Pin The Tail On the Jackass

The first step in solving a problem is admitting there IS a problem, right?

*deep breath*

I have a Pinterest problem.

It's not the type of Pinterest problem you would assume, however.  I do not spend hours and hours pinning gleefully and then realizing that there are hungry children whimpering in the corners for food while crouched in their own shit.  Probably because they're teen/young adult and can feed and wipe themselves.

My Pinterest problem is it feeds my mental obsession with projects.

I have a vivid imagination.  This spills over into creativity...or at least that side of my brain that thinks I can accomplish great things with nothing more than a set of children's watercolors and duct tape.

It doesn't help that I live in the money pit from hell.  I love this home, and if you were to ever come to my humble abode and actually look around, you would wonder how many times my mother dropped me on my head to make me think this way.  It is a never ending of needs, let alone the wants.  We have sunk more money into it than the dollar amount that was stated on the purchase contract.  We started tearing it apart before we even legally owned it.  And we haven't stopped since.  11 years of discovering what was falling apart, what didn't work, what crumbled, what leaked, and there does not seem to be an end in sight.  And Pinterest does not help this never ending run of repairs.

Even though the laundry/utility room was renovated eight years ago, it's not "pretty".  But on Pinterest, there are PRETTY laundry rooms.  Laundry rooms that make you want to do the same laundry over and over.

C'mon...look at this thing.  It's got a CHANDELIER in it!  Not some utilitarian light fixture filled with bugs.  It's a happy place, and did it ever occur to anyone that a laundry room is a happy place???  Oh hell no, not until this pin appeared on Pinterest.

So now, there is a cuter than cute bright flowered curtain with a matching bright rug waiting on one of the shelves in my laundry room.  It's waiting, because my demanding little brain wants it installed perfectly so it covers the area the water heater and softener reside, and I have not yet added this little project to my honeydo list.  It may seem like a nagging, bossy thing to do, but I KNOW (like I know I'm the only person who takes laundry out of the dryer) that if it's not in big black marker on a list, it is forgotten.  This isn't a fault...this is fact.

My demanding brain also seems to think that the installation of said rug and curtain will mean my laundry room looks like this organized little piece of colorful heaven.  I will no longer find laundry that didn't make it into the hamper.  I will not feel like I'm walking on gravel as I pass by the litter box.  I will not find random bras and motorcycle gear hanging on the drying rack.  It will be picture perfect because I installed a curtain and rug.  It will be laundry bliss.

Thank you Pinterest, for fulfilling my dreams.

Pinterest also guarantees I will have a spotless microwave, oven, dishwasher, and shower.  Pinterest has very obviously never lived with boys.  I tried that super-steam clean your microwave trick, and then sliced open my hand when Pinterest failed to tell me that my microwave has a sharp edge just near the top of the interior.  Not only did the steam clean not work on boy-radiation-crust, but it didn't help that I then had blood to clean up.  Pinterest also didn't tell me that the self clean option on my oven works better when you actually use it more than once a year.  And the dishwasher?  HA!  Where's the pin for finding Supermouse residing in it???  And living with a well doesn't really mix well with a fun little shower cleaner of vinegar and dish detergent.  Show me a pin that uses a jackhammer and battery acid, and I might believe I can once again, have a clean shower.

I digress.  So before this turns into a rant about needing a maid, let's move back to the Pinterest problem.

I actually have used quite a few Pins successfully.  I've cooked quite a few meals, some winners, some not.  STAY AWAY FROM CHICKEN PUKIAKI IN THE CROCK POT.  Yes, PUKIAKI, because when something smells like fresh vomit, you can't even get a starving teenage boy to try it.  Pinning fashion is not just a virtual make believe shopping trip, it has inspired many outfits worn to work, saving more time in the mornings for espresso consumption and online tomfoolery.  It helped me plan a graduation party, goodies for Christmas, and organized my makeup brushes.  You know, the important things in life, because digging for that highlighter brush is a pain in the ass when you've only downed three shots of espresso before realizing you're running late for work because of your online tomfoolery.

