I’m on my way to Phoenix, AZ and splurged on the $8 in-flight wifi. So here I am, posting an update from the sky.
Even better, Southwest has a nice little progress bar at the top of the browser that tells you how much time is left in your flight and the current temperature in Phoenix - which is 73 - and it’s almost 10pm.
I can’t wait to meet my friend Danielle’s adorable son Mason for the first time, and reunite with my college roommates for a couple of days, The sunshine and temperatures being in the high 80s are just a bonus.
Old friends, cute babies, nice weather, and vacations are all very good for the soul - so I think I can prematurely count this as one of the best Valentines Day weekends I’ve had in years.
Love to all.
Vegan chicks: vegan cupcakes with vegan almond buttercream frosting rolled in toasted coconut with almond beaks and feet - and chocolate chip eyes #birthdaytreat #adorablebakedgoods
Gluten free Prosciutto, spinach, kale, and mushroom lasagna rollups - only 400 calories - and very delicious! #healthy2014 #yum
A spot in front of the fireplace, a new bone & a bad ass skull and crossbones sweater later, Gus is ready for the arctic blast. #bulldog #bulldogsofinstagram
At my new office, we have the NFL Network on all day. In the past week or so, between playoff talk and analyst commentary, I’ve seen and/or heard the new celebrity-stuffed “No More” PSA no less than 30 times.
Over, and over, and over again I’ve listened to celebrities tell me that there’s a serious need to increase public discussions about rape and sexual assault.
My colleagues and I joked about the frequency of the ad - because let’s face it, the mention of rape every 10 minutes can be a bit uncomfortable.
The thing is, though - those celebrities are right. There is a serious need. Sure, no one likes talking about rape - but we really should. We have to. The fact that it’s a taboo, shameful thing that people don’t talk about is undoubtedly one of the reasons that every two minutes, another American is sexually assaulted - and yet 97% of rapists never spend a day in jail. Rapists think they can get away with it because they can - and they do - everyday. We let them. I let him.
Maybe if that commercial had been so inescapable after I’d been brutally raped 9 years, 10 months, and 8 days ago, I would have spoken up. I may have pursued legal action. The “how many other girls has he done this to now?” question might not haunt me to this day.
Who knows, maybe I’d be a less messed up married woman with kids by now.
You see, (please pardon my language) being violently raped really fucked me up.
To be honest, I no longer blame the guy who did it. I blame myself for not dealing with it better. For not talking about it. For only telling the people who absolutely needed to know. For shutting down and refusing to talk about it whenever they tried to help. For not giving counseling a more honest try. I regret a lot of things - but the thing I regret most is not talking about how being forced into violent sex against my will changed me and affected my life.
I was an incredibly naive 19 year old college sophomore when it happened. Now, at 29, I feel like I’ve finally made some headway working through it. There is absolutely no question that talking about it has been a huge part of that. Better late than never, right?
For a long time, I thought that the best way to cope was to move on and forget that it ever happened. As if I could.
When things surfaced, I didn’t talk about them - I just told myself that I was fine and I needed to get past it. I was lying. I wasn’t fine and there was no way I could get past it if I never accepted it and dealt with it head on.
Just like anything, dealing with it involves sorting through feelings and talking about it.
After almost ten years of relative silence, I’m shocking myself by writing this blog post and putting it out there for everyone to see, and know.
After avoiding saying anything for so long I’m begging you, “please - let’s talk about rape - let’s talk about it until everyone knows that it’s wrong and that it’s ok to talk about it - and if you rape someone, chances are are they’re going to speak up”
I realize that no one wants to be the “girl who was raped” (myself included) but the truth is, in a society where more than 60% of rapes go unreported, think of what a deterrent just talking about it could be.
Furthermore, I hope you’ll talk about rape because I know firsthand how badly not talking about it can mess someone up.
Best purchase I’ve made in quite some time. #homealone #christmas #movienight #keepthechangeyafilthyanimal
(SOURCE) Adjectives — descriptive words that modify nouns — often come under fire for their cluttering quality, but often it’s quality, not quantity, that is the issue. Plenty of tired adjectives are available to spoil a good sentence, but when you find just the right word...
I tried the app “What Would I Say" yesterday. It scans your Facebook and automatically generates statuses that sound like you, derived from your post history.
The results made me realize a couple of things.
1. Bots are smart
2. I am predictable
3. I talk about beer/drinking a lot
4. You are what you post about
A while back I posted Date a Girl Who Reads - because I loved it.
