Shuttup and Do It

I’m pretty sure anyone that’s ever actually given birth will kill me for this, but I kind of think of NaNoWriMo like labor.

Last year, I successfully completed NaNoWriMo for the first time. If you’re not up on the lingo, basically a bunch of insane people (including me) attempt to write a novel of at least 50,000 words, the catch being they need to both start and finish it in the month of November. Thus November is NAtional NOvel WRIting MOnth.

I talked a little last year about my reasons for doing NaNoWriMo. I checked in almost halfway through the month with an update on my story. I never really talked about the experience afterward.

Why do I think it’s the same as giving birth?

When I finished last November 30^th, I was immensely proud of what I had done, and I promised myself immediately I would never do it again.

A few weeks later, I looked back and was even more proud of my accomplishment, and started thinking maybe in a few more years I’d be ready to do it again.

By this October, I convinced myself it wasn’t that bad and I could totally do it again. In fact, it’d probably be easier since I would go in more prepared than the first time. Oh, the sweet little lies we tell ourselves.

This NaNoWriMo I actually did a little more prep than last year, but I’m not sure how much it’s helping me. My entire timeline changed with pretty much the first chapter. Weird things I wasn’t expecting keep happening, like my main character pissing accidentally herself and having some sort of hair dye fetish. I’ve already killed off three people, and I certainly wasn’t planning on that.

While I’m actually on target with my word count (which is a minor miracle, since I was 10,000 words behind Saturday morning), I also want to finish ahead of time this year since I’ll be spending time with my brother the last few days of the month. At this point it’s equally likely that I say screw it and stop writing, or somehow pull 10,000 more words out of my @ss to finish.

But since this has been more or less taking over the last month of my life, and thus preventing me from update, I decided to share with you, my dear friends, the first chapter of the story!!

Keep in mind there will be typos. There’s really no looking back with NaNoWriMo, just moving forward. Someday if I finish and decide not to forget this whole mess ever happened I made go back and fix things, but that day is not today.

So here it is, the first chapter of my insane zombie story!

Above Reproach

Chapter 1

I’ve never really understood why we’re so rigid about the rope rules. Who exactly do they think is going to climb the ladder if we leave for a few minutes? The grounders? The day zombies get smart enough to climb we’re going to have a fuckton more problems than worrying about the ropes.

            No one ever listens to me though. They listen to me talk. They love to hear my stories. The minute I turn somewhat serious they close their ears and hum, which is why I’m standing under the lookout whistling the magic tune to get somebody to drop down the rope ladder and let me up. Never mind the fact that they can clearly see me. Allegedly the whistling proves that I haven’t been infected in the ten minutes I’ve been on the ground, and I’m safe to climb up and take over duties.

            It might be me, but these days I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes every time the Three make a new rule.

            The ladder drops and I start to climb. It’s not exactly a ladder in that the rungs are randomly spaced out, and you still have sections of pure rope that require a little bit more concentration to make it up. I can never decide if wearing my gloves makes it harder to navigate those sections or if I’m lucky to have them protect my hands.

You can tell who frequently has lookout duty based on the calluses on their hands. It beats the rope burn at least. There are other ways to tell of course, like who has freaking amazing upper torsos. If we still had a government and leaders and all that, they’d be ecstatic that we’ve beat the obesity epidemic. I can’t decide if people are more motivated to stay in shape because they have a better chance of outrunning a mob of grounders, or if it’s because of the shitty food. Maybe you like a second helping of burned squirrel stew and gummy rice, but I’m good, thanks.

            I’m not entirely surprised when someone reaches down and pulls me up the last bit of rope. I’m going to say that it was a subconscious decision to pick this lookout, but that’s a lie. Pierce always takes this tree. I know this. I’d like to pretend I was unaware that he was out on duty and probably here, but I can admit to myself at least that I wanted to see him.

            “Hey Mink,” he says with a smile. I haven’t figured out yet how he manages to look like a wet dream and somebody I want to punch at the same time. It might be the hair. Given the lack of barbers it tends to erratically hang in his eyes. In another lifetime, like five years ago, I probably would have called him emo and laughed in his face, assuming he had the same hair. More likely he had some super cool douchebag cut that emphasized his strong jawline and let the world see those baby blues. Not that I’ve memorized his face or anything. This thought is purely prompted by the fact that he’s staring at me at the moment. Right.

            Of course that might be because I have yet to respond. I manage a cool nod. We’ve been talking too much recently when we’re both at the lodge. I wouldn’t want him to think we’re becoming friends. I don’t need friends and all the shit that comes with them anymore.

