Idiot Parade

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?

There’s this thing I’ve always wanted to do, but I’ve always been too afraid to try. I’ve been working out with Carmen Electra’s fit-to-strip dvds, I absolutely love them, but I’ve shied away from the striptease workouts to focus on the muscle toning and hip hop. I’ve done this for the same reason that I would never look at myself in the mirror when I took pole dancing lessons: I don’t know how to feel sexy. I don’t. Truly. That slow cat craw makes me feel like an idiot. I blush when I toss my hair, and when I swing my leg up over a chair, I only notice cellulite and the way stockings make my thighs pucker. It’s like a little girl putting on her mother’s makeup and, when she goes to show off how pretty she is, is told that she’s done it all wrong. I’m not smoky or sultry or whatever the heck you have to be to be a sex symbol. I figure that if I try to be those things, it’ll be a pretty transparent act…laughable, in all probability. Not really my area.

Anyway. This thing I wanted to try…I always thought it would be super fun to do a lap dance/tease for a boyfriend. Fun if I were someone else, of course. But the Carmen Electra dvds have a pretty simple one, so, this morning, I ignored that I’m not the aforementioned adjectives, and learned the thing. Had my little costume, practiced a few times without the dvd before I sat J down.

It started out well. Very well, actually. But then I got nervous, because the tie wouldn’t come off right. I lost my count, got it back, and it was going well again. Near the end of the routine, I sat on J’s lap and leaned over him, creating a sleek perpendicular line, flicked my fedora off, and sat back up with all the grace that my ballet training has granted me.

That was what was supposed to happen, anyway.

In reality, I leaned back, used his shoulder for support instead of the chair, and lost my balance completely. I flailed, trying to correct myself, did a half somersault off my boyfriend, and landed in a very un-sexy heap. I wanted to laugh, and J started to giggle, but I just couldn’t, because it’s exactly what I thought would happen if I ever tried to be something other than plain old me. Big steaming pile of fail. But then, right before I lost it completely, my fantastic boyfriend yelled “No! No, don’t be upset, I’m so turned on!” So….yeah. I picked myself up, said “Choreography is overrated anyway” and finished what I started. Not the way I planned, but I went through with it.

Afterwards, Jason mentioned (without any prompting from yours truly) that it was a bit of a relief that I screwed it up. That strippers never do anything for him because they look too planned, and I looked like a real person. Klutzy dorky me. And, as it turns out, boys laugh when they’re bashful, which is apparently something that happens when girls they like take their clothes off. They get nervous and have little girl giggles too! Who knew? Next you’ll tell me something really outrageous, like boys have emotions or something.

No, I’m not Megan Fox or Jessica Alba or whatever. I am a dork. I run into the same shelves and doorjams every day. I don’t have flickable hair or a poochless stomach. But that’s okay. It works for me. As it turns out, it works for Jason too…I’ll just have to try for a better dismount, next time.

When I was six years old, I found a chubby little blonde girl playing alone at recess. I asked if she wanted to play with me on the jungle gym. We have been friends since that moment, together for choir concerts and dance shows, through summer camp, though our first loves, through the death of another dear friend. We don’t see each other much anymore, but I still love her as a sister, and I will always remember us as the best pair of friends that our little corner of the world has ever, or will ever see.

Tomorrow, that chubby blonde girl (who has grown to be a sleek and lovely redhead) is getting married. Because of several outside circumstances, I will not be there. It breaks my heart knowing that I won’t see Chelsea kiss her husband for the first time, but as an honorary bridesmaid, I would be neglecting my duties if I didn’t offer some sort of toast.

My Chelsea: We have taken so many of life’s journeys together, hand in hand, and attached at the hip. I’m sorry that I can’t be there when you embark on this new adventure, but I am confident that you find all the happiness in the world. And when things get hard, because that’s the way of marriage, I don’t know of a stronger will or a better heart that will face the challenges head on and always shine victoriously. I love you with all my heart, and I am so proud of you. And, though you’re the only one who will understand this, I hope that your married life is everything that a Unicorn Princess deserves.

Okay, first, I’m sorry about the banner that makes your eyes bleed. Really. It’s being worked on, I swear. I just want a pretty and quirky header that doesn’t involve my picture. It will happen…soonish. Hopefully this week.

Alright, now that that’s out of the way, something that has been confusing the holy hell out of me, along with something that has shed some light. These two things are only slightly related.

