Idiot Parade

I want to preface this by saying that I love my job. My manager is wonderful, and the really is a sense of community between my coworkers. It’s difficult and often frustrating, but I feel that I rise to the challenge and I am doing my part to positively influence people’s lives. I wasn’t this content when I worked at Gymboree, and that’s saying a hell of a lot. Awesome job.

I had a woman come in today, but not to buy a membership. She wanted to see if she could have a trainer show her how to work out at home. I ignored that statement for two reasons: one, because we don’t allow guests to use our resources without paying for them; two, because why in the hell would you come to a gym to look for a home workout? Crazy talk. So I press her for information, politely, of course, and she tells me her story. She is clearly obese, has sciatica and diabetes, and and she informs me that her husband and son are obese as well. She and her husband were members years ago, but they stopped coming after a couple months because they weren’t seeing results and got discouraged.

That was my first red flag. You can’t be 100 pounds overweight and expect to see results in a few months. You didn’t gain the weight in a few months; why would it come off that quickly? This tidbit tells me that she has no idea how to work out or what reasonable expectations look like.

So we’re on the tour, and this woman is excited about everything I show her. I’m pushing personal training harder that I usually do, not because I get commission, but because she clearly needs it. She has admitted to me that she needs help, she acknowledges her ignorance and her need for consistency. The personal trainer is going to be the only thing that will keep her going and that will give her the help she needs. I tell her this a few times, and she agrees. I ask her more about the “doing it at home” plan. She and her husband walk, sometimes, and they have a bunch of exercise machines and dvds that just collect dust. She also loves to swim, and they don’t have the pool. She’s a perfect person for our gym and we both know it.

By the time we get back to my desk, she’s told me about all her health problems, her medications, and how she still has so much life to live. I show her the prices, and everything goes to hell. She tells me that her husband would never agree to $45 a month, and he’d say they can do it at home. I tell her that I appreciate how expensive it looks on paper, but clearly, the at-home approach is not working. Her response: “I know”. It’s in that embarrassed, apologetic voice. I tell her I understand what a huge step it is, coming in here and making this choice, and that we can offer her all the support she wants. “I know”. Your diabetes is reversible. You back problems are reversible. You won’t have worry about those medications if you make a commitment to helping yourself. “I know.” At the end of the day, she decided, it was too much money. She left. After an hour of discussing her wants and needs and fears, she walked out.

This has happened a few times, and I want to shake the guest every time. When they tell me that they want to live a long life, but they don’t have the money, what I want to say is “Obviously, you don’t want to live that badly. By doing nothing, you are killing yourself.” How much money do these people spend on machines they never use, on diet pills, on quick fixes? But when it comes to doing the hard work, it’s too much money. It’s $1.50 a day. $1.50 a day for a new life. Are you kidding me? I can help you. Help me help you. Help ME help YOU. The way these people get in their own way just astounds me, and it makes me want to scream. YOU ARE DYING FASTER BECAUSE YOU ARE FAT. YOU HAVE THE POWER TO FIX IT. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, TAKE CONTROL OF YOUR LIFE.

I am not for a second saying that making a life change isn’t hard. I cannot begin to comprehend the amount of dedication that takes, because I’ve never had to lose a large amount of weight. That’s why we have trainers. That’s why we provide a support system, a record of member’s successes, nutritional plans, everything. They know how hard it is, and they don’t want anyone to go on that journey alone. So there’s no excuse. There’s laziness, there’s weakness, but there are absolutely no excuses.

I’m so jealous of Jillian Michaels. She gets to say all this stuff to people’s faces. Where can I sign up for that job?

AOL Radio (I swear, I am the last person on Earth with AOL. Shoot me.) recently posted an article dubbed “100 Worst Songs Ever”. There has been some speculation by commenters that the author of said article is actually twelve-years-old and can’t hear these songs properly because his head is wedged some place quite unpleasant. That being said, the list isn’t a terrible one. There is an abundance of stupid, annoying, and flat-out lousy music. “My Humps” and “Hollaback Girl” deserved their places on this list. There are ten, though, that should not be anywhere near the hundred worst songs, and if anyone says otherwise, well, them’s fightin words.