            I give the lookout a quick lookover, but nothing’s changed since I was here last week. Of course Pierce the perfect would have everything in order.

            “How’s the ground movement?” I ask as I set my bag down in the corner. Since we don’t keep any of the food supplies in the lookouts it’s a good excuse to lug my bag around with me. One of these days someone’s going to open it up and find my stash of goods. I’m not the only lookout hoarding junk from the towns, but I don’t kid myself. I’m more likely to be searched at some point. The current Three only trust me so far.

            “Nothing on this end,” Pierce says, and his voice sounds too close. I look up to see he’s followed me to the corner. “They’re losing their juice though, we’re going to need a replace mission soon.”

            I toss my hair, which forces him to back up a step. “We’re going to need a supply mission soon too. The lodge is running low on meds and some of the kids have a fever.” I can’t help it, I feel myself start to grin at him. “I’ll radio in that you should go for supplies if you tell them to send me on replacement duty.”

            Pierce laughs. “Trickster girl. You’re too slow, I already heard from Lookout 2 that we’re heading in for supplies. You’ll be earning no favors from me today.”

            There are so many comebacks dancing on my tongue, but I literally bite it to hold back. That’s the problem with being around Pierce. Even worse, I think he can tell what thoughts are running through my head. His face softens and he steps closer again.

            “Maybe I spoke too soon,” he says. His voice is dangerously low.

            I don’t believe in prayer anymore, but hearing the walkie crackle to life makes me think for a second that the universe might have been sympathetic to my inner turmoil. That would figure, that it cares about the little moments and ignores the problems that ruin your world. I step away from Pierce to answer the call.

            “Lookout 1 reporting, over.” My voice sounds steady. Points to me. Especially since Pierce clearly followed me over. I can feel warmth right behind me, but I’m smart enough not to turn my head. This was my fault. I should never have climbed up that ladder.

            “The Lodge wants all lookouts coming off duty to head to the carport. Send them immediately. Over and out.”

            I feel myself tense even as Pierce moves away to gather his gear. I don’t know who’s voice that was, but I burn with hatred for them.

            “There’s no reason for you all to take a car. All they said we needed was meds. You can carry that back easily.” I glare at Pierce as if it’s his fault that they’re making a simple trip more dangerous.

            “Down get your fur up, Mink, I’m sure the Three have their reasons.” This time Pierce is the one avoiding looking at me.

            I scowl. “All we need to do is call back in. They listen to you. Tell them it’s a bad idea. The grounders are going to be closer than usual.”

            “Maybe that’s why we’re taking a car, so we can outrun them if necessary.”

            “Please,” the word is so hesitant, I feel it shimmering in the air as if the next breath will blow away the memory that it was ever spoken. “Call back in and ask them to let you guys walk.”

            Pierce has already pulled on the straps of his bag and is standing at the rope, but he crosses back to my side of the lookout. I have a few seconds of hope before he gently touches my cheek.

           

            “Trust me, it will be fine. Be a good soldier, Mink.” Before I can decide how to react, what to do, he steps away and yells back, “Besides it’s my turn to drive.”

            He gives me a wink as he goes to start down the ladder. I force myself to say the right thing.

            “In that case it’s definitely not safe.” I unlock my wooden jaw to smile a little as I say it. If we joke around it’s okay. Nothing will happen.

            I wish I believed that still. I wish I could have said what I was really thinking. That we aren’t soldiers. That it might not be fine. And that the Three aren’t always right.

            I go to the window to watch Pierce head off to the carport. He never looks back, so being ready to wave seems pointless. I can’t make myself move away though. From this lookout I’m too far away to see the carport itself, but I can catch glimpses of whoever’s coming down from Lookout 2.

            It’s enough to free me. I don’t really want to know who’s coming down that ladder. I don’t want to spend the next ten hours worrying about anyone else on this supply trip. It would be fine if they were walking, or if we had replaced recently. The grounders get closer though when the scarecrows aren’t fresh, and they’re always attracted to the sound of engines. They might not be smart, but it’s like zombies have an instinct for being in the worse place possible for us. They’ve cut off the return from town before. It’s why lookout and scavenger duties are strictly volunteer work.

            There’s not really enough to do on lookout duty to distract yourself. Pierce kept the place tidy. Half the time I spend the first part of my shift cleaning up after whoever was before me. I make sure the guns are loaded. The walkie clearly is working, so I don’t need to check it. We’ll still do the midshift check-in, but that’s hours away. All I need to do at this point is watch out the windows and listen for the bells.

