Lift

So, I'm into the fitness. I began life as a runner, which was following in my parents' footsteps, literally. After hours of running every night in my first tech school, and my first two marathons, both of which were conducted on some of the flattest flats you could find west of the Rockies, I attempted the Big Sur marathon. I was cocky- this was old hat to me, I'd done it before, sure there were a few topographical differences, but surely youth and hubris would make up the difference!

                                                            Sad trumpet sound here.

I made it to the half-marathon point, and just... stopped. I was done. At the time, just with the race, but later on, I realized that by done, I meant done. The running kick was put paid with one last, aborted marathon, and I never looked back. It was time to find something else to do to ward off the fatness.

At my next tech school, I discovered it in the weight room.

Things are bigger in Texas!

To this day, I still do just that, in varying increments (5 sets x 12 reps with one weight for a couple of months, then the upside-down pyramid of higher weight to lower reps in a 12 rep - 10 rep - 8 rep - 6 rep pattern, etc. I won't go into more detail than this, because I think on the scale of Things You Love to Discuss That No One Wants to Hear, discussing your personal workouts is beneath "Dreams" but slightly above "Pictures of Food I took with my iPhone+Instagram." If you really care, follow the link to my fitocracy and stalk me around the gym!

Wait. Don't do that.)
 

I like to pick up heavy things, and then put them down, and then do it again, half-in-hopes that someday, I will be able to lift even *heavier* things! Quite a goal, very conducive and productive, yes yes.

The other part of my ambition is not at all performance-based, and therefore, out in the world or on the fitness sites I frequent, not something I often disclose; frankly, I'm in it for the vains as well as the gains. I want to look good in clothes and not in clothes and all of that good stuff that you only care about if you are shallow. 

 Don't care if shallow. Am honest. Want. 

And I don't think I'm in the minority, even while most may not want to admit "sex appeal" as readily as they do their desire for "health" or "longevity" or any of the other words on the pill bottles you buy at GNC. You know, the things that are socially acceptable to want, or else you risk people trying to somehow, weirdly, let you down easy. It sounds odd, but I've hand-to-God had people do the whole soft-voice consolation speech; it's as if they, from either their own experiences or from seeing other people try and fail to lose weight, want most to reassure you that it's just that darn ol' media that wants you thin and pretty and able to shop in stores that do not have Bryant or Barn in the title, whereas actual, inner you just wants lasagna.

 Inner turmoil as pictured with bad lighting.

 But goals is goals, and whether or not you want to be as blunt and vain as I am in declaring your actual ambition, off you go on your fitness journey... but not alone. For if you thought the "My Deepest Sympathies on Your (Attempted) Loss" friends were annoying, well, honey, you ain't seen nothin' yet. 

For out of the woodwork of your Facebook or MySpace or Twittermagerd come the product-pushers. 

Don't let the uber cute lolcat throw you, because, man alive, do I hate these people. Or would, if hate wasn't altogether too much effort to waste on something I don't like. Let's say, for argument's sake, that they are at the very least heartily disliked. Got that? Good, because here's the itemized list of why these people should be right-click-IGNORED post haste: 

First off, why's it always got to be people who are FATTER THAN ME pushing the products? Guys, I'm no willowy fashion model, but I maintain a shape that is easily recognized as not-a-manatee from even a healthy distance. Yet any time someone comes along to push their product, it's always someone larger than me, and unhealthier to boot. 

Let's not beat around the bush: what I'm about to say isn't a nice, PC thing to say, because if there's anything worse than someone being a straight-shooter with not-pleasant news, it's someone who passive-agressively implies it.

Like approaching anyone else with a product designed for weight loss, for example. Don't think you're being subtle, you jerk; why would you approach me if you didn't think I could use something made specifically for fat people?

Tip for all you aspiring Product Pyramid scheme types out there: if you want people to buy your product, find people who would aspire to look like its spokesperson: you. When approaching a prospective client, ask yourself, "Do I look like their 'Before,' or their 'After?'" Doing otherwise makes you look oblivious and, quite frankly, wishing their salesperson would pay less attention to detail isn't, like, a thing that happens. Ever.

Okay, so secondly, there's the fact that it's not actual food food, but food product. On the one hand, everybody's body is different, and if you find a product that works for you physically, financially, etc., good on you and way to go! One-two products, like a protein bar or shake, can even ensure you stick to your diet guns by being ready right now, and that can be the difference between will power for days and (this is probably just me) justifying Oreo-knockoff "Hydrox" as "fiber."But I'm a way bigger proponent of learning how to eat healthy via real food than "the commercial says eat cereal so that's all I will eat because the model on the commercial looks like how I want to look." Three sub-reasons real food > food product: 

1. Availability. Real food is everywhere. It's simply more widely available than cheese-flavored lo-so rice-cereal blocks, and therefore, you can find deals on it, eat a variety of foods of your choosing, and not be stuck paying fixed rates on food product because WELL THAT'S WHAT IT COSTS, JENNY C. SAYS SUCK IT UP LIKE THE SAUCE IN THE CORNERS OF THE BOX. 

BACK OFF IT'S MINE STUPID WRAPPER

2. Sustainability. Real food consumption allows for people to go out and eat socially, like in a restaurant, at a picnic, at a party, etc. Anyone who's jimmies are rustled by this, i.e. "Well just don't eat out, restaurants are costly and you never know what they *really* put in the food because it's not you making it, and if you're trying to lose weight you should eat at home, alone, forever," should never have gotten onto your friends list, let alone right-click-IGNORE. 