It's easy to forget what you've pinned.  And here, is the crux of the Pinterest problem.  Pinterest is not a problem UNLESS you actually look at your boards.  You know, those boards you name for craft projects.  Not simple little sewing projects, or a wish to learn how to crochet.  Craft boards that show how to use serving trays for jewelry or perfume...serving trays you see cheap every time you're at the local junk store, but since your nose isn't in your phone every time you are there, you don't think to actually pick a $1 tray up to see if you can use it.  The cute picture frame door hanging with the giant initial, that reminds you that there was a giant initial you asked honey of the honeydo list to spray paint for you and you haven't seen it since.  Various projects using old windows that make you wonder where that old window went last year...the one that you said "NO ONE throw this out, because I can make something with it".  The old window that you've searched everywhere for, and yet you can't find.  The "how to" on removing popcorn from ceilings that you pinned because not only does your living area have popcorn ceilings, but some asshat went to town on that shit and sprayed popcorn on the walls as well.  The outdoor projects that stare you in the face reminding you that all you have accomplished this year is pruning and weeding and the discovery of corpses.  You haven't yet picked up a bowling ball to paint it like a cute little ladybug.  You haven't used your leftover bricks to make a gutter drainage path, hell, you haven't used those leftover bricks for anything except to make a neat little stack on the well head.  You've gathered pine cones, but haven't actually decided on which pine cone craft you've pinned will be the winner.  You haven't finished the birdhouse you started painting over the loooong winter, or even mixed up the weed killer recipe you pinned.

I even have a board titled "Summer projects".  Kind of like a list to make you accountable to at least get one or two things done.  I should be proud that of the 8 (yes, only EIGHT) pins, I have done one.  Sure, it was the easiest one that included sticking flowers in a pair of cute rain boots.  My gawd, give me an award.  The gigantor project, the one I really, really want done, is the tree stump project.  You see, we took down a giant tree last year and there's this big gaping hole in the sky now.  We had to leave a rather large stump because the tree was so big, and I have this bright idea to turn it into a gnome house.  Or fairy house.  Or rabbit house for shelter from the Chupacabra.  Whatever I call it, it is far better than staring at that sad, folorn trunk.  It will have a roof, windows, and a door.

It will be far larger than this one, but you get the idea.  I definitely got the idea, and proceeded to pick up old picture frames, which I HAVE painted white.  However, I have done nothing with them since.  I have the bright idea to put little curtains on them, and even have the fabric to do so.  I have not found a door, no cute little window box, and certainly no roof.  Though the roof IS on the honeydo list in big black letters, so there's the very large possibility the roof will be done before I get any other part finished.

Pinterest, today, I hate you.  You have thrown my slacker status in my face.  You have pointed your finger and laughed at me.  You have glared at me with your board of only eight items and said "you suck".  I could blame it on working.  I could blame it on running a  household alone five days a week.  I would love to blame it on a college student home for the summer who is disrupting my zen with her piles of shit everywhere.  But no, Pinterest, I will swallow my pride and say that my imagination is too big for my ambition. 

I hang my head in shame.

I go back on Pinterest and pin some more.

The Animal Whisperer...Part Three

I'm wrapping up the animal saga in the hopes that it will end the war with nature.  You see, I love the furry and feathered little bastards, but they seem to follow me in some kind of suicidal death wish.

Just last week, it wasn't enough to feel like a superhero at work.  Nope, no caped crusader to round out the day, but a real live bat to contend with.  Silly girl that I am, I thought a nice cool morning meant I could open our front door to the store.  I mean, how heartwarming is it to walk through an All-American small town to see the welcoming sight of doors open on a fine spring day?

Obviously, that's what Mr. Bat thought as well, when he came swooping in at breakneck speeds and instantly dive bombed for the lower level.  My boss thought she caught some kind of fast movement out of the corner of her eye, and with customers in our lower level, we truly thought it would be an instant scream that would notify us if that was really the intruder we thought it was.  Instead, we heard laughter, and then a very casual "you have a bat down here".

Let me first tell you, of all the creatures on this earth, I HATE bats the most.  We could rid this planet of every last one of them, and I don't care if it would mean an horrid bug infestation of epic proportions...I'd still be a happy camper to know I never have to deal with a bat again.  I'm the big fat wussy who goes screeching out of my house, into the back yard when a bat appears in our drafty old money pit we call home.  Yes, you read that right, I run OUTSIDE where the bats live and hide there until someone kills the bastard.  It doesn't matter that there are bats swooping about in the dark while I cower in terror.  I somehow feel "safer" when there's a big empty sky for them to fly around in and not eight foot ceilings confining them within a short distance to my head.