            My mother was the first to question if the lookouts were even remotely useful or not. As long as we keep the scarecrows fresh the grounders never wander this far in the woods. It’s been weeks since another survivor followed the lights here. I’ve suggested that it would be better to have lookouts stationed on the path to town, but that was shot down in a second. I can’t be the only one to notice that the lookouts, as they are right now, are crowded around the Three. They don’t even really block the Lodge from the town side of the forest. This side is naturally protected by the river, so why are most of the lookouts clustered here?

            These are the questions that plaque my shifts. I settle in at the window as I hear the broken sounds of a car driving too fast for our dirt path. As my eyes adjust to staring at an endless view of trees, I start my mantra. They will not stay grounded. They will return above.

The SCARIEST MOVIE EVER WATCHED

At some point everyone is going to have a parenting fail moment. I am not personally a parent, but I have some parents, and let me assure you that as much as I love them they’ve made some questionable decisions. There are things I will never forgive them for (in the interest of still getting Christmas presents this year and being allowed to darken their doorway, I should note there are lovely things they’ve done that I’ll also never thank them for, so it really evens out) and that I’m convinced ruined my childhood and potentially warped my entire life. Oddly enough, the scary movies they let me watch as a child that super seriously traumatized me are not on that list.

I say oddly, because just the other day I was talking to people at work about the scariest movie of our childhood. Everyone else in the conversation said at some point, almost verbatim, “my parents really shouldn’t have let me watch it.” They did not say it in the tone of simply stating a fact, there was definitely some condemnation in their voices. Everyone else had pretty similar movies too: It, The Exorcist, Alien… you get the idea. They were naming legitimately scary movies.

And then there’s me.

Before I reveal the scariest movie of my childhood and potentially lose your respect for the rest of our acquaintanceship, let me explain why I don’t blame my parents for this fiasco. My parents did make some dubious calls on what I was allowed to watch. For instance it may not have been the best idea in the world to take me to see Jurassic Park in theaters at age 5. But I think we eventually realized and acknowledged that I was just one of those kids that are scared by basically everything. So while they became far more vigilant regarding my movie experience, they also accepted that it was basically a crapshoot. Even if I were to never watch a “scary” movie again, they couldn’t entirely prevent me from just happening to walk by a tv while a scary commercial was on. And yes, that would still be enough for endless nightmares.

It probably doesn’t help that even to this day I am fascinated by scary movies. So when I walked by that tv and the scary commercial was on, I didn’t walk away. I may have closed my eyes at some point, but I still listened to it.

Plus, my parents weren’t even around when I was exposed to this movie. I was at a neighbor’s house. There is absolutely nothing they could have said to prevent this from happening except maybe to make a rule whenever I was elsewhere that I couldn’t watch ANYTHING. Actually I wasn’t even really watching the movie. So the rule would have to be that no one else in the house could watch ANYTHING on ANY television on the off chance I walk by and become traumatized.

So with those boundaries established, are you ready for the scariest movie of my childhood?

It’s Mars Attacks.

If you’re unfamiliar with this movie, it is a comedy about an alien invasion featuring a ridiculous number of celebrities.The alien ships look like cheap flying saucers, the aliens tend to run around in spandex, and their guns turn you into Christmas colored skeletons. No blood, no gore, just a bright green pile of bones. Spoiler alert (with more spoilers to come, just fyi) – the secret weapon to defeating the aliens? Playing really bad music really loudly. I kid you not.

Not that I actually knew that as a child. My viewing experience went more like this:

·         I caught bits and pieces of the beginning as I wandered around doing whatever it was we were doing. I remember donuts, and there is in fact a donut shop scene in the movie. That’s about it.

·         Unfortunately I did see the part where a dove is killed. This starts a scene of mass human causalities, but I don’t think I actually saw anything after the bird incident.

·         I then locked myself in the bathroom for roughly a half hour, sobbing hysterically. During this time I could hear the people watching the movie laugh frequently. The kids I was playing with, who had not been watching the movie initially, were now all watching too.

·         This made me decide that things must be improving, so I briefly emerged in time for the President (played expertly by Jack Nicholson) to be stabbed through the heart by what seemed to be a dismembered hand.

·         I retreated back to the bathroom. I think I stayed there until I went home. I know I was tentatively planning on living there the rest of my life as it seemed secure, and there was access to both water and a toilet, so the only drawback was lack of food. I’m also pretty sure I made someone fetch me so I wouldn’t have to walk home by myself, despite the fact that I was literally right next door from my house. If that didn’t actually happen, know at least that I super duper wanted it to.

I suppose what we never really clarified is how does one choose the scariest movie of their childhood? What are the defining criteria? As you can tell from the description above, I didn’t even see the bulk of my “scariest movie.”