No, what Debbie Downer up there doesn't take into account is that having support from your friends can be key. So is distraction from how hungry you feel or how bored/depressed/lonely you are and how those cookies may not be love, but they taste close enough, is key. And really, experiencing food IRL as opposed to ICC (in cardboard container) allows you to learn how to eat well IRL, i.e., fix the actual problem as to how you got to a size or fitness level you don't like, and not just fixing the symptoms. If you're chained to a product line, you're far less likely to learn about portion sizing and macronutrient balancing, which means that unless you plan on being on, say, Weight Wishers' food FOREVER AND EVER, and eating alone over your sink because a fatty like you doesn't deserve plates, you'll have no idea how to eat when *off* the product, and hello rebound weight. (I'm not posting the statistics on weight re-gain here, but man alive, are they depressing.) 

(Oh, fine. Just so none of you can jump up my butt about sources.)

Also, you want to talk cost?...

3. Reliability. I touched on it above with the paranoia about what extras restaurants are adding to your food,

NO, MY POINT TOTALS DON'T INCLUDE SPIT!!!

and you actually have good reason to be concerned- many restaurants throw melted butter on steak on the reg, to make it seem more succulent and savory, for example. So eating at home does allow you some more control over what you're actually ingesting...

...when it comes to real food. This popped up in my newsfeed today, and in skimming it, I didn't feel disgust, paranoia, or even frustration, but... deja vu. That's the thing about these products- they maybe started out or contained something grown from seeds (both plant and animal apply here if you've spent any time on farms) but they've been so processed, blanched and sifted that whatever trace is left is nigh unrecognizable. The fact that it's shelf-stable should be a tip-off; last time I checked, if I dumped three pounds of grapes into a kitchen drawer and left it there, it would not be a tasty treat come a week later. That so many food products extol their organic and natural virtues on products that have better nuclear survivability than Cher is misleading and totally irritating for people who are trying, damnit, to watch what they eat, and to pull these shenanigans on people that are already feeling low about themselves and are totally raging from hunger... it's a wonder you don't hear about high-fructose-corn-syrup labs getting burned to the ground after their whole "it's corn-sugar, and corn's a plant, so, HEALTHY!" campaign.

Additionally, I totally remember reading that article in Men's Health and Fitness about the guy who started drinking soy milk because it was marketed as healthy... and grew him an impressive set of hooters. Any product that can mess so badly with your hormones might be good to avoid, anyway.

Unless, of course, you're into that. 

So whether or not you guys are into gaining strength, agility or stamina, losing weight or clothing sizes, or just peachy-perfect the way you are, just remember that diet is just as important as exercise- your size you build in the gym, but your shape is built in the kitchen- and that learning about nutrition and building your own diet vs. buying some prepackaged stuff that comes with a IKEA-like schedule of "At Time A, Shove Package B into Foodhole" is like that other old saw about teaching people to fish. Only in this example, if you learn how to provide for yourself, you're good to go, my friend...  

...but if you don't, expect that the fish monger will be in the same place every day, charging you a pretty penny for ground-up bits of fish SHAPED into a fish-like patty.

And he's the only monger you're allowed to buy from, so if he decides to jack up the price, let's hope you have extra cash laying around.

And you get to listen as he waxes rhapsodic about how much weight you'll lose, your eyes unable to meet the shiny glaze of his belly sweat in the midmorning sun.

Just stick with the diet chocolate bars! They're great for you and you'll lose gobs of weight... trust me.  I know what I'm talking about!

Art Dump, Life Update

 Art tends to come in all-out phases for me. An old friend of mine used to attribute it to my zodiac sign; she'd nod knowingly at my pages and pages of comics or fan art or tattoo designs (of which the dragon above falls, surprisingly) and draw parallels as to how ram-like my run-run-run-ohshitawall-KEEP-RUNNING behavior was, and I couldn't really argue (aside from astology being absolute hokum, I mean.)

This phase was the tattoos and flash art phase, and fittingly enough was the same year The Roommate took me to get my first tattoo, which was also my first tattoo design.

This is why it is imperative to find not just a talented artist, but a *smart* artist, kids; she wisely talked me out of both the cliched scroll AND the Chinese characters. While you'd think someone who had been trained by the military to understand a foreign language for 63 weeks would be less likely to get a screwed up, incorrect or even crass foreign language tattoo, off the top of my head I can name such a one: a guy who flipped two characters' places in a four-character phrase, which are pretty common in Chinese culture, which he would also have learned through the course.

Thanks to his inattentiveness, his "寧 為 玉 碎" or "níng wéi yù suì (colloquially, death before dishonor)" became "寧碎 為 玉 " or rather, dishonor before death.

This week has been choppy and left me feeling a little like one of those dreams where you're juuuuust drifting off and then you TRIP on a curb and TWITCH your silly butt awake. This is what happens when a federal holiday squats in the middle of your week, I imagine, and while it must have happened at least once before in my twentyCOUGHcough years, I don't remember it. 

What I did remember, however, was DEADLINES!!! prompted by the story I posted last time. That particular zine is headed up by a kid I used to babysit (and who was nice enough not to point out that I did manage to outgrow my awkward teens finally, as he seemingly skipped his and records albums now) and two of his compatriots, and while it does ostensibly accept short stories in the form of flash fiction, the last couple of issues have been all poetry. Which, if that's your bag, by all means, but it's not my scene, jelly beans. < the most poetry you will ever see me do.

