It's My Birthday and I'll Whine If I Want To

I'm a totally reasonable person. I try not to get hung up on petty or trivial things. I take pride in the fact that I don't really care what celebrities are wearing or who anyone is sleeping with. The things that tend to really upset me have more to do with civil rights, health care, violence, poverty, shit like that. 

Now having said ALL of that, I'm turning 40 next week and I fucking hate it. I hate it and I don't want to and I am so totally going to approach this birthday kicking and screaming the whole way. 

Now I do realize that -- and yes, this next part is being delivered to the crowd from my perch on my very own high horse -- I might not feel this way if I had a pair of balls instead of a set of tits and ovaries. Not because there's some kind of property in estrogen that makes this particular birthday difficult but because, basically, men decided a while ago that at the age of 40 a woman's vagina begins to rot out of her body and she no longer serves any sort of purpose for humankind or the subservient animal kingdom. And since we haven't yet reached a time when the vast majority of men (and some women, too) are willing to share this world equally with us uterine folk, what they say tends to go. I'm just lucky that I'm not an actress cause if I was, I'd only get cast opposite Kirk Douglas, Alan Arkin or the second Albus Dumbledore once the big 4-0 hit. 

I do admit to generally liking birthdays, despite the fact that mine is so close to Christmas. I have all the normal triggers that everyone whose birthday is close to Christmas has. One tradition that never gets old: when my best friend gives me my birthday gift, it is ALWAYS accompanied by her pointing out the non-Christmas wrapping paper. And you know what? I fucking appreciate that. But, as I was saying, I do. I like birthdays. I like the fun. I like the attention. Fuck, I like the presents. I'm woman enough to admit that freely. 

But...for reals...I am seriously not liking this one. I remember when I was twenty, thinking to myself that I was halfway to 40 and how fast that first 20 years went. And now the next twenty have gone by. I hope I nail down the ability to savor every moment in the next twenty so it doesn't feel like it's flying by so fast. So I don't close my eyes for what seems like a second only to realize I'm turning 60. 

I have a sneaking suspicion though that this next 20 is going to be amazing. For maybe the first time ever in my life I feel on the cusp of something. I feel like I'm approaching the very beginning of my destiny and instead of pulling at my leash to get away, I'm running towards it. 

So, maybe 40 isn't going to be so bad. Maybe, just maybe, 40 is going to be amazing. Maybe, at age 40, I'll begin to take over the world. And when I do, I'm going to make sure that 40 is no longer "old". 40 will no longer be the age when people begin to decompose and slowly approach irrelevancy. And by people, I mean women. 

40, instead, will be the age when we begin our ascent into a higher plane of existence. 40 will be when a new level of respect is reached and a new, more refined, thought process is developed. 40 will be the beginning of the Age of Enlightenment. 

And, you know, 40 will be when we start becoming our most awesome selves.

Sadie, Sadie, Married Lady

I'll be honest, there's a lot about being married that doesn't feel any different Yet, at least. I don't know how things are going to feel in a year, 10 years, 50 years but so far most everything is pretty much the same. 

Maybe it because my husband and I were living together before we got married. Maybe it's because we're not planning on doing the kids thing so this isn't the first step in a series of monumental changes to our life. Maybe it's because we're both almost 40 and so we both either already feel like grownups or have already come to terms with the fact that nothing is going to make us feel like grownups. 

Maybe though, it's cause I've already felt married. 

I mean, don't get me wrong, this legal thing is a HUGE deal. Despite the fact that we got married in Vegas, we knew perfectly well what we were doing. I know that this, as far as the legal system is concerned, is a binding contract. I know that there really aren't too many decisions bigger than this one. 

I know that signing my name is going to be a bitch for a while. 

But, I also know that even before November 21, my husband had me for life. I've thought a lot about that notion that there's always someone in a relationship that loves the other person more. Truthfully, I've been afraid of that concept for much of my life -- being afraid to be on either end of that spectrum. I felt, though, that logically it made sense. You can't actually love someone the exact same amount that they love you. Impossible!

And now? I realize that it's not like a measuring cup of love. It's not like there's a scale somewhere that can calculate the tiniest difference in the weight of one's love. I realize that things don't work that way. I realize now that there are some couples that are in a race to love each other the most. I realize that some people support each other, love each other and comfort each other so intrinsically that measuring love seems silly and petty and truly unnecessary. I realize now that it's truly possible to be so secure in your partner that you can't imagine measuring your love or his(hers). That when you think about this whole idea, you can't imagine anyone loving someone any more than you love him(her) and then you think about the love he(she) gives to you every single day and you realize that you are literally loved just as much as you love. 

Marriage isn't much different for me yet. That's true. But I still have those moments when I just stop and look around -- when I see men's shoes at the door or get a good look into the master bedroom closets or just glance to my left and see my husband sitting on the cou

ch -- and the 12 year old girl inside of me just giggles and thinks gleefully, "I'm married!! I've got a husband! Holy shit!" And yes, my 12 year old self would've totally said holy shit, just ask my matron of honor. 

I'm pretty psyched about this whole marriage thing. I know it's not going to all be easy but last time I checked nothing about life was. I do have a feeling though that life is going to be a little bit easier with my husband at my side. It's amazing how little I'm afraid of now, not because I think bad stuff can't happen but because I found the person who considers it an honor to battle all of the monsters with me -- someone that I would slay any dragon for. And not only am I not as scared but I'm more brave and powerful than I could've ever imagined. Failure isn't so scary when the existence of the person next to you makes you realize you're always a winner.

Oh Joy! David O. Russell and Friends Are Back!

Could David O. Russell please stop casting the same people in all of his movies? I mean, for real. Like, for real, for real. 