That being said, I quickly grabbed our brooms and being the massive chickenshit I am, I hand the broom to the customer in the lower level.  Why?  Because her blase "you have a bat down here" tells me she isn't bothered by them.  I'm so bothered by them that I don't go any further than the stairway landing that's only four steps down from the main level.  I'm so bothered by them that I reach further than really is safe in order to hand her the broom, because even one more step down is more than my pay grade allows.  As I hand over the broom, I see a swooping blur of brown, and immediately shriek and go running back up to the main level where I cower near the closest rack of clothing.

After a few thumps, Mr. Bat decides the main level is the safe place to be, and comes swooping up in a grand flight of "FEAR ME NOW" in which I shriek again and duck down to the lowest possible position without completely flinging myself to the floor.  Because throwing myself to the ground is going to be a much bigger display of cowardice than the shrieking and ducking.

Up comes the customer, who by now, I'm fairly sure is completely disgusted with the wussies who work in this place, and we all realize Mr. Bat has wisely tucked himself away in our storerooms in the back of the store.  Not wanting to look like an even bigger wuss than I already do (if that's possible), I sneak back into the storerooms to see where he is crouching.  Yup, he's hanging out on the wall above the back door.  Making sounds that rival a puppy's whimper, I realize the best option at this point is to open the back door and encourage him to fly to freedom.  However, this means I will have to march my cowardly, quivering ass directly below his roosting spot.  My overactive imagination that LOVES to run mini-movies of potential scenarios to every occasion in life is already picturing the creak of the door disturbing Mr. Bat, in which he decides to swoop down onto my head and tangle in my whacked out, teased and full of sticky products hair.  In which he will get stuck, all while making that godawful bat chirping sound and beating his leathery from the pits of hell wings on my head.

Did I mention that overactive imagination?

I tiptoe back, with the broom-armed customer right behind me.  I'm sure at this moment, she's wanting to use the broom on me, because I'm still whimpering and whining.  I, of course, don't get the door unlocked right away....oh no...that would be too easy.  My fingers are fumbling, I'm mumbling, customer is probably raging, and I finally fling that door open (of course it HAS to open IN and not OUT), I stumble around it like my life depends upon it  (because it DOES) and hurtle myself against the storm door nearly screaming in relief when I stumble out into the alley.  I prop the storm door open and YUP, you guessed it...STAY OUTSIDE.  I hear big thwacking going on, and am sure the only person with a set of balls in the place has destroyed the creature from hell.  After a few moments of silence, I poke my head in to see what is going on, and the customer tells me she's whacked him good, but he stumble-half ass flew up into a corner where we are never going to find him.

OH GOODY.

I give her kudos.  She DID spend valuable shopping time attempting to locate the injured demon, but after about ten minutes, gave up the good fight.

So, here we are, now enclosed in the store (because of course we shut the doors, before all his little bat friends could join him), wondering if he's dead, dying, or just laying in wait.

Hours pass...YES, HOURS.   Hours of barely touching lunch because it's icky to try and enjoy food when there's a bat lurking.  Hours of refusing to go to the bathroom, because it's in a dark corner of the lower level, and if he comes swooping down while my pants are around my ankles I will be scarred for life and no amount of coaxing would get me off that toilet and into an even more enclosed space with Mr. Bat than that upper level.  Every amount of work we are attempting to get done is accompanied with furtive glances up over our heads.  We're telling every customer that comes in so they understand any sudden shrieking and ducking should he attempt to grace us with his presence again.

Suddenly, when the tension is so thick we could choke on it, a customer at the front of the store shrieks while looking down at the floor and says "THERE IT IS!!!", and whoosh whoosh whoosh, the bat is flying at floor level because that's what evil creatures of the pits of hell do when they know you are completely freaked out by them to the very core of your being.

He gained speed, and altitude and thank all that is good in this world, began a lazy circling of the ceiling of the store.  It seemed lazy, because it seemed like the slow motion of a horror movie right before something terrible and gory happens.  We grab brooms, and my crazy waving over my head is pretty futile, considering I'm only reaching about five feet from where he's playing.  But then, FINALLY logic and the magic light bulb goes off in my head.

These suckers are blind.  They fly on radar.  Movement affects radar.  HELLOOOOOOO GENIUS!

We get that front door open again and start waving the brooms like madwomen, trying to encourage (if you really want to use a positive happy word like encourage) Mr. Bat to fly away, get the fuck out of here!  Apparently, we are not so genius, because the ceiling fans are still spinning, and considering they are near the front door, he's staying clear of that area.  So, calm and rational thinking creeps in again, and we shut off the fans, waiting ever so impatiently for them to stop spinning.  It briefly crosses my mind to stupidly stick a broom in the fans to get them to halt so they stop sooner, but yup, once again, logic prevailed through the terror.

