Pour Some Sugar on Me

Is it normal to eat an entire bag of Oreo cookies? God, I hope so.

Surely I’m not the only one stupid enough to do this. In defense, I feel moved to clarify that it was not in one sitting, but over a 24 hour period. Not sure if that makes me any less pathetic.

I bought them yesterday afternoon at the grocery store as a little “thank you” treat for my mom. She invited me over for grilled steaks last night and so I thought I would spend the big bucks on dessert. It’s the least I could do, huh?

As a kid, the best treats in the world were cookies out of a bag. Mom would buy the “high end” bag-o-cookies like Pepperidge Farm or something to the equivalent. Sure, every so often she’d go all out and bust open a box of Betty Crocker brownies, but that didn’t give you immediate chocolate gratification. I learned early in life that chocolate is the secret to life.

So I went to the store yesterday afternoon to buy groceries and I found myself in the cookie isle. Usually I stay away from it. Far away. Normally as I’m approaching the “Isle of Evil Temptation” I’ll start pushing the cart faster. It’s my way of avoiding those little Keebler Elves from hell calling out my name. It didn’t work yesterday. I heard them loud and clear as my cart swerved uncontrollably on two wheels into the isle reigned by Lucifer himself. I wonder if there are streak marks on the laminate flooring.

I stood there in stupid awe over the wide selection of cookies. It’s amazing really. I don’t know how long I was there trying to decide on what my cookie of choice would be. I felt kinda like Charlie Bucket in the Wonka factory. As soon as I made a decision, I would see something even more scrumpdeliumptious. I guess mom would be “Grandpa Joe” in this Wonka scenario.

I decided to go with something in the Oreo family. Standing there salivating, I had a flashback from several years ago of eating a fudge covered Oreo. I take my chocolate very seriously, so I knew this memory had to be true. I searched and searched, but to no avail. I could not find the wanted fudge covered Oreo. I literally sighed out loud right there from disappointment and frustration. I was forced to go with my second choice: Double Stuffed Oreo with Chocolate Crème.

I cradled the double chocolate concoction in my arms as I surveyed the remaining cookie options. I didn’t want to make the wrong selection. Finally at some point I felt good about my decision. I plopped the bag-o-evilness in my cart right next to the healthy “7 Whole Grains” bread “with no trans fat”. Uh… yup… irony is a funny thing. When I got home I put all the groceries away, but I left the bag-o-shame on the counter since I was leaving soon.

Here’s the part where I turn yet another pathetic corner. Knowing that I had chocolate in my house was so overwhelming to me, that I told myself that it would be okay if I went ahead and ate a couple. The devil himself manipulated me into thinking that taking partially eaten food as a “thank you” to someone’s house was no biggie. Damn him. As predictable as it may be, a “couple” turned into like four. Ok, fine… five. Crap. Six.

The next sad part of this already pathetic story is that I actually left the house WITHOUT the cookies. Never even thought about it until I was at my mother’s house. So when I returned, I came home to an opened bag of Oreos.

And now 24 hours later, I have an empty bag of Oreos. I will NEVER go down that “Isle of Forbidden Pleasures" ever, ever again.

A Little Less Conversation

I went to a great party Saturday night at a friend’s house. Lots of people, music, good conversation. Usually at our parties, the crowd starts thinning about 10pm. The responsible people decide they need to get up in the morning, leaving us scallywags unsupervised… which is why most of the good stuff happens after 10pm.

So it was just like clockwork Saturday night when we witnessed the bulk of the party-goers leaving. Now it was just us… the normal crowd. About 12 of us huddled around the table out on the deck. Little conversations sprinkled here and there. A couple of guitars playing made-up songs. All the leftover food placed in the center of the table in hopes that it gets eaten. Which it does.

Normally, one of those little conversations takes on a life. Spreading itself throughout the group. This causes people of like minds to mentally congregate… separating the crowd into teams: the losing team and the winning team. Of course both teams think they’re winning. Naturally.

This particular game was over the topic of politics. Not usually a good topic amongst friends, huh? Or maybe it was the perfect topic. Normally I would think that the two teams represented would be the republicans and the democrats. But it seems over the past few years the line that separates everyone has changed into Clinton-Haters and Clinton-Supporters. The rule is that you have to declare up front which team you’re on.

I’m not necessarily a rule follower. I sat there listening to my friends while nursing my margarita and eating way-to-many of those homemade chocolate chip cookies. It occurred to me that the topic was a little less political and maybe a little more moral.

