Existential Summer of Yore

Quietly procrastinating from my editorial duties I began musing on the end of summer and past summers I've had. I started reflecting on what was arguably my most interesting summer. It was the summer of '99. I had just finished my freshman year of college and decided to live with my dear old dad for the summer. In Abilene. I cannot recall at this time why I thought this sounded like a good idea. I mean, of course I wanted to spend time with my family... But a whole summer in Abilene Texas?
For my non-Texas friends let me briefly describe to you the existence of a small West-Texas town. Ever heard of the Bible Belt? Abilene, Texas is smack dab in the middle of it. There is literally a church on every street corner. So, say you're at a 4-way intersection, there would be four churches immediately available for your praying pleasure. Catholics, Protestants and Mormons all living in harmony worshipping a way. My step brothers attended Wiley High School. One of the two high schools for Abilene and all communities surrounding for about a 50-mile radius. What, one may ask, does a young person do there? Well, I took some summer courses from a community college to kill the summer and avoid a couple of the notorious UT weed-out courses. While studying for a test one day (yes, its hot in Abilene. 117 degrees hot. And there is a "breeze". It feels like the blast of heat you get hit in the face with when you open the over door) I begin seeing huge shadows swooping over the skylights. My dad had a ranch in Abilene so we were 15 miles from town. (This is an important fact to keep in mind for the following portion of my anecdote.) So, there I was studying with huge shadows swooping over the house. Then I begin hearing shotguns. I decide to go outside and see what all the fun was about. Now, this is a small town and we're out on a ranch. Swimming and horse-back riding get boring after a while. So my step-brothers had made up a game. See, driving up the gravel road to the house they had encountered a rattle snake. They killed the snake, skinned him, and then threw him in a tree. And waited. When the buzzards began swooping for the snake thy began shooting. Needless to say my step mom whipped their hides when she got home. Besides killing for sport with no regard for life, its illegal to kill buzzards. Who knew?
Anyway, back to school. For our first paper for government 301 we had to write a paper on a philosophical principle that we supported. Not considering that I wanted to make friends over the summer I chose to write a paper on existentialism in a town overrun with seriously god-fearing Christians. Well, my professor loved my paper and made me read it aloud to the class. (Yes I've always been the dorky teachers pet. Do ya'll know me at all??) There were literally gasps of horror and no one spoke to me for the rest of the summer. Couldn't even borrow a pencil from these kids. Seriously. It was weird. But interesting. For example, we would begin every class with a topic that was meant to stir a debate. Because every kid had the same mentality obviously this worked like a charm. So I would play devil's advocate even if I didn't support my own position. I figured if I had no friends at least I'd get the teacher to adore me and give me an 'A'. One topic the teacher introduced was a bill that was in legislation at the time that would make it legal for a 16-year-ikd girl to get an abortion without parental consent. Now, looked at logically this would make for a good debate. On one hand an abortion is surgery and parents should be aware of what medical risks their teenager is taking. On the other hand there are so many teenagers that cannot talk to their parents and would get kicked out or abused for telling. Or worse, would commit suicide rather than tell their parents. Its a tricky question. However, the kids in the class could not even get to the issues. They honestly couldn't fathom why in the world a 16-year-old would need an abortion. Because they shouldn't even bee having sex. Until they're married.
Needless to say, I drove home to Austin every weekend for two months. That's a 3-hour drive in my old volvo that had no air condition. In 115 degree heat. Now if you don't think that that summer sounds like hell then I'm afraid you've missed the irony of my tale.

5 Essential Rules for a Break-up

I wrote this blog after my last break-up but seeing how relationships are always ending I'm reposting for others: Wow. That sounds negative. Relationships are always beginning too. So there.

The weather is still 72 and sunny but break-up season in in full force in Southern California right now. Unfortunately I only know of one couple still going strong. And the best of luck to them! There should be at least two survivors of such an uncanny season. To help the rest of us I have put together a sort of guide in overcoming the initial hurt that is disappointment and the looming prospect of starting all over again. Oh yes, and sometimes missing the other member of the doomed union. So here are a few tips....