With a few more frustrated and desperate waves of the brooms, Mr. Bat escapes to freedom.

I wanted to just lock the doors and call it quits, racing to the nearest bar for the rest of the day, but there were still people shopping.

Yes, people shopped through this whole bat drama.  I love shopping, hell, it's like my second favorite thing to espresso, but I'd rather wear a pair of Crocs for a month every time I went in public than shop in a store with a bat swooping around.

So, that's it to the Animal Whisperer saga.  Add in a few other encounters, like hitting a bird with my truck antenna.  Yes, it actually thought it was avoiding me and THWAK!, leaving a huge chunk of feathers wrapped around the damn thing.  Then there was the baby bunny I nearly creamed on the side of the road only blocks from home.  My first thought, was of course, to inform baby bunny that Daddy Bunny was hanging in my tree.  And, to make my encounters with the animal kingdom complete, there are now so many bugs everywhere you go that they swarm my head, ears, and nose the moment I go outside.  I guess that will guarantee an avoidance of communing with nature, which can then guarantee I can avoid another animal drama and finally break this trend.

Unless, of course, Chubacabra rises from the cellar slithering through the return air vents.

The Animal Whisperer Series...Part Deux

After the winter to top all winters, I could not WAIT to get outside into the dirt.  An eternally long spring, with bipolar weather that couldn't decide if it wanted to snow or require flip flops really delayed alot of yard work.  So, when I finally got weeks of gorgeous sun, I hopped outside like a gleeful leprechaun looking for that pot of gold.

I have alot of landscaping and flower beds, so it's alot of work that's done in stages.  I usually start one day with house side beds, work my way around the front, dedicate a day to trimming and pruning, and then there's my pride and joy.  The zen garden.  What started out as a tiny little kidney shaped bed that barely held a handful of irises and a peony bush is now the size of some people's back yards.  It wraps around a tree, takes up an entire corner of the yard, includes chairs, a path, bird bath, and hours of work.   It's where I'm most happy, enjoying the sounds of birds of all kinds, watching rabbits and squirrels gleefully playing through the rest of our yard.  It's almost like a Disney movie, except I only play Princess every 3rd Friday of the month.

Imagine a picture perfect day.  Blue skies, fluffy clouds, gentle breeze, and a glorious 70 degrees.  I was in THE ZONE.  Pulling weeds, dividing and replanting, enjoying the early blooms.  Hours of work, taking moments to feel at one with nature, talking to the momma robin as she shrieked at me to get the hell away from her nest.  Being rural, but in somewhat of a town, (if you call six square blocks of houses a town) I of course, had to pick up the occasional litter and oddball piece of garbage that had found its way into my flowerbeds.  Even that couldn't kill my zen.  I was just in a total state of joy to be out there doing what I love.

As I neared the tree swing and started pulling weeds, I found little fluffs of fur.  Awwwww....how cute and endearing!  It's spring, and the rabbits are out in full swing, making their little dens so I'll have cute baby bunnies bounding through the yard doing a nature happy dance with me!  See, I love bunnies this year, because I destroyed their home under our house (maybe I'll elaborate on that another day).  I no longer want to crush their skulls with a sledgehammer...I am one with the bunny, hopping along on my little yard errands enjoying a beautiful day!

I see more of these little fluffs of fur and I squeal in delight as each new treasure is discovered!  Bunny love!  Dance with me bunnies!  Let us join together and sing the song of our people!  Ok, it's wasn't that warm, but maybe I had gotten too much sun by that point.

I finish off the work on the zen garden, and allow myself to finally sit down in my absolute favorite spot in the world...my tree swing.  It's a grand old maple tree, which I've watched grow through the years, and nothing quite makes me as happy as that spot on the swing, and tilting my head up to look at the gorgeous canopy above me.  It's a goddamn Hallmark movie but without any of that having to interact with people crap.

My head tilts back, and as my eyes gaze slowly upward, enjoying every moment of that favorite spot on earth, I notice more fluffs of my precious bunny fur.

Wait.  I'm looking UP.  Bunnies are DOWN.

My gaze continues up into the tree and then I see it.

BUNNY CORPSE.