For me, I’m going not by the duration of time DURING the movie that I was scared, but the duration of time AFTER the movie. There were other movies that had lasting effects. For instance, after catching a few scenes of The Blob I no longer felt comfortable showering (which was really unfortunate since I didn’t trust baths either in case a shark emerged from the drain) for at least several weeks. I mean I did it, but each time felt like I was taking my life in my hands. But hands down, Mars Attacks had the most lasting trauma. From that point on anything involving aliens seemed horrifying. Not only other movies and shows, but even stores that had alien toys seemed unsafe.

Even more importantly, Mars Attacks was the movie that forced my parents to set some boundaries about nightmares. I was trying to escape to their room literally every single night. I can now better understand why that may have posed some problems. At some point they had to say no. So, I more or less moved into my brother’s room for roughly a year. That’s right, A YEAR. Every night I grabbed a bunch of teddy bears, formed a blockade between us on the bed, and prayed that when the aliens came for us I’d have enough time to run away. My brother was younger than me. I didn’t really expect him to do anything about the alien attack. Truthfully, I didn’t really expect my parents to be much help either. But having someone else in the room meant I had better odds of being the one to escape.

This movie also prompted me to decide for a few years that I was going to immediately get married after college, as that seemed to be the only acceptable way for a grownup to be allowed to sleep in bed with another grownup. That was my sole motivation to get married, which is probably why I’m still not married now that I know that’s not strictly true.

So there you go… my scariest movie and how it traumatized my childhood. If you’re a parent you may be feeling a little smug now because your children are not quite as insane. You’re welcome. You’re totally still going to traumatize them at some point though. That’s just how it is.

People normally laugh at this story, but SURELY there are others out there that had ridiculous repercussions to their scary movie viewings as children. If you know of one (or are one) tell the world! Or at least, tell me!

#WritingDate Part 2 - Bust a Rhyme

So today was National Writing Date Day! My friend Erin and I decided to do a #WritingDate together, and it was everything I wanted and more. You can read an explanation of what we were doing here on Erin's blog. We had decided ahead of time to share the results of our writing prompts, so I'm sticking to that bargain. We did prompt #12 together, but then I decided to do prompt #5 - rhyming. It starts out okay and then gets a little crazy (or cray, if you'd prefer. I now have to pretend it's a real word since I used it).

Be warned, I decided to do no clean up whatsoever, so this is the madness of 1 hour of writing...

What is there to know about a neek?
Are they short? Are they sleek?

Do they stumble? Do they creak?

The answers below are what you seek!

A neek is one who is absurd,

A bit of a geek, a bit of a nerd.

They might obsess over the written word

Or memorize every song they’ve heard.

They love to share their love of things,

Whether it be candy or diamond rings.

They’re like a cat playing with string;

It becomes their everything!

A neek doesn’t care if something’s cool.

Or if people think they’re a fool.

You can even call them a tool,

They won’t stop saying that it rules.

The neek might own every CD released,

Or every comic, without a single one creased.

They might dwell on the living deceased,

(That means zombies, don’t be rhyme police!).

 If you ever get to meet

A neek, a nerd, or a geek.

Remember to be nice and sweet

Because you’re in for quite a treat.

As long as you don’t interfere

Or laugh at them, or start to jeer

At their obsession for that year

They’ll be a better friend than beer.

So in summary you should pray

You get to friend a neek someday

They’ll change your life a little each day

As they show you things other people call cray.

#WritingDate Part 1 - Somebunny Loves You

So today was National Writing Date Day! My friend Erin and I decided to do a #WritingDate together, and it was everything I wanted and more. You can read an explanation of what we were doing here on Erin's blog. We had decided ahead of time to share the results of our writing prompts, so I'm sticking to that bargain. Here is my version of prompt #12 - to make the Easter Bunny scary.

Be warned, I decided to do no clean up whatsoever, so this is the madness of 1 hour of writing...

 

Carla knew her face gave them nothing, which was probably why the rest of the room couldn’t hide their nervousness. Some looked like they were struggling with outright panic. They thought it was about the money. They thought someone, maybe everyone, was going to be fired for the colossal drop in sales this Easter season.

With a huff of displeasure, Carla walked to the window. If nothing else, being CEO of Bunny Stuff, Inc. gave her a gorgeous view of the city. She tapped her nails, long and filed, against the glass. It gave her a quick thrill to know she was prolonging the fear of her employees, but faded just as fast as she thought about the real problem.

“Gentleman,” she started. She spared an internal grimace for the sad fact that she was the only woman in power in the company, but that was a battle for another day. “You tell me the drop is to be expected, yet you also say that our competitors don’t seem to have gained any more shares in the market in last year. Explain.”

