Hollywood Endings

They said it couldn’t be done, but I have in fact gone all semester without cable television. While I still watch every episode of The Daily Show and Modern Family online, the one thing I have managed to avoid—but promptly caught up on when I was at home for break—was reality TV shows.

I’ll spare you my musings about who Ray J should choose (me) and my opinions on Kourtney Kardashian’s baby daddy (ew ew ew). Instead, I’ll get right to the conclusion of my reality show research: relationships are fucked.

By episode three of the True Life marathon on MTV, I was actually looking forward to a life of celibacy in the nun convent. Or, more likely, an abundance of meaningless sex with emotionally unavailable men and an early liver transplant. Between episodes like “I get off on my girlfriend’s tears,” and “My boyfriend has sex with my mother, but I love him anyway,” being in a relationship sounded forever worse than dying alone.

Just as these shows were manipulating me even further into man-hating bitterness, I made the unfortunate mistake of watching Brown Sugar and Love and Basketball for the first time. In the same night. While cuddling with a cute black boy. If you ever heed any of my advice, let it be this: do not do such a thing.

I was comfortable with the hatred I felt after watching reality TV shows, but watching these two love stories stirred up more difficult feelings. Feelings of want. Desire. Hope. I wondered if that could ever be me, kissing to a soundtrack with the butterflies that come with feelings of forever.

It’s hard to admit to wanting love. It feels vulnerable. It feels weak. And boy do I hate feeling.

Obviously I’m a silly girl and basing all of this blog off of bad TV shows and movies with sexy protagonists. On more than 23 occasions, the above mentioned cute, cuddly, black boy has had to remind me that it’s JUST A MOVIE and to quit crying already.

But having been away from fake and dramatically portrayed relationships for so long, I guess this sudden influx of horrible versus great love stories has made me a bit confused. However silly, it has made me think about which category I belong to. Am I bitter or starry-eyed? Do I see relationships as scary and inevitably heartbreaking or am I hopeful?

Tonight, I like to think I’m on the optimistic side of things. That someday I’ll have my own love story that will make girls like me cry. I like to think I’d be brave enough to challenge a lover to a one-on-one basketball game for his heart.

That’s a lie. Shooting air balls and dribbling on my feet won’t win a guy. But still, I want to be bold enough, to want enough to try. I want to not be scared of ending up desperate on a reality show, but instead go to crazy lengths to be with a good man.

Luckily for me, being crazy ain’t no thang.

Barnes and Noble Callings

I found the only open chair—a stiff, wooden one—next to the children’s section at Barnes and Noble. To my right, in one of the comfy armchairs, was a woman napping. Next to her sat a daughter on her father’s lap, listening as he read “The Night Before Christmas.”

My foot tapped to the familiar rhythm as he spoke, “the stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.” The little girl sunk into her father, eyes gleaming with contentment, probably for both her father and Santa. When they were done with the book, which seemed shorter than I remembered, the girl woke up the woman who was napping.

“Mama, Daddy read me FIVE books today!”

The mother thanked her husband for letting her nap. The daughter thanked him on behalf of her mother, too. And with that, they held hands and left the bookstore, I assume to go home to a fireplace, dogs and big dinner.

I wondered if the parents felt the same contentment the little girl’s eyes expressed. I wondered if they had a happy marriage and nice home, good jobs and a life full of books and learning. I wondered if I could feel content with all that.

I bought the book I was reading, “The Late Bloomer’s Revolution,” by Amy Cohen. It’s about a struggling writer who finds herself at 30-something, with a failed career and failed love life. I picked it up before I met the family on the chairs, assuming it would be a must re-read when I was soon a failed writer, single and 30-something.

At 22, I know I am young and faced with endless options. I know I want to travel, live in different cities, meet eccentric people and do work that I’m proud of. Creating a family has never been a goal of mine. Career and experiences trump what has always been a given in my life—a warm, large and loving family. I take family for granted and assume one will just fall into my lap someday. It’s the other things for which I have to strive.

I guess I see the two options as exclusive. I imagine myself single and independent as I create a successful career and see the world. I imagine a husband and daughter holding me back, keeping me in a Columbia bookstore. At some point I’ll have to choose.

And at least today, I hope I choose to nap in an armchair while my husband reads,

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight.”