Not just a bunny, but a big old fucking rabbit.  And not just a big old fucking rabbit, but one that has been very tidily picked clean of his innards.  Possibly his head too, but I can't see that far up and there is no way in hell I'm going to hoist myself up into my glorious tree to find out if Mr. Rabbit's eyeballs and brains are still in his head.

Well, isn't that just the perfect addition to a zen garden?  Circle of life, anyone?

I immediately utter some kind of guttural noise of disgust and fling myself out of the tree swing in the most ungraceful way.  And then of course, after I shake off the skeeve factor, grab my phone and snap a shot of Mr. Rabbit.

Then it dawns on me.

WHAT drug the rabbit up the tree?  The moment that thought hit me, I looked behind me and all around, to see if RabbitKiller was lurking in the brush pile, behind the bushes, or even better, further up the tree.  Because anything that would do THAT to a rabbit, is surely going to want to get a tasty bite of my more than substantial ass.

Step slowly away from the tree.  Google "what eats large rabbits".  Realizing there probably aren't coyotes dragging rabbits up a tree, I amend that search to "birds of prey large rabbits".

Suddenly, the birds are not chirping.  The squirrels are not joyfully bounding.  I don't see a single rabbit in the yard.

Cue opening music from The Shining.

Logic tells me a very large owl.  How large though?  That's a big fucking rabbit.  Ok, maybe a hawk.  But how big of a hawk?  I see hawks all the time, usually in the fields surrounding our town, eating small rodents, not big ass rabbits.  Hmmm...a bald eagle would be pretty cool.  But really?  Yeah, I see bald eagles all the time, but always outside of town, always in fields, always eating road kill.  This isn't road kill...this was a full course dinner.

And then, since OF COURSE I had to share this on Facebook, the brilliant friend who suggested boiling Supermouse in the dishwasher comes up with the answer.

It's the Chupacabra.

OH HELL YES IT IS.  It is the ONLY answer.  Which raises too many questions with too little answers.

Where is Chupacabra now, being the most important.

I think I was diligent in checking the previous home of bunnies under our house, but no, it does appear that the efforts made to evict them is still intact.

Then it dawns on me.  The basement.

It's no ordinary basement.  It's not even a slightly happy basement.  More like a run screaming for your life storm cellar.  Creaky old doors covering a hole in the ground kind of basement.  The kind of place sewer clowns would love to hang out in.  Perfect Chupacabra breeding ground.

Did I go down there and look?  OH HELL NO.  I only go down there if the tornado is across the road and holding up a big sign that says "GONNA MOW YOU DOWN BITCH SO GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY".   But Chupacabra is down there.  I know it.  I hear it breathing through the return air vents.  No, that's not the sound of the years of dust I haven't bothered to clean, it's the Chupacabra and I'm sticking with that story, so shut up.

So I ignore the danger lurking beneath my feet.  Mr. RabbitCorpse still hangs out in the tree.  That's an entirely different post that will involve things like early onset dementia and honeydo lists that have to include things like which way to put the toilet paper on the holder.

Country living.  Never a dull moment.  Chickenfuckers, Supermouse becomes Gluttonmouse, having a tennis racket nearby at all times, and now Chupacabra.  Did the mention of chickenfuckers make you go hmmmm?  Another time.

Flashback: The Days Blur

I Remember...

April 3, 2014 at 8:35pm

Ever have one of those days that passes by in such a blur that you only remember fleeting glimpses of what you encountered?  Those days are becoming more frequent, which means the "busy" season at work is arriving.  And really, when I just typed out "busy" season, I had a sudden fit of giggles and had to stop typing.  Why?  Because saying "busy" season is like saying there is an UNbusy season.  OH HELL NO.   Maybe I should expand on the vocabulary.  Because it's always busy.  But there's busy, then comes hectic, then comes bladder control problems season.  I'll explain that last one in a moment.

TODAY...

I remember...

Leaving money sitting out on the counter from the coffee shop run, where anyone could have picked it up, because I saw my boss with a crazed look in her eyes at the checkout trying to keep up in the ten minutes I was gone to pick up said coffee treat.

My boss and I looking up at the same moment, meeting each others eyes with the same crazed and glazed stare, surrounded by four bins filled, two bins waiting for pricing, stacks on the counter, and saying "IT'S COFFEE TIME".  In which, I dropped everything in my hands (don't even remember what it was), asked what she wanted, same glazed look in her eyes like I had just asked her for a scientific formula for bread pudding, having a sudden hysteria induced giggle fit, racing to the register for coffee cash, and having one wild moment of thought of taking the money and just running, but instead, racing to the coffee shop.

