Day 26: Targeting the Big Picture

A recent shopping trip to a mall here in Charlotte taught me something about myself that I found a bit surprising. Southpark mall is not your average shopping center. The stores include Tiffany’s, Cartier, Nordstrom’s, Kate Spade, Marc Jacobs, and dozens of other notable high-end stores. The interior of the mall itself is gorgeous with furniture much nicer than any I’ve ever had in my house arranged into lounging areas throughout the mall. It is a very intimidating place, even for a snob like me and I am loathe to go there when I am not properly attired in both fashionable clothing and fat wallet. Don’t get me wrong, I love to shop, but what I’ve discovered is that I’m really kind of a Target girl.

Target might be the most perfect store on Earth. You can shop there and feel comfortable in anything from cut-offs to a dress, not that I would ever wear cut-offs. They sell everything including groceries, linens, hardware, cosmetics, clothing, etc. While it is true that lots of stores do this, including the detestable Wal-mart, what makes Target stand out is that despite being a discount retailer, it is not shameful to shop there. I have worn jewelry, dresses, even shoes from Target and proudly proclaimed my beloved bargain find. Now that many Targets also include a Starbuck’s branch, there seems to be no reason not to go.

Maybe what my feelings about Target and the elite mall are saying is less about my preferred shopping choices and more about the type of person I am. After all, I lived in New York for over seven years and survived just fine without a Target (though I secretly lusted for one). If I’m going to be honest, I also have to admit that if sufficient funds found their way into my bank account I’d likely be shopping more at Marc Jacobs then Target’s women’s department. Even so, a big part of who I am is a Target girl. I’m not your typical high maintenance woman and the experience of shopping at the snob mall versus two hours wandering the aisles in Target will leave me wanting more of Target every time.

As a woman, I am perfectly at home in a sexy dress with a martini in hand. I love expensive shoes, overpriced cosmetics, and luxurious fashion splurges. I just happen to love my jeans, halter-tops, and natural hair more. Material goods are fantastic, but not worth going into debt over. I’d rather spend the money traveling or drinking good wine, than wearing it. Target is my kind of place. It looks good without causing too much damage to the bottom line. I am low maintenance in the traditional ways, but demanding in lots of others. I want things the way I want them and I will be the first to tell you, that yes, I do want my cake and to eat it too. Otherwise, what’s the point of having cake?

Target girls have a better appreciation for the bottom line, but we don’t care so much how we get there. I am not demanding about little things so much as I am more concerned with the overall effect. You don’t need to know, for instance, that I achieve my look mainly with Target found toiletries and cosmetics. The bottom line is if I look good. Yes, the bag might be from Target, but it rocks with this outfit! The same is true in real life. I cut some corners and often look for a shortcut, but I still get where I need to be. My friendships occur from a spontaneous connection with someone rather than a dozen meetings and untold conversations revolving around small talk. I either like you or I don’t. You either think I’m an opinionated bitch or fresh and forthright. I am actually pretty easy going once the basic requirements of my happiness are met. The hard part is discovering what those requirements are.

Most women I know are high-maintenance. The husband once called me easy-going and it shocked me. I never thought of myself that way and I have a long list of past friends who never thought of me that way either. I think what he meant, is that after knowing me and figuring out my particular quirks, it’s just a matter of gauging my mood on a hour to hour basis. I might be low-maintenance, but even I know I am a moody bitch. I also have a hard time making small decisions, so I like to have a little of everything. I like tapas instead of entrees, wine flights instead of a single bottle, watching movie trailers rather than the whole movie, a store full of lots of different things I can afford rather than an overpriced store with one shirt within my budget . . . you see where this is going.

A Target girl has her eye on the big picture. We have basic needs that need to be met along the way, but we’re not going to sweat how we get there so much as making sure that we do, in fact, arrive. We’re not completely low maintenance, there are specific requirements to our happiness. We’re not about to be caught dead in a Wal-mart or flat shoes, for instance, but we’ll take the tangled hair of driving with the top any day over air conditioned perfection.

