Feeling Like A Child

Childhood relics at your parent's house can set a person back.

There's an article in Cosmo magazine (I know, I know, but my littlest sister pointed it out [who is their demographic, after all] and it wasn't awful) offering advice for those with emotional distress when home for the holidays. It was targeted at the young adults who are newly into their adult lives: out of college, in big kid jobs with big kid responsibilities and lives, who suddenly feel like children as soon as they're back in their teenage rooms and being chauffeured in the back seat of mom and dad's car. 

This article was pointed out to us because it's my sister's way of telling us that she feels like we treat her like a child, and not like the young adult with responsibilities that she is. She's never been one to openly discuss her feelings, so just showing us an article in a magazine is an invitation to talk about it. 

So we talked about it. Not with her, of course, because we're a normal dysfunctional family. Amongst ourselves, though, yes. We discussed what she might be feeling, what she might want us to do, what we might be doing that is causing her to feel like we see her as a child. And we pointed a lot of fingers. OK, I did a lot of the finger pointing.

I haven't felt like a child when visiting back home in a few years. But I did feel like that when I was my sister's age. And I do feel like that at my boyfriend's parents' house. Not because they treat me like a kid, or treat him like a kid, not at all. In fact they treat us both like adults. And not because of the way they talk to either of us. But I do feel like a kid when we have to sleep in different rooms. 

To be perfectly fair, I fully understand that this is a their-house-their-rules type of situation and I would never, ever say a word (hope they don't find this); and it's not like we're married or engaged or even living together (though I seriously hope one of those things would cause the room situation to change). But my boyfriend, their son, is 30. We're in a serious enough relationship that we're taking each other to our respective families for the holidays. And I'm pretty sure they're both aware we spend the majority of our nights together. But I sleep in the room next to the master and he sleeps in a room on the other side of the house. And I feel like I'm 17 who needs to be stopped from doing naughty things with her boyfriend rather than an adult in a totally normal adult relationship.

The Cosmo article also touched on dealing with family opinions and beliefs that may be different from yours, giving changes in religious and political beliefs as an example. Having to sleep in a different room is conforming to a belief that I don't share. While this is a more extreme example from the annoying-but-harmless dinner table discussions about who voted for who the magazine was hinting at, the feeling is there. You don't want to say anything and start something (especially in my family...), but the article pointed out that if you don't speak up your family won't learn who you are as a new young adult. This is easily my sister's largest issue: blame it on the divorce, but both of my sisters are massive people pleasers who will do anything to avoid a fight and anything to make everyone else happy. This  means repressing a lot of their own feelings and emotions, which is also not healthy. 

If the holidays make you stressed out (and I think most people feel some stress during this time), do what you can for yourself. Take a step back, distance yourself if you have to, and remember that you can't control how other people react or feel. I was reminded that these situations are a two way street, and that each person has to give a little to get somewhere. Myself included.

What Thanksgiving Used To Mean

For a client, I wrote a blog post on fatty Thanksgiving foods after being inspired by one of the most disgusting food videos I've ever seen. (Blog post is here. :) )

I thought it'd be a great topic for the week before Thanksgiving, but when I was doing my research on the fattiest Thanksgiving foods, the only things showing up in search was low-cal Thanksgiving recipes. My searches for "fattiest Thanksgiving recipes" and "high calorie Thanksgiving foods" turned up articles on a lighter Thanksgiving, a low-cal Thanksgiving, and advice on how to not overdo it during the holiday. 

What happened? Why are we now obsessed with making lighter dishes on Thanksgiving, the one day of the year we celebrate our abundance of food? It's because Thanksgiving is no longer the one day of the year we have more food than we know what to do with. We regularly over-indulge, regularly eat beyond being full, and regularly feel sick from too much food. 

Now, the internet is full of Thanksgiving recipes that teach cooks how to make the same dishes with fewer calories. Now, we're told to not put marshmallows on our sweet potatoes, skip the cream of mushroom and fried onions on the green beans, bake potatoes rather than mash them with butter and cream, and skip the bread and rolls. 