The Clinton-Supporters bring out their briefcase of political facts which they incorporate into their usual and rehearsed “Why I Defend Clinton” speech. Normally I would think that you debate political facts with opposing political facts. But it seems to me that the “Why I Hate Clinton” team always brings up the moral issue every time as their defense. They always go straight to the “but he LIED” and then right into any other morally wrong doing.

What REALLY cracks me up that inevitably the argument always resorts to “personal” testimonies. “My cousin’s friend’s wife used to work for a guy who knew Clinton and he said that…” These unproven stories never end well either.

So here’s my problem: This is all a bunch of crap.

I’m not a politically driven person, but I do think that people are arguing the wrong fight. I’m not going to defend or chastise Clinton’s political history because, frankly, I’m not that interested. However, I am going to say something if all you do is use someone’s sexual history and those “personal” testimonials as your political argument.

If you’re going to attack a President on political grounds, use politics as your weapon. And don’t use the whole “but he lied to us… to America” line. You would lie, too. If you were placed up there in a chair in front of millions of people and asked if you had sexual relations with some intern in a blue dress, I guaran-dog-tee you that most people would have lied under that amount of pressure.

I just wish that people would use politics to fight politics. Use morals to fight morals. And that’s only if you have your own moral ground to stand on. Don’t hold your wife’s hand while politically slamming another man for immoral behavior when you have stained a few blue dresses yourself.

Whew, I’m on a roll. Get out of my way.

I did voice my opinion to the crowd Saturday night in between my regular feedings of chips and dip. Turns out there was another believer there and so we made a team of two. It was nice to have back-up.

Maybe this conversation is always brought up because I live in Arkansas. People here take the Clinton issues pretty seriously. They are either proud of him or ashamed of him. And since we ALL know him personally, we feel that our opinions are correct and validated.

After our debate sizzled out, it was suggested that we now tackle topic of religion. The group vote was “NO”. Smart people. Very smart.

One thing that I do find interesting: For not being a politically driven person, these past two blog entries have been politically oriented. Wussup wit dat?

Motive

I had lunch with a long time friend the other day. We met about 18 years ago in the gift wrapping department of Dillard's where we worked. We instantly became friends. We were both teenagers, full of life, in love with all the boys and even had plans of being roommates. We spent time searching for an apartment and went shopping for "like way cool stuff" to decorate it with. We each had that teenage-girl-sparkle in our eye that reflected the big huge dreams we had for ourselves.

We never moved in together, but our friendship grew as we got older. We shared our poetry with each other and even collaborated on a few pieces. She showed me her artwork which I always thought was brilliant. We partied - hard - and survived all those boys who we thought were sent from heaven who turned out to be from hell. I won't tell you all our stories. I'm not sure if you would find them funny or pathetic. Nevertheless, we have experienced a great deal together and I wouldn't trade her or those memories for all the chocolate in the world.

She's been married, divorced, remarried. She has a house full of kids - two of which are her's biologically. She still paints brilliantly and stays connected to her creative mind. I don't know if she writes anymore... I hope she does. She knows that she can tell me anything - and she does. I'm not a counselor, but sometimes a friend is even better.

So we had lunch the other day at Lenny’s. My favorite sandwich shop. The lady who is normally at the register wasn’t there this day. I wonder if she’s okay. Maybe she just had the day off. It was pouring rain. Pouring. We left our umbrellas leaned against the front window creating a puddle of water on the floor. We silently chuckled every time one of the umbrellas would slip to the floor when someone opened the door.

We sat there with our hot sandwiches and updated each other on our lives – all within the 60 minutes that we were alowed away from work. We talked about her husband’s traveling and how difficult it is being the only parent in the house for days at a time. How your brain gets scrambled and you tend to lose yourself in between all the after-school activities, homework and a full time job. How a maid would be nice, but it costs money. She talked about how tiring it is when it’s 9pm at night and you’ve just sat down and breathed for the first time. She’s a good mom. I see the sacrifice. I see her doing her best with her young children and a horrible ex-husband who doesn’t seem to understand how to parent. Who causes her grief in ways that I can’t go into. I see it all and wish there was something I can do. But maybe listening is the best thing she needs.

She listens to me as well. While our 60 minutes was ticking away too fast, we talked about my single life and how it sucked. I talked about how difficult it is dating in my mid 30’s. Finding someone with real passion and a good heart. I told her “it’s just never going to happen.” But inside I was thinking that it’s just got to.