But while sonnets and slams are out of my ken, they also troll for high-contrast black and white art, and while I'm about 80% sure it's not just my former charge exhibiting some nepotism for his elders, I *did* manage to get a picture published as the back cover on one issue:

So I'm currently running about with my hair on fire, trying to figure out 3-5 black and white pictures for an issue entitled "Kisses for Fishes." And while they stress that there's not a thematic requirement, well, I imagine you'd be pretty confused if you were told about a magazine of poetry that had 'something to do with fish?" and yet, when you went looking for this volume, the cover was, say, Ninja Turtles fan-art / character design:

So I'll let you know if that happens... but wouldn't it be fun if you knew because you got published too? Seriously. Submit some brilliance, people.

Real Life is non-non-non-non-NON-Heinous!

So it's been a while. And I haven't written, haven't called, haven't so much as posted up a quick link to someone else's top ten. I wish it could have a good reason attached, this sudden drop off in posts- like, that I had secretly fostered super powers and was spending my free time running about in long johns, fighting crime via punching people doing the crime a lot. Or maybe that I had been tinkering in the kitchen so long, I discovered a cake that tastes exactly like red velvet but actually is made of celery, and the more you eat, the more you look like the very first movie character you ever found beautiful. 

On second thought...

 However comma, I have no such life-altering goodness to share. Or goodness. There is something afoot in my life, and not in the funny way that would provide either an entertaining or a Very Special episode of this rinky-dink one-chick show we're running here. It's something I can't go into, not now, and really, probably not for a good long while, as I'm having trouble finding humor in the situation at all. Which, come on people, if you've been reading along, you know full well that if I can't wrest out a "dumb me" story or even crack a joke about what shenanigans I got up to this time...

then it is probably, potentially, possibly (and in this case, definitely) something pretty horrible and let's just spare the melodramatics and woe-is-mes for when I'm on the rag and much more likely to provide adequate waterworks as to convey just how awful it all is. 

So here's a story I wrote that got published. 

She straightened as her friend approached the booth, hands skirting down to smooth her scrub pants as she did so. "Well there you are, Susan!"

"Sorry I'm late, lunch-time rush traffic." She pulled her sunglasses up over her forehead and with a quick smile and a nod, dispatched the approaching waiter for a glass of water. "But you knew I wouldn't flake on you, not when you've got juicy details." She leaned forward against the table and in the conspiratorial fashion of little girls with candy, lowered her voice an octave. "Now. Spill."

Rebecca slouched back with an exhale. "Oh, wow. I thought he was obnoxiously persistent on the flight, but when he called the third time the next day-"

"The old divorcee called again?" A titter erupted as Susan followed suit, sitting back against the booth in her own body language for disbelief. The waiter slipped her water onto the table, and after a perfunctory order of salad nicoise and peach cobbler, disappeared again.

"I know, right? But should we be surprised, from how obnoxiously he behaved on the plane, and me, completely held captive -check that, hostage- at 30,000 feet?"

"It's probably the only time he ever gets a girl's number, when she's good and trapped. Then he can casually bring up his millionaire self -flying coach- and his yachts and music videos." Her eyes rolling, Susan continued. "I mean, when you told me the bit about his owning a clothing label specifically for his own use, because, what- he's so special that he can't bring himself to wear something us pedestrian bourgeouis pick up in stores?"

Laughing, Rebecca jumped in, "Right, because that just means he really must be a millionaire; it's a well-known fact that Armani and Versace's lines are really only for the middle-class, and any really rich people just open their own lines when they spill a little sauce on their white button-ups."

The giggling continued as lunch was served, and Rebecca tucked a stray red curl behind her ear as she speared a cucumber slice with her fork, continuing her story between bites. "Well, apparently the elderly have nothing better to do than phone girls half their age and beg for dates, and well, I figured if it went poorly enough, that'd be the end of the phone calls. So he promises me a day I'll never forget, right? Makes a reservation at some little bistro, orders a car, I'm to be out waiting by the drive at nine.

"So the car rolls up- only it's not a chauffered car at all, it's him driving- he wanted to show me he was a 'take-charge man.'" She paused for effect as Susan nearly choked on a hard-boiled egg, then continued. "The restaurant is some hole-in-the-wall Italian joint, and point for him, it was really good -burned-tomato-flavored sauce, excellent garlic bread- and then we hit this country bar for dancing. Hypothetically."

Susan tilted her head, subconsciously mimicking her last patient, Woofles, the French Bulldog. "And pray tell, how does one, "hypothetically," dance?"

"Well I'll tell you, Suze- you go to a bar, boasting a whole host of knowledge and alleged compliments on your dancing abilities, and then you get inside, realize the median age in the bar is approximately that of your youngest child, and then claim that it's too noisy to get to know eachother and relocate to his 'pad' for a nightcap."

Susan regarded her coworker with incredulity. "Ugh! Seriously?"

"Seriously. And the whole drive there, he kept mistaking my thigh for his gear-shift." She shook her head. "Thing is, he was almost in the clear... up to the groping, that is. And the rohypnol in my drink."

Susan's eyebrow quirked. "So that'd be a gin and amnesia for you, and a Geritol and Viagra for him?"

Rebecca held up a hand as they giggled on, empty salad plates being replaced with peach cobbler. "No no, I have no idea what his drink was... because I was too busy staring at the gold-framed 2-by-3-foot portrait of him, his current wife and three kids."

Susan let out another laugh, but her reserve was depleted and the sound barely carried. "So that's when you knew."

Rebecca nodded sagely, turning to regard her reflection in the window. "That's when."

The redhead lowered her eyes from the glass pane and blushed. Susan coughed delicately, then picked up her fork to prod her cobbler. "So what about the body?"