Lessons from a Stranger’s Baby Daddy

The other day I was getting a sandwich in Subway, trying my hardest to ignore the uneven distribution of jalapenos on my Veggie Delight. You all know how that goes. I was cringing at the thought of those few extra-spicy bites when the lady behind the counter struck up conversation.

“Don’t you just hate it when someone you don’t like tries to hit on you?”

I responded with something like, “Oh totally. Feeling attractive and desirable SUCKS.”

Disregarding my sarcasm, Subway lady went on to tell me about how her baby daddy’s cousin was always trying to get in her pants. But she was all like, your cousin is my baby daddy, and that just ain’t cool, ya dig?

Seeing as I don’t have a baby daddy, I didn’t “dig,” but I did say, “yeah, fuck that guy.” By the end of the conversation, I hadn’t even noticed the obnoxious amount of onions she put on my sandwich. Instead, this stranger and I had made a connection. Mutual man-hating. I listened to her bitch and validated her feelings, which is what girls do. She gave me a free soda for my kindness, and I thanked her, realizing the only thing better than a Diet Coke is a free Diet Coke.

I wish all of life worked like that. If every act of kindness were immediately rewarded with free caffeine, the world would be a much lovelier place. Hold the door open for someone—free alcoholic beverage of your choice. Compliment someone’s shoes—free back massage from the sex of your choice. Stop at a crosswalk—free NOT GOING TO PRISON card because YOU’RE SUPPOSED to yield to human flesh.

My moods are very dependent on strangers, I guess. One simple act of generosity seriously puts a perk in my step. And one asshole going out of order at a four-way stop sign can piss me off for the rest of the day.

And isn’t it just pleasant to be a pleasant person? To smirk a little while walking down the sidewalk, to be polite, to wave at others just because. To compliment someone who otherwise may have been feeling down. It feels nice to be nice.

And I don’t know, maybe there is such a thing as karma. Maybe we will get a little good luck from the world if we are kind to it. But if not, being kind still feels good for the soul. Ya dig?

Moldy Mondays and That Mess I Call My Life

I was weighing the pros and cons of boiling pasta in a skillet when I realized it. My life is a mess.

Even if I had had the time, I didn’t have the room to clean a pot in our kitchen of chaos. I’ve been eating out of Tupperware for days for the same reason.

On a similar note, I actually Googled whether or not it’s safe to tear the mold off of bread and still eat it. When Yahoo Answers advised against it, I did it anyway. I have neither the time nor the funds to  get more bread.

I feel like I just don’t stop. A bill always has to be paid, usually with a late fee. There’s always a new e-mail to answer, new tasks at work, a project, paper, or unpaid newsroom shift.

And I’m always running late. Always forgetting to do stuff or stressed because I assume I forgot to do something. I’m 100 miles per hour all day, multitasking like a champion. I just paid an MU bill online, scheduled an appointment to get my oil changed AND cooked moldy garlic bread—all at the same time.

And the worst part about it is, I’m poor. Being 22 and still having to rely on my parents’ income makes me feel like a bitch. But at least I’m a thankful bitch. Thank you mom and pops!

I guess I’m not special. (Yes I am). In this situation, I’m no different than every other college student: overworked and under (read: barely) paid. I just feel like I’ve been doing homework for far too long. Something like 17 years. I’m over it.

Then I think about why our kitchen is such a mess and why I can’t afford a new loaf of bread. It has a little something to do with our weekend drinking binge that only stopped long enough to sleep a few hours. It has a little something to do with being in college.

College. When it’s appropriate to start drinking in the a.m. because strangers are getting ready to play football down the street.

College. When passing out on the couch in snow boots while it’s 70 degrees is just another Friday, and eating drunken El Rancho with friends is more satisfying than sex.

College. When three grown women can choreograph dances in a messy kitchen, laughing until it hurts, only half-caring if the neighbors see. Because we’re not really grown at all.

And I suppose I’ll eat a little mold any day if it means not really being grown at all.

Fucked.

He said he was leaving. He was done with me. He’d stuck around too long, anyway.

He put on his jacket, and I put my arms around his waist. He didn’t want me, and for the first time, I wanted him.

When the nice guy turns angry. When my second-choice drops out of the race. When the man I thought liked me too much to leave does just that.