I still love it - but I honestly think I might like this tongue in cheek response I found on Thought Catalog today better. Check it out.
Marry a man who doesn’t read literature. Or paint works of art or make music. Marry this man for he is as safe as his spoon fed television with predicable plots, canned laughter and happy endings.
Meet the man who doesn’t read literature at a trendy happy hour where you toss your hair like you’re flirting and he buys you a “Sauv Blanc.” Size up his income by the watch on his left hand and decide he’s the one.
Go home with this man to his place but ignore the scantily clad bookshelf that contains titles about successful habits and good to greatness and how to use chopsticks for these, not a haiku collection, mark success. Have sex on his black leather sofa and claim you are girl that never does these things and he must be special.
Let him take you to dinners at fashionable places where you order the salad with pine nuts for protein and fat free dressing on the side. Listen to his dream plan of corporate ladders, season tickets to the niners, and how he hopes to settle down and buy a place in the suburbs and take care of you while you pop out children with his DNA.
When you tastily lick your Cabernet glass clean, suppress the urge to deplete the bottle, coat your throat with meaty red and dive into artistic drunkenness. Stop. Let him pour you water. With him, you’ll stay proudly sober and never spill wine and spew run on sentences with emotional frenzy. Learn to put your fork down after your salad and not beg for dessert so he knows you’re restrained and will stay slim forever.
Stop using over-complicated words, Sartre quotes and hedonistic references to “The Playa”. Get you teeth professionally whitened to hide signs of midnight cigarettes and after-hours espresso and take up grown up things like Pilates and lunching.
Let him propose with a perfectly formulated solitaire that weighs down your left hand with a permanent ache. On cue he says “it’s not a blood diamond” from a African country you’ll never visit and you smile and cry as if this were your biggest life aspiration.
Get married in a church with bridesmaids in dresses that match your flower arrangements and walk down the aisle in perfect beat to Here Comes the Bride and suppress all desires to jump on the back of someone’s motorcycle and escape to Mexico to let your hair stream wild in the wind.
Buy a house together that has bedrooms for your future children and is near a specialty grocery store with organic deli meats. Let moderation beget moderation and settle into a predicable pattern than makes your parents finally stop worrying. Rent out your one bedroom condo where you thought you’d once die alone with 12 cats and three hundred books. He has saved you.
And days turn into months and months turn into years and eventually he’ll get sick with a preventable disease and you’ll wheel him in his chair and feed him mush and wonder what would have happened if you choose the man with the cheap watch and Velcro wallet.
Don’t Fall in Love with a Creative.
Don’t even give him a second glance. For if you succumb, you’ll never be safe.
Instead you will ride the waves of passion and despair, never knowing when each will end. You’ll become an addict to drama and a skeptic of the conventional, unclear how your chaotic patterns could ever formulate a linear life progression known as the American Dream…even though sometimes you secretly covet it if only for a chance to breathe normally.
Don’t fall in love with a writer. He’ll haunt you from the first day you meet with brooding eyes and dark hair and a T.S. Elliot paperback neatly packed under his left arm.
You’ll meet him at the one remaining wifi-less coffee shop and he’ll quote existentialist writers to describe the moment until you leap over your foamy cappuccino to kiss him violently because nothing is more seductive than a man who appreciates syntax.
Don’t fall in love with a writer because he knows great love stories have tragedy and the best are killed off or at the least cast aside and and he says goodbye to his favorites as easily as he sips his black coffee.
He’ll teach you that monogamy is a word for young adult novels and life is so much more complicated filled with chance happenings and twisted plots and unwanted surprises….some named Jolie, his assistant. You’ll have heartbreak so great you’ll cower on your floor for three days. “It just makes a better story,” he says.
The irony of a writer giving you a cliche.
Don’t fall in love with a painter. He’ll lure you with temporary adoration when you meet at a two bit gallery opening and he’ll woo you by asking to paint you nude. You nervously agree (how conventionally unconventional, you think) and enter his easel of a house and fall into soft vulnerability as you stand near the sun soaked windows allowing your stomach pouch from too many chocolates to be beautiful. He commits your body to memory as his brush traces the outline of your curves in perfect silence. For an instant you are his muse.