"Turns out, he wasn't lying... about the yacht."

750 word flash fiction; published under the name Joan Colairta* by Bank Heavy Press in their September 2011 offering, "Orangutan."

*Oh, come off it, anyone who's ever dreamed of authoring more than a shopping list has toyed with a nom de plume. Especially if their name puts them in shoddy cupcake territory. 

The Definition of Inanity

It is said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, and expecting a different result. This maxim is not just said, actually, but emblazoned on several items of apparel and quite a few bumper stickers, often paired with an animal whose fur or feathers are standing on end to symbolize "crazy."

 "See, it's funny because he looks all crazy and the card says crazy and-"

But what of repeating an action expecting the result to be equally repeated, only to have dissimilar results? Literally, step by step, repeating a process that has served you well in times past, only this time, "well, screw you bucko, here's something completely different"?

What happened? If the players didn't change and the process remained the same, one might in hindsight espy that the environment in which said action was carried out hence might be your culprit. This is not, mind you, a question of nature verses nurture; this is simply being aware of your surroundings, and how you and your precious previous performances might have altered it, and as follows, your results.

I hate this. If there is a personage in this world that holds my envy, it is young children and their ability to honestly forget that anyone else exists, ever. Oh, don't play like you haven't seen it yourself- the kid walking to or from school, cheerfully oblivious that judgey old-people eyes are upon them as they suddenly STOP! And shoot out JAZZ HANDS!

 JAZZ HANDS! Oh to be young and allowed to re-enact West Side Story outside of the bathroom.

JAZZ HANDS! As the music playing in their heads commands them to frolic, stroll and be-bop along down the sidewalk, shaking various parts of their anatomy in a display less ballet and more 'muppet-handler on LSD.' Makes me hate them just a little more, which as we've already established, is already a plentiful pile of heartily disliking to be increasing. 

No more, my fellow adults (I hope; if there are any actual or mental minors reading, be aware that a snape kills a dumble door, Santa does not exist unless he's murdering your grandmother via vehicular manslaughters singing a happy little ditty all the while, and that when parents say you were a "surprise" they mean "well there goes the trip to Curacao. And the next eighteen years," and not like the other, happier surprises, like "it's not yours!" or "it's not chlamydia, just the herps!")

Now get off my internet lawn.  

Adult-impersonators remaining, unfortunately you and I need be aware of our surroundings; the blissful shroud of oblivion is now three-sizes-too-small. Like your favorite t-shirt from 7th grade that you can juuuuuuust still fit if you suck in and wear a sports bra (or bro, if you're of the penis-having persuasion); sure, you can still annoy physics by wearing the thing without imploding at the areolas, but it's no longer societally accepted to do so, and if you persist doing it in public, you might get arrested, on charges of public indecency for the ill-advised apparel, or on the aforementioned granny-meet-vehicle-murdering from above if you choose to be an oblivious idiot to the world around you.

 Which is how you find yourself doing something you've done dozens of times before, always garnering a satisfactory result, but somehow, somewhere along the way, the circumstances around you have now changed *juuuuuuust* enough to affect the aforementioned result, possibly in a deleterious way. Where are the clever t-shirts and beer cozies for this exception to the not-quite rule?

Damnit Zazzle that doesn't even make any sense

Or hats? For a hat would be useful, as on a related note, I dyed my hair again, back to black. I've had it thus for years, always using Feria for the subtle blue highlights and lack of propensity to wash out and leave a highlight color I can only describe as "mottled lasagna scab." I performed the action step by step, same as I've always done- got good coverage, rinsed well, conditioned for the specified time, etc.

However, if I had stopped to consider how the environment surrounding my grooming had changed- a different bathroom, a different city from the last time I'd dyed my hair... that I had, from January of this year up until this afternoon, been a bottle-blonde...

 So, how's it look?

My failure to account for the lack of naturally brunette backdrop for those 'subtle blue highlights' was a miscalculation of epic proportions. Which is a fancy way of saying that people at work tomorrow are going to think I'm a moron of 'blue is my favorite flavor SO I'M WEARING IT' proportions. As I'm slated to fly the following day, there's no way to weasel a day's reprieve to well and truly shampoo all the dye remnants out enough to allow different color to take hold in a re-dye, either.

So I take it all back. I'm going to go ahead and propose we all continue to wear the too-small shirt of obliviousness, tomorrow and forever.

A show of jazz hands, who's with me?

UPDATE:

Ex-it Strategy, Ex-amples, and Ex-cuses; More of the Reasons to Recluse

To recap, for those at home keeping score:


When J glimpsed me at a group event, and later impressed upon mutual friends to bring me to a party at his house, I had no clue as to how, why, or who he was, or how someone I didn't remember from months ago would remember me. It was only when penis-having mutual friend jogged my memory with, "He liked your tattoos? 'Cause he has them too- remember, he took his shirt off in the theater to let his fresh tattoos breathe?" that a vague, man-shaped memory surfaced.

"Mmmaybe?"

"Well he's having a party..." he trailed off.

 The female mutual friend hastened to affirm that he was generally a nice guy, and had asked for my attendance specifically, which, if you paid attention in the last I Really Shouldn't Date post, was ATTENTION, and all mine.

That was that. I was going to this party.