Day 25: It's Not You, It's Me

Stop making me be a bitch. I am exceptionally good at it. Just because I am out and a woman, does not mean that my goal in life is for you to hit on me. Perhaps my lack of response to your repeated questions should clue you in. If that is not answer enough, you could draw upon my polite, but cold commentary about how I just want to have a drink and relax. No? This is not getting through to you? I’m sorry, I should have been more clear. Maybe if I stated, that I am married and not interested in talking to you, flirting with you, dating you or really anything that might have a crossover interaction between myself and you. Seriously, this seems pretty clear, I don’t quite know what else I could do . . . oh, yes I do. Now is when I break out the beyatch and tell you very clearly, in a voice loud enough for your friends to hear, that there is absolutely no chance and nothing about you that is remotely appealing to me. What’s that you say? I’m a bitch? Well sure, because any girl not up for your tight game is clearly stupid and undeserving. My bad.

I think every woman can identify with this situation. We don’t want to have to be the bitch. What we would like to have happen, is that if we do not reciprocate your advances or attempts to make conversation, that you might do something radical, like grasp the damn point. We are not interested. You are not going to hook up. You need to stop talking immediately and proceed to the next available female. Oddly enough, this concept seems to be relatively foreign to most men. Hard to believe that a woman might not want to talk to someone as sexy and awesome as you. Clearly, we are either stupid or elitist. You are not to blame for our own inability to recognize your innate awesomeness. It is a female character flaw and one day soon, we will wake to realize that we should have been grateful for you incessant conversational prowess after all.

For some reason, women have adopted the habit of leaving men alone if our attempts to engage you in conversation do not work. Apparently, you are just playing hard to get. We should be more vigilant in not giving you a moment to yourself, even when forewarned that you are not in the mood or out with friends and not looking to meet new people. Sometimes women can be really dense like that and assume such statements are true, as opposed to simply a strategic ploy to make us want to talk to you more and more and more. What we really don’t get, is that when you ignore us after repeated polite requests for us to move on, what you really mean is that we should keep talking to you in the hopes that our inane conversation and blatant staring at your body parts helps you to relax.

Women can be such bitches. It is hard to understand all the complex signals we throw out there. True, I did come here just to make you want me. Now that I am hearing that you don’t care how I look and that you don’t need me I feel badly about not being more open with my affections. I must have come here for you, what other reason could there be for my mysterious presence? Whiskey, you say? No, I could get that anywhere, I am here for you alone, please talk to me more and if you could manage to stare at my chest or make inappropriate comments while I try to politely feign indifference, that would be great. Everyone knows that women rarely know what they want and as a proven ladies man, it is your obligation to convince me that what I need more than silence is your unwavering attention.

I am not sure at what point it is acceptable for me to finally tell someone hitting on me to go screw themselves, but I’m thinking somewhere between hour one and two is plenty of time for you to recognize that I was just being nice earlier and that you do not in fact have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting me to want you. It’s not that you’re not great. I’m sure your Mother thinks you hung the moon, but I’m not her and you’re not as charming as you think you are.

Situations like this emphasize the difference between men and women. Women, with our generally low self-esteem, rarely hit on men we don’t think we have a shot with and when we do, the minute you seem uninterested, we are gone. We prefer to miss out, rather than pursue a man who is not interested. The male population, on the other hand, will persistently chase after a woman even when she tells him to go to hell. It is all our fault, we like to play coy and challenge men to win us over. Everyone knows that telling a man it’s not going to happen is simply code for “please wink at me and talk nonstop until I jab a cocktail straw through my temple to drain the gray matter you are wasting with this pointless conversation.”

Without men like you, we wouldn’t know we are attractive and our whole reason for leaving the house would be thwarted. I know, that for me, a night never seems complete unless I have the opportunity to be a raging bitch to a man I barely know. Please talk to me despite my polite requests that you leave me in peace. I want to have this outlet for my frustration. Without your offensively overt advances, who would I get to vent to? You are helping me just by being there.

