No, thank you.

Time to let you in on a little pet peeve: I hate it when people try to change my mind about something. 

Sure, if I'm being unreasonable, or am not understanding the bigger picture, explain away. Tell my why I'm wrong, or making an incomplete decision. Give me a logical explanation and let's move forward. Happy to be enlightened. Wonderful. 

But when it comes to an ordinary decision, with no right or wrong answer, then just calm down and don't make an argument where there doesn't need to be one. More than anything, this bothers me in the service industry. If I'm being indecisive or have questions, then yes, I most definitely want feedback and help decision making. Else, nope. Don't push your agenda on me.

A case study....

Walk into a bar with friends. Everyone is still perusing the beer menu. Bartender asks what we want. Since no one else is ready, I step up and say, completely clear and confident, "Brand old fashioned, sweet. Thanks." 

Bartender smiles, "Did you want just a regular one or our version?"

I repeat, "Regular. Just a regular brandy old fashioned, sweet. Thanks."

She continues, "Oh well have you ever had ours before? It's really good."

Strained smile, "I'm sure it is. But no thanks. Just a regular one."

Undeterred, "Trust me on this, it's great though...."

Knowing that it's her job to upsell, and that "their version" is probably ten bucks instead of six, I politely say, "Okay, what's in your version that makes it special? Explain it. Sell it to me." This is something I often say to people who are too pushy with their wares: sell it to me. If you're a great salesperson, and your pitch is solid, I'll often buy it just out of respect for the trade. I know that being salesy in a genuine way is tough. I let them do their best. 

My offer in this case though was disingenuous. I knew what I wanted and I didn't care what she had to say, I just was looking for something to punch a hole in. She jumped on it and started explaining. Some local brandy, something fancy about the bitters, and (since their specialty is beer) a raspberry beer of some sort. I cut her off, "Oh yeah, yep, I'm sure people love that. I don't drink beer though, so... That's right out. Just a regular brandy old fashioned, please. Sweet." And I turn to see if the beau had selected his beer. 

Brandy. Sweet. Not asking for your first born.

Bartender laughs, "Well I mean, you won't hardly know it's a beer. It's more like a splash of raspberry liquor in it kind of." My eyebrows disappeared up into my hairline (Elrond style), and my clearly inauthentic smile was plastered on. She continued, "Listen, I'll make it for you, and if you don't like it, I'll make you a different one."

At this point, the friends have selected their beers, and are waiting to order, and I'm so internally pissed about being forced into this decision that all I say is, "Fine." Then, to be polite, I excused myself to the restroom while the others ordered, so I wouldn't literally bore a hole through her head with my rage eyes. In the bathroom, I quietly bitched to my friend. It sounded so irrational that I was mad about something so silly, so I just got over it and we went to go sit.

She brings the drink to our table and says, "Let me know what you think." 

Forcing my smile once more, I say, "I'm sure it's lovely. Thanks." And she proceeds to stand there. Waiting for me to drink it. I stared into the glass, thinking maybe I should just like, spaz out and spill it everywhere/drop it. I looked at the hazy ripple of raspberry beer, discoloring my desired drink, tainting it. I chanted a little mantra of "not my drink" in my mind, and took a sip. "That's fine, thanks." 

Bartender proceeds to tell my friends that they'll have to tell her later what I really think. Ha, ha ha. All the chuckles. 

Hours later, one of my friends says, "So, did you like that drink?" 

My internal response: "I fucking hated it."

My actual response, something like: "It wasn't what I wanted." 

It's a little sad, that for some things my breaking point is so far past the line it should be. I can have infinite patience and never snap. Then, for something little like this, I get all bothered. Really, this was probably just a manifestation of my own worries. Feeling like I don't have control and am not certain how to get what I want out of life. Sometimes, you tell life what you want, and it comes back and says, "Why not this instead?" And you look at what it's offering and it's not your pick. You have to decide if you just accept it, or stand up for yourself. You don't have to be rude. But maybe a firm "no, thank you" will suffice...

Yes. Thank you. I'll have what I ordered.
I am a woman of my own mind, thankyaverymuch.

Cold-blooded killer

After being without a car last week, Friday was a welcome return to independence. It also meant that I didn't have to get up for work at dawn to grab a ride with the beau. While he had to go in for an early shift (hello, 4 am!), I was able to sleep in until a lovely 7 am. Driving myself to and from work is one of those little luxuries that I definitely take for granted.

Cue Friday at 4: a very cold quittin' time. After parking in my spot (a blockish away from our place - thanks, east side!), I stepped out into the bitter lakeside wind, and muttered frozen profanities as I walked to our apartment. All I could think about was how wonderful our sweltering apartment was going to be. Living in what used to be a hotel back in the 20s, we're #blessed with radiator heat. AKA our heat is free... and beyond anyone's control... and we live in the tropics approximately 11 months of the year (or, well, in the winter more desert than jungle). As I stumbled blindly, eyes watering from the icy breeze, my one saving grace was that I would soon nestle up in that blistering heat. The thought  kept me going as I waited for traffic to clear so I could cross towards home.