Now, with the benefit of (mumble) years between then and now and hindsight being 20/20, I hasten to caution impressionable minds with the following 'yellow flags.' (That I will flag. In yellow. Creativity Incarnate, I am not.) For there were no true red flags with this kid- so sorry to disappoint some grander ending you kids out on the tubes had imagined up for me- but like with many less-than-stellar events, it's not one massive problem that kills it. Instead, it's that veritable straw that breaks the camel's back, or if you will, a tedious stacking of Lego blocks. In your slippers. Given enough of those spiteful little suckers and even the most callous (ha!) among us is kicking those puppies to the curb and possibly investing in some slipper-socks.

So we begin the stack with the gestation period: four months is a long time to recall a girl who might have said three words to you in toto. Let's be honest. I'm more Mildred Pierce than Mila Kunis, and even that takes some work, kids. In retrospect, it maybe should have tipped me off that a guy who would be passive enough to think on a girl for months, and then make his big play... by asking someone else to ask me to a non-date... perhaps may not be the storied streetwise Hercules. It wasn't a self-confidence issue, either, because from what I remembered, he wasn't hard on the eyes at all. He knew it, too, catching the second yellow flag in the one interaction we'd had: taking your shirt off in public indoors to show off tattoos to girls you've just met, stone sober all the while, is around two-popped-collars on the Douche Scale.

Why he felt the need to revert to the fourth-grade with his "DO YOU LIKE ME CHECK ONE PLEASE NONE OF THAT MAYBE CRAP" note, I hadn't a clue. Nor was I looking for one...

 he thought I was pretty. Or... memorable. Whatever.

The party was well-attended, and initially I spent it consorting with everyone except J, as he was party host and was constantly chaperoning the jungle-juice punch bowl- what, was someone going to spike it *more*?- but as the night waned on, and people drifted out of the party, he and I found occasion to speak. He himself brought up that he'd remembered my tattoos and this prompted his curiosity; mine extended to seeing what new work he'd had done, which he proudly showed in the exact same fashion as the movie theater. My memory had served me pretty well, and as I was now somewhat expecting it, it didn't seem as douchey. What I remember of this conversation was a confirmation of remembering the movie at which we'd 'met,' viewing of a youtube video,

and a few awkward pauses. It turned out that, body art and military aside, we had very little in common. What's worse, what J had in tattoos, he lacked in conversational skills... but since you don't need those to make out...

We hung around eachother for a month or so after that. Not so much at work- while both in the military, we were in separate squadrons, and really had little reason to visit eachother's buildings during the day. The most time we spent together at work was a night wherein J pulled NCOD, a duty that, boiled out of its fancy acronym jacket, meant a living, breathing human had to babysit a building for a shift of 2-4 hours. (Oh, the things recruiters leave out of their spiels.) To help pass the time, J requested and I agreed to make and bring us dinner. I threw together a lasanga-pan-sized batch of Italian food, a salad, and bread, and drove on base and to the building late that night. J watched on the security camera as I struggled with keying open the outer door, dropping the salad in my attempts and nearly losing the glass pan and bag of bread as the door slammed shut on me. After cleaning up, juggling the remaining food and managing to key, open and enter the door, J met me with laughter as he regaled me with how funny I had looked, and how he had laughed the whole time he'd watched me, from his perch four feet from the door. He then ate the whole pan of food, stopping only at the last two bites to say, "Oh, did you want some?"

Elsewise, we hung out on the weekends, whenever he would text or call me to come over to his house; he would play COD (poorly) and I would sit on his bed next to him and wait for him to get bored enough of 12 year olds spawn-camping him and maybe make out with me. This is pathetic, and not just on his part; why on earth I would hang around being Jane-On-The-Spot for his occasional desires, I can't tell you. And boy, am I embarrassed to admit to it, in writing, on the Internet, which, I have been advised, is forever. But if you never made mistakes, you'd have nothing to write about on a blog for an audience of 4 people.

So when you cringe, know I did these things for you!

Our like was not to be as it happened; we were both set to deploy to the exact opposite ends of the earth. And so we did, with little fanfare- he left in December, and two weeks later, I boarded the mission jet and left the states too. Neither of us felt the need to keep in touch; either I finally had my fill of sporadic attention morsels, or he'd had his, or maybe, just maybe, his idea of what having a girlfriend who got tattooed as regularly as he was seemed better in his head than the incident after we'd both had appointments, and had to un-stick ourselves from eachother/his sheets the following morning. (Oh, the things Suicide Girls leave out of their blurbs.)

However, J was back in my sights only a few months later, when both the female mutual friend and another disinterested third party/dude I'd dated years before approached the topic online; specifically, they both informed me that while I was under the impression that our parting was amicable, J had wasted no time in running his mouth about what an awful, bitchy, clingy, needy girlfriend I'd been, and how he'd had to dump me, and how terribly I'd taken it.

Now, of that statement, no one who's met me, read this blog, or can make inferred guesses of the "if there are two crayons and one is blue and one is red, which one will you use to accurately color in a tomato" caliber, would ever argue the bitchy comment. I'll own that proudly, even if I didn't really see 'makes food and delivers on request' as bitch moves persay. But the rest sounded like the cliche of every lowbrow comedian who depleted his stock of 'airline food- gross or what?!" jokes and had to move to the much less explored quadrant of "women be shoppin'." And as for the dumping... funny how that didn't come up when I drove him to the airport or made him his requested puppy chow for his deployment. Both friends hastened to tell me that, when they'd overheard him boasting about 'kicking her to the curb for being so needy' they'd interjected their disbelief; the from-before ex, when relating this to me later, laughed when he recounted how of all the adjectives one could use to describe me as a girlfriend, 'clingy' was not it. The female friend seemed mortified that she'd had to do with us meeting, let alone, "him saying you were needy- I mean, did he ever try calling you? You don't pick up for anyone."* Both, however, let me know that they'd set the record straight, and that he'd clammed up immediately.