97) “The Girl is Mine”, Michael Jackson & Paul McCartney

Is it MJ’s or Paul’s best work? Of course not. The lyrics are sappy and simplistic, but it is goddamn ADORABLE. It is playful and innocent. Just like “Say Say Say”, the collaboration between these two artists is delightful.

89) “Cherry Pie”, Warrant

This is a song about sex. Not love making, not wooing, just downright wild monkey sex. Sometimes that is exactly what a person needs (not that I speak from experience here….hi, Daddy!), and listening to a song about it is straight-up fun.

74) “Do They Know it’s Christmas”, Band Aid

This might be the most depressing Christmas song ever written. Ever. But it speaks the truth. And when I get caught up in the shopping and the house cleaning and the family drama, this song humbles me. Also, it was written to raise money for famine victims in Ethiopia. Stick that in your pipe, AOL. What do you have against starving African children?!

68) “Hold My Hand”, Hootie and the Blowfish

Even the writer couldn’t attack Hootie: “C’mon, it’s not their fault we overindulged on this one. If you eat too much cake, don’t blame the baker.” To sum up: Overplayed? Yes. Good song? Damn straight.

64) “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”, Deep Blue Something

Whatever happened to this band? This is some pure 90′s goodness right here. Two people bonding over a movie. Even though they’re afraid that the world will keep them apart, an innocent love of Audrey Hepburn can serve as common ground and will always bring them back to each other. Has anyone tried this approach in Israel or Palestine? Side note: if anyone wanted to put the film of the same name on a list of the worst films ever, I would not object. Has there ever been a bigger pain-in-the-ass than Ms. Golightly?

50) “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)”, The Proclaimers

The repetitive nature of this song makes it fun to sing for everyone, period. The lyrics are to the point, and hearing them in a Scottish accent makes me all warm and fuzzy on the inside. I maintain that the author of the original article hates this song because he doesn’t know what “haver” means. Adding David Tennant to this mix only makes it sweeter.

42) “We Didn’t Start the Fire”, Billy Joel

Shit has gone on for all eternity, and the younger generations will always try to rise against it and try to make the world a happier, squishier place. This is a time honored tradition. It’s like the Circle of Life. That’s what this song represents. Yeah, Joel totally listed a bunch of people and historical and/or current events, but he made it into a song that didn’t sound like something from School House Rock. That’s impressive all by itself. “We Didn’t Start the Fire” is like a musical time capsule. How awesome would it be to hand out these lyrics as a middle school class assignment? Each group gets a stanza and they have to present a report on everything and everyone in said stanza. We should all be thanking Billy Joel for making history fun again.

25) “I’ll Be There For You (Theme from Friends)”, The Rembrandts

The bridge (“No one could ever know me”, etc) is a little awkward, but that’s a minor offense. Who can’t relate to this song, honestly? Job sucks, dating sucks, and you have no idea where your life is headed. This is a theme song for all twenty-something’s (or thirty-something’s, or forty-something’s in this economy) at one point or another, and damnit, I’m glad The Rembrandts are here for me.

21) “One Week”, Barenaked Ladies

Mostly nonsense lyrics, but a great beat and full of fabulous pop culture references. There is a reason that this song launched BNL to stardom. The Ladies rule. ‘Nuff said.

12) “Wannabe”, Spice Girls

I was torn on this one, I really was. I hated the Spice Girls all through school. I wanted to stab every girl in my class who called herself “Baby” or “Sporty”. I was the only eight-year-old female who didn’t own a Spice Girls album or their film. That being said, I heard Wannabe not too long ago, and now that I’m old enough to look past the bubblegum and moronic pseudonyms…girl power all the way. Bros before hos, chicks before dicks, it’s all the same message: this song is about prioritizing old relationships over new ones and having high standards in the dating world. Though I would appreciate it if someone would tell me what it means to “really wanna zigazig ah”.

In light of the penultimate Harry Potter film being released in November, Jason and I have assumed the task of reading through all seven of the novels (I’m reading aloud to him because he’s a slowpoke). Jason is….somewhat of an anomaly. He has never read the books, he has never seen the films, and amazingly, he knows absoluely none of the plot twists or spoilers. Jason, by some miracle, is stepping into the world of Harry Potter all innocent and brand new.

