all. Believe me, a few years ago, and all growing up, I never thought that my future would still have women having to demand respect. But it does. And I've finally decided to actually do something about it.
Growing up with three brothers I learned a few basic things that they themselves have told me point blank about men. 1)Men only think with their penis. 2)A man will say anything he needs to, to get a girl, so never believe a thing he says. 3)Men think about sex 24/7.
I know my brothers were only trying to protect me, but that's where my confusion came in. I mean, if this was all true then why the hell are women even attracted to men at all? I'm sorry, but if all men's brains are in their pants... it sort of makes them out to be monkeys. Right? And if he never tells a woman the truth...well, why would I want to pro-create with a liar? And if sex is all they think about 24/7, well, that just stirs up some sypathy, right? Poor guys! Thinking about it all the time! How cruel!
Something isn't adding up.
Expectations. If you expect a monkey, then what more can you ask for? If he only thinks with his penis, well, then a woman needs to just deal with that. If you expect him to always lie, well, then a woman needs to just always be on her guard. She's been warned. If he thinks about sex 24/7, well, then, his needs suddenly become more important to fulfill than ours. This is the way men are. "Don't expect anything more out of us."
I'm fully aware that my brothers were only trying to keep me from having fairy tale like ideas about men, but instead it made me realize that this is what most men want us to think of them so that we don't expect anything more from them. I'm sorry, Ladies, but even if it means me being unmarried till the end of time, I'm waiting for that prince I deserve. I'm not expecting perfection. I'm not expecting literal royalty (let's just be clear about things for those who like to misconstrue words...). But I am going to be raising that bar a few notches higher than "brain-in-the-pants". I am going to be expecting the truth. I am going to be expecting that my own needs get met, too.
I’ve addressed it a few times in my life, but have never really, really realized how openly I've had to battle sexism. Looking back, I remember all the times in my life that I was regarded as “silly” or "emotionally unstable" or told that I was "overreacting" when I was doing nothing more than sticking up for myself. Or, how about the times when my ideas were always ignored until a man (after long, unnecessary debate) had the same idea (stealing it from me), and suddenly POOF! My (stolen) idea was magically heard, and then used. Or how I’ve had to work double hard to get the respect I deserve for my cleverness, my creativeness, my comedy. Sexism was everywhere as it was for all of us. It was at school when our sixth grade teacher blatantly stated that men are smarter than women, and the entire class of boys whooped and hollered leaving us girls completely enraged and helpless and humiliated. It was at the park with the building of the forts when the boys stole our tools, we retaliated, and then they sought revenge on our retaliation, and started our infamous war. The worst part about that, the topper on it all, was that the boys went and retold their story to another girl in the neighborhood, manipulated her into thinking they were the victims, and got her to help ran sack our fort. All because they stole our tools to begin with, and we stood up for ourselves.
Or,
how about when I did something wrong, made a mistake, and it was instantly blamed on my gender instead of my humanness.
Here's an example I'd like to lead into and use: Years ago, I took my friend and her boyfriend to a tattoo and piercing parlor. I had just met the boyfriend, for one, and he had the audacity to ask to borrow money from me for the piercing (of his nipple...). For my friend's sake, I did. I lent it to him. But when we pulled into the parking lot, he was having second thoughts. So, being distracting from his concerns, I never put the car into Park. He finally made his decision to do it, so I turned off the car. I couldn't get the keys out of the ignition because it was still in Drive. None of us could figure out what was wrong (including him, mind you). When I finally figured out what the problem was, we all laughed about it until he had to ruin the moment with: "That's why women shouldn't drive." OH YEAH. HE DID. (And for those men who are reading this and are in denial, no he wasn't joking) I went into my usual rant, of course, told him what I thought of him, made a point or two about him being a coward about the piercing, and how any human being in the world could've made the same mistake I just made, and if he ever says something that sexist again it'll be the last thing that ever comes out of his mouth. He was scared of me from that point on, and for the three years she dated him, he never said anything sexist again.