Entering the lobby, my numb hands wiped the streaky mascara across my cheeks. Opening the mail slot, I found nothing, which meant the beau had beat me home, per usual. I made my way down our hallway (reminiscent of the Shining, minus the twins at the end of the hall - usually), deciding that I would not leave the warmth again until forced out at gunpoint. I dashed around the cat-lady on our floor and rushed away from her attempt to trap me in conversation (she uses the WTFuck-is-this-cat-doing-in-the-hallway-alone as bait). Keys in hand, I unlocked, entered and relocked in one fell swoop, glad I had escaped.

But something was wrong.
It was cold.

I immediately froze (literally and figuratively). Maybe the heat was out, I thought. Not yet removing my shoes, I did a quick assessment... No lights on - the sunlight was all but gone from our windows, so I flipped on entry light. The beau's work shoes were in their usual place - several inches off the shoe mat, in a slowly widening salty puddle, which I made a mental note to clean up. His work bag was at his desk. I tried a tentative "Hey babe, you home?" as I set down my bag. No response.

Not moving in any further, I tried to rationalize. He must be out for a run -- but his running shoes and the spare key he uses were there. Or maybe he'd popped out to the grocery store, or stopped by his mother's -- but his coat and car keys were there. Maybe he'd gone to talk to the building managers about the cold and gotten locked out of the apartment and -- no, our apartment door had been locked, you have to lock it on your way out, it doesn't auto lock. Standing there in my coat, all these things ran through my head in the thirty seconds following my abrupt entry. Where was he and why on earth was our apartment cold? Our apartment was never cold. Something was wrong.

Then, of course, it dawned on me. And I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt....
Someone must have broken in through a window and had murdered my boyfriend.

Years of watching Criminal Minds had prepared me and built up a perfect level of paranoia. Like all the soon-to-be-victims in the show, I wasn't just going to leave the apartment. I needed to investigate. To see the corpse and find a way to fix the window (or grab another sweater). As a precaution, I quickly typed a text explaining that we were both murdered and had it on deck to send to my sister, mom, and a coworker (so people wouldn't just think I was tardy for work come Monday - even in death, I couldn't besmirch my reputation of punctuality) the second somebody assaulted me.* I grabbed our letter opener - because I wasn't feeling creative enough to think of another weapon.

Friday night cut-a-bitch stealth mode

Still in my coat and shoes, I began to flip on light switches as I slowly made my way down the hall calling out "Hey hun, I'm home. You here?!" Looking around, I saw and heard nothing. Not a peep, not a floorboard creak. Nothing but an ever increasing chill running up my spine that I couldn't be sure was from the cold versus the assumption that I was about to be offed by a maniac who probably had some sort of twisted fetish with silver foxes and had quietly been stalking my beau as a victim for weeks...

A slight bang made me turn my attention right, towards our second bedroom. This was the source of the cold, no doubt about it. I could see the curtain blowing about as an arctic gust whipped into the room. My contempt over not being comfortably wearing shorts in my scorching rental already got the best of me, and I rushed at the window. Looking wildly about so I'd at least be aware of an attack, stopping the cold air was my only real concern. Flailing in the curtains, I slammed the window shut and snapped the ancient lock into place. The window hadn't been broken into, but it has no screen on it anyways... and someone could have easily scaled up to it using the iron gating on the window of the floor below....

So I still assumed their was a killer present.

Looking back to the hall, I saw our main bedroom door - closed. It was never closed unless I was in it (to protect me from serial killers and fucking situations like this). So obviously, that's where the body must be. My handsome beau, with some sweaty-toothed madman waiting to get me. I'd made enough noise already so I gave one last shout into the void, "DEAR, are you dead on the street somewhere??!"** No answer. So, I threw open the door (the little bells I have on it jingling hysterically - again a warning system for me while I'm sleeping #becauseparanoid).

A wave of trapped warmth hit me. And there he was. Starfished on the bed, half tangled up in sheets, snoring quietly. I lunged at him, giving him a scolding hug, as I began rambling about how the window was open, how I assumed him dead, how he had to go search the apartment for psychopaths, etc. He sleeply mumbled about how he was napping since he'd had to go into work early. I asked if the window had been open when he had come in or if it's just blown open at some point later. A dreamy smirk and a half-asleep shrug accompanied by a "I guess I thought it was a little chilly" and I was already out of the room with a scoff.

This is how men act like boys sometimes. Paying attention to their surroundings: meh, hit or miss. He walks in, feels a chill, doesn't question it, and just goes about his day. Heads for a nap. I walk in, notice one thing slightly amiss, immediately assume someone is fucking with me or that I'm about to be murdered, grab a weapon, build a backstory, prepare a farewell text, shoot off a flare gun, and become fucking Nancy Drew.

Avoiding paranoia isn't exactly my strong point. But really, isn't it just be me being prepared? Like some sort of jumpy and neurotic boy scout? How badass that I was ready to fend off an attacker. How awesome that I realized the source of the cold and fixed it. Problem, solution. I basically came in out of the cold and was Wonder Woman. As I returned the letter opener to its place, the beau continued his nap. Walking past the kitchen, I set out some cookies - a snack for the murderer that was surely still in the apartment. I wrapped up in a blanket and curled up next to the radiator thinking about how many hours it would take for the entire apartment to reheat. And I flipped on Criminal Minds. Like a good boy scout. Getting prepared for the next time...