(Their incredulity was only made possible by my track record with most of my friends as being one of the flakiest, reclusive people in a community of people that are known for their lack of interest in being social; so, the teacher who smugly gave me my Myers Briggs results like a death sentence is hereby most cordially invited to slob my figurative knob. That introvert poop worked out for me after all!)

Not a day passed from their relaying of the RUMINT before J had sent me a message on MySpace, which, yes, yes, the message was actually carved in stone and delivered via pterodactyl and I get it now get off my lawn, thanks. Expecting a hasty retraction or an explanation of how "well, guess I'll see you around," was translated as "move, bitch, get out the way," I was most surprised to find a cute little note, saying he wished he'd gotten to know me even better, and wanting to take me out again when we were both stateside.

After I informed him that his version of events and its lack of resemblance to reality had been made known to me via the same friends who'd stopped him in the first place, he responded only once, and as the subject line read "They musta made it up I'd nev..." I promptly deleted both him and the message. Not only did he lie about me, and then lie to me that the very friend he'd asked to get me to attend his party and an ex-boyfriend would have some stake in keeping us more separated than 3 continents already did... but he clearly thought I was that stupid, and that's a no-go for any level of relationship, right down to 'favored cashier.' In fact, I never received another MySpace message from the kid, as the Ice Age happened and all the servers were destroyed to make way for newer social network evolution in Facebook!

Wherein J reconnected with me, a year or so later, in order to send 9 separate invitations for me to become a fan of his new DJ band/group/circle jerk.

Invitations to become a fan of someone as well-known and close to you as 'favored cashier' would be more welcome. Hell, not even the good cashier who remembers your name- even 'that one cashier with the lazy eye who crushed your eggs' would be better received than a dude who was not great to you, lied about you, lied to you, and now expected you to become his groupie... but the absolute worst of his slights was, quite clearly, this last. I mean, what does it say when someone thinks your greatest potential lies in being a groupie of a person who doesn't even make their own music? Feels so strongly about it they feel the need to send that invitation to supply adoration 9 times?

I lied. That's a massive red flag. If you take nothing away from these dating stories (save a lingering feeling that there must be something in the water in the Midwest, and we're not talking fluoride) please, please, PLEASE, take away only this:

1. You are worth far more than the sidelines of a never-was.

and

2. If you're getting tattooed, buy a set of sheets you don't mind destroying, unless you want the boudoir looking like a butcher's. If he'd cited that crusty bruise of a bedding set as the reason we'd broken up, well hell. I couldn't even be mad.

This is a cute version of what I looked like after I googled "gross bloody bed" with the safe search off. 

Not pictured:insomnia.

*Lies. I pick up for my mother.

You Can Pick Your Friends, and You Can Pick Your Nose... no, no, you can't, because that is nasty. Who came up with that saying anyway?

When I was a much smaller me, I made friends the way every other vertically-challenged pre-adult did; via proximity. I daresay this is how the adults do it as well (or so I've heard from many successful grown-up imposters, which are the only kind with which one ought truck.) When we were kids, however, proximity was defined not by job, college class of interest, gym or other external hobby, you know, things that would imbue a sense of camaraderie from the get-go, but by where you sat in class. If you attended a school like mine, that meant how tall you were or where you came in the alphabet. To this very day, there resides in me an abiding need to 'marry-up' in the alphabet; anything south of S destines you for the cupcakes with disappointing sprinkle counts and frosting-to-cake ratios, last to be released for recess and first to file back in, etc.

Suggestions to switch it up with a different alphabet did not improve matters, either.

Most annoyingly, sitting in the back corner of the room meant every test and assignment grade was  made public knowledge as they were passed through Anderson all the way back to the T's. And even as a fairly regular A-student, this proved embarrassing on those random days where a B- marred the ol' rep, which, off-topic though this may be, was one of those reputations that everyone thinks you strive for, and are very quick to ding if they can, even if you didn't want to be known for this random aspect in the first place. Of course, if you defended yourself as such, saying, "I never said I was smart/best at volleyball/wealthy/whatever the rep may be," then the children would just chock it up to you being embarrassed at being caught out on top of being pretentious enough to think yourself any better than anyone else at anything, ever.

I imagine psychologists have all manner of charts, graphs, studies and theories to explain this out. I personally maintain children have all the same aspects and inclinations towards being rotten people as adults do. They're just condensed down into a size that frustrates, as it is small enough to toss down a well, but is also smug in the knowledge that to do so is looked down upon in most societal mores.

Hence the need to rent gear and plan trips to make it look accidental.

Of course, if one used only nearby candidates to fill out the friendship roster with no other form of application or interview, one could be burned. I once watched a fellow student repeatedly squirt Elmer's glue into his desk's pencil tray, let it dry, peel it out, and eat it, pencil shavings, eraser turds, used Kleenex (!!!) and all. Nearness or not, you've got to have standards. Herein lies the second integral part of friend-making: verification by common interest. Now, as a child, my litmus test involved a desire to eat candy and watch Animaniacs and Freakazoid, which, might I add, were surprisingly reliable in weeding out the yuckier of my contemporaries. However, in the adult world, this wears grownup clothes and goes by names like sports and recreation,  being fans of the same arts or music, book clubs and writer's groups, various religious affiliations, singles', couples' or parents' groups, etc. Arrested development notwithstanding, and admitting that your mileage may vary, but I'm betting there are worse standards out there than Red Vines and the knowledge of all the nations of the world, circa 1993.