This is fantastic most of the time. He laughs at all the right moments and is, after just finishing Chamber of Secrets, getting attached to characters. Neville is currently is favorite, and he has a soft spot for Snape. I’m absolutely loving how these books are enchanting him as they did me when they were first released. The excited look on his face at the beginning of each chapter, or when he makes a connection (“OH MY GOD, VOLDEMORT’S IN THE TURBAN!!!!”), is not unlike the blissful and triumphant expression of an infant who just discovered that he can reach his feet to his mouth.

The problem, of course, is that we’re slowly inching out of “kids books” territory. We’re planning on spending tomorrow on Azkaban, the last novel everyone gets out of alive. Characters he cares about are going to get hurt, some lower blows than others, and I’m feeling terrible that I’m going to have to put him through the heartbreak we all experienced. I know they’re only fictional characters….but who doesn’t want Hagrid or Luna or whoever to be their best friends? Who on earth didn’t want a Weasley sweater and some treacle tart on Christmas morning? That’s just as good as them all being real people, and I don’t know anyone who didn’t cry in books 5, 6, and 7. It’s going to break his poor heart, and I wish I could save him…but we all lost characters we love, and we soldiered on.

On a lighter note, we’ve watched the first two films, and he’s just as indignant as I was about all the changes and deleted scenes. He’s almost as annoyed as he was when Cyclops died in X-Men: The Last Stand. Rather adorable, really.

Almost forgot–J keeps mentioning how much he loves Scabbers. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he finds out about Wormtail!

Hi! My name is Andi, and I’m in the market for a new best bud. I’ve been living in the High Desert for about a year, and I’m tired of staying at home by myself all day while I look for work. I’m pretty awesome; took my SATs twice, which I think says a lot, I have little dances for specific occassions, and I rock at Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Aaron Sorkin and Joss Whedon are my heroes, and my love for Michael Jackson increases at approximately the same rate as my tequila intake. My fiance says that I’m exceedingly charming, but I think he might be biased.

If I sound like someone you want to hang out with, please fill out this survey and send it to my email. Please note: I’m looking for limited amounts of drama. I enjoy some gossip here and there, and I’m more than happy to listen and sympathize, but I am not interested in become someone’s permanent shrink. Apply at your own risk!

Love, Andi

BEST FRIEND APPLICATION

Name:

DOB:

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Allergies:

School:

Major:

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Any drug use (including cigarettes)?

Top Five Favorite Films:

Top Five Favorite Books:

Top Five Favorite Bands:

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Do you like sushi? If so, favorite kind:

Batman or Superman?

Harry Potter or Twilight?

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Liquor of choice:

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How do you enjoy spending you nights off?

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What quote best describes you?

Any phobias?

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Please write a sentence for each of the following words:

There
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Lose
Loose

As an English major, I chose to give myself a break from ancient texts by supplementing my studies with a creative writing elective. The degree electives are four-course blocks, and one of said courses was English 408: Writing Poetry. I expected to encounter people from several different backgrounds in such a class, but there is nothing, nothing in this world that could have prepared me for ALL THE DAMN HIPSTERS.

For those of you who are unclear, I will try to define this term. Imagine a Woodstock hippie. Give this hippie modern technology, those weird sunglasses that have horizontal bars of plastic instead of lenses, a liberal arts degree, and all the self-righteousness of a sixteen-year-old at a peace rally. Add a dash of ignorant douchebaggery, and you have yourself a hipster.

Generally, I can tolerate these people in small doses. I can pretend to share in their hatred of The Man and wax poetic about Chomsky’s “Colorless green ideas sleep furiously”. In this class, however, there came a point where these kids (see note about self-righteous sixteen-year-old; one of the poetry students was actually sixteen) needed a good pimp slap. Between the horrific rhythm-less rap and the free verse poetry about politicians speaking in tongues as cow eyeballs fell from the sky, I came disturbingly close to giving each and every one of them (there were five) a swift kick in the nuts. Throughout this ordeal, one part of hipster philosophy was revealed. It might even be they key tenant, the first of their Ten Commandments. The one consensus was this: if a person enjoys owning things, then said person does not have the correct priorities. Being a consumer is to be, to use a once awesome but not completely overused term, one of the sheeple.