*After all, maybe the killer had already left and I wouldn't be killed. In which case, why cause a false panic. OR, maybe they were waiting in the lurch / were the kind to get weird with a dead guy, and I was about to bust into the room shrieking and then would get murdered myself. Either way, I couldn't send that text preemptively -  that's why people go investigate. 
**This is a typical greeting when he comes back late from a run -- "I assumed you dead. Dead on the street somewhere." Because I've always been a bit of a mama bear with a flair for dramatics.

#CompanyIsComing

AKA Weird Shit I Clean / Do to Get Ready When We're Going to Have House Guests*

Tis the season... for guests! Holiday travel means overpriced and overbooked hotels. Which also means holiday crashers.

Given my extreme extrovert tendencies, the more humans in my presence, the better. As an incognito 50s housewife, hosting is my bag. Tag on the fact that we have a second bed/bath in our apartment and live in a city with a viable airport and BOOM, we're a prime candidate for taking on company!

Since we're often a boardinghouse, I've refined my approach to prepping and have expanded my previous routine. I still firmly stand by my list of hostess essentials (snacks, drinks, sheets, towels and TP), but I've added a few other tricks up my sleeve. Sometimes I'll even just do basic tidying plus these, and nothing else - that's how stellar they are!

1. Greenery: Make sure it at least looks like you can keep something alive (gives visitors confidence that can keep them alive, too!). That means putting out flowers and/or making sure all potted plants are alive and watered. Or, sometimes, buying new potted plants that look more alive than the ones you've already let die. (Hide those.) 
2. Floorboards: Seriously. Clean them. You'd be amazed. Instant adulthood level cleanliness. Our little dustbuster hand vacuum with a bristle attachment, I just cruise around with that. If you don't have one, a swiffer works, too! Or, grab an old sock and put it on your hand and just run around - hell of a thigh workout since you're basically squat shuffling. (Vacuum after you do this, so you don't knock dust down onto a clean floor)
3. Focused Cleaning: Instead of losing your mind deep cleaning, think about the places your visitors will be the most. An overnighter: second bathroom, bedroom, living room. A party goer: any bathroom, living room, dining room. A dinner guest: any bathroom, dining room, kitchen. ETC. (Note the common rule: BATHROOM. Everyone will always go there at some point!) Anywhere that's not a main area, just tidy up, and don't freak out about. 
4. WiFi: Make sure you have WiFi deets written down somewhere so people don't have to ask. I cross-stitched ours and framed it in the second bedroom. 
5. Hot Stuff: In our apartment, we have blasting radiator heat that we can't control. Meaning it can be 10 degrees outside and a tropical heatwave inside. Warning guests in advance allows them to dress appropriately. Then they're more comfortable and you magically seem like a better host because they're happy. If you live in a cold, drafty space, either warn in advance, or have extra slippers and blankets at the ready.
6. Get Lit: Light up one candle per room, a half hour before arrival. Keep the scents generic, like good old "fresh linen" (some folks hate candles that smell like food, like my beau, so you don't want to put anyone off - though in the kitchen that works). Blow them out before you go lead the welcoming committee - that way, when they enter they don't see 800 candles lit and think you were desperate to cover up something nasty. I usually leave the living room candle still burning, just in case they call me out on the candle smell.
7. Stock Up: Yes, "drinks" was always on my list, but now we have both a bar cart and a beer fridge that need stocking. If the cart / fridge are stocked, no one feels like they're imposing / being that asshole who's taking your last beer. A pile of snacks is always a win as well.



The twist is: vodka!

8. Spare key: If you can provide one, do. Especially if they're staying for more than a night. Because we've all been that person who forgot something in the car and has to awkwardly ask how to get back in the building (#apartmentliving).
9. Spot Check: Magic Eraser sponges, the white ones that wear away as you use them, are actual magic. After I hit both toilets with bowl cleaner, I spend the 15 minute "wait time" running around spot checking with that soapy magic sponge in one hand and a dry rag in the other. I systematically stalk** my way around the walls of the apartment, stopping at every light switch, door and corner. It takes only 15 minutes to do this rapid spot check. A swipe with the sponge, dry towel it off, move along.
   At lights: wipe the switch, plate, and any smudges around the plate - also make sure switches and bulbs work fine. At doors, on both sides: wipe down the knob, any hand smudges above or below the knob (you know, where you put your hand to push/pull a door instead of using the knob), and also any "kick board" smudges (aka the bottom of the door where your foot might hit it). At corners: jutting corner walls are surprisingly easy to smudge and nick up, so wipe that shit down!
10. Expiration: Clean out anything in your fridge that's overdue for tossing, so someone doesn't accidentally find themself drinking chunky milk. 
11. Big Fan: If you have any fans, dust the damn blades. Else, any cleaning you did is automatically null and void as someone flips that fan on and it starts shooting dust around. As someone with allergies, if I see gross looking fan blades, I'd rather sweat to death than turn it on.
    For ceiling fans: take an old pillow case, put it around the blade and pull the dust off - it'll fall in the pillow case instead of all over your stuff then! Other fans: unscrew the blade and take it with you the next time you shower (aka detach and hose down). 
12. First impression: Make sure whatever your entryway is, it's clean. And guests know just where to put shoes/hang coats, so it doesn't become a cluttered tripping nightmare. 
13. Dishware: Leave some out or make it obvious where dishes are. I added a mug rack to our counter by our coffee maker. So, at the very least, people know just where to get a cup for their morning brew / water in the night. 
14. Spruce: Fluff up at least one element in each room to make it looks like your space is slightly more badass than it is normally. Bathroom: new funky shower curtain. Bedroom: more pillows and throw blankets. Living room: put out a good coffee table book. Kitchen: squirrel away anything cluttering counters. 
15. Outlet: Have extension cords handy / outlets exposed - someone will always need to charge something!