She turned from the window to again confront the room. She knew what they would say. It was a fool’s hope to expect anything else. However she was mildly curious of who would speak up knowing they risked her further displeasure.

Mike, her VP of sales, stood up. “With all due respect mam, the consumer isn’t buying this year. It’s not just from us. My contacts have indicated that even Break An Egg Company had a severe drop.”

Heads bobbled around the table in agreement. Carla stalked back to the table, sparing a furious glance at every individual before settling on Roger. She softened her voice. “What happened to all our marketing efforts? I thought you said they were well received.”

“The new campaign did very well. Our email opens and clicks have doubled, and site traffic has never been higher,” Roger said. He had stayed seated, and in fact looked to be sinking even further into his chair.

Carla tilted her head. “What about our piece on the psychological effects of hunting Easter eggs? How did that perform?”

“Er, not as good,” Roger sank even lower into the plush chair. “Shortly after releasing it, another psychologist published a study that refuted basically everything we said about the benefits of children believing in the Easter Bunny.”

It might have been her imagination, but Carla could have sworn she heard a sigh of relief from everyone else in the room. She slowly walked toward the end of the table where Roger was sitting, speaking just as slow so that the clatter of her heels punctuated each word. “And why am I just hearing about this now?”

The sweat gleamed on Roger’s high forehead. “We assumed you knew,” he stuttered. “It was on several front pages.”

By this time Carla was standing next to the quivering blob some might call a man. She would call him a cowardly ball of fat. “It is not my job to keep abreast on the market.” She moved in for the kill, leaning close and lowering her voice even more. “That was your job. You failed.” She turned suddenly, flinging her hair across his face. She hoped it stung. “Get out. You’re no longer needed at the company.”

Of course, firing Roger wasn’t going to solve the greater problem, but it made her slightly less angry.

“Ms. Webber,” Steve, her VP of Product, spoke up, “not all of our products failed this season. There were several that saw significant increases in sales from last year.”

Carla continued walking to her spot at the head of the table, but chewed her lip momentarily as she digested this new information. “Continue, Steve. What products excelled?”

“Baskets did particularly well this year. We also saw a spike in demand for the crème eggs, mini bunnies, and the scented candy grass.” Steve paused to fumble at his computer. “In fact if you look at this slide, you’ll see that our lowest performing item was the egg dyeing kits.”

“Kits?” Carla asked. “Plural? As in more than one kind of kit performed poorly?”

Steve blinked. “All the kits. We had developed a new glow in the dark line, which saw the best return, but every single egg dye kit sold less than expected, and less than previous years.”

Carla stared at the powerpoint in despair. It was worse than she expected. There were only two weeks until Easter, and she didn’t see how the season could be saved. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. No matter what, she needed to try. The children deserved every effort and more to turn this around.

“Listen to me,” she leaned across the table, trying to fix the remaining VPs with her stare. “From here until Easter our focus needs to be on those egg dyeing kits. Every commercial spot, every email, every salesperson MUST push those kits. We’ll meet again the Friday before Easter and I expect every person in this room to make those kits sell!” She lowered herself to the chair before saying, “You’re all dismissed.”

As the room scrambled to escape, Carla swiveled to stare outside once more. They still thought it was about the money. No one realized how much was at stake. She knew that Mike, for one, was a family man. She imagined if he realized the risk his children were in, he’d be pushing sales harder.

Sometimes it felt impossible, trying to prevent the inevitable crisis. Carla had debated many times over whether to clue her team into the fact that she couldn’t care less about the sales numbers and profits. All she cared about was what it meant – the number of families dyeing and hiding Easter eggs.

There were only a few people still alive that knew the truth. The Easter Bunny was real. He had always been real. But he wasn’t a fluffy bunny of love.

Carla shuddered. He was terrifying. If her father hadn’t woken up the Easter when she was eight, she’d be dead now. The Bunny had been in her room. His mouth open, drool pooling from his fangs, and scarlet eyes locked on hers. She knew he was about to eat her. She knew she was doomed. Then thankfully, her father had heard a noise and come to investigate.

After that she had devoted her life to first researching the Easter Bunny, and then trying to prevent his return. What people didn’t realize was that the fun dyed Easter eggs hidden each year acted as a ritual. They kept the Bunny away from their homes. They protected their children. But the agreement was that if no offering, no eggs, were presented, the Bunny had every right to devour any child under ten.

Every right, and the ferocious appetite to eat his fill Easter night.