It’s fucked. No more eloquent way to put it. That I could choose to chase after the man who ignores my phone calls, who rolls his eyes when I cry and refuses to kiss me. That I could choose that over the man whose phone calls I’m ignoring, who holds me into his chest when I’m upset and kisses my forehead just because.

It’s fucked that I allowed myself to be devalued by a man all while refusing to see the value of another man. For months I’ve been in a constant karmic fuckfest—being treated like I treat others.

I just wanted so hard. I wanted and I tried and I cried too much. I remembered what it was like to laugh and kiss him in the same breath. I saw what kind of man he could be if he would only let himself go there. And I wanted all of it.

Meanwhile “all of it” is putting on his jacket, getting ready to walk out of my bedroom.

He’s tired of trying. And I’m wanting now.

It’s fucked.

Of Childhood, Character, and Cow Parts

I remember an old rusted freezer, tall and menacing, with an outdated Bud Light calendar attached to the front door. It sat in the corner of our garage and held something like a whole cow’s worth of meat that my family would eat throughout the year.

Back then I couldn’t care less about the fine cuts of steak or pounds of ground beef it held. I only dared open the heavy, creaky door for the latest delivery from the Schwan’s man. Orange push pops. Ice cream sandwiches. Sundae cones.

Despite the fact that my sugary delights shared space with a slaughtered animal, childhood was as it should be. It was summer in a small town, in an even smaller neighborhood filled with kids and imagination. I lived a short one-minute sprint or bike ride away from my best friend, Emily.

When Emily and I weren’t weighing ourselves or arguing about who was the biggest fatso, we ate junk food. We ate my dad’s outdated Little Debbie cakes, popsicles, cherries from the neighbor’s tree, and that day—ice cream from the meat freezer.

Probably after having bickered for ten minutes about who would go get the deserts, Emily (being the bigger fatso and wanting it more) gave in. She went into the freezer to get our ice cream treats.

I imagine we ate them while riding our bikes down the gravel road, swerving as we licked the melted goodness off our forearms, all while planning a neighborhood show for our new band, EK Music.

And as quickly as our childhood imaginations could conjure up ticket sales and world tours, parents could ruin with reality.

Hours after the day’s activities had washed ice cream stickiness off my hand, Emily and I came back to my house to see my father had just arrived from work. His bellowing voice called me downstairs, and I knew I was in trouble. Eager to get it over with, I ran to him.

He stood, taller than the freezer, his face red with anger. The freezer door had been left open. The meat inside was ruined by sticky Missouri heat.

My father screamed about the hundreds of dollars worth of meat in the freezer, about how he didn’t know what could be safely salvaged. He was frustrated in a way that only children can make you feel.

So I bowed my head and told him I was sorry for leaving the door open. I apologized for being so careless, and I probably cried, not out of fear, but because I hated disappointing my father. Surprisingly, he let me go back outside to play with Emily.

Later that night when I came home for dinner, dad told me he knew Emily was the one who had left the door open. I’m not sure if he could see it in my face or her face, but he knew.

And I’m thankful for what my father told me that night. He told me I had a good heart. I was a good girl for taking the blame for my friend.

I think I often forget that about myself. I get caught up in my mistakes, in the disappointments. I beat myself up for not being good enough, for bumming a cigarette or spending too much money at the bar. I allow others to question my character and worry they don’t like what they see.

I don’t give myself credit for being a good girl. A good woman, like my daddy raised me to be.

When it comes down to it, I am the kind of person who will take the blame for hundreds of dollars worth of defrosted cow parts. I know that much.

Boy Oh Boy

I’m going to try something crazy here. Something I meant to do all along. Something that needed to happen years ago.

I’m going to write a blog that isn’t about The Boy. That’s right. I’m not going to mention anything about how sexy he is. Or how much I want to strangle him sometimes. Or how even when I want to strangle him, he’s so sexy. I’m not going to do it.

So instead of talking about that pretty boy I like a lot, I’m going to use this blog for its intended purpose: documenting drunkenness.

Consider this the last you hear of The Boy.

