Be Young and Beautiful if You Want to be Loved

Oh look, a study came out saying the same old tired things that these studies always say. Women feel old by 29 because blah blah blah magazines society blah blah. Men don't feel old until 58 blah blah. People are all up in arms about it, talking about how unfair it is and how much society sucks for this reason or that and how whatever group you have to belong to is being oppressed by the other groups. Le sigh.

Do I feel older now as compared to how I felt at 18 or whatever? Yes. I'm 37. There are people my age who have grandchildren. Do I have things that sag more and bag more and crow's feet and gray hairs? Yes.   Do I know that I often feel out of the loop, unaware of the slang, lost in the newer culture, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the years I've lived? Yes.

But would I trade any of this for the feeling of security I have in myself now? No. Would I trade it for my even darker sense of humor? No. Would I trade it for the wisdom (even what little I have) gained from years of trial and error? No.

Would I go back to the emotional hell of 18? No. Would I go back to the naivety of believing in love and marriage and college will get you great jobs? No.

Because this is the thing, we feel older because we are older. Does that make us OLD? No.  It doesn't make us young either.   And while many people, so many people grasp and try to hold onto the idea of being young, we tend to do so forgetting how much being young really does suck.

We lament at how society caters to the young and the beautiful, but, honestly, is that the life you want?  Would you want to be your age and still get treated like a piece of meat? Would you want to be a 39 year old guy and sound like or look like Justin Bieber?

And yes, older men like younger women.  Does that mean there are less men for you to date because they want the younger girls? Yes. But . . . do you really want to be with a man who is obsessed with youth and nubile beauty?  I realize I'm being very judgmental, but I've always been of the opinion that if you have to live out Steely Dan's "Hey 19" with someone who doesn't even know what the hell Steely Dan is, then you're probably not someone I would be happy with anyway.

So this is what I say to the study. Yes, I feel older. Yes, I'm not young and pretty and blah blah.  Luckily? I'm old enough to not care enough about that to let it phase me. I'm mature enough to know that getting older is better than being young and impressionable and easier to take advantage of.

Though, I say all of this knowing my situation is somewhat different than the typical woman.  I was never complimented on my looks as a child, so my self-esteem isn't chained to that concept. Mine is more tied up with my ability to be a smart ass. I don't want kids, so my biological clock is ignored or, more often, mocked.     It doesn't matter if I "finds a manz," because marriage is so not for me.  And I'm still Gen X slacker enough to measure my worth not in financial success but in how much I can find meaning in each day.

Even as I write that, I realize that while I'm not the typical woman, there are probably more and more women who feel the way I do.  The nice thing about having pervasive jadedness as a cultural norm is that more and more people view the social myths and trappings as nothing more than a set of lies at which to roll one's eyes.

In the end, I think it's less about women really feeling old at 29 and more about how much society needs them to feel old at 29.  We have whole industries hinged on this.  We have control measures and self-worth destroying tactics built from this. Industries and institutions thrive off the idea that women need to be young and beautiful, and to do so, should be on a diet or in a chair sticking poison into their skin to numb expressions or under a knife or under a man or any number of other things where they throw away their money and common sense and self-love so that the rest of the world can profit from their labors.

In the meantime, the rest of us fat old ugly broads will be over in the corner drinking our martinis and not giving a damn if you think we're pretty or valued or whatever.  If you suspect we're amused that this annoys you, we are. We don't need your approval. We don't need your love. We don't need you. Thanks all the same though.

Punishments

People have been really annoying me lately.  People in general, people in the media, people who think they should talk without using their brains or logic.  I try to tune them out, but most of the time, it's difficult to avoid them. My therapist always says I shouldn't dwell on my negative feelings, so instead, I'll fantasize about what punishments I would give them if I were god.

TO THOSE WHO PRESUME TO CRITICIZE THE LOOKS OF OTHERS, I HEREBY PUNISH WITH HORRIBLE PHOTOGRAPHS.

Yes, from now on, those who seek to talk smack about how other people look will see only the most ogrish and revolting images of themselves. No amount of photoshopping will alter their vacant expressions of inbredery and revoltingness.