Cars? Those box you in, man. You can’t see the world around you. All those designer clothes you have, they’re barriers, symbolizing the wall between you and enlightenment. You don’t need those heels; they might make you look taller, but they stunt your spiritual growth.

Okay, none of them actually said those things. But it’s in the realm of possibility. Levi, you were there, back me up.

All of this, in spite of my burning hatred of hipsters, forced me to look at the way I live my life. After some serious reflection, I came to a solid conclusion:

I really like owning shit.

Don’t get me wrong, I give to charity when I can. I bought a homeless guy lunch today. I’m growing my hair out so that it can be cut off and made into a wig for a cancer patient (and because it’ll look really pretty if my hair is in a fancy up-do for my wedding). But I firmly believe that one of life’s greatest pleasures is walking through the mall with a Victoria’s Secret bag on my right arm and a Barnes & Noble bag on my left. I don’t care who you are; when you have that beautiful pink striped bag clutched in your fist, you know it’s going to be a good day.

I have favorite things, and they are not as pure and innocent as raindrops on roses. No, my favorite things cost money. I love my mortar and pestle. I love my glass spoon holder that is covered in primary-colored octopi. I absolutely adore my sensible black heels. My X-Box controller with the pink Beauty and the Beast skin? Freaking awesome. Are any of these things necessary to my survival? Probably not. But having them kicks ass.

There are some people I know, however, who drop the names of designers as often as possible, as though there’s a casting director hiding somewhere, just waiting to feature them on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous or Sex in the City 9. People who equate Vera Wang with Gandhi, who strive to be Paris Hilton, who tell me that five pairs of shoes is simply not enough, oh my word, HOW DO YOU LIVE IN SUCH SQUALOR. These are people that should be locked in a room with the hipsters, because their lives revolve around beating other people over the head with sale prices that are still in the triple digits.

What I think some people need to realize is that there is a difference between owning material possessions and enjoying them, and absolutely living for your next purchase. There are a lot of things that I can’t have, and I’m fine with that. It was the same way when I was a kid; my parents didn’t have a lot of spending cash when my Dad was in-between jobs, and when we went shopping, I had to hear “no” a lot. This is according to my mother. I don’t remember any of that, because I never felt deprived. I knew my parents loved me, I had toys at home that were just as much fun, and missing out on some shiny new gadget didn’t affect my life in any way. In short, I was raised to be grateful. So grateful, in fact, that my mother has to convince me to buy a new pair of jeans. Honestly, I’ve sewn them up five times now; why not go for six?

My motivational level is at an all time low, and for those of you who didn’t know me in middle school, that’s saying a hell of a lot. I’m home all day long. If I weren’t a lazy ass, this place would look like Mr. Clean’s sparkling genie palace. But I am, in fact, a lazy ass. I do some routine maintenance, both for myself and for our humble abode, but 85% of my day involves large quantities of the interwebz. I put in a few applications, troll craigslist for hours, battle Monster.com in the hopes that someday, they’ll send me my password to the employer account I created two years ago so I can make an employee profile which allows me to apply for positions that I am clearly not qualified for. After a couple hours of this, I realize that my endless searching has yet to garner employment, and the downward spiral begins. One can only refresh Facebook so many times, but that has yet to stop me. Cracked.com could probably take out a restraining order, because there is no reason a normal, healthy adult would spend so many wasted hours on learning which seven Disney characters fall victim to the most gruesome deaths.

I have only three contacts during the day: my mother, Molly, and our new puppy, Wyatt. I try to speak to my mother no more than twice a day, because otherwise she gets antsy about seeing me again, and half the reason I moved out was to get the hell away from those people that created me. The other half was true love. Obviously. Molly is still a pain in my ass, but less so now that she has a new small creature to torture….I mean, love. Wyatt is rounding out the household nicely, and is a much needed source of joy now that our poor Melody is no longer with us. He snorts like a pug, looks like a brown cow, just about dies for a chance at snuggling. I’m also starting to think that he might be a canine prodigy. Seriously, you guys, we’ve had him for two days, and he already knows how to use the dog door. No more pee in the house! Either this puppy is gifted, or I’m an exceptional trainer who is obviously responsible enough to care for small and fragile creatures. Let’s assume the first option is correct, shall we? In spite of their phenomenal intellects, however, they are still not the greatest conversationalists. I’m this close to drawing a face on a volleyball and throwing it a tea party.