I am the first person to admit that I can be a bitch. Some days, it is true, being bitchy makes me feel better because I am not holding anything inside. When I am around strangers, however, this is not the case. I do not enjoy being bitchy just because I can. Men will push and push until your polite statements of flattered disinterest are not enough and you are instead required to flatly state that said offender makes you want to commit violent acts just to obtain a little peace.

Women aren’t bad people, or even that snobbish, we just don’t walk into every public place with intent to talk to and pick up a random bar patron. Hard to believe, but yes, I can ignore your charms. The best course of action for you, would be to man up and recognize (hopefully quite early on) that this relationship is not going to work and that you should instead, move it along, thus keeping your own ego and sanity in check. Do not torture yourself in the name of attracting females. Women don’t know what they want, we are flighty, and game-players, and clearly not seeing you as clearly as we should. You rock. Please forgive our bitchiness and inability to comprehend just how fantastic you actually are. We appreciate your patience.

Day 24: The Dark Side of the Moon

Lately, I have noticed a disturbing new trend in my own body. Where did this change originate and why this sudden cropping up of symptoms? I am a relatively healthy (physically at least) 36 year-old woman and while my naturally greasy skin has kept me young and stocked on acne medications most of my life, my problems up until now centered above the beltline. So you can imagine my surprise when I began to discover the occasional butt pimple. That’s right, my lady lumps have sprouted a few lumps of their own.

At what point in my life did I go from being a vibrant, sexy woman to something more closely resembling Homer Simpson? I work hard enough to keep my face clear, now I have to worry about putting Clearasil on my caboose? It is bad enough when the stray blemish crops up on my back or chest. These are unsightly and although worse in the fact that others can possibly see them when going strapless or in a tank, they don’t bother me as much. I dab on a little concealer and go about my day still feeling pretty good about myself because those little beauties are hard won badges of working out honor. “That’s right, people, I have a zit on my chest and do you know why? Because I ran five miles yesterday and my sports bra, while cradling the girls with a tender, but firm touch, made me sweat.” I can feel good about something like that.

The random blemish on the derriere, however, is another story. Should I be proud that I was sitting around too much this week while unemployed and zipping through half the Hulu catalog on my laptop. Somehow, apologizing at the pool for the unsightly red monster on my left cheek by saying, “Well, you know, those old episodes of Arrested Development aren’t going to watch themselves and my comfy flannel pants were just so warm. I tell you, it was a sweaty mess back there from all that sitting, guess I clogged up the old pores!” This is not cute. This is not girly. This is not even Ame cool on the letting it all hang out there scale. There is never a good reason or effective way to mask ass acne.

I do not know what causes these occasional visitors (and thank whiskey they’re just occasional), but I do know that I have learned a few things. One, tight pants rubbing up against them all day is not good. Two, acne medications do nothing, although I’m still slathering those lady lumps with benzoyl peroxide or any other fantasy cream I get my hands on. Three, trying to pop the offender in the hopes that it will suddenly shrink and dissipate only makes it angry. There are many things about my own body I don’t like. Let’s face it, as much of a guy as I am, I’m still a girl and low self-esteem is just part of the baggage. Even so, this represents a whole new level of self hatred. So now, not only do I have to stress over buying a bikini, wearing a bikini, and remembering not to keep my stomach sucked in at all times, now I have to obsess over the fact that depending on where the offender is located, it might be visible to ogling eyes? It’s not like I want anyone noticing my rear to begin with, it is not my best feature! Do you think I’d be wearing this ridiculously revealing top if I wanted you to focus on my backside?!?

Making things worse, is the fact that this little gem of a problem falls under the category of things women don’t talk about. Men might actually be surprised to find out just how graphic chicks get when trading stories with their friends, but butt pimples, not something anyone ever owns up to. As far as I know, I am the only woman ever in the history of women to ever experience a blemish on my ass. I love being an innovator. I am getting more comfortable with my body as I age, and being in a stable, committed relationship (I try not to say “committed” too often lest the voices get nervous) does help in that area, but even I’m no more comfortable sharing the teenage wasteland that is my backside with the husband than I would be if I were single and cruising the bars. Because a few dimples of cellulite is never enough, I’ve decided to add more sexiness to the mix. No one needs to know or see that disaster, but now, thanks to my dedication to the blogosphere, my sweet husband who is sitting in Iraq doing his best to pretend he’s never seen me looking anything other than my hottest is slowly losing his . . . well, let’s just say illusions.