An equally important outlet... is one for you as a host. Even with visitors, you need a place / time to get away. Whenever we lodge out-of-towners, I keep our bedroom door shut (normally it's open - except when sleeping #becauseserialkillers). This also shuts off our bathroom, making it clear that guests have their sleeping space and their bathroom, and we have ours. If I need to go hide for a minute, there's a closed door to go throw myself behind.

Having guests is supposed to be fun: there's no point in driving yourself crazy. Sometimes (even if you're a hostess with the mostest), you still need just a minute between crazy ramp-up cleaning mode, being chairman of the welcoming committee, playing chauffeur, being tour-guide extraordinaire, and running a bed & breakfast for family and friends out of your apartment. So hang in their, friends, and get that Treat Yo'Self spa day in now, because company is coming!

Just for good measure, I also usually spray paint
something gold. Totes profesh decorator, right here.

* The internet has mixed feelings about spelling it as "houseguests" vs "house guests." To me, no space looks correct, and the word "guests" along looks completely insane the more times I stare at that string of letters. Literally, it's a freak word with too many vowels and S's. </rant>
** Instead of the classic fave "the floor is made of lava," it's the new age fave "I'm stuck to the walls" - sure to be a big hit with the youths!

#LivingInSin

It's official: Year One of #LivingInSin is on the books!

Going into this, as you know, I was a bit apprehensive. And I had a freak-out (aka total meltdown) about all my stuff, as I attempted to squeeze my life into a shared space. BUT, I was also stupid excited about living with the beau.

Pre-move, in my glass case of emotion.

So... how did it go? We've officially been through four seasons, haven't murdered each other, and still cohabitate. So, something is going right. But was it as expected? Looking back at my original thoughts, pre-move (aka the posts linked above), was it par for the course?

Just as I thought

• While cohabitating, I still refuse to pee with the door open and walk around naked. Because I'm a g'damn lady and I am not comfortable flaunting my flub with anyone, no matter how much rent money they pay.
• Sadly, I was right. I don't dance as often. Making mental note to amend this. 
• I miss a good old fashioned full-bed, starfish sprawl. Luckily, the beau leaves for work an hour before I do, so for that last glorious time after he leaves, that bed is allll mine. All the blankets. I get to have them all perfectly arranged and stationary. 
• The access to Netflix, Hulu, HBO Go, etc. is pretty sweet. I watch way more TV than I used to. And all the choices stress me the heck out. 
• The beau balances me. Sure, I don't get to dwell in my anxiety and slip-slide around my doubt spirals all alone and unsupervised anymore, like I did when living alone, but that's probably a good thing. My freak-outs don't go unchecked. He checks me. It's comforting.
• I talk on the phone way less. Kind of a bummer. I try to save my chit-chat for when I'm in transit, or out for a walk, etc. so I'm not creeping around our apartment whisper-gossiping. Not that he'd be dropping any eaves anyways, but I feel like in a confined space it's hard not to overhear. 
• Hosting is more epic. Co-hosting and being able to split prep is fantastic. 

Didn't see that coming... 

• I still eat like a ten year old and have no qualms with being judged. I worried that my days of laying on the couch with a full pot of mac were going to be guilted away, but never fear, I've held strong in resolve to dump trashy food into my maw when I'm having a bad day. And the beau bakes. Which just adds to it. 
• Speaking of eating, yeah, I kind of thought we'd end up being one of those cute Insta-couples who meal preps every Sunday and grocery shops together. But honestly, we're busy. We don't often coordinate that much in advance. When we grocery shop, we both get what we want, and for the meals we want together, we each grab some of the stuff for it. It's not a total roommate situation where if I eat one of his apples he leaves a passive-aggressive note. (But if he eats one of my yogurts, he knows I'll panic. Yogurts are different, because I only bought four even though I need five to have breakfast every day at work, and if that goes down to three then I'm a starving angry bear for half the week).
• Oldies music still bumps out on a regular basis, just less so from my glow-dial radio and moreso from Alexa (that demon she-bot who moved in with us).
• I thought I'd be more assertive about taking me-time, but I honestly suck at it. My "me-time" is usually going to grab happy hour or a movie with the gals. (Lady time has not been dampened by living with the beau - huzzah!) On the occasions when I get the apartment to myself, I usually just hulk out cleaning / doing laundry and then frantically text everyone to spend time with me. It's actually not a great thing, because it comes with the occasional spaz out over needing alone time, even though I don't take advantage of it when I get it. Need to find some chill. 
• Paranoia. It's virtually gone (KNOCK ON WOOD). As someone who used to occasionally have a paranoia attack and lock herself in the bathroom with a kitchen knife and end up sleeping in the tub, this calmness is refreshing. I'm still 99% sure that someone is fucking with me though when things wind up in weird places or randomly moved. But that's just, some sort of karma probably.