There are people I could talk to, I know, but I feel like I’ve missed out on too much to still really be a part of a group. I sent a few emails out to people I knew at COC; one of them replied, but not for long. Faire, it seems, is much the same way, and I’m not sure why I expected it to be anything else. I’ve been a part of theatre long enough to know that missing a single day is enough to put you on the outskirts of the group, and getting back into the thick of it is no easy task. I didn’t miss a day, I missed a season, and now people that I talked with every other day are suddenly not interested. Many people subscribe to the “out of sight, out of mind” philosophy; unfortunately, I am not that way. I had never been invited to parties in my teenage years, and though I was certainly never the Main Event at any faire-related soiree, it was nice to be included, and I miss it. Feel free to send your pity invites via Facebook. I’ll be refreshing the page in a matter of seconds.

I’ve been trying to lose 10 to 15 pounds. I have been trying to do this for a while, half-assed, but I’m really getting into it now. Honest. Cardio every day. If I mention this, however, it seems to illicit certain responses. More often than not, if I mention to a friend that I feel out of shape or I would like to lose weight, these are the responses I’m met with :

“But you’re SO SKINNY!”
“You don’t NEED to lose weight!”
“I wish I were your size.”

I do appreciate the intentions behind these comments. I know they are not meant to make me feel awkward or guilty or misguided. That being said, I would like to clarify my feelings on the subject.

I’m well aware that I don’t NEED to lose weight. As of today, I’m exactly 129.7 lbs. With a height of 5’3″ (and a half), that puts me in the ‘ideal’ body weight and BMI category. If I mention that I’m watching my weight, no one needs to reassure me that I’m not fat. I appreciate it, but I’m aware. Thank you.

I am, however, out of shape. Very much so. Not out of shape for the average American, but for a dancer. Having a dancer’s body is what makes me comfortable, it is what makes me happy and confident. I liked it when my stomach was a little concave and when that half inch where my thighs meet my butt didn’t have any stretch marks or cellulite. This goal of mine will probably be a while coming, because the high desert doesn’t believe in $12 drop-in ballet classes, and forget about pole studios. But I have made it clear to J that, once we have expendable income, part of that will be going towards pole classes (as well as his kickboxing classes).

I would like to say that this is entirely about my health and in no way superficial. That, however, would be a lie, and I’m sorry if this next bit offends anyone. There was a time where I was convinced that I was fat and I employed very unhealthy methods to appease my self-loathing. My immediate family is incredibly slim. My mother is obsessed with aerobics and has been since her pregnancy. I was rarely allowed sugary cereal, and fast food was a treat, not a daily meal. I was doing laundry with her on Saturday, and as I grabbed a third slice of cheese, she reminded me of my cholesterol. I’m in no way blaming her for my adolescent issues with weight and image; eating disorders are very much mental blocks that are not picked up or dropped on a whim. My relationship with food is something I work on daily, but I would be either lying or stupid to say that the environment I grew up in had no impact on my lifestyle.

Now, I made sure to title this “I know that I’m not fat” because this is a true statement. Logically, I know that I am not in any way overweight or unhealthy. However, when I look at myself in the mirror, I am still hyper aware of the cellulite and the rolls and anything that jiggles, even if it’s supposed to jiggle. Like it is impossible for a man to ignore the presence of a beautiful woman, it is impossible for me to ignore my fat. This has been true since middle school. It is part of my identity. At the same time, I am constantly comparing myself to other women, and I know that, of my friends, I am one of the smallest. Since grade school, I have been one of, if not the, smallest. At this point, being the smallest is a part of who I am, it is a key part of my identity. Right now, a lot of my female friends are losing a lot of weight, and I am so SO happy for them. I know they are putting in a lot of work and are making an effort to be healthier people, and that is absolutely wonderful. I will never say otherwise. At the same time, though, a part of me is afraid that I’m going to lose this part of my identity. So I need to work my ass off to keep it. Which means I need to lose weight too.

I’m not proud of any of that. It’s incredibly lame and obnoxious and superficial, but it’s the truth. I enjoy being small. Note that there is a HUGE difference between me wanting to be small and wanting the rest of my friends to be fat. That latter part is not the case, I promise.