For those of you who refresh your Facebook feeds every 20 seconds like I do, you might have noticed I’m a big fat liar. I’m not so much a liar as I am a fool, really. I tend to underestimate my drunk state of mind, convincing myself no matter how much I chug, I’ll never in a million shots get hypnotized at a XXX show. That just has regret written all over it.

Alas, regret is my best friend when I’ve been drinking. It’s like El Rancho to me. I’ll have a chicken taco salad and a delicious side of regret, please. Both hurt in the morning.

So after all of my sober protests, after continually refusing to ever participate in such a thing, I ran up on stage to be sexually embarrassed for the humor of others.

As I sat there under the harsh stage lights, I repeated to myself, “Don’t show your boobs. Don’t show your boobs,” all while wishing I had worn matching underwear just in case. By the time I got to the third refrain, I was already getting sleepy, feeling like, “meh, tits shmits.”

I was out of it so quickly. Watermelon vodka may have played a part in that. But even I was truly surprised. I was falling forward in my chair, thinking oh my fucking god, I’m getting hypnotized. Tits shmits. And then I knew I was totally going to get naked when he told me I couldn’t move my arm, and I thought, yes I can asshole. And then I couldn’t move my arm. TITS SHMITS!!

Things get blurry from here, although I do remember bits of what went on. I remember him trying to tell me it was really hot outside and that I needed to take off anything black. All I had on was a shirt and bra, black leggings and black underwear. And I remember thinking, this dude’s going to have to be slicker than that to get these pants off. At least buy me a drink.

So that basically explains how I acted during the hour and a half-long show. I did crazy things my stage frightened ass would normally never do, but I didn’t do anything very slutty.

So many people just X’d out of this blog right now.

The friends who actually let me do this told me most of what went down. One story goes that the hypnotist had us watching pornos, and while the other people on stage were practically jacking off, I was laughing hysterically. I can be very awkward about sex.

I can also be very awkward about humping a chair. This I saw video of, and I just want to clarify—that is not how I hump. I can’t be sure what I was doing up there exactly, but my arm was swinging around like an elephant trunk. I was moving my ass side to side, completely off beat, hair covering my face, looking like a strung-out hippie beating up a chair. Not sexy.

I also participated in a scene with a crazy, violent man who was hysterical about his McDonald’s order being messed up. I hugged him and told him to calm down. Kayla would cook him something at home. If I were in the crowd, I totally would have booed my boring ass. SHOW US SOME TITS!

Except for smacking some asses, that was basically it for my XXX hypnosis. I was a prude and woke up with no regrets.

Well, from the hypnosis, at least.

And there you have it, folks. A whole blog and not one mention of a darling, disgusting, delicious, damned boy.

Dark Want

Sometimes it gets so dark, I shove my face into the carpet. I lay spread eagle on my stomach and sink into the fibers. I imagine becoming a rug. Never moving again. Never having to feel again.

Sometimes it gets really dark. I push my palm into my chest, hoping to tame my heart. That’s where I feel the crazy. In my chest. It’s out of control. I just want to calm it. Pushing harder. And nothing.

I don’t know how to alleviate any of it. So I squirm. I gasp. I rock back and forth in the fetal position. I look at myself in the mirror and hate.

I hate that I’m weak. That I have bouts of crazy. I hate the darkness. And that I can’t get out of it.

He kissed my shoulder blade, and I cried. I hadn’t been the small spoon in so long. His huge shoulders enveloped me, and I felt like a girl. I felt like a girl who was wanted by a boy. A boy whose freckles I hated because they weren’t familiar. Tears dripped off my nose, and I wondered if he could feel the darkness too.

I want so badly for different lips to be on my skin. I want different fingers to tuck the hair behind my ears. I want the tiny freckle below his bellybutton. I want him to want me.

I want a man to squeeze me tighter into his body because he never wants to lose me. Because an inch of space feels like a canyon. I want it from my man, not other men.

And so it’s dark, all of this want. That he’s all I ever want. That he’s really not anything I want at all. The other men who have what I want. The other men I don’t want. I want to stay in college forever. I want to start my career. I want to be in a big city. I want to be near my family. It’s all a contradiction.

And it’s dark.

The Notorious B.I.T.C.H.