At least four other hysteria induced giggle fits for absolutely no reason that I can remember other than it was a hysteria inducing day.

The man buying a shirt, showing me the rips in his current shirt from armpit to waist, whipping off said ripped shirt, putting on new shirt, averting my eyes and suddenly finding our trash can under the counter to be the most fascinating thing I've ever seen, his request that I take his old shirt and throw it way, and my sudden overwhelming revulsion at touching dirty, hairy man's shirt and mumbling something about the outside garbage receptacle.

The customer at the checkout spotting a cute shirt, deciding that since hairy man can whip it off, she can too, stripping down to her tank top (much more attractive than hairy man), and trying the shirt on right then and there because by then we had lost total control of our dressing rooms and there could have been a 10 person orgy going on in there and we would have never known it.

Someone later asking for the dressing room and my hysterical laughter, again realizing that I had no idea who, what, when, or where had been happening in that small 4x4 space.  Proof of this was the clothing we found in said dressing room, left by unknown shopper that by power of deduction because our brains were now fortified with caffeine, we figure out who it must have been.

Getting excited over a phone call from a lovely, valued, exciting client that only comes with a load one to two times a year but is the most awesome, gorgeous, stylish stuff you've ever seen.  Then, said client shows up and the piles on the counter grow and grow, hangers being removed because they're really awesome hangers and she wants them back, customers milling about that were probably wondering what the hell was going on, and is it really like this all the time, and we're just oohing and aahing as pile grows and grows until it's towering and then sliiiiiiiiding in a slow slide off the counter because we're the insane hysteria induced people who thought we could pile it that high.  Then, getting it in bins, and piles sliding off the counter AGAIN (while losing control of whats going on in that damn dressing room) and me just looking up and saying "I hate my life right now", then getting a grip on myself and getting it off the floor and then COFFEE TIME!

Getting stuck on stupid things that won't get out of your brain, like a conversation about that gloriously retro Don Ho drinking glass and wishing there were more that lead to a conversation with a customer about Wayne Newton's birthday and what was that song again?  The one he's so well known for?  Thinking real hard and it's driving you nuts and finally having that AHA moment (thank you COFFEE TIME) and singing with the customer "Danke Schoen".

Thinking, again with a fit of giggles, that these people constantly asking if we are hiring have NO IDEA.  Really.  No idea in this entire universe what it's REALLY like.

Realizing FINALLY, halfway through all this madness that yes, that tingly feeling isn't JUST all that gorgeous stuff that's been coming in all day.  It's also the need to pee.  And snapping the head up, looking at the clock, and not remembering peeing AT ALL that day since you've arrived to work.  But you've had COFFEE TIME....before work, during work that you brought from home, and then that luscious afternoon coffee time that you nearly hold your breath for.  PEE.  NOW.  Must pee now, everyone get the hell out of my way BECAUSE I NEED TO PEE.

Dear sweet relief of peeing.

"Busy" season my ass.  We've officially entered bladder control problem season.

Danke Schoen, darling, danke schoen.

Thank you for all the joy and pain.

Alone is Not a Dirty Word

After all, we are ALL alone in this world, when you get right down to it.  We may have partners, significant others, family, and friends.  But when it comes down to the very basics of life, we are in this ALONE.  Every action, thought, and decision is yours, and yours alone.  So why, tell me, is so much of life spent on the pursuit of not being alone?  Why do women demean and compromise the core of who they are, just so they can avoid that dreaded word of "alone"?

Where did this thought process that must be purged start?  It's prom season gals!  So of course, in the wanderings of the internet, I see what our young girls are wearing, or wanting to wear for prom.

OH MAH SWEET BABY CHEEZITS.

Plunging necklines, bare backs, cutouts grazing the belly button, dress cuts that don't allow for that infamous pre-prom meal, and slits up to the baby making machine.  What the everloving hell is going through these girls minds?  Well, keep reading, and allow me to give you my take on why Barbie is walking the street corner for a prom date this year.