 Carla stared outside, but really she was staring ahead to the headlines. Each Easter more and more children went missing, and the sales numbers indicated that this would be the worst year so far.

The Road to Hoarderdom

Every long weekend this year, I’ve planned to do a closet purge. It hasn’t happened yet. I’m not really optimistic about the upcoming weekend either. There are so many better things to do… like read Erin’sNaNoWriMo story, watch Netflix, play LoL with my brother, or get the rest of my stupid swimming miles. Not to mention sleeping in. I love me some sleep time.

Of course the assumption here is that everyone knows what I mean when I say closet purge. Quite simply, it means going through my clothes, which mainly reside in my closet, and getting rid of at least some of them. A good purge also involves reorganizing the remaining items, but I’m never that motivated. The last time I even got rid of something was for a clothing swap in May, which totally doesn’t count since I managed to leave the swap with more clothes than I started.

There are many reasons why one should regularly purge their closet. So far I’ve been very successful at coming up with solutions to avoid it. Don’t believe me? Alright, well here are a few reasons and what I consider perfectly adequate solutions:

Reason 1:  You can no longer close the drawers of your dresser.

Non-Closet-Purge Solution: Move clothes that would typically be in drawers to hangers. When this stops working, use the weird shelves in your closet. If that fails too, stop closing drawers. If you constantly leave certain ones open there’s more room.

Reason 2:  You run out of hangers.

NCP Solution: Omg so easy to handle, it’s laughable. For an instant fix double up certain items. You can almost always fit 2 dresses on a hanger. Buy more hangers the next time you’re at the store.

Reason 3: Nothing fits well.

NCP Solution: Buy more clothes, and then use solutions 1 & 2 to make room for them.

Reason 4: Seriously there’s no room in the dresser or closet.

NCP Solution: Don’t wash all your clothes at once. Always have some dirty so they can chill in the hamper. The next time you travel, leave some clothes in the suitcase. Start using other areas of the bedroom (desk, chair, bags from shopping) to store clothes. You can also buy plastic drawers to hold items like socks or camis.

So why closet purge when you have all these great solutions available to you??

Because apparently you’re drifting towards the “hoarder” line. One of my friends delicately mentioned at some point that I have hoarding tendencies when it comes to clothes. I thought she was joking. I’m starting to suspect she was not. For giggles, I decided to look up common signs of a hoarder. While I feel many have no relevance to me whatsoever, there were some that hit a little close to home. I texted said friend Jenn about it, and based on her comments decided maybe it would be a good idea to at least do a quick inventory of certain items.

At quick count, I currently own:

10 pairs of jeans (not counting the black ones)

47 pairs of socks

50 pairs of underwear

And 32 dresses

Those are the only items that are really grouped together, so that’s all the counting I’m willing to do. And when I say quick count, I mean counting the ones on hangers/in drawers. I wasn’t motivated enough to go through the hamper, suitcases, or bins of stored clothing in my closet. Or the stack of clothes on top of the bins in my closet. Almost forgot that existed.

Those are normal numbers, right? I mean sure I could go an entire month wearing only dresses alone and never need  to do laundry, but the thing is those are appropriate for different occasions, so I wouldn’t really do that.

The thing is, I hate getting rid of clothes. It’s impractical. So what if some of those jeans don’t fit? That means they don’t fit RIGHT NOW. It’s entirely possible that at any point I could gain/lose weight and then they’d fit again. Styles and opinions change all the time, so that shirt I don’t like today might be my new favorite next year. A dress is ripped entirely down one side? One of these days I might be motivated enough to take it to get fixed. It’ll happen.  Ok yes, it’s been a year since I ripped it, but motivation can come at any point!

This is why when I briefly kept a spreadsheet of what I wore on client visits I had trouble organizing it. There were too many options to make it easy to navigate. I completely understand Cher’s need for a computer program to track her clothes. Is it cheating if I try to get one of those instead of actually doing a closet purge? Nah.

F*** the Beholder, You Are Beautiful

All of the recent press around Fifty Shades of Grey has been reminding me of one (of many) of the reasons I hate both that book and the whole Twilight series. Beyond the crappy writing and lack of personality for the main character, both books share this really annoying habit where the female lead has men falling at her feet but continually thinks herself unattractive. This drives me more insane than even the “Inner Goddess” crap (I mean really, your response to something is that your Inner Goddess gets in a lotus position? If such a thing existed, my Inner Goddess would be more along the lines of Inner Sakura. She’d alternatively want to beat the crap out of people and jump their bones. Maybe eat some chocolate too).

To me, this comes across as a really horrible manifestation of the pervading habit of girls to say/think they’re not as pretty as they are.