I know I'm being a bit of a hypocrite when I say this, especially since running a blog called We Should Be Fat, but I wouldn't mind going back to when giant meals were a special occasion. I wouldn't mind us, as a country, enjoying our meals for what they are, and knowing what they are. We should put some butter and cream in our mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving and enjoy them without worrying about how many miles we'll have to run to work it off, but we should be far more sensible about how we eat on a more regular basis. 

Louis C.K. says the meal is not over when he's full, it's over when he hates himself. And it's funny because it's true for a lot of us. (He also says he runs 5 miles every other day to keep up "this shitty body.") We eat, and then we keep eating until our bodies tell us we're full, and then we feel like absolute shit 20 minutes later, when those last few helpings have settled in. And it's not like we're shoveling in vegetables... we're eating meat at every meal, often with bread, followed up with sweets. And we wonder why there's an obesity crisis.

I was a supporter of Prop 37 that would have required the labeling of genetically modified foods because I saw it as a step in the right direction. We have no idea what we're eating, partially because we don't read the nutrition labels to know what actually comprises those frozen chicken nuggets and partially because a simple ingredient like corn (which is in fucking everything - go look) is comprised of a number of new chemicals that aren't listed. We're eating more, enjoying food less, and suffering because of our over abundance. Our farm animals get the vast, vast majority of our antibiotics (not because they're sick, either), we're polluting our country and other countries laugh at us because of our food habits.

If we don't go full steam ahead with every meal and regret the vast majority of what we eat, we can enjoy what we eat more and worry about it less. We can let Thanksgiving go back to what it used to be - a day to be thankful for what we have, which in this country is more often than not an abundance.

Calm The Fuck Down

This is what I need to tell myself on a far more regular basis.

And possibly post more anteater pictures...

Anyone reading this somewhat regularly since... well, I started, knows that I was loosely diagnosed with eczema. I'm still not 100% convinced this is what it is, especially since my symptoms are pretty much all wrong. The only thing that still makes it look and act like eczema is the all over itchy rash that makes me want to claw my skin off.

Anyway, I've discovered that whatever it is is stress induced. I've been to Planned Parenthood a few times this year alone issues that could be tied to whatever skin rash I have. The last time I went she asked me if I felt stressed or worried in my relationship (resounding no) or in life. I said, "well, I'm always stressed," in a nonchalant, this-is-typical-for-me way. Because it's true. There's always fucking something.

This time I've got it pared down: started a new job (3 month probationary period, looking at it like an extended interview, trying to be the best); sometimes I feel totally overwhelmed in my new job because I'm surrounded by some really smart people who know what they're doing and who are giving me very real responsibilities; some jackwad ran into my car and caused me $800 worth of repairs that my full coverage insurance won't cover; and the cherry on top is some other jackwad stuck a business card on my car window which slipped into the door frame as I rolled the window down because I didn't notice until it was there until it was too late. Boom, stress rash. And then I freak the fuck out and try to figure out if it is in fact eczema by looking at photos and descriptions online, which just makes me itch more.

But I honestly shouldn't be that stressed, definitely not enough to cause a rash to break out on my arms and legs. I did just get back from a very lovely vacation; I'm very happy in my job and mostly unworried about the probationary period because they seem to like me a bunch and the fact that they are giving me big responsibilities is telling; even though I sometimes feel overwhelmed the very next day I feel like I have a handle on things and that I'm just as smart as my coworkers; I can afford my car repairs (I'm just mad that I have them); taking on a very small bit of debt when I have a steady income shouldn't freak me out.

HA!