With living together, I've loved our location, our creepy old apartment, our proximity to cool shit and friends, my commute, and above all, my time with the man who agreed to dwell - he's swell. The main thing I haven't loved: myself. After so many years of living alone, all my very worst traits crept back out to play as soon as they had a roomie present to put on a show for:

• My OCD over stupid things: Like, how there IS a RIGHT way to hang your wet towel on the bar so it dries quicker and doesn't get moldy. Or how to load a dishwasher so you can fit the most things, so you save water and energy and little dishwasher tablet thingies. I really try to not sweat the small stuff, but sometimes I just sweat it out. It makes me seem like a g'dman nag. NO one wants to be a nag.
• My hangry attitude: Seriously. When I'm hungry, I'm just an awful person. Living together and seeing each other all the time vastly increased the likelihood of the beau seeing me famished. To his peril.
• The exposure of my post-work-day angst: Living alone, I had time to come home, fume a bit and blow of steam so I could be all smiles by the time I interacted with other humans. Now, on stressful workdays, I have a 5 minute commute home before I'm stomping in on the man I love, with fire in eyes and rage in my voice. He gets hit with the brunt of it unless I awkwardly run away and hide while I decompress. (Usually I go to the bathroom and putz around in there. He probably thinks I have awful digestive issues...)
• Social anxiety: You'd think that always being around another person, I'd have my fill of socialization. But honestly, I get worried about being one of those people who only ever spends time with their significant other. We all have a friend like that. You know... what's her name. She started dating that one guy and was never seen again. I can't. That scares me. 

I don't want to point out every little baddie, or pretend that everything is always shiny when living with someone else. It's just not realistic. I have been so so lucky though that I get to live with someone who makes me smile and laugh. Who lets me paint radiators or closets at a whim. Who kills centipedes (if I can't get to them first). Who loves me even when I'm wearing that ratty old pair of PJ shorts from college (how did they survive the moving purge??). Who knows my Erbs and Gerbs order and preemptively orders it as he sees me having a rough day (because that Quatro always makes things better). So yeah, overall, I'm thrilled that #LivingInSin year two is going to be a thing. Cheers to another year!

What if we don't want to yield? #CantStopWontStop

1958 is calling. Don't answer.

Yesterday (Saturday, January 21, 2017) was a beautiful day. Millions of peoples, across hundreds of cities, took to the streets for a Women's March. The signs, the chants, the costumery, the speakers, the goodwill and kindness... The anger was palpable and absolutely stunning. A great giantess has been awoken, and she is not going back to sleep.

Today, my cheeks hurt from smiling. My upper body and side-boob muscles hurt from Norma Rae-ing my sign around the capitol.* And my heart hurts from the realization that this type of rally is still so very necessary.

Hey baby, what's your sign?

What's that? ...Tired of hearing about the Women's March already? Did you hop on social media yesterday and feel bombarded? Already fatigued from the messages of protest? Burned-out on people and their causes? Irritated by some of the hokier demonstrations?

Well, if so, here is a list of things (in no particular order) that I'm sick and tired of as a women. Issues that still impact my sisters around the globe and get the gals riled.

1. The continuing gender wage gap - which, given how often salary increases are tied to current earnings, will continue to screw over current generations. BUT it's a tide we can turn, to give the future generation a fighting financial chance. 
2. Lack of representation for women in: political offices, the justice system (holla to RBG), upper academic positions (female college presidents?), corporate boards, high-tech fields, STEM occupations, etc.**
3. Violence against women. Domestic abuse, sexual assault, an acceptance of rape culture, et al. No one should live in fear of harm. The human body is a majestic organism that should be respected. 
4. The continual prodding at reproductive rights 
• Insufficient and inconsistent education about sex, contraceptives, birth control methods, etc. being given in school systems. Knowledge is power.
• No mandate for maternity leave (and a lack of support for paternity leave, too!) in the United States, let alone paid leave. If having time to meet your newborn is a concern of yours, ladies, you'd be better off having a baby in almost any other developed country than this one. And don't get me started about how being absent from the workplace for a pregnancy (you know, to bring a LIFE into this world, like a g'damn miracle) can impact promotions, raises, career advancements, and job security in general. And if there are after-birth complications or struggles with postpartum, well, good luck (the healthcare system and your company will likely let you down on those ones)! 
• Speaking of reproductive healthcare, oh boy, raise the inconsistency flag again! A mammogram, a pap, proper care during (and after) a pregnancy - for many women, these don't come cheap. Depending on your insurance coverage, even basic physicals may not be covered. 
• Free birth control (thanks, Obama) being threatened - if men could get pregnant, they'd have birth control in frickin' gumball machines. For everyone in a tizzy about abortions, making the Pill less obtainable isn't going to help. 
• The constant efforts to chip away at Roe vs. Wade. Accessibility to abortion shouldn't depend on where you live, and women shouldn't have to resort to less safe methods due to expense or a lack of clinics. 
• Go ahead, ask me about my ticking clock and I'll tell you how it's none of your damn business.
5. Holy shit, the cost of child care. Affordable and competent child care would make such a difference financially for families. Expensive child care is just one more way to try and force women back into the home, and it's malarkey. 
6. Double standards. Promiscuous women are 'sluts,' but boys are just being boys. In the workplace a man speaking his mind is 'assertive' and displays 'leadership skills,' but a woman is a 'bitch' or 'bossy.' Men can go running topless, but lord forbid a single flash of nipple show while a woman is breastfeeding. Also, let's not even get into the topic of body hair (remember how the bearded lady was literally a circus freak?? #neverforget) Rage rage rage.
7. Human trafficking and the sex slave industry. We're human beings, not property - Need I say more?*** 
8. General equality issues. I mean, thanks so much for allowing us to vote, but equality goes beyond the polls. Every belittling moment where a women's opinion gets pushed aside or she is referred to as being "just a little girl." Every cat call or assumption of "services" based on the proffering of a cocktail out at a bar. Every time a person is seen as less qualified or less worthy somehow due to their gender. We're all humans, let's start treating each other with some dignity already.  