He’ll teach you how to see things differently like how moths wings shimmer at dusk. When drowsiness tickles your forehead he’ll say “Sleep is for the dead,” and you’ll traverse the streets making up your own constellations. 3am will become a delicate strand of a spiderweb, glistening in the moonlight with its fragility. You want to gulp down the moment in a frenzy as because nothing was this good ever and you fear its impermanence so might as well get crazy high on each second…
And then the moment is gone, the blue phase over and another has begun.
Don’t fall in love with a musician. You’ll be a groupie of his genius lyrics and soulful strums but you’ll always be second to his art and his public for his job is not a job but a passion that torments his soul like a cancer. Which is why you love him.
He’ll play at odd times and introduce you to odd people and odd baggies of substances that keep your eyes wide and heart racing and in the morning you always wonder what the hell happened until you put your head in the nook of his shoulder and feel safe like a small leaf on an oak tree until the music starts and you once again become the second fiddle.
Ah yes, don’t fall in love with a creative. He’ll desperately need you then not need you at all and the pain from this very matter of fact statement torments like the beat of the rain on your single paned window.
And you may never marry because that’s too traditional and you may still die alone under your books with cats eating away your eyeballs. You ride the waves unknowing how this passion endures or your life unfolds. And you wonder if it had been better to date an illiterate man with a nice watch instead.
I used to be one of those obnoxiously happy people who loved their job, talked about it incessantly, and wistfully shook their head at the idea of living a passionless work life.
I thanked my lucky stars that I’d never have to know the sad, sad life of the professionally unfulfilled. At the very young age of 24, I’d found my dream job and (as much as I hate to use the word) I felt very blessed.
As I rejoiced in my good fortune, I hoped that someday all of my friends who dreaded Mondays and counted down the minutes to 5 pm would know the same kind of work-inspired happiness I’d found.
My feelings about my career more or less mirrored my married friends’ feelings about their paradisaical relationships - but I felt like I was the lucky one. Even though I hadn’t (and still haven’t) found Mr. Right, I knew that my job wasn’t ever going to leave me brokenhearted or dump me via text message (which actually happened to me once).
Unfortunately, after five plus years of blissful vocation, three promotions, and plenty of wonderful experiences, the unthinkable happened.
I fell out of love with my job.
I didn’t want to admit it. I tried my hardest to put on a happy face and keep up appearances. I did my best to change my outlook and my attitude so that I could get back to where I’d been.
I wanted so badly for things to be good again.
I kept telling myself that if I could just make it through the rough patch, everything would be wonderful again. I told myself to give it time and find a way to make it work - but eventually I had to accept the difficult truth. Things weren’t ever going to be the same, I’d gone from obnoxiously happy to miserable, and for the sake of everyone involved, I needed to move on.
I knew I’d always love and care for the company that had empowered me to be so passionate about my work and had encouraged me to do great things - but we wanted different things. Too much had changed.
I was a completely different person and the office had changed a whole lot too.
Ironically enough, a poster that hung in our break room is what convinced me to stop mourning for what was and make a change.
I read it every day and thought long and hard about what was important to me. My family and friends were consistently at the top of that list - and I’d been living away from them for a long time - because I’d loved my job so much.
I made up my mind to move home, put together a resume/portfolio website, and found a new job in the city I wanted to live in.
I like my new gig but we’re still figuring one another out and I’m taking things slowly - mostly because I know that l’m not quite over my last company yet.
While the above probably sounds utterly ridiculous to most - I know that anyone who has ever been married to their work understands.
Leaving a job you once loved is a very, very tough breakup.
You know that it’s ultimately for the best and that things probably wouldn’t have worked out but that doesn’t make it any less difficult. Here’s why:
9 Reasons Breaking Up with Your Job is Hard to Do
1. No matter how much you think you’re over it, it still hurts to see them carrying on without you
2. It takes serious amounts of self control to not stalk their social media profiles
3. Every time you do look at their stuff, you wish you hadn’t because it just makes you miss the good times and question whether or not you made the right decision
4. They were such a big part of your identity that you have to pause and figure out who you really are once they’re removed from the equation
5. You find yourself striking up conversations with other people who know them - just to ask how they’re doing
6. You’ve embraced the fact that your new thing may just end up being a rebound - and you’re okay with that
7. You know that eventually they’ll move on and hire someone new - and you secretly hope that whoever is next just makes them realize how wonderful you were
8. Your friends and family are sick of listening to you talk about it - and really wish you’d get over it and move on
9. Whenever you know you’re going to run into them somewhere, you go out of your way to make sure you look really good and happy - really, really happy