The vast, vast majority of my worry and stress stems from money (thanks, mom and dad). I know what makes me happy and I've pretty much got everything I need and want: my cat who sometimes loves me, a job that fulfills me, a boyfriend who adores me, an apartment I'm going to be sad to leave, a roommate I'm friends with, an easy 10 minute walking commute, a neighborhood and city I belong in, and dozens of opportunities every week to satisfy my little desires. But I just wrapped up debt and started to save up for things I want, rather than just the things I need, before being unemployed for a brief period, which added to a vacation did give me back some credit card debt, which I had been happy to be rid of. Add to that my new car repairs and the car insurance I still haven't finished paying off (all thanks to timing) and I've got myself some saving to do. Plus, there are the things I've wanted for a long time that I would much rather not postpone anymore: a new bed, my own apartment, and (maybe) an iPhone. As long as I wait until mid-November and know I'm secure in my position I think it'd be OK to take on a little debt (famous last words, right?). Fortunately, I make enough to save that money in a few months as long as I stick to the frugal lifestyle I adopted in college and never really grew out of. By the new year I should be debt free again and able to start saving for my next vacation, build up a security savings for when the next something happens (because it always does), and start paying down my car faster.

And in the meantime, tell myself to just calm the fuck down. I got this. I really do.

How To Get A Man/Job

What my rejection emails really mean.

The title of an article could be "how to get a man" or "how to get a job" and the content, with a few altered keywords, would be essentially the same. I've never really been the person to take Cosmopolitan magazine seriously, or for that matter worry about finding/getting/keeping Mr Right, but I have read enough girl magazines to know that those who do want to get married and have kids and have the kind of life we all believe we deserve that getting older and not having that, or even being close to having that, can make even the most well rounded of girls depressed or, worse, desperate.

But in my ever present job search I'm starting to see a lot, and I mean a lot, of the same exact advice for job seekers as there is for women on the man hunt. Here is the advice I've come across and see if it sounds like "get a man" advice or "get a job" advice:

Be confident.

Take the initiative.

Put yourself out there.

Be eager, but not too eager.

Showcase your skills and talents.

Follow up x amount of days after you meet.

If it doesn't work out, move on to the next opportunity immediately.

Any of the above phrases could fit in a dating or job seeking article. And in fact, aren't first dates interviews? Aren't you trying to make yourself seem as attractive as possible while judging whether or not the person sitting across from you is really the great fit you thought he was based on his resume/online dating profile? Aren't there questions you can ask and questions you can't ask, stories you can and should tell and stories you most definitely should not tell? Isn't there a specific dress code that, if not followed, could disqualify you for the position? Isn't it possible (or even likely) to come off as over eager or desperate for the job or boyfriend, scaring away a potentially beautiful match? Holy crap I'm making myself anxious, and I have a boyfriend! I also have a job, but unlike the boyfriend I'm hoping to upgrade A-SAP. 

Thing is, though, that this whole notion has been around a while. There are hundreds of articles that tell job seekers and boyfriend seekers why one is like the other and how to use the tactics in one to get what you want in the other. But both situations are entirely uncomfortable because we're only in them when we clearly want something. So we listen to the advice of those who say they've been there and know what it's like and we play by "the rules" thinking it'll help. And maybe it does for some, but for the rest of us? I for one am starting to feel like a stereotypical 29 1/2 year-old woman worrying about her uterus drying up and being terrified I'm scaring off great candidates with my desperation. 

Only it's not men and potential fathers I'm scaring off, it's a great job. But in a way, finding the right job is like finding the right father-for-my-future-kids to me. Finding a job that gives me more of a purpose is essential because I'm not planning on my "purpose" being motherhood. While other women have their kids, their homes, their husbands and their domestic lives to fulfill them, and possibly are more willing to put up with shit jobs in order to help make their real lives happen, I don't feel like putting up with a shit job when that's my main purpose. In place of motherhood I want my job to be meaningful, to make me feel like I'm doing something that will matter to others. I have no motivation to take the high paying soul sucking job with benefits because I'm not worried about paying for anyone else to go to college. I can be picky and demanding because I have that luxury.

And dammit here I am in the same boat as millions of women my age who are worrying about their rapidly emptying ovaries saying "but I'm ready, it's time, where is he?" about my non-existent future employer.

Fuck, I just realized I'm Ted.

Sex

Well this is just inappropriate.

I may never understand why people get so concerned about how other people have sex. It seems like everyone has an opinion on what everyone else should and should not be doing. Even corporations.