Hey, who was in that movie The Fighter? Mark Wahlberg, Christian Bale, Amy Adams, Melissa Leo.

Hey, who was in Silver Linings Playbook? Jennifer Lawrence, Bradley Cooper, Robert De Niro.

Hey, who was in American Hustle? Christian Bale, Amy Adams, Bradley Cooper, Jennifer Lawrence, Robert De Niro.

Hey, who is in that new movie Joy? Jennifer Lawrence, Bradley Cooper, Robert De Niro. 

For fuck's sake, David O. Russel, it's like you're trying to be the grittier, douchier version of Tim Burton. Except instead of lining up Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter for every single movie, just turn Jennifer Lawrence and Bradley Cooper into every character conceivable. That blueprint has worked out spectacularly for Burton.

I mean, who didn't love and adore the way he made childhood favorites like Alice in Wonderland and Willy Wonka into something straight out of a twelve year old's erotic nightmares?! And I'm sure Steven Sondheim loved what he did with Sweeney Todd, turning him into the most boring story of singing, cosmetology and murder anyone has ever seen! Fuck, instead of slicing throats it would have been easier to just put everyone into a goddamn coma. I saw that movie on my birthday (my motherfucking BIRTHDAY) and I seriously fell a-fucking-sleep after 30 minutes. 30 minutes. And I was looking forward to that movie! Hell, when my roommate woke me up and I gave the movie five more excruciating minutes of my time, I ended up rolling over as much as my theatre seat would allow and I fucking went back to damn sleep. 

Directors falling in love with certain stars and forgetting about everyone else on the planet has always turned out great. Not having to wonder where your next paycheck is coming from has definitely made Johnny Depp a solid choice for me. I mean, I look forward to every sell-out move he makes nowadays, whether it's something from the now-constantly predictable Burton, a 15th Pirates of the Caribbean movie or just drivel like The Tourist or The Lone Ranger.

Leo DiCaprio and Martin Scorsese have gotten into the mix too. I mean, sure The Departed was awesome and I fucking love The Aviator but you know what isn't good no matter what anyone tells you? Gangs of New York. I don't care that Daniel Day-Lewis is in it, so is Cameron Diaz. And don't even get me started on the fuck fest that is The Wolf of Wall Street. Yeah, I said it. And I know that there are a whole host of people who now want to lynch me because of what I just wrote and I get that. Nothing is more deliciously hedonistic than sitting in your underwear on the couch, Cheeto crumbs staining your fingertips and snake hole, jacking off to the wonders of The Wolf of Wall Street. Cause that's all it is -- a gluttonous bull-n-bear wankfest. 

No one is immune to it. It happens to the best pairings of the best in their field. I mean, Splash is 80s awesome and Apollo 13 is pretty fucking rad and Tom Hanks and Ron Howard have done some amazing work throughout both of their careers. And then they did The DaVinci Code and Angels & Demons. 

See what I mean?

But, I'm sure it's gonna be different for David O. Russell and his merry band of followers. I'm sure Jennifer Lawrence's fierce quirkiness or Bradley Cooper's scruffy charm is going to keep shit from going down. Robert De Niro's ability to transform himself into the ever-changing characters from Goodfellas, Casino, Meet the Parents, The Family, Analyze This...wait, what was I saying?  

I'm sure David O. Russell isn't headed down a very well-marked path to directing mainstream dreck starring people who should be doing more interesting work. That couldn't possibly happen. I mean, let's face it, the best way to learn and grow in your art is to work with the same people over and over again. It worked for the royals and their lineage. Nothing bad happened at all when bloodlines didn't mix enough. Besides, working with the same people over and over again has proven successful for some people. Just look at Adam Sandler. There's a guy who can hold his head up high when discussing his impeccable body of work.

I Am...

You know what's a nice little challenge to set for yourself? Blog about panic attacks without having one. Cause, I'll be honest, I don't love telling strangers that I get panic attacks. Fuck, I don't love telling anyone. 

Now, I could say that the reason for this is the stigma behind panic attacks. And that certainly doesn't help -- because despite the fact that people are becoming more aware of how they actually work and that everyone knows someone (probably more than one someone) who's afflicted by them, society at-large doesn't really take kindly to anything that effects your brain or your emotions, let alone both. 

But it's actually my own perfectionism that makes me not want to tell people. I don't like the idea that I can't handle something. It makes me feel weak and inferior. Like, I wasn't given all of the proper tools to function as a human being. It's isolating. At least for me it is. When I'm having a panic attack -- or one is approaching -- other people, no matter who they are, get sucked into the noise of the panic attack and add to the assault on my brain. So, sharing that I get panic attacks with the world -- even when I doubt anyone is going to read it -- is pretty close to a 10 on the scary meter. 

I feel like I need to blog about it though because as someone who's getting married in just about three weeks, the panic attacks are more frequent. Now, before you start to worry, the attacks have nothing to do with the actual getting married part. That part is awesome and the man I'm marrying is the most effective person at helping me with my panic attacks. He's never once judged me about them, which kind of blows my mind cause whether it's true or just feels true having a mental illness in this country (not saying we're worse just saying I only live here) is like setting yourself up to be judged. People assume just about anything they want to when they find out a nugget like this. You can't be relied upon. You can't handle stress. You aren't logical enough. You let your emotions rule you. You're defective. 

And god-forbid you take medication for it, well, you're more than broken...you've given up on yourself. I actually had a friend once who, when I made the big and brave decision to go to a psychiatrist, turned into Tom Cruise before my very eyes -- rallying around the idea that psychiatry was a bunch of crap and more dangerous than anything imaginable. Never once worrying that the most dangerous thing imaginable was saying all of this shit to me -- preaching it, really -- after I had struggled so long to make that harrowing decision like that. 