And there it is. Who do I address? The men or the women? Strange things happen when we stick up for ourselves, Ladies. There's absolutely no reason at all that any of us should accept this sort of bullying just because "guys will be guys". "They only think with their penises, what else should we expect?" Um, we should expect a hell of lot more. But some situations are a little more subtle, and harder to address. There's plenty of nice guys out there who treat women with a decent amount of respect, but can't come to terms with the fact that being nice has nothing to do with sexism.
Stupid little things, right? What about all the really nice guys who couldn't find it in their egos to laugh at my jokes? What about how one my guy friends thought he was being chivalrous by letting me know he let me win a game of chess? What about when I was on the church softball team and I was out in the outfield, and a super easy-peasy grounder came rolling at me and as I swooped down to scoop it, my own team mate came running in front me and snatched it up? I gave him a look that could kill, but that was about all I could do… Or was it? Sure I made my friend's boyfriend want to wet himself, but that case was easy. The harder part is getting the less blatent stuff confronted.
Most of my life I’ve done nothing but grit my teeth and allow this fury to build up and flash out at the most inconvenient times. And then what? Well, that just makes us women look emotionally unstable, right? I must be on my period, right? No. NO. There’s more that can be done than just an angry look, or a clenched fist. I was given a gift of voice, of words, and a defiance to be told that I am less of anything. And any respectable man or woman who agrees with me, should follow my lead.
So. How do we, as a society, breed the non-sexist, respectable man? Women: you need to expect more, and not be afraid to demand it. Men: try not to be defensive when a woman speaks out agaist sexism or demands to be respected. Please, open your mind at least a little to the possibility that you just might, just maybe, truly see yourself as a higher being, and us as lessers. That's about all I can really say. It's up to a man to actually want to not be sexist, and so few do because it means they have to give up so many of their priveledges. So few do because women are often used as bonding tools between men, and the minute they have to regard a woman as a human being instead of "getting some tail", then they've lost the respect of their caveman buddies. If you need an incentive, men, try racing your fellow mankind out of the next stage of evolution. Because I truly believe that a non-sexist, respectable man is far more evolved than all the other men, and in turn is far more desirable. The trick is, to get women to stop settling for the cavemen. Men would be quicker to try harder if they knew they'd loose out on us. My mission may seem impossible, no doubt, but that's not going to stop me from trying.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Secrets to Understanding Women....Phase 1: dating
I've debated about this with myself for years, now. I've always wanted to write a sort of "handbook" for men. But when you think of all the variables it's hard to go down one, specific path with it. Every human being is too individual to throw into catagories, or stereotype. Because, hey: not all women have shoe fetishes, and not all men are good with a wrench. Right? And we're all attracted to different types, and we all have our own way of playing the dating game, and we all have different reasons for being in a relationship. And? When it really comes down to the real deal? Love? There's no guidelines for love. It's the most impractical, illogical force of all... But, dating? On a shallow level? A simple level?
Let's throw all those variables out the window, entirely. I've been itching to let out a few clues, tips, and basic rules to follow for a man in pursuit of a woman. Now there's different stages, of course. I want to start with my "favorite" (which conveinently comes first in the sequence already), which is: asking the woman, out.
Dating, it's called.
Now,I'm going to share a secret. Consequently, this secret is going to turn me into the biggest hypocrite (a good kick off!), but I think it's only fair.
I don't date.
I hate dating.
I hate the ritual of a man I hardly know forking out money to pay for my dinner, or for my drinks, or my cheesy bowling games. It makes me feel obligated to a complete stranger. Awkward! And flowers? No thanks. Nice gesture, but I believe that romance like that should come later. Buying me flowers when I hardly know you makes me feel like you're trying to buy my affection. I'm either going to be attracted to you or I'm not, flowers aren't going to change that.
I'm terrible, aren't I?
Yeeeah...
I don't think I am. I'm real.
But here's where the hyprocritical part of it comes in:
I'm about to share some "tips", and "rules" and what not about dating a woman properly. I'm going to pretend that I'm a woman who actually likes dating, and I'm going to let you in on a few of our secrets. (I can already feel the controversy rising....)