At work the other night, a woman and her two teenage daughters came through my line. All were wearing Twilight shirts (I promise this is not another Twilight rant, as much as I love going on those). Two were pretty standard, but one of the girls was wearing a shirt that read “I love boys who SPARKLE”.

I get that this is a strictly Twilight reference, but I think it speaks to something much bigger. Look, emo vampires. Sparkly, sappy, emotionally confused vampires are now desired by teenage girls and, sadly, grown women. A few years ago, we had the whole metro-sexual movement, which started with guys taking care of their appearance and ended with them looking homosexual. There are books upon books upon even more “self-help” books that have nothing to do with helping yourself and everything to do with making your male significant other more sensitive and understanding. And all of this begs the question:

Ladies, when did we stop wanting our men to be men?

Don’t get me wrong, I love that J cares about my wants and needs and feelings. But that isn’t a masculine or feminine thing; that’s something called “not being a douche”. But if I wanted to be in a relationship with someone who got regular manicures and pedicures, someone who likes the sappy romances as much as I do, or someone who shared their feelings in the same way that I do, I’d be a lesbian. And it’s not that I’m out here trying to assign gender roles, because at the end of the day, that’s a personal choice, and no amount of stereotyping or societal pressure should get in the way of what makes a person feel comfortable in his or her own skin.

What it comes down to, really, is that so many women are trying to make their men better, which a) should not be attempted, because you really loved him, you would love him for who he is, not who you want him to be, and b) cannot possibly be accomplished by trying to make him more like your girl friends. Women have people who listen and empathize and take our side regardless of the situation–they’re called our mothers, sisters, female roommates, whatever. If you have a vagina, you probably know someone else with a vagina who you can relate to. That is not your boyfriend/husband.

Now, I wanted some male perspective on this topic, so I baited J with this topic (which I know gets him going on insightful yet hilarious tirades), and this is what ensued…though it has been edited for length:

“We [men] are designed to kill and survive and provide. That’s it. And while we have a little mini-man or woman baking inside the oven of our mate, it is our duty to ensure that it survives…so, the whole notion in today’s society that we’re supposed to be pussified, that we’re supposed to be equal in every way, that we’re supposed to bend over backwards to get in touch with our ‘feminine side’, that we need to understand women by adopting their emotional outputs and habits and behaviors and get rid of our own is utter nonsense. It’s ridiculous. If women were supposed to be attracted to that kind of personality, they’d be attracted to other women, and our species would never procreate. We are made to be attracted to the opposite sex because of our differences. Most women I know actually get off on knowing that they have some poor, useless, sap of an animal who would kill themselves just to know that they’ve provided for their woman. This is why women are attracted to men…who will always provide, and will sometimes have to put his emotions aside so he can take care of business. This whole metro-movement, this Twilight crap, the whole feminist movement where women have to take charge, this is why relationships have such a high failure rate. The man who takes care of his woman’s needs, but doesn’t show many emotions, is far more in touch with her than the man who just listens to her talk.”

I can’t say it better. I have a smart man, what can I say. And I agree with him on every one of those points. A lot of women may be up in arms about this, saying that their man doesn’t understand them, that he doesn’t know how to communicate, and that it’s absolutely essential for them to try and change the way their male s/o acts and reacts. Maybe your man doesn’t ‘get’ you. But maybe you don’t get him, either, which is a sneakily-crafted segway into a book I read not too long ago called For Women Only. It discusses several topics, including men and their obsessive and compelling need to be providers (which I did not understand prior to this book), the way they think about romance (see previous aside), what it actually means when someone says that “men are visual” (again, previous aside, and one more thing: now that I have this newfound knowledge, I’d like to make an apology to any of my male friends who have thought about me naked against their will. I swear, that was never my intention. Thank you.), etc. Some of it was common sense, some of it was reassuring, and most of it was mind boggling. I didn’t realize that J’s needing to provide for his family, most men’s need to provide, is an obsession, not a macho beating-of-the-chest spectacle of manhood. I didn’t understand that most men actively try to not be aware of the other attractive woman in the room, and that when they are, the feelings their experiencing are not sexual or lustful and have little to no bearing on their feelings for you. I didn’t know that a husband wants his wife to exercise because her wanting to look good makes him feel loved and desired, not because he wants to be with someone who looks like a twenty-year-old supermodel. And I bet most women don’t know that their husband wants to be romantic, but is often so afraid that they’ll fail to make us happy that they won’t even try. They aren’t the cads and the pigs that the media and society paints them to be. There are some awful, cruel men in the world, many of whom I’ve had the displeasure of meeting. But that isn’t because they are male; it’s because they’re human. The best advice I have to offer is to give your man the benefit of the doubt and pick up this book. It is Christian-based, but the principles apply to men and women of every faith. It helped me understand how Jason thinks about me and how he loves me, which, incredibly enough, made me love him even more. What I’m trying to say is, before you go on a crusade to force your boyfriend to speak your language, see what he’s actually saying in his language. There is common, lovely ground to be had.