I’m trying to be more real as I age and I guess this is part of it. I’m not ready to post a pic of an offender alongside this blog, but I’m okay with admitting that from time to time, my innate hotness (self-esteem quotient up) is marred with a slight southern imperfection. I guess this is all part of life, but it sure would be nice if just once Sandra Bullock or Kim Kardashian owned up to a butt pimple. Seriously, with as much going on in the trunk area as Kardashian has going on, you know the circulation isn’t top notch. That girl has got to know what I’m talking about . . . right (self-esteem quotient falling)?

If anyone has any sure fire remedies or even reasons for why this is suddenly happening I’d be glad for the information. Right now, I’m just pretty happy I don’t live near the ocean and that the only others seeing my backside on a regular basis are my two cats. They don’t judge me, although now that I think about it, Sylvia does seem to be less interested in hanging out in the shower with me. Women can be sooo catty.

Day 23: Rubbing One Out, So to Speak

Anyone who knows me well knows that I am plagued with constant neck and shoulder tension as well as frequent headaches. Regular visits to the chiropractor are the only thing that actually succeeds in helping the headaches, but it is massage that makes me salivate. It doesn’t much matter who you are, after years of chronic pain, I am not so particular about who’s doing the shoulder massaging, so long as it’s getting done. When the husband is not vacationing in war zones he rubs me on an almost daily basis. I came to depend on these mini-sessions and would often lounge about complaining of sore shoulders hoping he’d take the bait, rather than outright nagging him. (A blog on my manipulation skills and passive aggressiveness is forthcoming.) All in all, we had a pretty good routine going, but then he left and I began to seek out professional assistance. Upon deep reflection, I realize that I am a massage whore, but honestly, I’m okay with that.

Massage is funny. It can evoke images of professionals with various oils or lotions attached to utility-like belts that they seamlessly dispense during a massage, $6 massages in Vietnam and Thailand, over-priced spa “experiences” at world-class resorts, and the $10 for 15 minute Qi Gong massages at dank little basement level spaces throughout Manhattan. I have experienced all of these and found each pleasurable, but vastly different from one another. Even so, I cannot say that I have a personal favorite, to me massage is massage and I am game for it all. The exception is the massage “parlor” which is almost always a front for something less massage and more “happy ending.” While I have not frequented such an establishment, I did accidentally work at one for a day.

Massage has always held a certain allure for me. When I was in my early 20’s and looking for a side job while going to college, I took a job at a massage therapy place in hopes that the training would lead to a possible second career. The first day on the job, they told me I would start out working the front office. I observed their filing, phone answering, and scheduling techniques, before also observing that all the “therapists” were women in their early 20’s wearing short shorts and tight tops. Given my proclivity for showing off the girls, it was not the tight tops that put me off, but the prospect of shorts. Until this Summer I had not worn shorts since high school so that in itself was enough to put me on my guard. I began to look a bit more critically at the types of massages these young, scantily clad girls were giving to mostly middle aged men with beer guts the size of Octomom’s pregnant belly. The final straw for me was when I overheard one classy client most likely calling from either his waterbed or El Camino, ask if he had to use the towel to cover himself.

I’ll let anyone rub my shoulders and once while living in New York City a homeless man massaged them for a dollar. After dinner, a few friends and I were standing on the corner debating where to head to next when said hobo (that word really amuses me) approached looking for cash. The rest of my group shooed him off, but being the type to always carry some extra ones or coins for the homeless I asked if he’d like to work for it. Three minutes and a Sacagawea later, the tightening in my shoulders (a sure sign of an impending headache) was scaled back just enough to let me relax them on their own and avoid the headache until later. Was the guy’s hands dirty? Sure, I bet they were, but he didn’t smell like his own urine or feces – or anyone else’s for that matter – and he didn’t look like he’d been living in the trash compactor scene from Star Wars either. The guy was just down on his luck and willing to do a few minutes work for a down payment on a future bean burrito at the Bell.