Someone out there is convincing our girls that it's all about the surface.  I'd love to blame the media, but as a parent myself, I know very well how much control I have over the influence of the media.  Yes, it's shoved down everyone's throats with commercials about improving your looks, to reality shows about finding "the one".  What are we allowing society to teach young women?  I don't think it's as simple as the mass market money making machine of beauty and fashion.  That market has it's place, and can be quite the positive influence in a woman's life.  I know there are those who would scoff at such an idea, but I think the issue goes much, much deeper.

And that issue is....drumroll please....being "alone" is a fate worse than death.

Broad strokes, I know, but think about that a minute. 

Everything, from the makeup, anti-aging products, clothing, fitness, and health industry preys on a woman's desire to find and keep a man.  And how does it prey?  By playing upon the already existent weakness that "alone" is a dirty word.  Whether it's a product to help you look your "best" to keep the man you already have, or it's a reality show based upon lonely women gathering to compete for the attentions of a man that is worth having, it's all about that dreaded dirty word again...alone.

Obviously, it starts at a young age, when girls aren't even sure why they want to feel pretty, but they understand they get more attention if they do.  Just take a moment and look at some (thankfully not all) of the youth clothing lines.  Designs copy the "older girls" with more fitted styles, lower waistbands, thinner fabrics.   Some teen stores, that previously only carried juniors/teen sizing, are now marketing to the younger girls with smaller and smaller sizing, offering youth fits for the same clothing girls twice their age are wearing.   But exactly what KIND of attention does this encourage?  As they move into older styles, finding themselves to finally be able to wear the juniors clothing they've been eyeing every time they walk through a mall, exactly what message are they sending?  Hemlines become shorter, straps on shirts and dresses disappear, heels become higher, and they start delving into the world of the "sexy look".

Looking sexy.  LOOKING.  How warped the term "sexy" has become.  As a more "mature" mind, the definition of sexy is not about clothing.  May I repeat, shouting from the rooftops.  SEXY IS NOT ABOUT HOW YOU LOOK.   Most women of my age and older know this.  Why?  Because we're older.  Yes, I'm actually pulling that one out of my hat.  It's an age thing.  Sexy is a mental state.  A mental state that is for minds that have matured.  If you're 15, and you are using the word "sexy", you actually have no concept of the term.  It's not your fault, it's not a bad thing.  Your brain has not developed enough to actually know the WOMAN you will become at your core.  And the woman you will become has nothing to do with your relationship status, your ability to attract men, your ability to get a prom date and throw on a $400 dress that looks like trash.    Sexy is not about attraction, attention, or whether you sit home alone with your cat on a Saturday night.  It is a mental state that comes from confidence, self awareness, and the pursuit of your own happiness.

Girls, young women, and sadly, some adult women who still haven't found their core, it's time to stop advertising yourself.   As a clothes and makeup whore myself, I can tell you, it's a fine line.  But when you cross it, you know it.  When you put on clothes that make you stand a little straighter, you look in the mirror and feel like you can conquer the day without batting an eye...THAT is being a woman.  Because it's not really the clothes doing it, it's that sparkle in your eyes that says yes, these are my clothes, an extension of who I am inside, and I am POWERFUL.  However, most importantly, when you agonize over what to put on that day, looking for the just the right outfit to catch the attention of whoever obsesses your brain, you are doing yourself a disservice.  Yes, in your youth, that is what will get you that attention you are desperately seeking.  It is short lived attention.  It is surface attention.  Without depth.  Without meaning.  You will be required to compromise more than just the shirt your are wearing in order to keep that attention.  You will sacrifice yourself, your dignity, the CORE of who you are and who you will become.  That attention will feel good, make you think you have accomplished something in life because HEY, YOU ARE NOT ALONE.  But again, alone is not a dirty word.

Alone is beautiful.  It is knowing who you are, what you stand for, loving yourself above all others, and knowing that you may share your world with others, but in the end, no matter what happens, you are ok.  Great in fact, because you have your best friend...yourself...to get you through it.

Know yourself first.  If only I could put that on a billboard in every county of every state.  JUST. KNOW. YOURSELF.  Know that the plunging necklines, short skirts, shorts with barely a leg, are nothing but surface dressing demanding, seeking, and desperately advertising that you are NOT ok to be alone.  There is nothing strong or empowering in baring as much as possible in order to seek the attention of others.  Find yourself first.  Figure out who you are when you are sitting at home alone with your cat on a Saturday night.  The style, beauty, fitness, being sexy as hell follows.  Do it in the right order.  You may still be alone, but when you do it in that order, you realize, it's actually ok.  Alone, is not the dirty word.