There have been quite a few days lately where I just feel like I’m doing everything wrong. Every now and again, I find myself wondering if I’ll get better at being a girlfriend. I say things without thinking, and it has really begun to show me what a selfish person I can be. That was never a word I thought I’d use to describe myself. Being an only child, though, I got used to having a lot of things done my way, on my schedule. I’d like to say that I always do the best that I can, but frankly, sometimes that isn’t true, and I get mean and snappy. I don’t know how to fix this; the only thing I can think to do is take stock of the stupid things I did yesterday and make a point to not do those stupid things today. If I do new stupid things….well, that’s what tomorrow is for, I suppose.

J has been wonderful about everything. As big of a pain in the ass as I can be, he is an equally big sweethart. We both have our moments, but we do the best we can to be patient and understanding with each other, and we never say anything that we’d regret later. Can’t really ask for more than that.

Aside from those hiccups, things are going well. I’m still out of work, which is the main cause of my stress, but my CBEST scores will be available on Tuesday and I’m hoping that I’ll be able to find work as a substitute. I have a couple backup plans, but nothing that I like nearly as much. Though, if we’re talking about what I like, I’d much prefer to stay at home like I have been, taking care of the house and the cooking. I’ve been cooking dinner just about every night, and I absolutely adore it. I’ve recently discovered that I have my father’s knack for improvisation in the kitchen. This is usually out of necessity–how is it that I go shopping once a week, but there are still never enough ingredients for a single dish? Oh well. Tonight, vodka-poached salmon and sweet potato fries.

I know it’s been a while, but I hope someone is still out there, reading all my nonsense.

I’d like to note that I have lived in the same place my whole life. Not the same town. Not even the same house. But the same room. The room next to my parents, next to the computer room that was once my sister’s bedroom, long before I was born. The room that held my crib and my changing tabe now houses my grown-up bed and hundered or so books. And because I was raised as a only child, the only person who slept in or kept her stuff in that room was moi.

I say this because I want you, people of the Internet, to fully grasp how big a deal my moving out is going to be.

I’m essentially living with Jason. I go home on weekends to work, but given current circumstances, I’m not sure if that will be cost effective much longer. I’m waiting to hear about a job out here in the Boonies…we shall see.

The idea of sharing a living space with someone, as wonderful as it’s been so far, is completely baffling. He asked me to move in, but I still feel this weird sense of guilt putting half of my closest next to his, and keeping my jewelry box next to our toothbrushes. Having an ‘our’ room, ‘our’ bathroom, ‘our’ space….I know it’s ‘ours’, but I keep feeling like I’m in the way.

We’re happy, everythings brilliant….I guess there’s just a period of adjustment. Anyone else have similiar experiences?

Over the last few weeks, I’ve come to the conclusion that having a boyfriend is not entirely unlike raising a teenager. I realize how ridiculous that statement may sound, and I’m sure that someday, when I happen to be the mother of a surly thirteen-year-old, I will look back at this post and want to slap the past me for being so naive. For the time being, though, just try to follow me on this one.

I’ve mentioned this to a few people, but for those who are unaware, my boyfriend is going to be joining the United States Air Force. Currently, he’s playing phone-tag with the recruiter, but there’s at least a 90% chance of this actually happen within the next two or three months.

Jason is too tall to be a fighter pilot. Airmen are rarely sent to the Middle East, unless they are part of a security force, and even then, tours only last about six months. He would actually have to try to get hurt for anything to happen to him. As my dear ex-Navy friend Tim said: “It’s not like he’s joining the goddamn Marines.”