These days I find it difficult to survive without a semi-frequent massage and since the husband is not around I am forced to pay for a professional’s touch. Until recently I never stopped to notice that the only real stipulation I have is that the therapist be female. I did not avoid being massaged by male therapists for any reason other than that I thought it would seem slightly skanky on my part to specifically ask for a male. It has never been an issue until recently, when the only deep tissue therapist available during a particularly nasty headache was a dude.

Steven began normally enough, but after replying “you can’t hurt me” to his question about whether or not he was using too much pressure, things got a little weird. At first, I began to relax and really enjoy the massage. The experience of having a man’s hands touching me in a slightly intimate way resulted in my body reflexively softening and I began to believe that each stroke of my skin was somehow more personal than it should have been. This feeing of intimacy and slight arousal did not make me nervous at first. No, for a while, I was ready to throw off the towel and writhe about in my best Elizabeth Berkley overacting impersonation, open to experiencing the joys of a happy ending firsthand (no pun intended).

I felt this way, that is, until he began to speak. Utilizing his best low, soothing voice, Steven informed me that he was about to “take it deeper now.” The low lights of the massage room, cheesy jazz guitar soundtrack, and aromatherapy were clearly getting to me, because for a moment this statement did not make me want to laugh out loud. It was not until Steven asked, “do you want me to go really deep,” that I started to extract myself from the hazy glow of massage-gasm. Do I want you to go really deep? I’m going to take it deeper now? What the . . .? At this point, I got a little spooked, mostly at my own fantasy moments before, and began working to break the quiet by asking random questions about cool places in town and his life.

It turned out to be an informative day. I found out that Thomas Street Tavern is a cool, eclectic bar to hang out in, Yoga One is the best studio in the city, and that his girlfriend is a 23 year-old who likes to call him Daddy. Suffice it to say that I’ve gone back to female therapists or homeless guys. You may have to deal with stories of their divorce or the struggle to find quality corrugated housing, but the massage part is pretty cut and dry. When you’re a massage whore like me, you’ll take it where you can get it, but you don’t always feel good about yourself afterward. For that reason, it’s best just to avoid those situations whenever possible. The husband will be home in five months, hopefully he’ll be up for “taking it really deep.”

Day 22: Housewife or Hobo?

It is time to address the career factor, specifically, the fact that I do not have a career or even a clear path toward finding one. I never expected to find myself in this position. When I was in high school, although there was never one particular dream job, I did have interests in many areas and really thought I would end up working in some writing field, journalism especially. The degree path changed a little and instead of journalism, I got a degree in English Literature. Given my love of writing and my literary snobbery, this was a natural choice, but not exactly a hotbed of career opportunity. So, 19 years after high school graduation, I find myself no closer to actually knowing what I want to do with my life or how the hell I’m going to get there.

We didn’t have the money for me to go to college after high school and I knew it. Instead of asking my Mother to get further into debt to help send me to school, I took a second job and after a year started going to school part time whenever I could afford classes. Gone was the hope of attending a good school and instead I went to a local campus of Indiana University. Although my diploma says IU, and in the Hoosier state that’s a big deal, I know it was actually the commuter campus and not Smith or Columbia. Even so, in the long run where you got your degree really only matters in terms of impressing people with a name, it doesn’t mean you’re necessarily smarter or better. It does, however, make a difference when you first graduate and are looking for a job.

I’ve had a few close calls with a career. I worked at a financial magazine, as the sole editorial department. This would have been awesome except that the owner/boss was a crotchety 74 year-old named Al who alternately screamed at whoever was closest to him at the time or wanted to sit and chat good naturedly when he became bored. Al was a very interesting boss. He did business back in the day when a handshake and highball settled a deal. He chewed unlit cigars around the office and routinely changed his mind four or five times before settling on something. The decision thing would not have been so horrible if it weren’t for the fact that it required the work be done four or five different times, despite having a firm deadline. Al was kind of crazy and could be really vindictive. If you were more than five minutes late he would dock your check anywhere from $25 to $75. The labor board would send someone out every four months or so because of frequent employee complaints, but it never changed anything. I heard Al passed on a year or so ago. I’m sure he’s driving the devil crazy as we speak.