1. Listen to as much break-up music as you can possibly handle. It feels much better knowing all the tortured musicians have been through exactly the same thing as you. (Stay away from Kurt Cobain) The music can depend on the situation of course. Right now I am loving Celebration's "The Modern Tribe", Rilo Kiley "Under the Blacklight" and Janis Joplin, the Queen of Heartbreak.

2. For most situations I strongly recommend deleting the ex's number. You can always get it again once the first hurt wears off. But this will save you from the embarrassing texts you sent them last night while out drowning your sorrows with your friends. It is never EVER a good idea to drunk text. Unless you're drunk sexting your cute rebound.

3. Date as many people right out of the gate as possible. You don't have to think long-term here. You just need to go out and meet new people and flirt. Its a great distraction and reminds you that yes, you are a commodity. For those that like rebounds now is the time. Capitalize!

4. Go out with your friends and get plastered at least once while it still hurts nice and good. It feels good to forget. Plus you can work on flirting. If you're a girl. Guys love drunk girls. If you're a dude then don't flirt this night. Girls hate drunk dudes.
The next day you'll feel so awful that you won't drink for a while longer and you can reflect on your feelings. Your feelings. Not theirs. You don't know what they're feeling so don't kill yourself wondering and over-analyzing. If you must then you're a prime candidate for deleting their number.

I suppose I only have 4 rules... I'm forgetting one. Just remember "Its only supposed to work out with one person." *Thanks Leah.

My unrequited love of "Rock of Love"

I don't really understand the phrase "its like watching a train wreck." Maybe its my weak stomach or all the horrible death and destruction but I cannot say I would ever enjoy watching a train wreck. I adore watching "Bret Michael's Rock of Love" because I love seeing drunk strippers and washed out groupies compete for the attention of an over-the-hill-past-his-prime balding rocker who still believes he's living in the 80s.
Daisy and Amber are the two "lucky" contestants who made it to the top two. "Lucky" because the prize in store for them exists in an overweight-drug and alcohol-ravaged-std-highly-likely-balding body topped by a plastic-surgery-enhanced face garnished with 3 inches of base, 2 coats of mascara and I'm pretty sure tattooed-on eye-liner. I've heard men lament about how women will leave their face on the pillow in the morning. I can only imagine what Bret Michael's face would look like on my white linens. Ew. I just threw up in my mouth a little.
Now, I have a slight problem with any of the reality shows that purport to find love. Love is hard enough to find in a city of 10 million. Narrowing down the field to 20 eligible people and then finding the one you like the best is absurd. Although entertaining. But with Rock of Love these 20 women are so completely insane that often 10 of them are in love with him from the first week.
Daisy says in the last episode, "I'm so excited. I have the chance of spending my life with the man I'm totally in love with." As dumb as this chick is, I'm pretty sure she is the first person to ever utter these words in the same coherent sentence. Isn't part of falling in love the idea that this is the person you WILL be spending the rest of your life with? Isn't half of the fun the fact that they're falling in love with you too and the feeling of free-falling is mutual? Can you really be heart-broken when, after sharing the same man for two months with multiple other women, you get dumped? What kind of women want to share the same man and compete for him? Especially, Bret Michaels. This show completely consumes me for the abyss of psychological fodder that can be
harvested from its contestants. I love this freaking show.

My pursuit of Yuppie-dom

Remember those "Pat the Bunny" books you read when you were a little kid? A friend gave my mom a "Pat the Yuppie" book, as a joke of course, but I was fascinated. You could pat the Yuppie's exposed brick walls, pat the Yuppie's fresh homemade pasta (it was really just a rubber band) etc. My mom explained to me what a Yuppie was and I thought it sounded fabulous. A young urban professional. A seed was planted that day.

If you look up Yuppie on Wikipedia this is what you find:
Yuppie, an acronym for "Young Urban Professional", a term often used pejoratively with connotations of selfishness, materialism, and superficiality. Originally the term held some positive meaning, but quickly led to backlash against those that self-identified with the term.