Chick-fil-A has come out against homosexuality. The restaurant chain is involved with several religious and family oriented groups (including Focus on the Family, which reminds me of Peta for kids) and has explicitly come out and said they "do not accept homosexual couples" at Chick-fil-A's charitable retreat.

But don't worry, gays, you can still order food from the restaurants. They're not going to refuse your money, after all.

And then there's the professionally religious. Bishops have warned married couples to not get too carried away by sexual pleasure, but to remember why you're having sex in the first place. And it's not because it's a way to express your love and passion for one another, unless that's just a byproduct of making babies. The article basically says "we know we said only sex outside of marriage was bad, but anal really isn't going to make babies, and that's our whole thing with the gays, so how 'bout you guys just stick to missionary?" It also describes how married couples should lead chaste lives. Not celibate, chaste. I can't help but picture those Mormon sex clothes that have small holes at the genitals so procreation can occur but you won't get a whole lot of mental stimulation from looking at your wife's naked body. 'Cause that's nasty.

Couldn't find the picture I wanted, so there's this. Also, there's a lot of mormon gay porn out there.

The bishop goes so far as to call pleasure a byproduct of sex:

"Though pleasure may be present, some acts are a misuse of sex when they fall short of what God intended."

Oh yeah? If God intended pleasure to be a mere byproduct of sex why would He have created an organ that does nothing but give sexual pleasure? Plus, certain foreplay acts make sex more enjoyable for each person and make the whole making babies part even better. How do we know God didn't intend that? Lastly, how is a bishop, a supposedly celibate and single individual, giving sex advice to married couples? Giving sex advice is hard enough (well, giving real sex advice is hard, not the bullshit opinions everyone and their mom seem to give out), and it has to be near impossible if you've never experienced it, especially as a married man.

I wish people would just leave others well enough alone. If someone is looking for help or advice he or she will seek it out. The rest of us don't need to go giving our 2 cents to anyone within ear shot. That's my 2 cents, anyway.

*I love the shout-out to Fark.

Anne Frank

Just finished reading (re-reading?) Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl. Anne Frank had to be the most intelligent 14-year old girl in the world. She was insanely smart for her age, well wise beyond her years, and so articulate and able to easily express the most basic feelings that people have struggled their whole lives to express. It's a huge shame on our species that she had to die at the hands of an evil, racist authority.

Anne was in hiding in a warehouse with her family and 4 others for over 2 years during World War II. During that time they did not leave the warehouse, did not breathe fresh air, came close to starvation, came close to discovery multiple times, and had restrictions on when they could run water, use the toilet and even get up and move around. Their lives depended on extreme secrecy and security measures. Annes only solace throughout this whole ordeal was her dependency on the privacy of her diary. She wrote about quarrels between the tenants, being chastised by her parents, her longing for her friends, her lack of anyone to confide in (except her diary, which she named "Kitty"), the goings on in the world, being terrorized by air raids, the pains their friends took to bring them food, their near starvation... all before age 14, young Anne experienced and documented a life none of us can imagine. And she took it all in stride: every so often when she became depressed, Anne would bring herself back out of it by remembering how lucky she was to be in hiding when her friends suffered unimaginable fates in the outside. Starving, alone and terrified for 2 years, Anne pulled her own chin up, even when the adults couldn't do so.

In her diary she wrote about her dreams for the future, after the war. She saw the life of her mother and knew that was not for her. She wanted

"to have something besides a husband and children to devote myself to... to be useful or bring enjoyment to all people, even those I’ve never met. I want to go on living even after my death!"

Oh, Anne. You have no idea.

Unsurprisingly enough, this part of her book resonated with me. I've looooong known that the housewife life is so not for me. Granted, I'm glad my mom did it, and I don't think less of women my age who want to do it, I just couldn't do it or even imagine doing it. Anne had considered having her diary published and wanted to become a journalist. She also laughed at herself, wondering who would ever read the dumb whinings of a teenage girl. In the mid 1940s, Anne started to struggle with the notion of doing things differently. It was expected that a good Jewish girl would marry and have children, but Anne wanted more. Things aren't so different now.