***This assignment was to emulate Montaigne, which explains the quotes***

“Women don’t necessarily want to look like real women, they want to look like beautiful women.”
–Hal Ruben Stein, in response to plus-sized models emerging in the fashion industry

Beyond the assumption that “real” does not equate “beautiful,” Hal Ruben Douche’s statement leaves me baffled for two reasons.

First of all, I’m not sure why any German feels qualified to comment on fashion. And secondly, I’m not sure why a man is pretending to know how a woman feels. Hal Ruben Douche has probably never even pleased a woman.

“Fuck all those nights you thought you broke my back. Well guess what, yo, your sex was whack.”
–Frankee

You see, as a woman, I don’t spend my days talking about itchy testicles because I just don’t know how it feels.

“If I were a boy, I think I could understand.”
–Beyonce

And if a female—with her superior ability to empathize—can’t even understand what it’s like to be a man, I’m willing to bet my left breast men have no clue how a woman feels. I mean, besides how her left breast feels.

After all,

“I think I’m the shit, well apparently. But you won’t hear words like, ‘marry me.’ The only thing you gonna hear is, ‘girl, you gonna suck it or not?’”
–Cam’Ron

I know there are good men; I’ve heard stories of their rare sightings. But allow me to generalize for a second because most men I’ve had the misfortune of dating actually say things like “I’m the shit.”

“I got a big ego. She love my big ego. So stroke my big ego”
–Kanye West

Most men I know are so consumed in their Kanye-esque arrogance, they can’t even comprehend a woman’s insecurities; they just entice us further with their misogyny.

“I wish I could tie you up in my shoes, make you feel unpretty too.”
–TLC

And while it’s true that some men,

“want ‘em real thick and juicy,”
–Sir Mix-A-Lot

A lot of us women struggle silently and constantly about our weight. The devil is always on our shoulders, always encouraging us to order the burger instead of the salad, then beating us up when we do.

Again, I concede some men do know what this feels like. But some men actually get to exploit their chubbiness for gain.

“She love me even though I’m fat.”
–Fat Joe

We all know Ruben Studdard didn’t really win American Idol as much as his fattiness did. Biggie gets to add the “Notorious” adjective to his name. He even gets “The” in front of his title to honor of the supremacy of his largeness.

Women don’t get the same advantage. You’ll never hear of Fat JoAnne or The Notorious B.I.T.C.H.

There’s a different standard and different pressures for women—something I wish the cocky men in my life could acknowledge instead of seeing as an annoyance.

“Now it’s like December when you’re sayin’ that I’m so insecure. I gotta get away cause you’re making me weak. It’s keeping me trapped.”
–Keyshia Cole

I don’t need some man in Germany to define what a beautiful woman is. I don’t need men who can’t sympathize with my insecurities. I don’t need.

“So I like what I see when I’m looking at me when I’m walking past the mirror. No stress through the night, at a time in my life ain’t worried about if you feel it. Got my head on straight, I got my mind right. I ain’t gonna let you kill it. You see I wouldn’t change my life, my life’s just fine.”
–Mary J. Blige

I don’t need that piece of cheesecake either. But I’ll eat it anyway.

Grandpa

How thankful for stage 4 cancer. That it allowed for preparation and hugs while he was alive.

How thankful for grandma’s dementia. That she didn’t have to fully grasp these would be her last days with her husband.

How thankful for infected wisdom teeth. That they forced me to go home, so I was able to be there when he took a turn for the worse.

How thankful for trips to the DMV. That afterwards would be our final lucid moments together.

How thankful for pancakes and sausage. That over them, he could tell me “I really do love you.” And that was our goodbye.

How thankful for his 76th birthday party. That he was able to see how many lives he had influenced. How many people loved him.

How thankful for his small house. That we had gathered there so many times before. That it’s filled with decades of memories. That he could be there instead of in a hospital.

How thankful for his recliner—the one I always had to give up when he came into the room. That his children could kiss his forehead while he lay. That mom could rest on his chest and pray.

How thankful for sickness instead of suddenness. That he was comfortable and ready. That his family could hold his hand. That he could hear their prayers.

How thankful for my grandfather. That he loved his wife and children. His grandchildren and great-grandchildren. That he worked hard and gave much. That he told funny stories and stuck to his faith. That he took me fishing when I was young and wrote me one-sentence notes when I was in Spain. That he created an amazing family. That I was able to know him.

How thankful indeed.