If there are fingers seen in the picture, they will be filthy, or in your nose, or look like they are going into someone's butt.  Your hair will always look wonked and your eyes will show your inner ugliness and wickedness.  Your skin color will look sallow or reddish or just zombyish.

No matter how much you protest that you are attractive, there will be no photographic evidence of this whatsoever.

TO THOSE WHO SEEK TO SPEAK IN FRONT OF GROUPS OF OTHERS AND SAY HATEFUL AND IGNORANT THINGS, I HEREBY PUNISH WITH CONSTANT AND LOUD FLATULENCE.

That's right. Any time someone thinks it's a good idea to blame little girls for getting raped while speaking in a public forum or, I dunno, maybe suggesting that Asians shouldn't go into the library, whenever you are in public and making such stupid remarks, no one will hear you because you will just be farting very, very, very loudly.

The farts will not only be loud, they will smell horrible. The odor will linger around you as a constant reminder of your bullshitery. As you most often use your words to harm others, now shall what spouts from your own ass harm you.

TO THOSE WHO SEEK TO USE RELIGION AS A TOOL OF HATE, I PUNISH YOU WITH THE FRUSTRATION OF PATRONIZING KINDNESS.

No, no one will be violent to you. No, you will never be yelled at or have things thrown at you again. Instead, people will just look at you for the crazy you are. "Oh, don't pay him any attention. That's just nutty old Fred.  He gets his family together every weekend and they glitter up signs and go try and get people to pay attention to them. It's sad, really."

People won't bomb you. They won't shake their fists at you.  They won't stop you from doing what you feel you should do. But at the same time, they will never take you seriously.  They will never listen to you.  When they look at you they will only see someone who is a poor, crazy, pathetic mess who deserves only pity.

The great thing about this is that there would be a lot of people who got hit with all three.  They would look bad in photos, constantly fart, and never be taken seriously. All the time.

Ohhh, it would be so glorious. If, a bit smelly . . . .

The Days of Suck and Not-Suck

 Above you will see the beautiful flowers sent to me by my Aunt and Uncle for VD.  As I have mentioned before, even the most simple of things can make someone's day so wonderful. This was one of those things for me.  The gift was completely unexpected and instantly loved. I felt loved. This was a moment of certain Not-Suck.

 But that was only for a while. Above you will see my NEXT unexpected "gift." Later this same day, I went to the bathroom sans headphones. This is something I rarely do . . . the headphones part. I got to the bathroom as often as any 37 old woman does. But on that day, I was lazy and didn't bother. I also didn't bother to turn on the heater. Because of these two factors, I could hear the strange sound in the pipes, like something was turned on, when nothing was.

My roommate went outside to inspect and discovered that one of our outside spigots was gushing water.  LOTS of water.  It was also, mind you, Friday afternoon, past five. So any plumber who was going to show up would be doing so on after-hours pay.  This was a moment of PURE SUCK.

We ended up getting the issue fixed that night. Thank all that is holy because otherwise the water would have been off and I already mentioned I pee like a 37 yr old woman. It cost a lot of money and all  I got was a bit of broken piping and sustained hours of Panic Mode.

I'm working on getting past Panic Mode, but I'm still not very good at it. Everyone handles Panic Mode differently.  I tend to get very quiet, shut down somewhat, and become very fatalistic.  I think I get kind of abrasive too, but as I'm not on the receiving end of that, I'm not quite sure.

Due to my Panic Mode response (and the logistic difficulty of transporting someone of my size), I have very little fear of being the target of a serial killer.  And if I ever am one, I think it will go down something like this:

Serial killer: Bwahahaha! I'm serial killer! I'm here to kill you . . . serially!

Me: *flatly* Yeah. Okay.

Serial killer: Bwahaha, you're gonna die in a very creative, twisted, and demeaning way. Bwahaha!

Me: Evs. Get it over with.

Serial killer: Bwaha.....wait....what?

Me: Listen, bucko. I'm a fat girl. People get so damned judgy about why people die. So as long as I die in ANYWAY that isn't a heart attack or cancer or some other fat-related crap, I'm kinda Zen about it.