She said something very interesting to me. I told her that I didn’t want to be one of those people who were always looking. I said that I’m not the type to go to the grocery store in hopes to find a man. I’m not the type to hang out in a certain establishment with the motive of finding forever love. “Motive” was apparently my word for the day because I used it several times in those 60 minutes. Over and over with different colorful words before and after. Motive. I didn’t want my motive to be to find someone to love me.

I don’t remember word for word her response. Mainly because it didn’t sink into my thick skull until much later. It’s times like this when I wish we could Tivo conversations and play it back later for more accuracy. She probably had no clue that she was saying something profound. She didn’t know that I was going to feel her words way deeper than they were given. She looked at me. She said that she understood what I was saying, but that sometimes when we concentrate too much on what our motives are NOT, it block us from seeing what things could be. If we focus heavily on what we DON’T want to be, that it causes us to avoid what we do.

Wow. Like I said, I don’t remember her exact words that I’m sure just flew from her mouth without any thought. However, that’s what I heard. That was my interpretation long after our 60 minutes were up. That’s what I’m reflecting on. And you know what?

She’s right.

It All Comes Down to the Dog

It’s election day. Everywhere you go, there they are. Those people. The ones who stand on every corner with the hot sun beating down on them. Their sweaty tired hands holding up that predictable red, white and blue sign which advertises the candidate they support. They’re proud. You can tell from the smiles and waves they give you. Peering at me through my window as if I’m their best friend. And I would be if I voted for their candidate.

I was impatiently sitting at a stop light at one of the busiest intersections which has a church on the corner. Before I go on, I must say that I’ve always found it odd that most voting places are in churches. Somehow in my pea brain it doesn’t seem to fit with the whole separation of church and state thing. Maybe it’s just me. Probably. Usually is. Anyway, there I am. Avoiding eye contact with these cheery, desperate, sign holding volunteers. Through the crowd I see a lady sitting in a chair right smack dab on the corner. Using her sign of hope to shield her eyes from the sun while yelling out the name of her political choice. I thought, she sure is smart using that chair. Bet she's tired. I then realize there’s a dog sitting at her feet. I move my car up a bit to get a clearer view of the type of dog. I’m a dog person, so this isn’t shocking or odd.

The light turns green and I move forward slowly while rubber necking to see this dog who I’m now obviously obsessed with. There he is. He’s a poodle. A poodle? Maybe I’m strange. Maybe I over analyze. To me, the poodle is the wrong dog to have supporting a candidate. Why would anyone use a poodle as a political prop? What is it about a poodle that says “I’m here for you… the people.”? To me, the poodle says, “I’m high maintenance. I have special needs that must be addressed on a regular basis. I need to be groomed to look funny so I will be accepted by my poodle peers.” Or maybe “I can’t be my own poodle. I must conform to the rules. I will not fight for what isn’t standard.”

I’m a major dog person. I have three. I’m all about the poodle. Really. Some of my best friends are poodles. But listen, if you’re going to sit out there in that miserable sun waving and showing your toothy smile at strangers all day, wouldn’t you want to make your time productive? You only get so many seconds of “influence time” with each car passing by. Poodle = wrong choice. For God sakes, borrow someone’s lab or golden retriever. Use a dog that will roll around in the mud for you and with you. Work hard for you. Eager to please you. One that enjoys wrestling around with the kids. A shaggy mutt would probably be the best choice. A mutt says, “I’m one of you. I’m all of you. I am you.”

I swear. A poodle. There should be a “do’s and don’ts” list somewhere advising these people on canine marketing.

Innocent Until Proven Guilty

Ok, it’s time to get real here.

The vast majority of us have ex’s. Wives. Husbands. Girlfriends. Boyfriends. Lovers. They’ve burned us. They’ve left us for dead. They haven’t called. They’ve caused wounds so deep that have driven us into years of therapy.

So as a general rule, we don’t like our ex’s. There’s a reason why we’re not still with them. They’re psycho, not responsible, noncommittal, psycho, uncaring and psycho. Occasionally you’ll find that rare person who remains close friends with them, but like I said… it’s rare. And kudos to you if you’re one of them. You’ve managed to accomplish something that by social law shouldn’t be.

The issue of the day:

Why is it that we let these horrid people from our past… these lousy examples of love… these Psycho People From Hell… ruin our outlook on life, on love, on happiness?

Why do women take that immature, narcissistic, jackass and make him ruler of all men? Why do men make that psychotic, complaining hag taint his views on how women really are? These are people who waste our oxygen, but yet we give them so much emotional control over us. Because of them, we become men haters. We become bitter and doubtful that there is any woman alive that is normal.