Let’s start with a common example. Go back quite a few years in your memory, and think of the movie Mean Girls.  Sure, it seems funny when Regina traps Cady into admitting she’s pretty and acting like it’s a horrible thing. I’m not going to lie, I laughed. The problem is that behind that funny scene is a truth. Women are judged for admitting they are attractive. Even if a woman is stunningly beautiful, she is immediately condemned in our minds. Saying you’re “hot” or “beautiful” is tantamount to having a huge ego. Thus women have learned to downplay how they talk about their attractiveness.

I was playing around on imdb.com the other day, and I found this quote from one of my favorite actresses, Gemma Arterton: “In comparison to many actresses I think I’m really average – when I got the Bond film Quantum of Solace there was this big hoo-ha about me not being hot enough, I have to say I agree – I don’t think I’m in that realm.”

BEAUTIFUL, DAMNIT

Personally, I find Gemma stunningly beautiful, but even she feels the need to negatively compare herself to others. This is a common response from women – maybe I’m hot/pretty/beautiful, but not as hot/pretty/beautiful as someone else.

There are two issues at work here. One, again, is the culture that women shouldn’t admit they’re crazy attractive. If you don’t believe me yet that this is a thing, I have more examples for you. We laud the girl that “doesn’t know she’s beautiful.” Not only are there songs about it (here’s looking at you, One Direction), there are movies, cartoons, and of course books. The whole idea of a book like Fifty Shades of Grey making the main character not know her own beauty worth is that then, as readers, we can “relate.” Because of course if you’re a girl, you don’t know you’re attractive, and that makes you hotter.

WTF WORLD!?

The bigger problem is the second issue in play – insecurity. A lot of times the reason women won’t celebrate their attractiveness is because they genuinely don’t believe it. They are falling into the trap of comparing themselves to others, and they don’t like the comparison. You’ll find people are much more willing to own up to being “pretty” than “beautiful,” because pretty is less threatening. And if you have even a hint of insecurity (which you probably do), saying you’re “beautiful” opens up the floodgates for criticism. Which WILL happen. We have tons of articles about all our beautiful celebrities, and then minutes later we’ll condemn them for bad makeup, poor clothing choice, or messed up hair. So for girls that don’t think they measure up to that level, how are they supposed to feel confident enough to declare their beauty?

I’m not saying that everyone falls into the traditional “beauty” standards. I’m also not saying they should. The whole issue with beauty is that it’s a question of perception. What I find attractive is not the same thing you find attractive, EVEN WHEN COMPARING TRADITIONALLY ATTRACTIVE EXAMPLES. Get past the idea that you should be thin, blond, big-eyed, and pouty-lipped.

What I am saying, is that women shouldn’t be afraid to celebrate their own beauty. I know it’s hard. Trust me, I know. Some people suggest things like picking favorite features and feeling confident in those. That’s not a bad idea, depending on how you go about it.

When I was younger I decided I really liked my lips because everyone told me that plump lips are good, and if nothing else you can absolutely say my lips are plump. In a world where beauty is subjective, that seemed like the easiest, concrete reason to like a feature. Then one day I was hanging out with a then ex-boyfriend in the middle of the night, and we randomly got on the topic of my good features, and to my shock my lips were not one of them, because, as he told me, “they’re not that great.” That was a huge blow to the confidence scale for awhile. Since I had picked this feature because of other people’s opinion, suddenly having a bad opinion threw me for a loop. If people didn’t like the features I thought they should like, how could I be confident about any of them?

So trust me when I say I know the struggle. It feels like it should be better to underestimate your beauty than to overestimate it, and have people disagree.

But that’s stupid. You need to remember first of all that your beauty does NOT determine your worth as a person. And second, since beauty is subjective STOP trying to live up to someone’s standards. Figure out what you like about how you look, and for the love of all that’s holy, BE CONFIDENT IN IT.

I think books like Fifty Shades of Grey and Twilight teach us to not believe in our own beauty. They tell girls to base their confidence solely on what some guy (Edward, Christian) says about it, when they should be teaching them to celebrate their beauty no matter what.  I’d rather teach girls to be confident in who they are, and yes, their physical appearance is part of that. You should know you’re beautiful in some way, but you should also know it’s only one part of what makes you, you. Beauty should never be your everything, but you also shouldn’t downplay what you like about yourself just because of other people’s opinions.  