I have certain triggers -- things that I tend to refer to affectionately as "what makes me twitchy" -- and one of those triggers is money. There have been times in my life when I've been comfortable and times in my life when I've been in fear of homelessness. And I think that once you really think you could be out on the street, that fear of being back there never really leaves you. I hope I'm wrong about that because I'd like to think that someday I might beat this feeling but so far that hasn't happened yet. 

And, of course, you can't plan a wedding without talking about money. All the time. And, more than likely, with people whom you're not comfortable talking about money with -- at least for me. Which kind of puts me in an area where I can have a panic attack at any time. And I can feel them from a mile away. I can feel the oxygen leaving my lungs and my fingers starting to fidget. I can feel myself looking it dead in the eye, wishing like hell that it won't come while knowing the whole time that it's going to. And I can feel the world's disappointment when I can't stop it from happening. 

The stigma is bad. It's so bad that even though this runs in my family, I don't feel like I can tell them. My mom knows but she's the only one I've really told and it took me decades to do that. But when you spend your whole life listening to family members talk about your favorite aunt who passed when you were in high school -- the godmother that you have so much in common with -- and make light of her struggle, it gives you the scars that she can no longer wear. I understand that she didn't make life easy -- not for her or for others -- and I get that sometimes we need to be able to laugh at the things that scare us most or have caused us pain but you just never know who might be listening. 

It's not easy being a human being. We're all broken in some way. And if you don't think you're broken, well, that thought is a neon arrow pointing to those broken pieces. I struggle with depression and anxiety. Every day. It has little to do with how happy I am or my goals or dreams or the love I feel. It just is. I have triggers and crutches and coping mechanisms. I have hopes and fears. I have insecurities -- some that I was born with and others that the world helped to create. 

I am real. I am valid. I am not less of a person because of my struggles. And I say this all as much for you as I do me. Because some days, I can't hear my own voice inside my head, all I hear is the world echoing inside of me. And where mental illness is concerned, those words are generally not positive and soothing. 

Sometimes writing can help me manage a panic attack. Sometimes, not. But regardless, I have a gift and an understanding. It's time for me to stop being afraid of other people's ignorant thoughts. I don't deserve that. No one does. 

I am depression. I am anxiety. I am also intelligence, compassion and strength. I will continue to try and not let others dictate how I feel. I will continue to try to stop being my own worst enemy by broadcasting negative thoughts and words into my own head. I am brave. Things that are easy for other people are not easy for me but there are things that I can rock the hell out of that other people can't. 

We are all different. We are all equal. We're human beings and this isn't math class. There isn't a spreadsheet somewhere that lists all of the things a human being is supposed to have that each of us has to check-off for ourselves. Doing something or handling something better than another person doesn't mean you win. Nothing about you -- on the inside or the outside -- works that way. We may want it to, we may have spent millennia trying to tell people what traits are better to have -- from skin color to gender to how your brain works to who you love or how or if you worship -- but the only trait that really sets us apart is compassion. And if you have it deeply, it can seem like your tragic flaw. You can feel crushed under the weight of it, watching all of the pain in the world and feeling it in your bones. And people will make you feel weak because of it. People with little or no compassion will do all they can to make you feel like there's something wrong with you if you do have it. It's not that the people without compassion have louder voices, our voices are just as loud, but they've been holding the microphone for far too long. People's differences, people's uniquenesses--do not make them less-than. There's no such thing as a human imperfection. Why? Because there's no such thing as a perfect human being. It's not in our genetic makeup. 

I am depression. I am anxiety. I am panic attacks and humor and compassion and intelligence. I am the only version of me that there is. And therefore, I am the template. I am the mold to being the ultimate me. No one and nothing can take that from me as long as I don't let them. And I don't. 

I am proud of who I am. There are things I need to work on and things I need to cultivate. And there are things I need to spread to others because the force is rather strong in me. The force is strong in all of us, we just need to realize that no one is more privy to strength and character than anyone else. 

We, as humans, can make the world the beautiful place that it can ultimately be. But it's all on us. We can't wait for someone to do the work for us. Whether you believe in God or not, it's our job to do not his. And the first step in the process is to tell someone else how great they are. Pick someone you wouldn't normally say it to. Pick a stranger. Pick an enemy. Pick someone who looks like they're having a tough day. Look them dead in the eye and say, "hey, you've overcome a lot and I think that's pretty awesome. I see you doing things that I wish I could do and I'm really impressed. Thanks for adding that to the world."

I am depression. I am anxiety. And I wouldn't change any of it because then I wouldn't be me. And I like me, as Mark Darcy would say, just as I am. 

It's Always Sunny on Criminal Minds

You know what's like seeing a shooting star on the night of a full moon during a leap year while the olympics are going on? A tv show crossover. 

And I'm not talking about those very special episodes that network television loves to do in order to force people into tuning into shows they normally might not watch just to see a split second of a character from one of the shows they do watch. Look Dr. Ross and Dr. Carter are having a double date with Rachel and Monica! No biggie that ER took place in Chicago and Friends in NYC. Oh, isn't life on tv adorable! 

What I'm talking about is when you're watching one of your favorite tv shows and all of a sudden, you're inside one of your other favorite shows. 

This happened to me last week.

I was watching a Criminal Minds episode on Netflix. One, I feel is only fair to point out, that I've seen a bunch (like every other Criminal Minds episode). I'm not sure what was different about this time. I must've been looking up at the screen at just the right part, paying attention where I otherwise might be dicking around on my computer -- because truthfully I think and write better when I have noise on in the background and CM is one of the shows that I'll just let play while I work. Whatever it was...I watched as the unsub (CM lingo *wink, wink*) rounded the corner, his peacoat wrapped around him and his Clark Kent glasses secure on his head, and I stared on in amazement as he walked right fucking past Paddy's Pub. 