Our signals:
Subconsciously, women will hold themselves in as feminine of a light as possible when first meeting a man they're actually attracted to. If her voice seems up an octive, your chances are good. If her posture is ladylike, and she's moving about like she wants you to know how flexible she is, your chances are even better. If she holds your gaze for a while, and smiles seductively. You're totally in.
But these are easy. The harder ones are telling when she's NOT into you. Pay attention to these, now.
1) If she's talking to you like an old buddy from elementary school, she's not interested. Just because she's laughing at your jokes doesn't mean she wants to sleep with you. If her giggles are sort of shrill, and she touches you when you make a joke, then you're totally in. But if she laughs, and doesn't want to make eye contact, she's trying not to lead you on.
2) Nine out of ten times a woman who says "no" (to anything), MEANS "no". She's not playing hard to get. Get over it, respect her "no", and for the love of nancy, MOVE ON.
3) If she doesn't call you, she's not interested. Period. She didn't loose your number. She's not too busy. She doesn't like you in that way, and doesn't want to lead you on.
4) "Just friends" means: "In no shape or form am I ever going to be sexually attracted to you." "Just friends for now" means: "I like to take it real slow, and I'm unsure of you right now, so I want to wait it out..."
Those are the basics.
You want to know how to turn a woman off? These are good...heh heh...Check it out:
*Stare at her breasts and grin stupidly.
No, it's not a compliment. A glance, is a compliment. Staring and grinning makes you look like a man with absolutely no self control, which, in turn, makes you look no more evolved than an ape.
*Talking in a weird, trying-to-be-sexy voice. Dude. You're either sexy or you're not. The voice is just lame and weird. Very, very few men can pull off the sexy voice, and the ones who can have a natural talent that they themselves are probably not even aware of.
*Don't buy a drink for a woman without asking first. Don't be that guy. Don't ask the bartender to send a drink "to the blonde by the pool table", and then wink at her when the waitress points you out. Double, trible, quadtruple rude. Why? Because for one, you don't even know if she has a boyfriend. Two, you have no idea what kind of drink she likes or even if she WANTS another one. Three? It looks like you're buying her off. You're putting her into a position where she's now going to feel rude if she doesn't come talk to you whether she's attracted to you or not. There's nothing worse than "tricking" a woman into talking to you. This happened to me once, and I was a little bit of a snot about it. I saluted the guy (who was...whoa. super hot...)in a sort of sassy way, drank my free drink, and never went over to talk to him. Mean bitch? No way.
Now. If she's been sending you signals all night? Okay. Sure. But you should still ask her, no matter what. ASK HER.
*And for the love of pete: just because you own a house, have a nicely manicured lawn, work in an upscale office, drive a nice car, and really, really like to talk about yourself, does not in any shape or form automatically make you a good catch. Having a hobby or two, a passion, a joke to tell, something of the sort is going to make your night all the better. That is, of course, if she's a normal, unshallow, good woman. (Again with those variables! Crap.)
Ugh. Writing this is making all those variables spring up, and is making me second guess everything I'm writing. I certainly can't speak for all women, only myself and the ones who are like me. There are plenty of women who would love to have a mystery man buy them a drink from across the way. There are plenty of women who totally dig guys with deep pockets and nice offices...
So. I suppose this is simply a list, an essay, a rant on things that I wish I could say to every man who's ever tried to hit on me and has only pissed me off doing so. If there are any women out there who agree to any of this, I sure would like a show of hands. There's so much more I still want to carry on about, but I think I ought to end it here before my foot gets lodged completely into my mouth.
Let's throw all those variables out the window, entirely. I've been itching to let out a few clues, tips, and basic rules to follow for a man in pursuit of a woman. Now there's different stages, of course. I want to start with my "favorite" (which conveinently comes first in the sequence already), which is: asking the woman, out.
Dating, it's called.
Now,I'm going to share a secret. Consequently, this secret is going to turn me into the biggest hypocrite (a good kick off!), but I think it's only fair.
I don't date.
I hate dating.