All this and so much more, it's #WhyIMarch. So next time you're "over" the whole "protest thing," try helping us fix some of the issues we're trying to shine a spotlight on. Help us make our point. One voice is a whisper, many voices is a roar. We need all the voices we can muster to help improve things for future generations, just as the feminists before us helped affect the changes that we now reap the benefits of. They left the kitchen and started paving the way. We have to pick up the cause and keep building that path.

We can't go back.

The future is female.

*Seriously, John Cusack must've had huge side-boob muscles from toting around that boom box!
**In my high school "learn about jobs and being an adult" class (which was only a quarter long and clearly not sufficient enough), I will never forget my teacher telling us that the one thing she hoped for, above all, is that one of us would become a female firefighter. Because there weren't enough firewomen in the world. Next class reunion, I'll hold that failure over the heads of all the ladies. We let her down. 
***To quote one of the many amazing signs from the Women's March: "I'm a mind and a soul, not just flesh and a hole." 
**** HUGE note: yes, I know my privilege is showing. As an educated, white, middle-class woman, I know I have things pretty good. But just because things are "good" for me doesn't mean they're "good" for everyone and it's a slippery slope back down to being barefoot in the kitchen. United we stand, no matter our differences. We have to be the voice for the voiceless.

Accidental Cardio

Something has been amiss this week. Maybe it's those post-wedding blues. Or the return of fall, which means that winter is just around the bend. Or maybe it's just fluxes in hormones and weather. (Or maybe I just got bit on the bum by a bitch bug.) Whatever it is, this girl needed to jostle something back into place.

Best place to start: tackling the walrus and getting back to some sort of physical activity (other than bustin' out sick dance moves at various wedding receptions).

So, gave it a go. Jumped back into my go-to TIU workout. Rearranged our second bedroom so all the mirrors were just perfect for me to openly judge myself so I'd work extra hard. Locked the beau out and went to town for a time. Decent workout, clearly out of shape, but did pretty swell for still dealing with my bum knee (#CuzIm90).

Post workout, bopped over to the bathroom to rinse off. Decided to bump some jams. I haven't gotten in good shower jams in far too long, so spent a few minutes deciding on music. Tried to reflect on the source of my funk (my weird week funk, not like, my groovin' dance funk) and decided on a throwback. Went way back and tried to think what my favorite inspirational tunes had been back in middle school, during a much simpler time. Came up with the quintessential song: Under Pressure by Queen and Bowie. Freddie and Bowie, my straight up favorites. That was just the ticket!

Putzed with my phone to get the song going. Set it on the sink and hopped in the shower. After the infamous opening beats, as the stellar vocals chimed in, I realized the volume was way too high. Moved the shower head aside, shook some water off. Quickly scrambled out of the tub and turned it down. All set. Back in shower. Hot water, cool shampoo, hitting all the right notes.

Hardly a minute in, the song stops. Hands in hair, mid shampoo, my eyes popped open, filled with rage. Shampoo in said eyes. A cranky sigh, a half-assed rinse, and I was out of the tub again, this time caring less about dripping, as my frustration built. Can't a lady just get her groove back and shower and Bowie in peace without all these interruptions??

Realized it was a WIFI issue, so spent several minutes awkwardly pacing naked, with my phone above my head as the water flung off my waving arms and I tried to regain signal. Finally, restored. Set phone down and turned back to shower, singing all the "de da day"s leading up to Bowie's epic line.

Opened curtain, got in.
"It's the terror of knowing what this world is about..." 
Realized I wasn't alone.
"...Watching some good friends screaming..."
There was also a GIANT centipede that was half crawled out of that little "overflow" thing above the drain and below the spout. It was halfway out and was already two inches long. Panic set in.
"...'LET ME OUT!'"

"These are the days it never rains, but it pours."

With zero regard for water spillage, completely ripped the shower curtain out of my way in order to find something to smash the creature with.
"Turned away from it all, like a blind man..."
Total flood, water everywhere. Thrashed about. Grabbed toilet paper, but it just like melted (as TP is wont to do when it gets wet), so that was no good.
"...Sat on a fence, but it don't work." 
Decided to sacrifice the pink polka dot hand towel from the dollar store. Turned back to the shower to destroy the pede.
"Keep coming up with love, but it's so slashed and torn. Why, oh why?"
Dramatically threw back curtain. Further flooding.
"Whyyyyyyyy?"