The only part about this that ever annoys me is when people attribute my size to my allergy. Any time someone new finds out about my celiac, they are bound to respond with “Oh, no wonder you’re so skinny.” I’d like to clear this up: I eat as many carbs as people who can process gluten. I eat rice, and bread, and pasta, and cake. I know that anti-carb diets are still pretty popular, but that’s not what I’m doing. I look the way I look because, even though I eat all those things, I don’t (generally) eat all the bread or cake ever. Moderation is key in every diet, not just gluten-free ones. At the same time, a very common question about my allergy is “Can you eat potatoes?”, so I suppose I can forgive that transgression. I am a pretty benevolent dictator.

So, where I am now….After two weeks, I’m down from 133 to 129. When J and I started dating, I was 126, and I had wanted to lose some at that point. By the first of June, if I keep going at two pounds per week, I should weigh 120. If I’m happy there, awesome. If not…well, I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it.

I believe that if you choose to live and work in this country, the ability to speak, read, and write in English should be a requirement. No one is forced to come here; it is a choice. By choosing to make a living in the United States, a person should acknowledge certain societal norms, namely, the way in which businesses and most people communicate. If you speak other languages, that’s fantastic. No one can or should be kept from using their native tongue with friends and family. But if a person is conducting business with English speakers, which you have to do as someone living in this country, have the courtesy to know the language in which your customers and peers communicate.

I believe that there is nothing wrong with acknowledging that some stereotypes are true. Racism has taken on a life of it’s own, and there seems to be no gray area in a discussion of racial beliefs or remarks. It’s as though burning a cross in the name of white power is the same as Newsweek citing that 50% of African-American children are raised without a father figure in the home. That isn’t racist; it might not be completely accurate, because statistics can easily be skewed, but it is simply pointing out nuances in different cultures. Not all stereotypes are bad, either.

I believe that being politically correct can often hinder the progress of an honest discussion or debate.

I believe that it is unfair to expect someone to have one dimension. Human beings are contradictory by nature. I may be ‘conservative’ on certain issues and ‘liberal’ on others. If you disagree with my opinions or analysis on a particular subject, that’s fine, but that one opinion does not define me as a person, just as one act in my twenty-one years of living does not represent the whole of my existence. Neither of us can be labeled as “bad” or “wrong” simply because we disagree. All that can be said, frankly, is that we disagree.

I believe that people are offended too easily. No one tells you to troll websites or watch shows on a news network that caters to those who oppose your world view. I do those things because sometimes it gives me a good laugh, sometimes it makes me consider another point of view, and sometimes it ignites passion. But if I knowingly watch or read something that opposes my opinions, I take it for what it is and know that the only person I can blame is myself. Free speech means people have the right to say things that will upset you and piss you off.

I believe that Anglo-Americans are losing their culture. I have introduced myself as an Irish-American, and was quickly reminded that I’m not from Ireland. I doubt that every African-American, Asian-American, or Latin-American person is an immigrant from Africa, Asia, or Latin America, but they are still permitted to identify with their ancestry. Perhaps it’s because Anglo-Americans are generally racial “mutts”–I am Irish, French, Scottish, and Cherokee. However, because the majority of my heritage is Irish, if I should choose to identify myself as such, I don’t see why that should be any less plausible than any other hyphenated American.

I believe that God is good, that hedonism is pointless and futile, that life begins at conception, that love is not all you need but certainly one of the better things to have, that Bernie Goldberg is a fuckwit, that a grudge can only be held for so long before the holder looks like a complete idiot, and that my dog knows exactly what she’s doing when she eats my stuff.

Fin.

Let it never be said that spring break is anything but crazy.While most stories of break adventures involve cabana boys, wet t-shirt contests, and more tequila than is advisable, my stuck-in-the-house-because-I-have-no-money break has been just as wild.

Minor things out of the way first. I have glasses now, and my first two fillings ever. I went nearly twenty-two years with perfect vision and perfect teeth, but in the words of Tyler Durden, “even the Mona Lisa’s falling apart”. Honestly, both things are good. I enjoy seeing and I enjoy not having holes in my teeth, so yay for these things.

I’m sure most of my friends and family have heard the big news by now, but in case there’s anyone out of the loop, I have a little story to share.