For reals, yo'.

He walked right past the entrance to Paddy's. Now, I know what you're going to ask. No, there was no sign. Come on, dummy. This is Criminal Minds and the team wasn't even supposed to be in Philadelphia. There was no Sweet Dee or Mac, Charlie or Dennis. Frank wasn't drinking wine out of a can and Rickety Cricket wasn't huddled by a dumpster. But fuck, if that killer wasn't about to stab someone right outside of Paddy's Pub! 

I was motherfucking delighted. Granted, I couldn't pay attention to the rest of the scene at all. The next thing I knew the story had moved on to the next plot point while I was busy looking up and down the street for a makeshift shanty town. But it was delicious. Those, probably, two minutes where two of my favorite shows collided was just goddamn lovely. Yes, it took me out of the show I was watching for a few minutes but that was okay. It was glorious and I loved it. 

This just doesn't happen often enough. Maybe if I wish real hard in two months time as I go to blow out my birthday candles, the next season of American Horror Story will take place in Stars Hollow!! 

Short Poppies -- the best damn reason to learn to pronounce the name Rhys.

Let's talk for just a minute about Rhys Darby, New Zealand's most delightful and enigmatic national treasure. My fiancé and I just finished watching Short Poppies, Darby's 8-episode faux-documentary, centering on the overly-ordinary and completely unusual fictional small town of "The Bay". In each episode, The Bay's mockumentary focusses on one townie of choice, always effortlessly and hilariously played by Darby. 

Now, I cannot express to you how madly important it is for you to (finish my blog) and then immediately open Netflix and binge watch all eight in a row. They're each less than a half an hour -- you won't have to call in sick from work or anything -- and it will end up being the best (approx) 3 hours of your entire month...or your life, depending on how things are going for you. 

For anyone who's a fan of Kiwi comedy -- and if you're not, you really should be -- you will immediately recognize Darby from his fucking perfect portrayal of pitiful, lovable, sad-sack band manager Murray, in Flight of the Concords. I dare anyone to watch that show and not realize halfway through the series that Murray is their landslide favorite member of the band. 

Rhys Darby more than delivers in Short Poppies. From Terry Pole, the first resident of "The Bay" we're fortunate enough to meet, the leg model and local lifeguard, to my own personal favorite Mary Ledbetter, the leader of the Lady Walkers who delights in delivering personal criticisms to everyone in the town, Darby seems to call on old Kids in the Hall folly and mix it with his own over-the-top yet somehow totally understated portrayal of each character. 

Sprinkled with fun and surprising cameos -- in front of and behind the camera --  I'm already longing to watch the series a second time. I know for a fact that there were moments when I was laughing too hard and too loudly to be fully confident that I heard everything that was being served up in front of me on a fucking comedy platter. 

Wedding Vows

So, I'm getting married in a month. Like, literally. On this date in November of 2015, I will be getting married. Okay, so now we're one day off cause I fell asleep writing this.

Lots of things are tough about wedding planning. Just like lots of things about it are totally easy and totally fucking awesome. Some examples...

Things that are tough:

*Getting save-the-dates and invitations out on time

*Finding a good bridesmaid dress if you're confident enough in yourself that you actually want your chicks to look as awesome as they are.

*Finding the time to do everything

*Not going crazy when the post office is out of your stamps

Things that are easy:

*Cake tasting

*Spending money

*Imagining the getting married part

*Being excited

*Losing track of time

*Feeling lucky

*Stressing out

*Saying fuck (truthfully, this is always)

Things that are awesome:

*Cake tasting (this deserves to be on two lists)

*Picking out wedding party gifts

*Playing with fire and wax to seal your invites

*Presents!!!!

*Finding your dress

*Asking your bridesmaids to measure their heads

*Knowing that for one day you are legitimately the goddamn most important person on the face of the earth or at least in your world.

Now in addition to getting the invites out on time, finding the perfect bridesmaid dress and not going postal on everyone, you know what else is fucking hard? Writing your own damn vows. 

Now, I know there is someone out there that just closed their eyes and imagined their wedding and *boom* the perfect vows were so created. And you know what? I bet they sucked. I bet everyone at that wedding was like, "what the shit is Sheila talking about or "Jesus Christ, why didn't they just go traditional?" Because writing vows is hard, people.

If you give even two of the smallest shits about the person you're marrying, you want the vows to be the best damn words that ever entered into their ear-holes. And if you fancy yourself the creative type or the funny type or like me, the arrogant bastard child of Jane Austen and Amy Schumer, the vows are going to give you fucking nightmares. 

Seriously. Like Poltergeist-type nightmares. 

You know what's tougher than trying to mix the sentiment of Gilbert Blythe with the comedy of Chelsea Handler? Trying to do it in a wedding dress. And god knows that you don't want to be one of those people that try too hard or go too far with it -- after all, it's supposed to be about the love and the moment and the rest of your lives. 

So, I'll continue on, writing my fourth draft of vows that will describe in absurdities and flowery language how lucky I feel to be marrying the love of my life. I'll somehow find a way to convey in a minute or two that every unsolicited dick pic, every name-dropper, every total fucking stalker (I had three) was worth it. That the homeless man who used his tent in the Home Depot parking lot as a bargaining tool or the guy who ran across four lanes of traffic on Wilshire Blvd once he realized he wouldn't be sleeping with me that night or even the cop running for councilman who tried to make my then-current twosome into a threesome was all so totally worth it...because I met HIM. 

And hopefully, I'll find a way to do without using the word "fuck".