And it was no where. It had escaped / gone back to the fiery depths from whence it came. I set the towel on the tub ledge and got back in to just finish my shower, my heart racing. Closed the curtain... and that's where it was.
"Insanity laughs, under pressure we're breaking..." 
A silent, open-mouthed shriek of horror, and I began batting at the curtain. The pede scuttled frantically down to the tub, away from the flailing plastic. Water flying everywhere. More scuttling, more waving about. Total chaos.
"Can't we give ourselves one more chance?? Why can't we give love, that one more chance? Why can't we give love, give love, give love...."
STOMP. Instinct took over and I literally took my bare foot and smashed the pede against the tub.

Then I had a nervous breakdown. Filled with regret over my reflex, I attempted to scrub off all my skin with that damn pink polka dot towel which had failed me. At no point though did I regret the song choice. And that's what really maters.

Sorry, towel, I have to go light you on fire now.
(Note: blur is from my literal throwing in of said towel)

Everything AND the Kitchen Sink

Hi, my name is Gina and I'm a recovering pack rat... Why get into this now? Three reasons:

1. I saw that insane Pack Rat "puppet" / thing of nightmares at B&N the other day again. It makes me laugh hysterically while secretly fearing that some day I'll find it hovering over me in my sleep.
2. Because I finally Googled "packrat" and it's a REAL rodent. And it's adorable. So, you know... in my defense.
3. Vacation is coming. 

Mostly the last point is the struggle. Despite having gotten progressively better about not hoarding objects (including food) - thanks to several interventions and relocations - when it comes time to face the suitcase, my pack rat anxiety ramps up. Yes, I'll only be gone for a few days, but what if I NEED something? Maybe I'll finally wear that poncho that I've never worn ever, because it's vacation. Better bring it, just in case. And all those shoes. Because they don't sell shoes anywhere else in the world, so if I needed a pair that I didn't bring with, I'd have to go barefoot. Like Pocahontas. And we all know what happened to her. She didn't end up with Mel Gibson and then she died. All because she didn't pack those heels. 

I always wear bright socks in airports (in case anyone ever needs to ID my body).
And, I pack a plushie Canadian moose named Maximus when travelling alone.
But that's a story for another day.

The funny thing is: I'm great at packing. I could pack the Smithsonian into a shoe box. Dozens of outfits, shoes, miscellaneous crap, snacks, all the vitals and then throw in the kitchen sink. Because I've still got room in my suitcase. ((Note: the credit for learning this skill goes straight to my momma - you should see the woman pack a car, it's a thing of beauty. I'll never need to hire movers, because she'll make it fit somehow! #OneTrip))

It's not how to pack it, it's more like... Why? Why feel the need to pack half of my belongings into a bag that will potentially get lost en route (or picked up by that old lady at baggage claim who mistakenly thought your red suitcase was her black one)? It's totally unnecessary. And I have, in plenty of cases, packed extremely light (read: a week around Italy during college with just a backpack and a bag of cookies), meaning it IS possible. So, what is it that triggers my hoarding nature occasionally when attempting to pack? I figured out some possibilities:

• The idea of my stuff shuffling around inside my suitcase during the baggage handling process bugs me. If the suitcase is jammed full, then everything stays nicely nestled in its appropriate place. It has no room to move unless the hull is breached.
• I really hate wasting money. If I didn't pack something, and had to go buy it, I'd kick myself. Plus, I'd then have duplicate items, which really just comes full circle into the pack ratting thing. 
• For vacation wardrobe, the more outfits, the more photos you can be featured in. I know all the damn tricks for mixing / matching, but when I look back later I just see that exact same shirt. Now with a scarf, with a jacket, with a sombrero... Doesn't matter; it's the same frickin' shirt. And it's probably smelly because you wore it the whole trip. I'm not fooling myself or anyone else. I'm judging me.
• It's kind of a puzzle. I love puzzles. How to fit ones entire closet into a suitcase? What a most excellent game. 

I hate that shirt, better pack it. And the hangers, too.
Just to make it more of a challenge.

• If I buy a souvenir and don't have room to bring it back, I'll toss something else out. Anything packed is subject to discard. This was the strategy I employed returning from study abroad. All bags, filled to the brim. Arrived at the airport, found a scale. Weighed, discarded items, weighed, tossed, etc. til I hit weight. The garbage became home to almost all my socks/panties, empty notebook pages, plain shirts, tights, various flats, etc. Anything that could be easily replaced was chucked. This seems to contradict point two above, BUT odds are I'll be too lazy to replace anything tossed so #streamlining.
• I like my stuff. That's part of the pack rat nature. I want my things at my disposal, including while travelling.
• There are so many items with multiple purposes and my suitcase wants them all. A pillowcase used to be my secret weapon for hostel hopping. It's a grocery bag, a towel, a beach blanket, a headscarf, and...a pillowcase. 
• What if something goes awry? When we end up on that desert island, and I'm the only one who has a sewing kit and full pharmacy, y'all will be glad I packed all that crap! And I'll become the most powerful person on the island after the bartering system goes into effect. While everyone else is Lord of the Flying, I'll be doing a wardrobe change every five minutes.