Sixty-plus years later, women are still expected to marry and have children. It's more acceptable to also have a career (or hobby or part-time job or volunteer) but the question of getting married and having children is ever present. Telling a curious asker that you have a husband and child(ren) doesn't require further discussion. Telling a curious asker that you have a cool job prompts questions of who you're dating and if you want to have his kids. Having a job is not an acceptable answer unless you also are at least engaged.

What is it about the older generations that want us to bear our own children and become a family so badly? Why is it not OK to skip that step in life? We are not animals in the sense that we bear young every year in order to ensure the survival of our species, and since it's such a HUGE deal to raise even one kid in this world why is it not acceptable to opt out?

Answer: They sacrificed happiness and freedom for the good of the younger generations and now it's our turn to do the same. People who marry young are, for the most part, viewed as more mature and responsible than those who marry late. We equate marriage with maturity and the later you do it the less responsible and more selfish you are. I suppose it could be said that marriage can force a couple to become more mature and responsible, and that having kids forces people to make decisions for the best of the child rather than what sounds fun, but is that really the path we want most people to take? Force someone, in the midst of learning to handle life, to become something completely different? This will only force people to suppress certain feelings until something happens (like divorce or the kids growing up) to make those feelings resurface. And now we have rampant 40- and 50-somethings back on the dating scene trying to just be happy. Maybe if they'd had the opportunity to do what made them happy in their 20s they'd have made better life decisions and wouldn't need to deal with the sudden resurfacing of emotions not dealt with in decades.

A New York Times article ponders the state of the twenty-somethings. Because we obviously have a problem if we're not graduating, finding a life-long job and partner, marrying and popping out kids ASAP. The article is very long winded and goes into the psychology of 20-somethings (including brain development and cultural expectations) but it also spends a few pages discussing if "emerging adulthood" should be the newest recognized developmental stage in life, which I'm not really interested in. Do we really need to recognize it as a stage? Can't we just settle with a continuous cycle of the older generation criticizing the younger generation for being different?

My mom has been unhappy with her job (and state of being, really) for the better part of a decade. She tried taking classes at community college but couldn't finish a whole semester. Her job offers stability, health insurance and a flexible schedule. She tells me she made sacrifices in order to obtain those things, for the kids, and suggests that maybe it's time I do the same. But why should I? I have no need to make those kinds of sacrifices. Sure, it'd be nice to have health insurance, but I'm young and in good health, so it's not something I'm willing to sacrifice happiness at work for. I'm 24 and living on my own, supporting myself fully, and am not looking forward to marriage or children. This is the time to deal with the issues my parent's generation ignored for the sake of starting a family, and dammit I'm gonna take my sweet ass time.

So, Anne, your thoughts are just as relevant and resonating in women, at least this woman, today as they were in the forties. I'm just glad the privacy of your diary allowed for the kind of frank opinion that is absent in most other books. And, of course, I'm excited to see you live on decades and decades after your death, untimely as it was.

One Week

It's like my life: it makes no sense.

Well that week came out of nowhere.

Last Wednesday my job was to take about 30 foreign students to this western "club" for $2 drinks and line dancing. The place was packed, despite the $8 cover and line dancing. One coworker had been with the students dancing and was going to be taken home early, so he comes over to my van, thinking I'm the one driving him home, starts to push me off my seat and says, "Don't worry, I'll drive." I turn around and he realizes I'm not who he thought I was and starts apologizing like crazy. Then, "Ok, well give me a hug, cause I'm drunk." They leave in the other van and I head to Del Taco to pee. On my way out some foreign looking boys are on their way in, and I can't tell if they're my students or not, so I smile. Turns out they aren't, but I've already smiled and made eye contact so one comes over and ends up kissing my cheek.

Thursday I found out one of the students has blood cancer and might not live more than a couple of months. He just got here, was planning on staying at least a year, and is here with his sister, who he doesn't plan to tell. My response? "Are you messing with me?" But then I realize he isn't even looking me in the eyes. And I feel like an ass. He shows me his leg and his veins are black. Fucking scary. After that I meet up with a friend for sushi and wait outside with Quail Man and Robin. (No joke. Wish I'd gotten a picture.) After that my coworker gets off early and wants me to meet him at one of my favorite bars, which I discover is a 3 minute walk from my apartment. Somehow we end up talking with his friends about AIDS and herpes for like 20 minutes and they leave saying, "Always wear a condom." Good advice.