For the record, I like my lips again. Not because I think I should like them, but because they’re soft, expressive, and I love that I can wear almost any lip color and still work it. I’d like them more if they wouldn’t turn blue so easily, but that’s another matter. And maybe there are people that think “they’re not that great,” but I don’t see how that changes the things I like about them. Maybe they’ll never be as plump as Angelina Jolie’s lips, but I don’t see why I should care about her. In fact, I don’t see why I need to even give you reasons for why I like them or anything else about myself. I don’t justify liking my car, or my excessive love of Taco Bell, so why need to justify what I like about my appearance?

 

I want you to know what things about yourself you find beautiful and rock it with the same confidence and faith as anything else you truly believe. It might not feel easy, but the more you can declare to yourself “I’m hot/pretty/drop dead gorgeous/beautiful” (feel free to use your preferred descriptive) the more confident you’ll feel saying it, and that is its own kind of beauty.

Your Special Snowflake Sucks

This week there was a whole spiel on the radio devoted to whether a parent should let their kids know when they suck at something. The debate was whether it was better to be honest with a child and crush their hopes and dreams early on, or to give them an inflated sense of self but avoid breaking their tiny hearts. I missed the end decision, but lordy do I hope we decided to be dream crushers.

Personally, I realized very early on in life that my mother was completely biased and I could not trust her on anything. Heck, until recently I was convinced she had invented the compliment “doe eyes” and bribed relatives/friends to say it to me. It’s only been the past few months that I realized it’s actually a real phrase. To be fair, this is the same mother that claims I’m a fast runner (I’m not), that both her children are beautiful (and she maintained this through our super awkward phases, which were super awkward and unfortunate), and that I’m a good singer (she’s tone deaf, how would she even know?).

I didn’t think my mother was purposely lying to me, but rather that she was blinded by love. I looked to my father to be a little more realistic but didn’t entirely trust him either. I started relying on friends until I realized that unless they’re pretty much your best friend in the world, they too will lie to your face about how awesome you are and you’ll end up with no real sense of your limitations.

It’s a very interesting time of life where on the one hand we’re plagued by unrealistic images and expectations, and on the other we’re told to cherish and recognize our uniqueness as being something to celebrate. But is it really?

Now some of the messaging I can agree with and in fact super love. It is fabulous to be reminded that no, I’m never going to look like Megan Fox in a bikini, but that’s okay. It’s good to know no one expects me to sing like Christina. It’s extra wonderful to find out about problems that great people had. Not that I want anyone to be depressed or an alcoholic or anything, but it helps keep their greatness in perspective (#HemingwayWasADrunk).

But I also think we go too far sometimes. We’re told that because we’re unique, everything we say/do is meaningful. I FINALLY joined the Twitter world today. I did it mostly so I can keep up on my favorite celebrity boyfriends, but I’ll probably tweet too. Why not. The whole idea of Twitter though kind of boggles my mind. From the brief amount of time I’ve spent scrolling on it, it seems like people took the most superficial parts of Facebook (selfies, posts about every little thing they do) and just constantly send that out. I suppose deep life revelations are not always simpatico with 140 character limit. But do people really want to know I’m drinking yet another frappuccino? Do they want to see my new mani every week? Do they really care about my thoughts on the #Hercules movie? Is it really meaningful just because I’m unique and I said it?

If this seems a little hypocritical from a girl that writes a blog and has totally added frappuccino pictures on Facebook… that’s because it is. I engage in this exact same behavior all the time. Even before the days of Twitter, people were doing this to a small extent with texts, and phone calls, and letter writing way back in the day. We feel the need to share the details of our life. We feel like people should care. I guess what has changed is that before, we only made that assumption of our family and close friends. Now, you use a hashtag and expect the rest of the world to retweet and follow.

What our generation has the most trouble accepting is the value of uniqueness. Yes, you are unique and that’s all well and good, but what does it really mean? Does it make your thoughts any more important than mine? No. The thing is, you’re unique because of the sum of your parts. Someone else in the world totally has your same mani. Somebody can write better than you. Someone came up with that inside joke with their friends like a decade earlier. SOMEONE WAS ALREADY ON THE MOON. There is very little you can do that is well and truly original against all the people in the world, all the spans of time. That especially goes for your little 140 character tweets. There are a finite number of unique tweets. I mean it’s a freaking huge number and we’ll probably (possibly? Most likely?) never hit it, but nonetheless it exists.

So yeah, celebrate you. Because you are awesome. Just keep in mind: you’re NO MORE AWESOME THAN ANYBODY ELSE. It is wonderful that some people find you clever/amusing/super sexy and want to follow you, but don’t expect everybody to do so, and don’t build your happiness around whether or not people care about your unique snowflakeness. They’re probably too busy with their own unique snowflakeness of being awesome.

Now I’m going to go tweet this.