I am the Puppet Master

So, I've discovered that the quickest and easiest way for me to feel like a living, breathing god is for me to solve my own Internet problems. I was working at a pretty good clip, late Sunday night. I had my website projected up on the living room wall, designing away -- trying to make myself seem like the coolest chick to ever live. Like The Fonz with breasts. "Ayyyyy." I had Netflix going on my iPhone, because silence to me is a creativity killer, and I was bouncing between writing and playing The Sims FreePlay on my iPad but we're just going to brush over that last part and pretend I never mentioned it. 

All of a sudden, it went dark. Not the lights or anything...even worse. My internet.

It hit my iPad first -- it always does. The Netflix on my phone was still playing fine but when I went to access my game I was told the server was fucking off somewhere. I could see all of the lights on my router were a lovely shade of green. The steady ones are steady and the blinky ones, blinking. But by the time my brain processed this, the Stone Age had hit my phone and the computer.

I hit a button on the front of my router that, quite frankly, I knew nothing about except that it helped me out on a couple of Internet outage occasions. Tonight though, it flipped me the bird. So, I went back to my phone, switched off wifi and did a little internet search to see if our provider was, you know, having problems and crap. I was like fucking Jessica Fletcher the way I was investigating my little problem. 

Unfortunately, I learned nothing. I knew the problem couldn't be on our end, we had recently signed onto the forgetful consumer's friend "auto-pay", so we were all good in that area. Which meant...

I was going to have to fucking mess with the router and try to fix this myself. Now, let me quickly explain to you that I fucking suck at technology. Case in point, I have never been able to keep a printer. I kill them. Like, you know how before Paul Anka, everyone was afraid of Lorelai Gilmore having pets? I'm like that with printers. If I'm lucky, I can hook them up and successfully complete the printer test. Maybe, I can print a couple of documents. But sometime, around month 3, things go downhill quickly and before I know it, I'm once again printer-less. Basically, if you have a printer at work or home that's on it's last leg, just leave it in my care and it will go quickly and peacefully and never have a chance to realize what's happening. 

Now, we'd been in our new place for six months and I had never once had to reset the router which basically made it the best goddamn place in the world. I tried pressing that magic button on the front of the router again and, like before, nothing happened. So, I turned the sucker around to check out the back. I noticed two things right away: there was a power switch and a reset button. Now, this paralyzed me at first. Fuck, I want to reset it, right? I shouldn't just turn it off and back on again, right? Probably not. Now, the reset button was set inside the back of the router so I was gonna have to poke it with something in order to reach it. This extra step said to me that pressing this button was a big damn deal. They didn't want you to just hit it by accident. Clearly if that happens, you mistakingly bomb a Doctors Without Borders hospital in Afghanistan.

After much debating, I decided to take my chances and poked the button with a twist tie I found on the coffee table. I closed one eye (I'd've closed both but then I wouldn't be able to tell if it was resetting) and held my breath and waited. 

And like the goddamn genie in Aladdin, like Zeus himself or Dr. Frankenstein, I controlled the very essence of life. The lights came back on, one by one. The steady ones went steady and the blinky ones blinked. I went to my devices and each one expertly accessed the internet and took me to exactly where I wanted to be. Criminal Minds played on my Netflix once again. Thank God the serial killers were back. 

I was badass today. I was Whoopi Goldberg in goddamn Ghost and Patrick Swayze was my wifi. I was channeling that shit. My website was going to be perfect. I was going to be witty and pithy and my picture was going to make people want to be my friend. "Oh my god, she's quirky AND funny! I bet she's a riot to hang with!" Yes. Yes, I am. 

That's right, Internet. I have powers. 

Never mind that printer sitting ten feet away that has beaten me before we've even begun. I'll get the cord you need to work, you bastard. I'll get the right cord and then you'll be my bitch, too. 

Down with Hate

So, about a week and a half ago I clicked on an article that was brought to you by Cafe Mom's The Stir. It was my fault for clicking the link. Normally I'm not a sucker for articles like this "90s Heartthrobs Who Look Awful Now" but the picture attached was one that I couldn't place and I guess I was just dying to know who the person in the pic was. 

The joke was on me, though, because I never made it to said person's picture. I never made it past the first. Why? Well, the first picture was of Brad Renfro. Now anyone who knows who that is probably is wondering where exactly The Stir got their hands on a "now" photo given that Brad Renfro has been dead since 2008. Now, don't worry, The Stir didn't stoop to the disgusting low of showing a photo of the corpse of the late actor. Instead, they stooped to the low of showing a picture of Renfro near the end of his life, talking about his state at the time and the referencing his suicide. 

To this I say, WHAT IN THE SERIOUS FUCK THE STIR?!?!?!

Are you shitting me?

Are you really for real right now? 

Did you seriously fucking include a person who committed suicide over five years ago in a "people who look awful now" article?!?!?!

When exactly did all human decency leave the offices at The Stir?!

Who in the fucking hell thinks that this is even a little okay?

Well, Michele Martin is who. The "journalist" who authored this stunning masterpiece. The person who totally thought, "hey, there's nothing wrong with disrespecting someone's memory in this way." The person who thought, "there's no way anyone reading this will be even remotely offended by the utter lack of compassion and simple human decency it takes to know that you DO NOT fucking mock someone that is no longer with us and that had a pain in his or her life that made them reconsider their existence." Michele Martin and anyone up the chain of command that saw and approved of this piece of drivel. 

And a week and a half ago when I read this, I just couldn't keep quiet. Much like I'm not keeping quiet right now. I sent The Stir a complaint. I felt like, for me, it was time to speak up about the things that just didn't seem right to me. Right now, in this country, we are having some real trouble accepting each other. There's a lot of anger and a lot of hate going on right now and even the steps we're taking that move us towards a country of acceptance are causing some real backlash. 