At no point in time have I really regretted over-packing. But I have regretted under-packing. So for now, this pack rat will continue to attempt to streamline at home, but maybe not so much for travel. Will work through my over-packing insecurities in due time. Meanwhile, my kitchen sink and I will send you a postcard from the beaches of Key West! 

Anyone else have problems deciding what to pack? Do you get a little bit judgey when you see you've packed six pairs of socks for a weekend trip, too?

Poo-tee-weet?

So, I accidentally electrocuted a bird last summer. 

But not on purpose, I assure you.

Last summer I came home from work, and walking up my steps to my front door I saw something hanging down from my over-door light. A slight believer in bad omens, I shrieked and jumped back. There was definitely something dangling there, and I was almost certain it was a bat. But a bat hanging around in broad daylight?? Probably had rabies, or was actually a vampire or something. CLEARLY couldn't be trusted, whatever it was.

After shaking my keys at it (and then frantically moving to protect my face) and yelling and trying to get it to move, it was still there. So I took out my trusty camera (yes, no smart phone here) and took a photo of it. Then made the mad dash inside (yelling profanities all the way) and sent the pic out to the Internets to tell me what it was. Several suggestions arose. Probably a bat. Maybe a vampire. Couldn't be trusted, whatever it was. A vampire bat in broad daylight like that. AKA No one knew.

Returned downstairs to the peephole and tried to see. That was no good, the light was directly above and the peephole has the peripheral vision of my grandma. So I creaked open the door and dared to pop my head out and check. And there it was… it was a frickin' bird. A stone-cold, dead hanging bird.

The bird and its bird family had moved in several weeks prior and built itself a big old nest up inside my over-door light. It had been a welcomed change from when the birds would nest and mate on top of my in-window A/C unit in my bedroom. They got far too rowdy far too early for my liking when they were there. The over-door was much less noisy. Of course, I was always scared to leave that light on, lest I fry up their eggs, so I often had to key my way in in the dark if it was late. And they also liked to leave twigs and bird shit all over my stoop. But overall I had no qualms.

The nest. Before the incident.

Until the little bastard decided to die above my threshold. That was just plain rude. And I couldn't just LEAVE it dangling there. It would start to get weird and decayed, and no one would ever want to come visit me. So I knew it needed to go.

Called pest control. Explained that I had a dead, probably rabid, bird hanging and needed it removed. “Is it on private property?… then we can’t help you.” Fine.

Called the DNR. Explained the festering, probably diseased bird that was going to plague all the other animals and asked if they could come remove it. But apparently I didn't live in the right county to merit them coming.

Several other calls to every other wildlife agency I could find online and excuse after excuse until finally, exasperated, I blurted out to one of them, “WHO am I supposed to call then? I JUST WANT SOMEONE TO COME HELP ME WITH MY DEAD BIRD!” Their suggestion: call the police. Flustered, I told the lady there was no way I was going to call the POLICE about a dead frickin' bird. That was ridiculous.

Several hours later, I called the police.

They couldn't help me either but the nice officer I had on the line gave me what he surely thought were very detailed instructions on how to get rid of the bird myself. Pretty standard: knock it down, pick it up with rubber gloves and double bag that badboy before you throw it away. Now, I’m from “up north,” so nothing about this was too alarming to me. It was more that I had expected that, now that I live IN a CITY, there was someone who took care of this sort of thing. Someone other than me.

So I donned my rubber gloves and sunglasses, grabbed a broom and two garbage bags, and headed outside. After a deep breath, I raised up the broom and nudged at the bird to make it drop down. Nothing. It didn't fall. I poked at it a little harder, kind of swept at it like you would a cobweb in a corner. Nada. Didn't move. Just swayed a bit. The bird was stuck. The foot from which it was dangling was somehow twisted up in the janky wiring system around the light which had been its demise. It wasn't going to budge. It quickly became clear that this was about to be a showdown between me and my dead bird. The winner kept the house.

Panic stricken, I more or less just started wailing and swinging at it like some sort of pinata. It was mortifying. And I’m terribly sorry to say that it took SEVERAL minutes of this madness (note: I live on a main thoroughfare, so I can’t imagine what the passersby were thinking as they witnessed this) before my poor dead bird came loose. With an AWFUL thud/crunch, it hit the ground right at my feet. Babbling nonsense and completely hysterical at this point, I quickly double bagged him and tossed him in the trash. It was horrid. Scarring at best.

Shortly thereafter, I had my landlady clear out the nest and told her we needed to block off that light so it wasn't such an appealing nest basket. I didn't explain my ordeal, and she seemed to think it’d be fine. Needless to say, this spring another family of birds moved in. I pleaded with them. Asked why they didn't understand that they had just moved into a death trap. Didn't they remember their fallen comrade from last summer?? Were they really willing to risk orphaning their baby birds by surrounding a hot bulb with flammable twigs?

Why did you come back, birds? WHY? Save yourselves and go!
(And "Is that really what my hair looks like from the back?")

But they’re just birds. They didn't get my point and just built their nest anyway. They dive bomb me as I get my mail and they shit on my stoop. And some day, another one of those birds is going to meet its maker, and this time they can’t say I didn't warn them...