Porkchop couldn't make it.

Friday afternoon (when I finally wake up) I go for a run. Across the street from my apartment there's a coffee shop and food mart, and on my way back I see a double decker bus sitting outside with a ton of Asians. Some of them were taking Asian glamor shots with their coffees and here I am running by all sweaty and gross. That night, I was rear ended by a taxi while I had students in the van. I pull over and the taxi stays where he is, blocking the lane. There isn't much damage, but my bumper is very bent. The taxi driver looks at it and says, "Oh, that was there before. I didn't do that." Since I was 100% not at fault, as I was stopped at a light, I tell him he's in no position to tell me what damage was and was not there before he hit me. He refuses to give me his information and suggests I call the cops. So I write down his plate number and call. While I'm giving the dispatcher what information I can, another cop drives by and tells the taxi to get out of the middle of the road. He pulls to the side, then comes over and says, "So you want my information or not?" WTF, dude. Finally he gives me his information (no idea why he made me call the cops...) and I can take the students home. Later that night we leave downtown at 130 AM when my boss calls me to come back for people left behind. They aren't even at the pick up place, so I have to go out of my way to get them. Grrr.

Saturday is Pride, but I have to work during the day so I miss the parade. I go to Baja Betty's with my lady while we wait for the boys to show up, but they end up going to another place, so we walk to meet them. And it is a sausage fest! There is only a small handful of chicks at this place, and we're there with straight guys. Obviously I have a great time. We get some drinks, meet some vibrant and fun looking gay guys and dance. My friends are grabbed and hit on, my lady is motorboated and I end up with half my drink on the floor. Then my Scottish friend tells me he wants to take me on a "proper American date." How can I say no to that? (I tell him to ask me when he's not drunk, so I get a text at 3am saying he's not drunk anymore; I've long since passed out.)

Sunday I'm called in early (and by early I mean 1130) and get a little bit of overtime. I was having a great day: the sun was out, I took kids to the beach, I was not hungover, and I felt fancy in a skirt. After work I have dinner with my lady, then go home to shower and wait for shift #2 to start. At 130 AM I'm back on campus waiting for a busload of students to show up. They finally do around 230, and I load 8 Taiwanese students and their luggage into my van to take them to their house families. First one I drop off I can't pronounce the name, so I show it to the girl who thinks it's her house and she says yes, that's her. When the woman answers the door she says she was expecting a boy. Since the girl confirmed that was her name there was nothing I could do and we assumed there was some error that could be figured out in the morning. Then I get to house #3 on my list and realize there's a boy in the very back who says his name is the first name I called. Well fuck. So I knock on the door and am told the students are expected to share a room, so since we can't have a boy and girl sharing a room I tell them there was a mistake and I'll bring them the other girl. So I continue with my drop offs and around 4am get back to the first house, do the switch, and drop off my van at 430. I'm home at 5, so I watch some TV and 45 minutes later get back out of bed.

Monday I'm at my lady's house at 630 AM with breakfast and lunch all packed. I've promised to go in to her class on her last day to see all her autistic preschoolers and help out. She buys me coffee, but I start to slow waaaaaay down at 9 AM. Luckily, they got an hour of swim time and that perked me up for the rest of the day. The kids were cute (except for the screaming ones) and I thoroughly enjoyed watching Miss K sing "I am a pizza" and "We love peanut butter." When the day is done I go home to nap. My alarm goes off at 530 PM and I have no idea what's going on. I don't recognize my alarm, don't understand why the street outside my window is so busy (thinking it's 530 AM), don't know where I am or what I'm supposed to be doing. I have a vague feeling I'm late for work, but don't know where or why... Finally I come to and understand what's going on. And an hour later I'm back on campus. My boss had asked me to extend my shift until 2 AM and I tell him I did not sleep the night before, but if I have to I will. There's some big party in Mission Beach that all the students were supposed to go to, but it turns out no one did. I start thinking I'll be off early. But when we get back to campus there's a group of 20 Italians who were told about a party and want to go, and we have to take them. But when we get to Mission Beach the party is over. We drop them off to go get drunk somewhere else and do the last of our pickups. We finally get out of there around 1 AM and my coworker and I stay on the phone to keep each other awake while we drive, talking mostly about this giant tarantula we saw. One of the best feelings in the whole world is getting into your bed when you're that exhausted. I slept hard.