Logically, I know everything will be fine. Except, there’s this thing where I’m a worrier. I was born into a family of worriers. Worrying is our art, our craft, and we take it very seriously. So while there is every possibility that Jason will be at a desk somewhere in Arizona, way the hell out of harms way, my mind is absolutely certain that he is going to be shipped to Afghanistan and shot. Or blown up. Probably both.

As if that weren’t enough, now the boy wants to sell his car and buy a motorcycle. Now, financially, this is a good idea. Hell, I’ve always wanted a motorcycle. And I’m allowed to have one. He, however, is not, because every time I think about it, I suddenly turn into my mother and begin spouting off accident statistics. Because, obviously, anyone who ever owned a motorcycle EVER has died in a horrific accident of twisted metal and hellfire, just bloody and gory enough to be featured in one of those god-awful Red Pavement videos that we had to watch in Drivers Ed.

Moments like those, it’s a toss up between whether or not I want to kiss the boy or strangle him with my own two hands, because I really don’t know if my love for him outweighs the frustration he causes me. How dare he try and make a life for himself when I’m busy trying to KEEP HIM ALIVE.

But then there are moments when he does the simplest things, like insisting that I lock the door when he leaves and I’m by myself, because he needs to know that I’m safe…or how whatever house we’re in (usually his) is referred to as ‘home’, just because we’re both there. In those moments, I have never felt more like a woman or more loved by a man. Those are the moments that make every *headdesk* and *facepalm* and “Really?! Really???” completely worth it.

I’m sure most of you have heard by now about the California Supreme Court decision to uphold Prop 8. For some, this may have been very happy news, and I will try my best to not begrudge you your victory.

I am hurting. I am very upset, and disappointed, and a little appalled. My heart weeps for the couples who were hoping to get married, who are now being told that the declaration and commitment to their love will not be supported by California, their home. I thought we had come farther than that. I had hoped we would get to a point where our religious and moral indignations could be dealt with rationally and seperated from those things which have nothing to do with us…like another person’s relationship. I understand why people disagree with the concept of gay marraige. I understand why it makes some people uncomfortable. For them, a marraige is a religious institution and should only be granted to those who are right with God. The Bible says that homosexuality is wrong. However…it also says ‘judge not, lest ye be judged.’ And you can’t tell me that you aren’t judging someone, condemning perfect strangers, because of an idea that you have about what God does or does not approve of.

This shouldn’t be an issue. Not state, not federal. If one church has a problem performing a wedding for a gay couple, fine. The couple can go to another church. Let it be decided by individuals. Sadly, I don’t see that happening. So I’m going to continue to fight for what I believe is just, even though I know it will hurt some people I love very much.

Someday, this will be made right.

There are a bunch of things about being in a relationship that no one told me. Good things. Terrifying…but good.

I’ve had boyfriends before. I’ve been in love a few times. Even been loved back once, maybe twice, before now. But there has never been something so…overwhelming. I was devoted to Scooter for years, but I never felt this level of tenderness or responsibility.

Up to now, I have been the most important person in my life. I lived for myself. My parents were of the utmost importance, and I would always go to bat for my family and close friends; ultimately, however, everything I did followed my personal agenda, furthering my future. But now, there’s this…other person…and it’s killing me in the best way. Suddenly, I have an outside reason to keep myself safe. My education and my job aren’t there to make my life easier; now it’s so that there’s a possibility for our lives. Plural. I now have someone to support, to care for, to protect. To be strong for.

I’m writing all of this at the risk of sounding like one of those women who “can’t live without” their significant other. I can live without him. If we broke up tomorrow, the world would not implode. I would not cease to be. Live would go on because it would have to, but now that I know what this other place is like, this place where I stand at the window and count the minutes until he comes home from work; this place where the smell of him on my clothes reminds me of all the good in my world; this place where I almost believe in some benevolent force, because there had to be some kind of planning in making both of us the people we are now, so that when the time came for us to meet, we’d fit together the way we do….I don’t ever want to go back to my old self.

I know that one of the worst things as a single person is to listen to someone rave about their boyfriend or girlfriend. I have been there many times. It blows, no way around it. But I have to let you know, those of you still wondering and waiting…it’s worth it. I would take every night I cried myself to sleep, every time I got stood up, every time I was lied to, cheated on, flaked on, and betrayed, and I’d do it again ten-fold. Because all of that, rolled into a little ball of sadness and low self-esteem, is a tiny payment for all the joy and love and laughter I have now.