It's unfortunate that the term "Yuppie" is now associated with such derogatory traits, but for the sake of my blog we'll be purists for a moment and go back to the golden age of the 80s, before Patrick Bateman, the infamous American Psycho, tainted the Yuppie class forever.

My little pink cotton-candy Yuppie dream growing up was simple and not selfish or materialistic in the least. Included in this dream was a successful career I enjoyed, a nice home and nice things. It seemed to me that Yuppies were only pursuing the American Dream and living up to the best of their potential. What is superficial about owning high tech gadgets and not living in a dumpy apartment?

Unfortunately, as I delved deeper into the understanding of the Yuppie lifestlye I've found that I simply do not fit the mold. Not only did I choose a profession that requires me to put in a little bit more hard time working my way up the ladder to achieve solid "urban professional" staus; but I also rebel against some of the common traits listed for Yuppies on Wikipedia:

1. Expensive car such as BMW, Mercedes, Lexus, Porsche, etc
-I love my jeep and will probably still be driving it when I'm 50. As a choice. I love the sun. And running over curbs and other small objects.


2. An expensive condo, townhouse or apartment in a "trendy" building or neighborhood.
-Although I live in a trendy neighborhood you must be a millionaire or movie star to afford a small cottage in the area. Unless, of course, you're a crack shore who has been there for 40 years. Funny how they live side-by-side like that. I love Venice.


3. Manicures, hair streaking, etc
-I have no patience for someone else do do my nails. I prefer to do them myself and do a better job. I believe most Yuppies would cringe at the thought.


4. Hobbies or activities that are genearly not embraced by rural or suburban people.
-Perhaps they're referring to the Opera? Symphonies? No and negative.


5. Membership at exclusive gyms
-It's really all I can do to get to Gold's once a month.


6. Elitism, even from those with humble beginnings
-I believe this trait should be thrown out since it is obviously thrown in as a negative reflection of those who gave Yuppies a bad name and shows the author's bias. Elitism is not a Yuppie quality, it is a Snob's quality. Paris Hilton is an elitist and not a Young Urban Professional.


Further researching "Yuppie" I came across a whole slew of cute spin-offs for our generation: Dinks, Yindies, Yupsters, etc; all striving to define the next cultural phenomenon. As for me, I've decided to abandon my stale dream of achieving an out dated and ill-suited acronym. After all, the best things in live are usually undefinable.

Expectations

A common theme this past week that keeps popping up is expectations. Its a tricky thing, and probably is the cause of most break-ups and misunderstandings. And, like a friend mentioned, when you are constantly changing, from second to second, is it unreasonable for anyone to have expectations of you at all? Of course some things stay constant. Like values. You can expect to be able to rely on someone to stick up for you or be there when you need them. But expectations have a way of growing into an idealistic view of someone. Its easy to liken it to meeting girlfriends. So many girls are just nuts so when I meet a cool one I think, wow, this girl really has it all together. What an unrealistic expectation! Who really has it all together? And then when you grow close of course you realize that they have insecurities and problems just like you and everyone else you know. Its more disappointing when you are dating someone you are really into and grow these expectations without realizing it until they let you down. Or worse, you find that YOU let THEM down due to the same stigma. As another friend noted, they find out all along that you are just really you. Good, bad, ugly, beautiful. So are expectations akin to stereotypes in that they help you organize your thoughts and feelings into different tidy little schemas and may help act as a defense mechanism and therefor are somewhat protective and therefor proactive? Or do they just get in the way because after creating that beautiful glow when you meet the "perfect" man/woman/whatever it turns around and punches you in the stomach for being so naive? By that, I meant that no one is perfect. I know you find that someone perfect for you. But it is easy to confuse the two. SO, I'll leave you on the great advice of Oprah, I agree with some of the things she says but of course think myself above the advice she gives to the silly masses. You want to find someone who not compliments you, but someone who supplements you. one of the best things i think I've heard this week.