Tuesday I force myself awake and go for a run. My foot kept bugging me, like I hadn't loosened up enough before running, and when I get back I notice a giant lump between my heel and second ankle. Weird. I'm not doing things to get random cuts and bruises anymore, so I figure it'll go away just like it came. After work I meet with friends for birthday tacos (and have the tamest taco tuesday experience ever while I get made fun of for wearing a dinosaur shirt) then go see "The Girl Who Played With Fire." I'm amazed how well they do these movies- they stay so close to the books and the actors are so real. Plus, I discovered Paolo Roberto is a real boxer, and he plays himself in the movie. Freaking cool. We'd gotten some frozen yogurt from Pink Berry to sneak into the theatre. Turns out it's ridiculously expensive and not even that good. I end up getting chocolate yogurt all over my hands and all over the inside of my purse (phone, book and chapstick included). Hooray. Way to end one hell of a week. But I discovered that my dinosaur shirt glows in the dark, so that's awesome.

Here's to hoping for a tamer and more restful week.

Letter To My Dad

Dear Dad,

Here is the response I'd like to send you, but won't because it won't do any good. So the Internet gets it! Ha. Oh isn't family fun?

Yes you heard me wrong. I did say you should find someone else, someone that would make you even happier because she would be liked by those who love you, and yes, I did call her a "butterface" (which, by the way, you laughed at and agreed to). But, and listen up because this is a BIG but, in no way, shape or form in any language on any planet in the whole universe did I say or intend or imply that you should find someone prettier. On the contrary, dear dad, I said you should find someone who isn't maybe so perfect by society standards, maybe someone with a beautiful face but who physically matches you (what, you think you take such good care of your body that you deserve someone who weighs 90 pounds?). In fact, I said that maybe you're overlooking some wonderful women who would be more welcomed into your family because they had an extra pound or two from kids. But no, you have such high physical standards that personality and compatibility and being liked by your family are a far second, third and fourth. You said if you loved someone enough you'd spend the rest of your life living in complete isolation from the world. You think that's romantic but it's just stupid. But if you want to isolate yourself from your friends, relatives and kids for the sake of the latest "love of your life", then I wish you happiness. Actually that's a lie... I'd sit back and wait for you to realize how silly you are and then smugly say (to myself) "I told you so."

And actually, I did give her a chance. When I first met her and I heard all the good (/indifferent) reviews my sisters gave her, and she tried taking me for a pedicure and seemed very into you, she earned points. And it was cool that she was accepting of my sister needing help and a place with family to stay. But when my sister called me to ask for some help because your girlfriend was making a fast job of running her life (I read "the contract" and am not just taking sides without reason) I had to speak up. And then when your daughters tell you, to your face and in front of me, that you don't listen to them and you respond with, "I'll listen but don't expect anything to change," how can you expect us to see it any differently than you being a lazy, pussy whipped man looking for any way out of responsibility? You're right that I didn't know her very well, except for what my sisters told me, but when they both tell me the same thing, and that thing is something very typical of you, why would I not believe them? Would you believe them if they said I adopted another cat/rat/dog? It's something I've done in the past. They told me your girlfriend was trying to act like their mom and you weren't listening. You said they never approached you with their concerns, but did they and maybe you just didn't listen? So yes, I believed them.