I followed that gig up with two years at a book publisher. I actually really wanted this job and was super excited, thinking that this would be my career path, but I hated it. I think my biggest problem, was that once again I was working for a crazy person. The troll I worked for, was pretty much unanimously hated, but she was my boss and I knew that after all the issues we’d had working together that I was never going to get promoted so I didn’t see that I had a choice except to leave. My decision to take a job as an Executive Assistant/Office Manager when I so clearly was over qualified and not looking to be a glorified Secretary was also helped by the fact that I rather enjoy being able to afford both food and rent. Publishing is considered a “glamour” profession. It’s a job everyone wants, so they know they can pay you somewhere near 37 cents a day.

For a while I made do by frequenting the pub across the street, which served free hot dogs and popcorn to bar patrons. I got in for free, usually drank for free (boobs are good for something), and ate bad bar wieners and stale popcorn. Sometimes I would sell CD’s and spring for $1.25 a slice pizza, but even with the variety I soon tired of never being able to afford anything. Manhattan is not a cheap place to live and surviving there on next to nothing isn’t as cool as the hipsters make it look. So I left job and took one in an office working a job I ended up liking and a paycheck that left me money for shoes. Then the Army came a calling and off we went. I haven’t had a job for more than a month in almost two years. I have looked, but what do you do, when you don’t know what you want to do?

Initially I was being picky, trying to find a career instead of just a job, but now I’m really just interested in something that will pay me actual money, the type of work is negotiable. Even so, there are not a lot of jobs out there. After so many months of being unemployed, I worry that I will have a difficult time punching a clock again. I’ve never been very good at living life according to someone else’s schedule, but the idea of going from having every day to myself to only having the weekends and a few hours in the evening is kind of freaking me out. I’ll get the work done, I just don’t need someone else to tell me what time to start doing it.

Am I unmotivated or just scared to find out I missed my chance? Sometimes I envy the stay at home Moms I know because at least they are doing something with their lives. I only have cats and myself to take care of and I kind of suck at both. The other day my daily diet consisted of a bag of peanut butter M&M’s, sushi, yogurt, and a couple of whiskeys. I don’t even remember if I fed the cats. I think not working is making my brain atrophy. My grammar is getting worse, my schedule is in the toilet, and I can’t seem to locate any item of clothing other than tank tops and sandals.

I think I’ve just missed my window to jump on the career track. I am too old to be a grunt, but cannot seem to find a job in which I am qualified for something more. I’d love to go back to school for my Master’s, but in what field. Can a degree make up for lack of experience when it comes time to apply for a job? What do you do with your life when you didn’t grow up wanting to be a doctor, astronaut, firefighter, or Mom? What I want more than anything is to be on a beach, on a Harley, on a vineyard tour, or on a best seller’s list. I want to be happy and fulfilled, but I’m not sure a job will do that. I’m not even sure anymore that I’m capable of working for someone else. My time of unemployment is drawing to a close. I’ve spent enough money, now I need to start making some. The pity party is over, time to get real, even if I don’t love it. So . . . anyone know of any good jobs? Marketing? Event planning? Writing? Baking? Reading Literature (note literature with a capital “L”) and drinking wine? Salary negotiable.

Day 21: Uh-oh! Dad is Pissed!

Today I got an email from the husband stating that while he liked my latest blog he wanted to discuss a few parts with me. That sounds a bit ominous, does it not? Hmmm. Given the personal nature of my blog and the fact that I routinely walk the line of disclosing information that not only effects me, but affects others, I do worry. There have been days that I think twice about the things I have written, anxiously waiting for feedback to determine if I have really gone too far, only to have the blog I’m most worried about be accepted by everyone. You never know what is going to set someone else off or for that matter even get their attention.