Flashback: Scrubadubdub

Random Scrubbing Thoughts

December 10, 2011 at 11:37am

If I'm going to be honest with myself, this is called writing down mundane and irrelevant things to avoid scrubbing more in the kitchen.  Or at least allowing myself to "take a break" because I thought of something so vitally important to state about kitchen cleaning that it must be typed out right away.

1.  If you are considering renovating your kitchen, don't be swayed by those pretty cabinets with all the nice inset trim work.  Otherwise, you'll become as vulgar as I am everytime you go to scrub them and realize you need a toothbrush to do it.  Flat face cabinets, people.  One quick swipe, and you're done.

2.  If you are looking at your hands and realizing you need to get that chipped polish off your fingernails (and what the hell are you doing painting your nails when you KNOW it will chip within one day of work, even with TWO top coats), just go scrub your cabinets.  Those ones with the pretty trimwork.  Because you'll be using said fingernails to try and get into the grooves and muttering to yourself about flat faced cabinets.  Voila!  Fingernail polish chipped off and floating onto the filthy floor!  Ooooh!  Pretty sparkles amongst the crumbs and menacing looking dustbunnies.

3.  Black crown molding seemed like a good idea too.  The perfect little accent in your fucked up idea of some kind of french country whatever motif you think you know about.  But when the dustbunny monsters have babies (and they're bunnies, so there's lots of babies), they like to hang off the trim so it looks like grey icicles gently framing that pretty picture of french country.  French country meets Amityville Horror.

4.  Said crown molding is the perfect spot for decorative pine garland.  None of that cheap looking stuff either.  Go for the very realistic pine with fine needles, complete with a slightly fuzzy look on them that becomes a grizzly bear of fur when you don't clean them for a long time.  Make sure your realistic garland has pine cones and twigs all over it too so you can look like a complete moron as you scrub not only every pine needle, but curse like a sailor (or like you normally do) at having to try and get your rag into every last layer of the pine cone and actually wash STICKS.  Washing sticks is the most ridiculous looking thing ever, but when they have menacing looking dustbunnies on them waiting to chew off your arm, you know it's best to scrub the sticks before you close your eyes that night.  Lest you wake up with only one arm.  And everyone knows when you feed the dustbunnies human flesh, they become dust grizzlies.  Big giant ten foot tall ones that will eat you and spit your out.

Too much Stephen King maybe?

5.  Always start at the top of your cabinets first (see above crown molding, garland scenario).  The dustbunnies fall to the floor and scurry off to their safe places.  Like under the stove.  Behind the fridge.  Where their big brothers wait.  The dust grizzlies.  Who have been munching on the mouse flesh that makes it into the house.  They're not quite ten feet tall yet but they are the size of a small cat.  Which is why I sometimes think I see cats out of the corner of my eye when both of ours are in plain sight.  And they're feral.  Very feral...because they think they are safe under the stove and behind the fridge...the girl who doesn't clean sticks surely won't clean there.

6.  What the hell is that shit splattered on the wall at knee level????  It seriously looks like someone ate my cooking (something chocolate perhaps, judging by the color) and barfed it up.  But not directly on the wall...this looks more like splatter, like in those drunken moments when you don't quite hit the center of the toilet as you crouch on the cool tile floor.  Not that I know what that's like.  I read about it.  Because I read alot.

7.  If you're going to randomly shuffle on Itunes for your cleaning music enjoyment, I suggest making a cleaning playlist and playing only that.  Suddenly hearing John Denver or Mozart's Requiem doesn't encourage you to continue cleaning.  It's hard to swear vulgarities you are making up in your head while listening to the eternally happy John Denver, and he's definitely eternally happy now because he's dead (wrong?  too much?) and unless you are beating back the dripping fangs of the dustbunnies/cats/grizzlies, Requiem is not quite right.  Requiem is for an epic battle.  Well, maybe it is ok then.

I'm only about 1/4 done with the kitchen, and that's a generous estimate.  But so far, I have alot of unanswered questions that maybe I don't want the answers to.  Like why I have Whitesnake on Itunes.  What some of those various things are stuck to the random surfaces in the kitchen.  How none of us have died of food poisoning yet.  If our oldest cat is really dead, and the furball wandering around the house is really a dustbunny/cat/grizzly in disguise.   Why do I constantly say I had two children so I wouldn't have to do this shit, and then I still do this shit?

Nine Inch Nails just came on...perfect timing