And at a time like this, we need more than ever to realize that picking at each other, belittling each other, tearing each other down -- no one wins there. No one. Why are we even "writing" articles that basically just list people that we're not attracted to? What the fuck is that? We see it all the time: actors with ugly spouses; celebrities that are hideous without makeup; hot A listers that started out homely; 

Seriously, what are we doing to each other? Why has hurting each other become a go-to? It seems like every industry, every company, every organization and so many individuals are making hurting each other a national pastime. 

So, in an attempt to not stay quiet while watching something tragic and hateful was happening in front of me, I sent The Stir that complaint message. I was told, via computer-generated message, that Cafe Mom would be getting back to me in two days. Cafe Mom let me know that if it was a weekend or holiday, it might take longer. I was told to check my junk folder and spam settings. 

I did that. 

I'm still waiting for my reply.

So, instead of doing what I'm assuming The Stir would like me to do and forget about the thing that bothered me so much, I sent them another message. I reminded them of who I was. I let them know when I had written and told them of my pessimistic suspicions that their hope was for me to just forget. And I told them I wouldn't. I told them that I expected a response. I told them that my complaint was real and I wouldn't sit idly by and let them add to the pollution that's plaguing our country. 

And now I'm waiting again. 

We'll see what happens but until the day I either get my response or I decide it's time to send message number three, I've decided that I'm going to fight for us. Fight for us as people. Fight for a life where being yourself doesn't end in an insult. The only thing in life that really matters is how we treat each other. All of our accomplishments, all of our money, all of our possessions and degrees and status symbols, all of our power...it all means nothing if we didn't treat each other with respect. It's not necessary to always agree, it's not a must that we all be alike, and it's not life or death if the things we believe differ. But it's time to really understand that hurting and disrespecting each other is not a constitutional right. And being the person that exists to tear someone else down is only a sign of weakness and fundamental unhappiness with yourself. 

It's time we take back our own lives. It's time we stop letting others get away with this kind of abuse. The courts decided a long time ago that abuse came in multiple forms and it's pretty plainly obvious that we're seeing an insane increase in the amount of abuse and hate we spew at each other. Whether it words out of our mouth, or words on an internet page, that's abuse and that's hate and it's time for that to be unacceptable. 

It's time for someone's hair length or skin color or nationality or muscle tone or gender or who they love or degree of masculinity or femininity or what the fuck ever to only matter to the person it pertains to. 

It's time for a person's opinion to be just that, an opinion. Not a reason to scream obscenities or hate speech or throw a punch or worse. 

There's seriously nothing to be proud of in shaming each other. 

The Stir is my first step in trying to do what I can to speak out against hate. Hate solves nothing. Hate is nothing but a destroyer and if you think it destroys the target of your hate, you're wrong. Hate only destroys the hater. 

Ahhhhhhhh!

I literally have no clue what to write for a query letter. I'm staring at this goddamn screen and literally nothing is coming into my head. I'm seriously the most bored that I've ever been in my life. And I hate Starbucks. Seriously. I don't want to drink your coffee and your frappuchinos look like the fat that's sucked out during a liposuction once they start to get all melty. 

Questions

I have so many questions for Drake Bell right now.

First off, who the hell do you think you are?

No, seriously, give a girl a hand. Who the fuck are you again?

Why is it that I should know your name?

Why is that I should give a crap about anything you think?

Are you some sort of Olympic historian? Why are you so worried about the sanctity of a person's given name? Is there sanctity to a person's given name? 

Are you under the impression that somehow all of the accomplishments a person achieves disappears with a name change?

So, should all women who chose to take their husband's last name after marriage face the fact that their lives up until that moment no longer exist because their names changed?

Are you a fucking idiot?

Has the public somehow missed the fact that you're totally obsessed with competitive running? Do you have some significant connection with a race that was run before you were even born?

Were you obsessed with Tropicana orange juice when you were a kid? Is that where this is coming from?

Seriously, what the fuck? Why are you such a fucking dick? Were you so desperate to get back into the tiny limelight you once felt that you thought it would be totally cool to say something so moronic and, quite frankly, inconsequential?

Grow up, man. You're not 12 anymore. Stop saying shit you expect to hear out of the mouth of one. Honestly, hard truth here, no one cares what you think anyway.   

Our Human Legacy

I read a post on Facebook today, which yes, was my first mistake. It was about the President and was just some dumb photoshopped sign that wasn't funny at all. And when I say that it wasn't funny at all, I don't mean that I didn't find it funny because I didn't agree with the post...I mean I didn't find it funny because I am in possession of a sense of humor and the post literally had no joke in it. But, of course, a bunch of people "liked" the post -- including people I'm friends with -- and thought it was totally clever and amusing, I imagine because it involved a church sign that was implying that somehow the President is ungodly or doesn't believe in the right republican version of God or doesn't pray the right way or whatever.

Now, I'm not going to even address the content or the fact that Republicans need to fucking put God away when it comes to politics. This country has a separation of Church and State, whether you like it or not, so to bring any kind of religion into the discussion goes against OUR COUNTRY. The country you people won't seem to shut up about. 

What I am going to address is the multitude of people in the comments who said they wished the President would go die. Him, his wife...I didn't see mention of his kids but I didn't scroll through every single comment. 

For anyone who has ever wished someone really and truly dead, someone that's not Hitler or Pol Pot or something like that, GROW THE FUCK UP. YOU are the PROBLEM. Life is precious. Death cannot be taken back. Every single person on this Earth has someone that loves them and cares about them and thinks that they're the sun and the moon. Every single person on this Earth has a person that will cry for days and weeks and years because of that loss. 