The details that seem to stick in our heads are distinctive and subjective to each individual. At times I have been positive that I have gone too far. Thinking that I basically had called pregnant women with cleavage sluts, I raced to my computer to delete the offhand remark, only to discover a comment from a friend citing it as very funny. Other times, I’ll say or write something I see as innocent, only to have it trotted out as evidence of my callousness. Well sure, I can be as insensitive as anyone else, but often these slights are not done intentionally. As I frequently tell people, I may be bitchy unintentionally and I’m sorry, but when I mean it, there will be no doubt. The expression of my inner bitch leaves little in the way of ambiguity.

So what do we do when we unintentionally offend someone? Do we even really owe someone an apology if the fault is not that you hurt them, but that their own sensitivity led to the issue in the first place? One of the pitfalls of everyone thinking you’re a bitch is that people forget you have feelings too. No one apologizes to me when I become sensitive, they seem more surprised than sorry. Yes, I talk about intimate things in my life, I am pretty vocal about my feelings, and I usually let you know if I’m pissed off. What I am not great at, is letting people know when I am hurt. Again, this falls in the vulnerability category and I think I’ve pretty well established in past blogs that this is not my strong suit.

All kinds of random things hurt my feelings, from a friend not making time for me in over a week to the husband criticizing my writing. We’re all different; these are dicey waters. Do you recall the updated plotline of the movie, Father of the Bride? In it, the daughter of the character played by Steve Martin calls off her wedding because her fiancé gave her a blender as an engagement present. She saw it a sign of oppression. I viewed it with envy. That was a kick-ass kitchen appliance and if there is one thing I love more than feminism, it is the full range of kitchen gadgetry. Buy me a blender, rasp, pots, knives, juicer, etc. and I will cry at your thoughtfulness. Where other women see the constraints of traditional society impinging on their use of free time, I see a future of top-notch baked goods coming out of my kitchen. To buy me such a thing tells me that you know my heart and are a person who has taken the time to truly get to know me. To other women it might signify you are a misogynist or just lazy. Go figure.

So getting back to the point, here I am, 6500 miles separating me from the husband and I’m waiting around to find out if I’m trouble. There is nothing more unsettling than knowing you’ve screwed up and waiting to take your punishment. As a person who experienced a childhood in which I was always in trouble, this is a very familiar feeling. My parents were not violent people, but I do know I pushed them pretty hard. Imagine a two year-old that you want to punch. Pretty difficult right? I know two can be a challenging age to parents, but they are still pretty cute at that age. Well, I was the toddler that my parents and other adults always seemed to first be shocked by and then with whom they found themselves fighting their most primitive instincts to come to blows. Let’s just say that I know how to push people’s buttons; a skill I have not been shy to take advantage of in years past.

I know I have a big mouth and I’m pretty good at using it to piss people off, but it always hurts and surprises me a bit when I unintentionally offend others. I mean, I actually am a pretty sensitive person. So while you may be upset with me and off nursing your own wounds don’t forget that I may have some of my own. It hurts me when you say or do things that make me feel like I am not important in your life. I’m actually not that bad of a person, I just say what other people think. If you are my friend and there are important things happening in my life and you seem disinterested for three weeks, it’s going to hurt me. If I am trying to be honest and live my life the way that I need to and you want to know why I can’t just be like normal people, it’s going to hurt me. If I’m drunk from three whiskeys and you think I don’t need a fourth, it’s going to hurt me . . . wait, that last one might not be the same type of deal, but whatever. You get the point.

We are all different, and different things are going to set each of us off. Maybe the husband isn’t mad. Maybe he just wants to question my grammar in a section (I usually write these when it’s late, so it’s kind of a craps shoot). Either way, I feel the dread the way I did that time I disobeyed my Mom and walked across two busy roads to Hook’s drug store with my friends then got caught. It is too late to take it back, all I can do is wait for Dad to get home to find out how much trouble I’m in. So husband, whatever I wrote, I didn’t mean. Well, that’s totally not true, but . . . um, I love you and think you’re really swell.

You know what I really love about being me and saying what I think all the time? It’s a bumpy ride, but in the end I’m real, I’ve lived life and I’d rather be alone and know that I didn’t play it safe than live to be 90 and know I shanked it.