Ladays.

Stayin' Golden Since '86
Hoes before Bros.

This entry is a heartfelt shout out to all my LADAYS.

My life is pretty peachy-keen when taken in the grand scheme of things. I’ve got a loving family, a loving boo, loving friends, and I’m pretty sure my car loves me too (if for no other reason than I take her everywhere). I’ve got loves coming out of my ears. But even in the first world, we have trials and tribulations that can be weathered all the easier with a solid support core (corps). Since I believe in karma, I want to maintain that love balance and be there for my mamacitas as much as they have been there for me.

I did not always have such a plethora of lovely ladies on my speed dial. A very anti-social teen, my list of ‘friends’ in the academic sense was miniscule until I entered the restaurant industry in college. There, surrounded by dirty line cooks, I was basically drop-kicked out of my shell. I quickly realized that, although I was intrinsically introverted, I was also constantly lonely. So, I converted to extrovertism, squealching my inner insecurities and replacing them with new band names, house parties and PBR reserves. In short, I loved it! I felt accepted by my surrogate brothers, and, *gasp* dare I say it?, almost cool!

Eventually I learned something about always hanging out with the guys. As accepting and protective as they were, I was still different. Namely, I was a girl. I liked to go shopping, I needed to talk about my feelings, and sometimes I wanted a shoulder to cry on, whether it was PMS or a fight with my sister. And they were not capable of providing that social dimension, nor did they particularly want to. Not that I could blame them; they had girlfriends and wives who already had the monopoly that kind of attention. Simply put, I was always (and would always be) second in line.

It hurt like hell when I understood this universal truth. I thought I hated spending time with girls because in my previous experience they were dramatic, shallow and petty for the most part. I regretted my decision not to cultivate any meaningful female friendships past high school. I felt like a fucking idiot for boxing myself in a corner. For crap’s sake, did I even remember how to make girlfriends??

After some trial and error I slowly built a female friendly social base, and it could not have come at a better time. Shortly thereafter I suffered a horrible break up of massive proportions (we’re talking about 6 years, 5 of which were spent living together, 2 shared pets, oh and did I mention this separation was not mutual?) My girlfriends were my much needed rocks, my drinking buddies, my constant source of comfort or distraction, no matter when or where I needed it. It would have been a much harder year without them.

And now a good friend of mine is going through a very similar breakup: She’s a selfless-to-a-fault sweetheart who wants (and deserves) a grown ass man. Instead of a partner, she feels like a mom. She works, cooks, and cleans with little-to-no help. When finally at her wits’ end (after numerous sane attempts to rectify her unhappiness), she was met with anger and defensiveness. Newsflash bro: If you didn’t realize things were that bad, you weren’t paying attention. When you say you didn’t realize she was that unhappy, you’re simultaneously admitting that you knew she was somewhat unhappy and decided to ignore it.

Needless to say, the girls have been called forth. We’ve banded together once more and enveloped her into our loving arms. Because guys aren’t always awful, aloof babies, but when they are, getting drunk with your ladiiieeeess always helps ease the sadness and disappointment.

Current Jam: “I’m just a girl” No Doubt

Ouch, My Pride.

My mom is a bit of a long-winded storyteller. She’s a person captivated by details, and sometimes those details get in the way of moving the plot forward, already. It’s an adorable nuisance. In many ways we (always begrudgingly) become our parents. I worry that I too will go the oral route of Dickens and Tolstoy; I’m already guilty of re-telling certain stories over and over…

…However…

Some are so perfect in their ridiculousness that they border the stuff of cheezy sitcoms. They deserve a constant presence, if merely in the backs of our minds, as we go about our life experience. Ya know, they’re the stuff of regular-ol’-boring-life comedic gold.

So I must admit: I am a clumsy motherfucker. I lack grace, hand-eye coordination, the ability to walk and chew gum simultaneously, all that jazz. I loved to listen to music on my way to class back in undergrad, but the moment I would get really into my jam and start that swagger, God or whoever would bitchslap me down. I’d either trip or spill coffee on my shirt…usually both. One morning I giddily thought a cute guy was checking me out… turns out I had a smear of crunchy peanut butter on my cheek.