March 18 marked the first anniversary of my relationship with Jason. I desgined him a cute mug on Zazzle, and it was an all-around pleasant day. We saw Wolfman (I thought it was fantastic; J was less impressed. If you’re in the mood for some good old fashioned gore, give it a shot. And I mean real gore–full decaptiations, flying organs, mouthfuls of sinew. Also, Anthony Hopkins hasn’t given me the creeps like that since he ate that guy’s liver with fava beans. It’s awesome. End of film review), dorked aroud the ritzy area of the high desert (holy crap you guys, there’s a MARINA here. Like with boats and everything. It’s huge! Last aside, I promise.), and went for sushi. Lovely lovely sushi, an here I feel the need to promote Yoshi sushi because OH MY GOD. For one, they don’t cook their ungai in soy sauce, which is good for me; for two (?), I have never had better spicy tuna. It is brilliant, and made of magic and rainbows and unicorn smiles. You don’t even know.

So we get back to the house after sushi, and I’m dying for the anniversary present which Jason cruelly kept from me until that night. He grabs a gift bag and tells me to go up on the roof. We love it up there. Anyway. Once we’re up, he hands me the bag, and I’m tearing through the tissue paper, finding NOTHING, and getting a little upset with said NOTHING, until I hear Jason say “You’re so obsessed with that bag that you haven’t even noticed I’m on one knee.”

Oh yes.

THAT kind of one knee.

There was crying on both ends, and he asked me, and it was absolutely perfect. Oh, he’s a tricksy one. Distracting me with gift wrap so he could take a ring out of his pocket. You win this time, Gadget.

The wedding is a long ways off, mostly because we don’t have the money for one, but also because we’d like to keep the same anniversary. There will most likely be a handfasting at faire, so we can have all our friends with us, and still be able to have a ceremony with just family. Why have one wedding when you can have two, right?

Right now, we’re just enjoying the word ‘fiancee’ and gearing up for my graduation in June. There’s always some kind of excitement going on here. I only hope we can keep things exciting for the next eighty or so years.

I just read an article on AOL Black Voices entitled “Why are so many Black Women single?”

Some of the reasons, provided by the author of said article:

Marriage is for white people
Marriage is hazardous to the health of black women
Standards of black women are too high
The perception of black women is negative
Lack of respect in the black community between men and women
Black women should learn to date outside their race
Black women should lower their expectations and focus less on superficial qualities like looks, money, and body.
Black women need to stop having babies out of wedlock

However, none of these address what the author deems to be the real issue at hand (spelling mistakes are from the original article):

“African-american women and men are not cookie cutter figures who fit into the same mold that worked for white america. As slaves we were forced to accept the religions and practices of our white masters, even though they were foreign to us. We have been taught to prey at the alter of money and financial success, and have lost site of our true familial identity.”

I’m choosing to ignore the blatant racism there and instead share some of my own. The comment that I was going to post to the article, before Jason talked me out of doing so:

“Perhaps more black women would be able to find mates if they stopped clinging to poor speaking and writing skills that, for whatever reason, have been deemed “cultural”. I be this, he seen that, complete lack of grammar and punctuation…for the love of Pete, speak like an adult! Unless a man is looking for sex and sex only, he isn’t going to want to waste time on someone who sounds completely uneducated. Furthermore, stop blaming everything on the white man. Everyone has oppressed everyone. Africans fueled triangular trade and white Americans denied employment to the Irish. Have some self respect and take responsibility for your own actions; it’s much more attractive than someone who pins all of their problems on “the man”. And if we’re going there, shouldn’t “the man” be black now? The leader of the free world is African American…does that mean all of the poor whites can blame their problems on black society? That seems to be the tradition. Finally, any man of any race is less likely to engage in a serious relationship with a woman who already has children. Enough people have brought up the issue of welfare. Putting that aside, black women are more likely to have multiple children out of wedlock than white women are. This can be solved easily: USE A CONDOM. You can get them for free. Most cities have a Planned Parenthood office–GO THERE. All comes back to taking responsibility for your actions. If you want the fairy tale, don’t be an idiot. Get an education, figure out what you want in a partner (NOT a baby-daddy), and then procreate. I promise, it works out well that way.”

Any thoughts to add?