An Open Letter to The One Who Got Away

I ran into an acquaintance recently in Austin who confessed to me in a drunken stupor that while engaged in a conversation with his buddies about "The One Who Got Away" he had nominated me for that position in his heart. This, of course, led to speculation on what entitles someone to that elevated level which is pedestal, and, how it came to be they "Got Away" in the first place.
"The One Who Got Away" The name implies that this person left on their own accord. Perhaps you never realized they were amazing until someone else snatched them up.
Yet, as it is usually rued in (drunken) conversations, I would like to propose changing the name to "The One You Threw Away and Have Regretted Ever Since." I have noticed that this is often times a more suitable name for those (mis)labeled ""The One Who Got Away". "Threw Away" has a negative connotation but is more brief than "The One You Broke Things Off With For Whatever Reason And Have Regretted Ever Since." If anyone has a concise, catchy phrase in the "Threw Away" stead I am all ears but I digress. Back to the point.
"The One You Threw Away/The One Who Got Away" Both names imply regret and to regret a mistake you made years ago is a waste of time and robs you of finding the one you might truly be happy with. And, if you believe in fate and the "One For You" then can a "One Who Got Away" exist?
So, if you do indeed exist, to my "The One Who Got Away", I apologize for being a silly naive little girl and you can take comfort in knowing that I will die an old spinster.
Afterward: as for my acquaintence at the bar, I don't think I constitute as any of the above definitions. It wasn't for his lack of trying, I just wasn't interested. That's just called bad timing.

My love affair with a .357

I suppose the first time I shot a gun was with my daddy on a hunting trip. I have to suppose because the first time I remember shooting a gun was with my dad on a hunting trip and I'd already shot one before. He'd stand behind me with his finger on the trigger. Sort of like how some dads probably teach their daughters how to bowl. I remember the first time I felt the gun kick against my shoulder. It hurt a little but the adrenaline rush was well worth it.
We start them young in my family. I was probably five when I remember this first shot off a .20 gauge. Being the only girl out of five brothers, I was the only child who wasn't given a bb gun at a tender age. Or any gun for that matter. It wasn't until I was 25 that my dad bestowed upon me his cherished .357 magnum revolver.
I've always loved shooting. If you're not a gun person please stop reading here. I don't want to hear preaching about gun safety or how guns kill people and I'm not here to advocate the right for American citizens to arm themselves. I only wish to regale you with tales of one of my own favorite hobbies.
Obviously I've grown up around guns. Shooting is no different to me than how some people play golf or swim. In college my girlfriends and I would drive out with our friends and boyfriends to their ranches and spend the weekend tooling around in golf carts drinking sangria wine and shooting skeet. This is when we got tired of bars and 6th street. Faye loves me to tell the story of how, one night when we got bored of the scene we took off straight from 6th street to a buddy's ranch. We briefly stopped by my house to grab Paco and that was it. The girls spend the weekend fishing and shooting in high heels and the men in nice jeans and good shoes.
One of our favorite (and granted not the most intelligent) games was playing a drinking game of skeet. When you missed you chugged a beer. Obviously the more we drank the more we missed and ended up wasted. But, a big but, is when you grow up around guns you know gun safety and when to put them down. We never got wasted while shooting and accidents were highly unlikely. Just like you wouldn't chop something up really quickly with a sharp knife while drunk. Or drive a car. I remember Arien and I playing one bout and our friend Charlie was talking to us with a beer in one hand and his .12 gauge in the crook of his elbow. Shmitty called "pull" and Charlie turned around and boom boom shot both skeet (double pul) without lifting his gun to his shoulder. Arien and I both had our socks knocked off. My Texas nature comes out here: gun + good aim + beer + hairy chest = hot.
Growing up with five brothers is tough to put it mildly. Especially in a family that is still mostly a machismo family. It probably explains my fascination with Hemingway. Anyway the way my dad and I bond now is at the gun range. We went shooting together for the first time in probably 10 years when I was 25. It's now a regular occurrence every time I go back home to visit. You see, in my family, guns bring people closer together.