The fact that you can say or write or express those thoughts about someone is horrific and atrocious. You are beyond childish. You are beyond pathetic. You are beyond evil. You are a festering, decaying mold. You are plaguing the world with your thoughts of death and destruction. You are tearing apart your own life and the happiness of others with your ugly remarks. 

Please, go look in the mirror. Take a long, hard look at yourself. I dare you. Stare at yourself in that mirror for five whole minutes. Think about the hate you spew on a daily basis and watch it land back onto you. 

Quit hiding behind God. You don't KNOW any more than the rest of us do. Everything that you feel is a hunch, just like the rest of us. You don't have a direct dial line to the big guy upstairs and you're not on his fucking email list. Just because you use the word "God" doesn't mean that everything that you say and do is magic and it most certainly doesn't mean that everything you say or do in his name is okay. A lot of people have done a lot of REALLY fucking bad things in the name of God and not one single one of those people thought that history would convict them. No. They all were expecting vindication.

Do you really want to be grouped with these people? Do you really want to make that your mark on the world? Cause it is. Here's the thing, we're constantly looking for the meaning of life. We're constantly wondering how it is we're supposed to change the world. We change the world every day. It's in the way we interact with each other. We affect people with every single contact. What we say and do helps to shape the people that witness these things. So, when you're busy putting people down, or telling them they're going to hell or saying that you wish they were dead...you are helping to chisel away at the foundation of that person and anyone capable of empathy in the surrounding area. That is part of your human legacy. And if you think that I'm exaggerating maybe try looking in that mirror one more time and saying any of the things you say to others at your own reflection. Say it with the vehemence and disgust you normally do. Look yourself in the eye with the raw hatred you so quickly throw around. 

Now, do that daily. See how long it takes you to feel like shit about yourself. See how long it takes you to question yourself. 

Congratulations. That's your legacy.

And guess what? I still don't wish you dead.      

Vaginas Unite!

Is this really how things are going to be? 

Rebel Wilson is apparently 35 and not 29 and the world has gone fucking ape shit over it. Meanwhile, Maggie Gyllenhaal was told that she's apparently too old to be cast as the love interest of a 55 year old man. 

Are you fucking kidding me?

Come on, ladies! Get angry. I mean, if we're not going to get angry over the fact that men keep telling us over and over again that we need to stop tempting them into rape, we have to start getting angry over the silly shit. 

Maggie Gyllenhaal is 37. These are all of the men that she's too old to play love interest against:

Sean Penn

James Spader

Colin Firth (poor girl)

Jean Claude Van Damme

Stanley Tucci

Brad Garret

Hugh Grant

Timothy Hutton

Damon Wayans

Chris Elliot

John Schneider (Bo Duke)

Thomas Hayden Church

Leland Orser

David Duchovny

Oliver Platt

Are you fucking kidding me?????????

Seriously. Read the list over again. If you're not fucking pissed off by the time you hit "Timothy Hutton" something is seriously wrong and the self-loathing must stop. 

No one gender is better than the other. Why can we not seem to understand that? Men are not better than women. Women are not better than men. And we, as human beings, all deserve to be treated without prejudice. 

I've got news for you, if a then 69 year old Sean Connery could play opposite a then 29 year old Catherine Zeta Jones, then Maggie Gyllenhaal can play opposite Damon Wayans or damn Damon Wayans Jr. 

We need to stop thinking that there's some kind of beauty and tradition in archaic and harmful behavior from the past. 

And leave goddamn Rebel Wilson alone. She is literally paid to pretend to be someone else. As far as I can tell, she's just really fucking committed to her craft. Besides, she's got like two years to star in movies with every 55 year old actor she can find -- she's busy.   

Kendall Jenner Suction Duck Lips

Have you ever stopped what you were doing and looked around, wondering "what the fucking fuck are we doing here?"

Sorry, more explanation is probably best. We're used to a certain level of stupid on planet Earth. A lot of it doesn't even phase us too much anymore. We just ignore it. Like the popularity of the selfie stick or the fact that we all pay for water now. For fucking water. And most of us in the first world have collectively agreed that we'd rather buy a shit ton of disposable cups/bottles/cans and throw them, essentially, on the ground than just clean a fucking glass on a regular basis. If that isn't accepted stupidity, you're stupid.

But then, sometimes, things happen that are so stupid that it gives you pause. That you seriously stop what you're doing because the stupid has rendered you immobile for at least a short period of time.

The most recent one of these for me was that fucking insane Kendall Jenner duck lip in a glass because I don't truly understand how suction works bullshit. I mean, are we kidding here? Seriously. Are we fucking kidding here?

I remember being a teenager and I remember being stupid. I remember asking my dad "how they hanging" and getting a lecture, having no fucking clue I just inquired after the state of his balls. But this is just astronomically stupid. Molecularly stupid. Paralyzingly stupid. Paralyzing for the observer, mind you. Not nearly paralyzing enough for the stupid.

And I'm not saying that every teenager is this stupid. But seriously. What the fuck? Kendall Jenner has lip injections but doesn't want to admit it so she says she's just doing her makeup differently and this is what it turns into?

The logical assumption? Easy. The truth. Kendall Jenner got lip injections and didn't want to admit it.

The witheringly stupid teen assumption? Kendall Jenner is using a fucking glass to suction her lips, mimicking the effects of lip injections. Cause yeah, that's what she would've done. I mean, let's face it, Kendall Jenner probably only admitted to the lip injections to stop the morbidly stupid teens from continuing to suction their fucking faces off.

Which begs the question...did all these teens get together and sacrifice themselves on the altar of social media to out Kendall Jenner and her lip injections? Almost making them pop culture idiot savants?

Fuuuuuuck. I just blew my mind.

*five minutes later*

The stupidity really is paralyzing.