Serial killer: But . . . you're supposed to be scared and weepy and begging for your life.

Me: Tell you what, you want some begging? Bring me my iPod. Please.  I'd kind of like to hear Sisters of Mercy as you're chopping me to bits or whatever. It seems apropro.

Serial killer: OMG, isn't Andrew Eldritch  the BOMB?

Me: No one says "the bomb" anymore. And yes, he is.

And that's how we would become friends.  Until, you know, he went to jail for killy-related things and I died of a heart attack. Then the day would suck.

Days of Plague and Snarking

If you are ever feeling down and think you have nothing in the world to be thankful for, repeat the following statement. "I am so grateful that Blackhaired Barbie is not my god."

For I would be a cruel, cruel mistress.  Okay, I wouldn't be so concerned about your misdeeds and crap like that,  unless you were rather annoying, but I would venture into lots of random chaos and send plagues.  I've been thinking about this for a while. Plagues should be a truly disturbing thing and not just some event where a lot of bugs or something show up. With that in mind, I give you:

THE PLAGUES OF BLACKHAIRED BARBIE

THE FIRST PLAGUE

Ventriloquist's DummiesIs there anything out there more creepy thank ventriloquist's dummies?  With their movable (and therefore, split open) mouths and twisty eyes and strange little voices coming from seemingly no where? Oh, they say it's the human with them. But how do we really know?

This wouldn't be a plague where they fell from the sky or anything. No, no. You would just randomly see them. For instance, you might be getting into your car and look in the rear view mirror and SURPRISE! DUMMY!!!  Or you might be walking into the bathroom in the middle of the night, needing to relieve yourself so badly....and sitting there on the toilet SURPRISE! DUMMY!!

OH, this makes me laugh just thinking about.

THE SECOND PLAGUE

TelemarketersDuring the 1990s, this plague was quite common. No matter what you were trying to do in your home, you'd get tons of calls from people wanting to sell you siding or funeral plots or baby lemurs. Okay, maybe that last one is just wishful thinking on my part, but you get the idea. This stopped after the DO NOT CALL list came out. Come to think of it, that's probably one of the best things the government ever did.

With my plague, I would spice it up some. Instead of calling you, the telemarketers would speak directly INTO YOUR BRAIN. They would come on at random times and start pitching products to you . . . like when you were taking a test . . . or performing brain surgery . . . or having sex.  The products would either be something you would never want . . . or something you DID want, only very overpriced.

As your god, my point with this plague would be to help you to consider what was truly important.

THE THIRD PLAGUE

CriticsCritics actually have a valid place in our society. They give reviews of food and movies and music. When the critic is informed and noble in their analysis, this can be a wonderful thing.  The rest of them tend to just be assholes.

During the plague, each person would have seven critics around them at all times. And they would give critique over every aspect of your life.

"I watched as Sasha brushed her teeth today.  Can we say boring? It's like she doesn't even try any more. There is no variety to it. No spark. It's like at some point she just decided tooth brushing worked one way for her and there was no point of further exploration."

"Ho hum. Another day, another moment of Kale getting into his car. Note the way he just slides in, as if it were common place. Where is his sense of adventure?"

Of course, the critics would be able to discuss you with each other and argue about your various merits.  They would never come to any type of consensus and place the blame completely on you.

For many people, I hear this is kind of what it's like when your parents stay married.

Anyway, enough of my godlike evil for today.  I think you get the idea. Whenever you think things couldn't get any worse, just remember, they seriously could.

I could be in control of your destiny. Bwahahahaaha.....hah!

Snark on Ice

I have a long history of falling down.  My mother almost named me Grace Elizabeth, which would have been the ironies of ironies as I am as clumsy as any human can be.  And I don't mean in that Bella-Swan-MarySue-Out-of-Sequence kind of way. I mean, real fall on your ass clumsy.

The night of my junior prom, I was doing some level of giggle and tickle with the boy I adored and somehow managed to fall and break my leg.  And this was after I was already out of high heels and the dress.  I spent the remaining days of my junior year hobbling around in a cast.