I didn't break your heart, dad. You didn't even listen to me, didn't care enough about my opinion or the opinions of my sisters to listen. It was like you made a ransom note using choice words I did say in order to create something so completely different, and held it up to me as proof. There's no arguing with that, I'm afraid. You will see what you want for as long as you want, and we'll just have to wait it out. You won't believe me, but I'm not resentful that you have a girlfriend. You will believe until the day you die that all us kids want is for you and mom to get back together so we can be one happy family, but it just doesn't work that way (despite what your own parents did). You're projecting your feelings on us- you wish mom didn't leave you, maybe you even regret not trying harder to stop her (or trying at all), and we certainly wish divorce wasn't the ugly beast it was, but all the wishing in the world won't change a thing. What we do resent, however, is the person you become when someone tells you they love you. You lose a part of you, and you certainly lose a big part of us.

You think we just don't want you to be happy, that as long as you're miserable and alone and bored we'll be happy. You know why you think this? Because we're different when you're single, because you're different when you're single. You have time for us. You call me. You take an interest. You tell us you're proud of us. But as soon as someone else comes into you're life you almost seem to forget you have kids; it's like you regret that you have a minor living with you, cramping your style, regret that we don't all live farther away so we only see you for holidays when everyone is happy and smiling. You didn't want kids, you didn't want a divorce, but you didn't stop either one from happening (in fact, I'm pretty sure you took an active role in both acts). Don't blame us for that.

This is not new and uncomfortable for us, I promise. You going from a beer drinking, gluten eating, full-blooded Italian-American man to a gluten-free, nothing-but-Coors, organic yogurt boyfriend is what unnerves us. Remember with Sue you drank martinis and went to nice dinners? Remember with the dog trainer you were going to sign Boo up for obedience classes? Remember with your cousin (or whatever she was) that you wanted family around for Easter? You change so much with each new "woman in your life." That's what's hard for us to keep up with. You should figure out who you are before you decide a woman is "the one." I can't believe I, at 24, am telling my 50-something dad this- you were married for more than 20 years; it's time for a reevaluation. Find someone who suits you as a person, not only someone who has a skinny frame and wants a happy family. On your online dating profile (come on, I know you still have it) un-click the button that says "looks are extremely important to me." You'll probably find women who would not only make you very happy but make us happy too. Wouldn't that be better?

This is not about Cheri, dad. It's about you. Find your backbone. Find out what it means to be a dad. Admit your mistakes, including allowing Cheri to try controlling your daughter's life. We appreciate what she's been through, but quiet support would go miles farther than a fucking contract. And you know it.

So, since this is my response to your e-mail, and you won't read this, I guess we won't have much to talk about for a while. That does make me sad, but you forget I did this already, and you don't even know why. I'll wait for this to blow over, because I'm sure it will sooner or later.

Love,

Lindsay

Relationship Rags

Relationships will always sell magazines (or to put it more modernly, will always get page hits). I can't decide if it's because people don't know how to function in relationships or we crave constant validation that we're not as bad as the horror stories we read about. We compare ourselves in our relationships to other people in their relationships, persistently reevaluating our happiness with another person. Magazines oh-so-helpfully provide us with a monthly list of 679 ways to make him/her happy/satisfied/fall in love/ scream your name from the rooftops of every 7-11 in a 50 mile radius.

Men's magazines are just as bad: Men's Health invented 41 ways to make your woman swoon, which amazingly found a way to throw in the tried and true and ever so cliche flowers when you fuck up. Also, they place "get her to fulfill your sexual fantasies" right next to "I don't like giving my girl oral." The only real difference I see in men's magazines versus women's is the males want tips on getting and keeping a girl who will do sexy things and females want to find (or create) that one perfect man who supports her. What about just know who you're dating and do things he/she prefers? Is common sense dead or just sick?

I want to create a magazine for women that skips all the irrelevant relationship bullcrap. The magazine would support the idea that women, as people, can better themselves and their world. It would probably include important news events, any relevant sex and relationship stories (like how abuse can't be tolerated), and ways women can be more socially/environmentally aware with their dress and make-up and social activities. Of course it would have to include some sort of celebrity gossip (gag) that I would not write but must exist in order to be read...

But who am I kidding... the masses don't read stuff like that. Sigh.