And then I remember that Kendall Jenner and her lip injections don't fucking matter at all. Not even a little bit. If Kendall Jenner would've taken the identical amount of money she spent on the lip injections and donated it to charity, that would've mattered. Maybe a charity revolving around plastic surgery for reconstructive purposes. Or if she would've used it as a chance to say "listen, I feel more comfortable this way. I'm an adult and this is my face and this is the decision I've made. Butt out." that would've mattered.

But she didn't and it doesn't.

And then I realize that the impressively stupid teens win anyway because I've been thinking about Kendall Jenner for a fucking hour. Why do I even know who Kendall Jenner is? Why is my brain using that space for Kardashian information instead of something more important like an eidetic Netflix memory or the ability to accurately balance a checkbook? This is probably why the only thing I retained from three years of calculus is simply the word "derivative" and a vague memory of a squiggly symbol that always reminded me of Lavern Defozio.

Am I to blame here, too? Of course I am. I'm overwhelmingly proud of the fact that I've never seen an episode of any Kardashian show yet...I scroll internet sites and posts and read comments and get pissy and call people names as I point at my computer screen. I do all of that. Instead of reading a book or taking a walk or whatever else I could be doing.

Man, this whole Kendall Jenner thing is a real mind fucker.

Buddy, The Elf

We just moved from Los Angeles to Portland. Basically. Los Angeles is really Venice. Portland is really Hillsboro. Portland, as in Oregon not Maine. And "we" is my fiancé and I, along with my mom.  

The move itself was pretty decent although the professionals hired to pack up my mom's stuff clearly have never packed anything before in their entire lives. They're also illiterate. Boxes filled with clothes were labeled as books. Breakable items were packed underneath what might as well have been barbells. And they literally individually wrapped and boxed all of my mom's recycling that she had set aside to take down to the recycling bin in her garage. The three of us shared a moving van, so it's no surprise that we're still finding a lot of my things at my mom's new place and vice versa. 

The move really has been pretty decent, though. The dog is almost totally unfucked up now with all the space she has. Turns out what buys you a jail cell in Los Angeles buys you three floors in Portland. Abigail is 5 pounds. She was exhausted and overwhelmed for like three weeks, refusing to move from one floor to another and instead just perching herself on a landing and barking her motherfucking ass off all pissy-like. Now, she leaves us to our own devices and trots off wherever she feels like. 

My Elf bobblehead is not nearly as carefree as the dog is, however. He did not survive the move. Technically, he bit it yesterday but since we've only been here about a month it's being grandfathered in. He's still sitting on the mantle, all pathetic, in two pieces. His body is on its stand, all upright and doing what it can to still look dignified despite having no head and, well, wearing yellow tights and an elf costume. But his head is just lying there next to him. Like some sort of ridiculous reminder to the masses what the life of a criminal gets you back in the days of the guillotine. Will Ferrell's eyes are wide open and lifeless and his mouth is just barely open, like he's expelling his last elf breath or doing a Big Mouth Billy Bass impression.

I can't stop looking at it. It's almost hypnotizing.  And with the mantle still pretty sparse,  it's like there's a spotlight on the little guy. His head is starting to look like a balloon to me. I imagine a string at the bottom of it and it floating up to the ceiling. Our fireplace is right next to the glass doors to our balcony and I watch in my mind as Buddy the Elf goes floating outside, first still hovering over our space and eventually being carried off by the breeze into the trees that line the walking path behind us. 

I wonder what Buddy will see. How far will he go? Will he rise higher and higher or get caught amongst all of the branches and end up caught, forever stuck and watching -- free but not free at all? 

There's so much green outside, here. And there's so much space. I haven't seen this much space on a regular basis since I moved to Los Angeles, a decade ago. Buddy could go far, see a lot of shit, if he manages to make it past the treetops. 

It stays light here really late, too. I like that. It's only the very beginning of May and there's still light in the sky at 8:00 at night. Reminds me of summers as a kid. I don't mind the colder temperatures but I do have to get used to them. I'm loving the rain. Buddy'll have to watch out for the rain. I bet he'll find a way to make it fun, though. That's what's so great about him - he can find the joy in anything. And he puts syrup on his spaghetti. 

How funny would it be to have an Elf-themed Christmas party this year? Dishes of candy, candy canes and candy corns all over the place. Obviously, spaghetti to eat with a bottle of syrup amongst the add-ins. Two-liters of Coke for people to drink and really terrible coffee. BUT...coffee cups that say "the world's best coffee". The place could be decorated like Christmas on steroids, with paper link garlands everywhere and Lite Brites spelling out "Merry Christmas".

I think I've seen this movie too much.

Fuck, it's only May.

Plus, I have no friends here yet. 

And maybe I should work on my wedding in November instead of an Elf Christmas party. 

I better have friends by Christmas, though.

Of course I'll have friends, look at the fucking kick ass ideas I have for parties!

Buddy'd be a good Halloween costume, too. I don't think I could pull off the gold leggings, though. I mean, those are super gold. They're like "goldenrod". I could dress up Abbie like a little elf, too. She'd be adorable! And she'd totally hate it, which would make her even more cute. 

Pink! just came on. She's pretty damn awesome. I like her. Strong woman. I bet she likes Elf. I bet she could pull off those gold tights. I bet she'd tell me that I could too, though. She seems like that kind of chick. 

I'm gonna keep the bobblehead. Fix it or do something with it. You can't get rid of Buddy. Maybe I'll tie his head to a balloon or a kite and let the wind take him. Let him see the country. Maybe I'll add a pluggy thing to the bottom of his head and use him as a wine bottle stopper! Or keep him in my purse and use him to freak out strangers. 

Hey, it's raining. When did that happen?