For example, there are tattoos.

If you're reading this and haven't seen a picture of the amateur-mind behind this blog, allow me to disclose that, around 23, I started decorating, and now have a fair few pieces on my ribs and arms. This does not make me cool, unique, a rebel against society, a convict, or a hardcore anything, except perhaps an enthusiast-of-colored-drawings. I draw the designs, take them to people who can improve upon them (i.e., are experienced enough that they don't still need to draw the sun on their pictures to figure out where the shading goes) and pay money to have people draw on me. And then I look at them and like them a bunch, and that's exactly where my interest in them stops. This picture chosen specifically for how very thug lyfe I represent myself, and how very seriously I take being the human version of the wall you drew on when you were 5 and had access to crayons outside of supervision.

 Gaze upon my street credentials, Beezelbub demands- wait are those animal cookies 

what the gently caress

The problem with the above paragraph is that it, like everything else you're likely to read here, is entirely, like, my opinion, man. This obliviousness is a fine thing for a blog. It is not, however, a fine way to approach something that can be controversial, offensive to delicate senses, or at the very least, inspiring to onlookers as to what sort of person you might be. Not to say one should live in fear of other peoples' opinions, but take this as just a gentle reminder that you shouldn't really be surprised if people look at something that is for all intents and purposes a personal decision, and decide they need to hold forth loudly and publicly on it. (See also: health, lack of children, hobbies, etc.) You may fail to notice your tattoos, piercings, or multicolored mohawk after having them for some time, but you can't really be shocked when they do not, or if they are dickbags about it.

This is a cute version of what I looked like after I googled "dickbag" with the safe search off. 

Not pictured: vomit.

Adult-sized people, after all, are held by consensus to have all the necessary aspects and inclinations towards being rotten, and carry the downside of not fitting down most standard wells. Double whammy.

You might wonder why I chose to write a whole post about the arbitrary nature in which friends are selected, held or caught-and-released, or wanted to extrapolate on the common interests that can bind friends for life, and which ones glance like a ricochet. You might wonder if this was all just an excuse to use that Wacko Warner meme I've held in reserve for the last two years; I wonder how, even in my social naivete, I ended up dating a guy like J.

To Be Continued...

LiterHate; Book Reviews by Bitches

I read. I read a lot. I have ever since, as a child, my mother read to me, and then became a librarian at our private school and allowed me first crack at donated books for content. (Note that this was the school that banned Wizard of Oz, as there is a WIZARD right there in the title doing Satan's magic look at him all smug, so many of these books ended up as my own.) Hell, I used to be grounded from reading whenever the stacked clutter of my room crossed the line with my mother's tolerance of my filthy dirt-cookie lifestyle, so you know bitches be readin'.

This however qualifies me in no way, shape or form to review books. Fair warning. I will read anything, but chances are that the things I review here are going to be one of the two extremes: OMGYAYZORS I SHIT TEH SUNSHINES or WTF, now that's in my head FOREVER and I will make you pay.

 If you've read any of my other blogs, I bet you know which one we're starting with here.

The Lost Years, by Mary Higgins Clark.

Mary Higgins Clark is reliable, if nothing else, for serving up bland murder mysteries for the Matlock set. I didn't go into this thinking "hard-hitting think piece" so much as "of the Golden Girls, I really wish Dorothy would've been the last one. Love me some Maude." Her books aren't terrible, however, and can help you pass time you'd otherwise spend chewing your nails or pondering self-tanner (don't.) Also, she has a free pass for "All Around the Town," and always will, as it was the first book my mother let me read after her, meaning not a kid's book she bought expressly for me, but a grown-ups book she was letting me read. My first brush with Dissociative Personality Disorder, child-kidnapping AND murder, and all before I hit puberty. Happy birthday to me, indeed!

But this is not "All Around the Town," and there's not so much as a child-groping in sight to liven this one up. Onward, people, to an East Coast collection of towns and a dead dude in a study, discovered by his adult daughter.

I pause here to call attention to this one chick who wanders around the periphery of this book that, frankly, steals the show; I can't even tell you what the protagonist/s name is without checking the back of the book, mind, but when we come down to it, this isn't the story of a dead dude at all; this is the story of Alviraaaaah~, as I discovered along the way, and so will any who read this book. She's a scene-stealin' gal after Linda Tripp's withered little heart, she is!

But she's not the protagonist according to the script; that honor belongs to...

one sec checking book, brb

It's Mariah, which is only an "ah" sound away from being my name, and still I couldn't remember it. What I do remember of "Ah" is that girl can't go three seconds without recounting a memory of her dead dad. Goes to her apartment? That's Dad's chair she sits in. Looks at her eyes in the mirror? Daddy's eyes. And his height! (A collective sigh of relief is breathed as she fails to further describe whether or not she inherited dear ol' Dad's vitiligo.) She also has occasion to look at her hair, and well, that beckons a memory of her dad's comparisons between her raven locks and the song The Highwayman, which is about some rogue having the hots for an innkeeper's daughter, ew. Looks at a picture? It's not of her dad, but reminds her of the awesome pictures he had of him and his girlfriend off gallivanting around Venice. Venice, as it turns out, is where he took his wife, Ah's dear mother, on their honeymoon. I've met girls who won't brook a guy taking them to the same restaurant that they used to frequent with an ex, and that's just dating. This is a honeymoon-destination we're talking here, mister. If only there were other cities in other countries! At the very least, this is a tacky-as-hell vacation for the girlfriend, and we should feel bad for her.

Wait.