When I was in college, one of my friend's lived in a house that existed at the bottom of an incline.  When it would rain, the  sidewalk leading to the house would be covered in mud, sludge, and slime.  On the day I found out my GRE score, I went over to said friend's house to happily report my success. I was so elated with my intelligence (okay, let's face it, my LUCK in getting questions I knew) that I discounted the slimy hellpit that was the sidewalk and slipped headfirst into the quagmire of nastiness.

So as you can imagine, it is always with much trepidation that I venture out into ice covered streets.  Honestly, I'd planned not to do this at all, content to just sit in the house and ride out the slick.  But my roommate had an emergency dental issue, so I rode with him.  I thought it was the least I could do. Yes, as usual, the least I can do is......sit.

Of course, the ride was deeply scary.  We fishtailed a couple of times. He described me as "white-knuckled and silent" during the trip.  I wasn't exactly silent. I seem to remember a lot of unintelligible wailing, but it may have been too high pitched for my roommate to hear. I saw a lot of dogs staring at the van though.

We stopped midway to FS and he decided it would try and calm me down with chocolate and coffee. While well-intentioned, the coffee became more of a burden than a blessing.  It was too hot to drink and so I just kept it in my hands, trying to make sure I didn't spill it on myself as we skitted along.

However, in the end, the coffee did turn into a blessing. When we got to the denist office, I needed to use the restroom. All the jostling and fear, I guess.  My roommate got out and informed me the parking area by my feet was covered in ice.

I opened the door and footed around, finding nothing secure.  I knew if I could just find a non-icy-evil-threateny place to step, I'd be okay. Hopefully.  I just didn't know how to accomplish that.

Until I remembered the coffee.....

I took the cup and poured it all out, letting the blistering hellish temp of it melt the ice around me. I smiled just a little as I stepped out . . .then I almost slipped. . .but I grabbed myself and made it in just fine.

Honestly, me on ice should be its own reality show.  Or its own warning tale. Either way, at least I'm home and safe . .  .until tomorrow when we have to go and pay bills.

Once a Month, I am a Robot

The title isn't a reference to my period.  Believe me, during my period, I'm anything but a robot.

No, see, once a month, I get a call from the people who supply me with my CPAP parts.  I never talk to a human from the company, it's always a programmed call and always the same series of questions.

*phone rings*
Me: *after fishing phone from my purse or what other place it happens to be hiding from me and looking at the caller ID to make sure I know the number and it's not some bill collector* Hello?
Robot: Hi there. This is_____ ______ .

At this point, I become a robot.

When you talk to a robot, you more or less have to be one. Normal phone voice just won't cut it.  The reason is simple. Robots do not understand inflection or tone or accents. So any time you're speaking to a computer program on a phone, you more or less have to sound as much like that program as possible.

So the conversation continues:
Medical Supply Robot: Am I speaking with the person who uses a CPAP/BiPAP at this address? Please say yes or no.
Robot Me: Yes.
Medical Supply Robot: Are you using your CPAP/BiPAP equipment? Please say yes or no.
Robot Me: Yes.

My robot voice is as flat, clear, and non inflected as possible.  My roommate can always tell when I'm doing this call, because all he years is "Yes" about ten times.  Well, and one no. One question is asked to where you have to respond with a no. I guess this is to insure you're not a real robot. Just a human being one at the moment.

The only time during the whole phone call when I'm not a robot is during one brief moment of snarky eye rolling. There is a point when the phone robot says, "Your insurance provider cares about you and promotes your health by..." and some other stuff. I'm usually eye rolling at this point because the whole statement sounds like dystopian propaganda.  So I ignore that part and wait for my next "Please say yes or no" so I can become a robot again.

Don't get me wrong though. I don't mind being a robot once a month.  Quite frankly, I'd rather talk to the robot about my medical supplies than some human. The robot is routine and easy to understand, if boring.  We get down to basics and I don't have to try and be polite and I have no tendency to over explain things.  I find the medical supply robot to be comforting and we have a pretty good robot-relationship.

And as crazy as this sounds, if they ever changed the policy and made me talk to humans, I'd miss the robot voice.  With a human, the whole needful routine of the call would be forced and awkward.  The last thing I want every month is a whole phone convo of that.