But oh, those pale in comparison to the following tale of woe. To the gods of awkwardly timed farts and Jennifer Lawrence stumbles, I humbly submit:

It was July 4th weekend, many moons ago. My sister and I bounced down I-95 in my crappy Mitusbishi Galant lovingly dubbed Gunther. We were headed to Jax Beach to spend the day with her bestie. For those of you who don’t know, Jax Beach gets kinda cray-cray during this holiday. House parties abound, all are welcome, as long as you’re on a bicycle (the J-towners get openly mocked by the beach cruiser crowd). The plan was this: bike ride up and down the strip, get shit-faced, and eventually ooh and aah at the evening fireworks display before passing out on the beach. Simple, uncomplicated, guaranteed fun, no? Not when you “eat 4 sandwiches” (Where my HIMYM fans at??!) on an empty stomach. Not when you haven’t ridden a bike in like 10 years. Not, in short, when you’re me.

Like a typical whiny sibling trying to keep up with the big kids, I clumsily teetered along on my borrowed wheels. My sister and her friend were quickly moving ahead, and my high-induced paranoia and stress were beginning to peak. I sped up to try and overtake them. Big mistake.

Picture, as I often do when recalling this memory, an out of control bicycle, its riders’ legs sticking straight out at a near-perfect 90 degree angle… as they crash headfirst into a wooden light pole…

Next, turn your attention to the 2 surfer brahs standing right there, their slackjaws exclaiming a surprised, “Woah…. are you ok man?”

Cut back to me, face ablaze, stuttering “Oh, I’m fine”. And then *cringe* as I have to straddle my front wheel to unbend the handlebars before hobbling away in shame.

And no, thankfully my sister and her biffl had no idea. The fewer witnesses, the better.

*Sigh*

Hey… don’t you feel better about your day now? My humiliation is your salvation. You’re welcome.

Current Jam: “Look What Happened (The Last Time)” LTJ

Rant #67

I live in a college town. This unforunately means the median age is somewhere around 20-21, and immaturity is rampant. As a result, I frequently encounter a portion of the younger populace that I absolutely detest. We’re talking about a loathing that makes me want strangle them and leave their bloated lifeless bodies in a dumpster behind Denny’s. What is it, you may be wondering, that I so abhor about these people? Allow me to elaborate:

I am an adult. An adult who, like many other adults, went through a slightly hellish adolescence. However, I managed to make it through unscathed (mostly) and now I can cherish one of the few remarkable aspects of post-high school life: I can choose who I spend my time with.  Instead of being forced to interact with all manner of obnoxious, self-obsessed, idiotic persons, I get to freely pick out those other like-minded, kindred spirits with whom to socialize. And I love it.

Except sometimes social niceties require me to once again hang out with those people that I hated in public school: the self-proclaimed popular kids. Those who inherently decided on every aspect of acceptable group behavior; who clung tightly to that social heirarchy, for fear if they didn’t maintain their presence on the proverbial ladder they would fall from grace and be thrown amongst the ‘normies’, to borrow a phrase from Family Guy. There’s a reason I refuse to date macho meatheads: because they’re assholes, and I don’t like assholes. They think that a backhanded compliment is the way to get you into bed. They want a simple-minded, submissive trophy wife. One that they can freely cheat on and get away with the biological excuse of ‘spreading their seed’. And the Daria-esque presidents of the fashion club? Take your egocentric meaningless prattle somewhere else. Your hyper-forced confidence is bleeding into your carefully (unsuccessfully) camouflaged insecurity. Oh, and you have lipstick on your teeth.

I know I’m sensitive. Overly sensitive. It is one of my many flaws. I have spent at least the last 10 years of my life trying to generate a thick skin, to adopt the mantra ‘water off a duck’s back’. However, that doesn’t mean that I deserve to be treated with casual disinterest, like an outsider, or someone considered ‘safe’ to sardonically ridicule.

I guess my point is, I believe in Karma. I believe in the Golden Rule. I believe that you get back what you put into this world. I recognize that Life is hard. I understand that some people get dealt a shitty opening hand, but guess what? That’s no excuse. It’s never been an excuse, and it never will be.

…I’m suddenly reminded of my morning car ride with my boo, and discussing the notion of hating a person based merely upon the sound of their voice. Yeah, I’m totally guilty of this. There’s a woman I work with who I can’t stand, all because her laugh is a cross between Fran Drescher and Steve Urkel… 

Oh well, no one’s perfect right?

Current Jam: “That’ll be the day” Linda Ronstadt