How do these pictures come into play? Oh, Ah's mom, who is still very much alive, found them. But wait! Mom has the Alzheimers, so that's okay, right? The "Notebook" approach isn't for everyone. But these aren't amnesia-Alzheimers we're dealing with. While she has her moments, Ah's Mom is also very much aware that her husband is actively replacing the warm spot she used to leave in the bed (ew EW) before she's even done making it.

At this point in the book (second chapter) I'm glad the dude got shot, and as far as I'm concerned, this became about finding a thank-you note Jesus jotted down, period, the end. It's the only one of its kind, and not even to the Wise Men or his disciples or even his mom; apparently, being the Savior of the World doesn't come with any sense of etiquette. So off we go, to poke around figuring out which of Dead Dad's friends conspired to steal Christ's Post-It, and our Sherpa is some girl who can't hook a bra in this story without reminiscing about how her father either bought her the bra or used to snap them or something. Like I said, completely forgettable.

But I sure as hell remember ol' Alviraaaaah~. Which is clearly how you're supposed to pronounce that name, bee tee dubs. This broad is definitely one of those ladies born in the 60s (but still refers to herself as a "Baby Boomer," neglecting to note that the baby boom happened when all the US troops returned from WWII. In the 40s. Mmmhmm.) Another word I bet she proudly uses in self-descriptives? Wacky. I don't know how I know this, or why, but I'm betting dollars that she has purchased at least 2 pairs of multi-colored reading glasses from the drugstore AND every pair of whimsical socks she can get her claws on, and thinks this niche consumerism makes her unique. "All my friends tell me I'm so wacky and spontaneous!" she remarks to her windchimes. I bet she has dozens.

"What? Sounds like a great gal to me!"

Another thing I'm certain of is her inspiration- this is Jessica Fletcher writ annoying. She barely squeezes out a tear for the dead, a lifelong friend, before she's nagging her hubs (Willy, whose name I remember in connection with it being one of the saddest nicknames for peen EVER) to circle blocks while she stalks people, lies to doormen when the stalkees are, understandably, avoiding this pile of Metamucil and crazy, and oh yes, has a diamond-and-gold sunburst brooch with a microphone in it that she wears constantly.

lolwut

I get that bridge clubs and knitting aren't for everyone, but Jesus-Please-us (only once, as He wasn't one for the manners) lady, THIS IS WHY THERE ARE COPS AND LAWYERS. You know, people with training and knowledge about the law, who could tell you that without a warrant, you really can't use any secret recordings you make of people who are under the impression of privacy.

lolpatriotact

Alviraaaaah wears this gaudy-as-all-get-out Liberace constellation jewelry all the time, and whenever she wants to "be sure not to mishear something" (reasonable) she claws at the brooch like she's having a stroke, and no one notices (nutbag.) Well, no one who would somehow make this microphone brooch (I'm sorry, did Harry Ritchies get merged with Sharper Image somewhere along the way?) less effective, because Ah asks her to wear it to a dinner to catch any asides her father's killer might make about, you know, killing him. Which I must say sounds foolproof from this end!

Places to Admit to Committing Murder:
1. Space, where no one can hear you scream, let alone confess;
2. Your shower, in-between belting out off-key renditions of "You Give Love a Bad Name";
3. In the house where you straight murdered your friend, at a memorial dinner for the departed, given by his own kid.

Hmmmmmmm decisions decisions

But sure enough, Alviraaaaah happens to notice someone acting very suspicious- taking a phone call on their cell, if you can imagine, HOW MYSTERIOUS- and bustles up right next to him, close enough to record the tinny voice on his phone as a message is left. And she does so without him even noticing her lurch forward, clutch her shoulder, and give his jacket some of that onion-breath or old lady perfume smell. And this factors in with the rest of the story, and is even a key to solving who capped Dad, framed Mom, and made off with the Heavenly Hallmark.

Wait. I think we discovered the actual mystery in this book. How Alviraaaaah~ wasn't stabbed to death with a tire iron (well, stabbed/bludgeoned) as she meddled along in actual criminal cases, armed only with roots she can't stop bitching about and her high tech tchotchkes. The theologic thank-you is a McGuffin!

(Well played, Ms. Higgins Clark. Well played.)

For those not into meta-mysteries: Check out All Around the Town. It's a much stronger book, and reliably paced with action and believable interpersonal relationships. That is to say, it's unlike this one, wherein men come staggering in from offstage, pouncing on Ah seconds after her dead father's body starts to cool, like emo-zombies calling out for "looooooooove." You'd think that their intent would be to offer sympathies in this time of loss, and mutual loss at that- all the men in this book are bros with Dead Dude, like BFFS4EVA!!! But, sadly, their shoulder pats and single tears are just a formality, the offer of a tissue for her tears before a dinner date and in one instance, a shiny new car!!! if she'll go steady with them.

I would think there's some Emily Post chart out there that labels out when it's appropriate to try to get her out of their dreams and her black mourning clothes; I've never seen one, but I bet it mandates the poor girl at least have a moment to scrape the dead's blood off the office furniture before she's expected to make out in the backseat of Dad's (ooh, too soon!) car, but these gentlemen vultures don't even have the decency to circle THAT long. The first offer for a date comes THE DAY AFTER THE GUY DIES, EW ew ew! Best of all, we're supposed to root for one of them, who ends up getting the girl, in a twist at which even M. Night Shyamalan would look, roll his eyes and say "Oh REALLY." However, Alviraaaaah~ approves, so must we.

She has some very incriminating recordings of us, as it turns out.