I hate the ritual of a man I hardly know forking out money to pay for my dinner, or for my drinks, or my cheesy bowling games. It makes me feel obligated to a complete stranger. Awkward! And flowers? No thanks. Nice gesture, but I believe that romance like that should come later. Buying me flowers when I hardly know you makes me feel like you're trying to buy my affection. I'm either going to be attracted to you or I'm not, flowers aren't going to change that.
I'm terrible, aren't I?
Yeeeah...
I don't think I am. I'm real.
But here's where the hyprocritical part of it comes in:
I'm about to share some "tips", and "rules" and what not about dating a woman properly. I'm going to pretend that I'm a woman who actually likes dating, and I'm going to let you in on a few of our secrets. (I can already feel the controversy rising....)
Our signals:
Subconsciously, women will hold themselves in as feminine of a light as possible when first meeting a man they're actually attracted to. If her voice seems up an octive, your chances are good. If her posture is ladylike, and she's moving about like she wants you to know how flexible she is, your chances are even better. If she holds your gaze for a while, and smiles seductively. You're totally in.
But these are easy. The harder ones are telling when she's NOT into you. Pay attention to these, now.
1) If she's talking to you like an old buddy from elementary school, she's not interested. Just because she's laughing at your jokes doesn't mean she wants to sleep with you. If her giggles are sort of shrill, and she touches you when you make a joke, then you're totally in. But if she laughs, and doesn't want to make eye contact, she's trying not to lead you on.
2) Nine out of ten times a woman who says "no" (to anything), MEANS "no". She's not playing hard to get. Get over it, respect her "no", and for the love of nancy, MOVE ON.
3) If she doesn't call you, she's not interested. Period. She didn't loose your number. She's not too busy. She doesn't like you in that way, and doesn't want to lead you on.
4) "Just friends" means: "In no shape or form am I ever going to be sexually attracted to you." "Just friends for now" means: "I like to take it real slow, and I'm unsure of you right now, so I want to wait it out..."
Those are the basics.
You want to know how to turn a woman off? These are good...heh heh...Check it out:
*Stare at her breasts and grin stupidly.
No, it's not a compliment. A glance, is a compliment. Staring and grinning makes you look like a man with absolutely no self control, which, in turn, makes you look no more evolved than an ape.
*Talking in a weird, trying-to-be-sexy voice. Dude. You're either sexy or you're not. The voice is just lame and weird. Very, very few men can pull off the sexy voice, and the ones who can have a natural talent that they themselves are probably not even aware of.
*Don't buy a drink for a woman without asking first. Don't be that guy. Don't ask the bartender to send a drink "to the blonde by the pool table", and then wink at her when the waitress points you out. Double, trible, quadtruple rude. Why? Because for one, you don't even know if she has a boyfriend. Two, you have no idea what kind of drink she likes or even if she WANTS another one. Three? It looks like you're buying her off. You're putting her into a position where she's now going to feel rude if she doesn't come talk to you whether she's attracted to you or not. There's nothing worse than "tricking" a woman into talking to you. This happened to me once, and I was a little bit of a snot about it. I saluted the guy (who was...whoa. super hot...)in a sort of sassy way, drank my free drink, and never went over to talk to him. Mean bitch? No way.
Now. If she's been sending you signals all night? Okay. Sure. But you should still ask her, no matter what. ASK HER.
*And for the love of pete: just because you own a house, have a nicely manicured lawn, work in an upscale office, drive a nice car, and really, really like to talk about yourself, does not in any shape or form automatically make you a good catch. Having a hobby or two, a passion, a joke to tell, something of the sort is going to make your night all the better. That is, of course, if she's a normal, unshallow, good woman. (Again with those variables! Crap.)
Ugh. Writing this is making all those variables spring up, and is making me second guess everything I'm writing. I certainly can't speak for all women, only myself and the ones who are like me. There are plenty of women who would love to have a mystery man buy them a drink from across the way. There are plenty of women who totally dig guys with deep pockets and nice offices...
So. I suppose this is simply a list, an essay, a rant on things that I wish I could say to every man who's ever tried to hit on me and has only pissed me off doing so. If there are any women out there who agree to any of this, I sure would like a show of hands. There's so much more I still want to carry on about, but I think I ought to end it here before my foot gets lodged completely into my mouth.
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