Why do we generalize all humankind because of “them”? I’ve been guilty of it myself. However, I do feel that I’ve gotten mucho better. I don’t think all men are evil anymore. Just some of them.

This has become my current thought bubble because of a conversation I just had with a friend who has an ex-wife. I don’t know all the gruesome details of their wedded bliss, but according to him, she’s crazy and not emotionally stable. I’ve gathered that she always has these blown-out-of-proportion issues in her life that somehow seem to affect him because of their shared offspring. The thought of his impressionable children living and being cared for on such wobbly grounds, drives him up the all-women-are-freakin-crazy wall.

He’s made comments… bundling up all us women together and giving us all the same label. He’s a funny guy, so I know a certain percentage of it is in jest… but you know there is truth to his half-comedic accusations. We do this. All of us do. But whyyyyy?

I tell you, the last thing I want is to go out with a man who has pre-judged me as a carbon copy of his ex. I’m not her. I am my own self. I even have my own thumbprint to prove it. Granted, there are a lot crazy people in this world. We’ve dated or married some of them, and there are several more left we can still go through. But there are also just as much of the normal, nice, witty, sane, caring people in this world.

Why have we chosen the nutty people to invest ourselves? What is it about us that attracts the crazies, the emotionally unattached, the cheaters, the abusers, the nerds, the flakes, the stalkers… the certifiables? One right after the other, causing this imaginary proof that all women/men are the same.

When I was younger – late teens, early 20’s – it seemed like the guys that I didn’t want were the ones approaching me. My friends called me the geek magnet. One friend, who was the group’s appointed psychologist and advice guru, told me that it was because I oozed acceptance and trustworthiness. That the geeks, who normally were too afraid to approach any woman, felt like I would give them a shot because I seemed to root for the underdog. Looking back, I think she was right. I didn’t realize that was the energy I was putting out. This lasted for most of my 20’s. I think at some point I slowly changed my energy into what it is today. Of course, it’s not working for me either. Now I’m told that I’m unapproachable and aloof. Oie vey.

Shocking to no one, I digress. I began writing in defense of the normal people getting equal rights. I appointed myself Norma Rae of this particular Dating Ethics Movement and then I strayed from the picket line.

But wait…

In all the failed relationships you’ve had, there’s only one common denominator… YOU. I have a friend who is on his sixth marriage. No joke. A few weeks before the sixth “I’ll love you forever” ceremony was to take place, he told me that this one just had to work. That this one needed to be the one that would bring him life long happiness. In my best Oprah, I said that there was a reason why he’s been through six marriages and that it might be a grand idea for him to figure out what that reason is. Especially before he dumps six and moves to number seven.

Maybe we should all learn a lesson from my serial-marriage friend. The truth is that he’s only looking for love. Isn’t that what we’re all doing? Maybe we should all look at our own relationship projections. Coming to terms with what might be wrong with what we expect out of people who are not perfect. Seeing what in our past is ours to blame and what can be tossed aside as just a bad match. Maybe realizing that they actually aren’t bad people, it’s just a simple matter of clashing personalities.

Whatever.

There’s always the HIGH possibility that we’ve chosen some freakin’ losers: That ex-boyfriend who might have been tolerable if he had been on a very strong dosage of medication six times a day. That ex-wife who might not be so bad if she had a lobotomy. It’s not you, it’s them. I’m totally on your side. Remember, I’m back in the picket line and it’s going strong.

We’ve dated the losers. Even married some of them. We’ve broken up or divorced them. It’s a sad fact. But the next potential relationship that knocks on our door, let’s not look for the internal psycho just yet. Let’s not make them unknowingly carry the burden of all our bad experiences. Let’s not assume that they are needy. Believe me, their weird-not-normal attachment to their mother will surface soon enough.

And when it does, let’s just go on to the next one… because we just might pleasantly find a pretty cool person.

The Perfect Man

I read an article recently titled “Shopping for a Spouse”. The author wrote about how most of us create a “list” when shopping for a companion. I’m guilty. I have a list. It seems that the older I get, the longer my list gets, too. It’s not like I have it actually written down. It’s a virtual list. Somehow that seems less pathetic. I guess, for most of us, we begin writing our list when we are teenagers. When I was in high school I didn’t realize that I was forming a list, but I was. It probably didn’t actually take on the list form until I was in my early 20’s.

Teeth.

I’ve been described as picky. Although I deny it, I guess there’s probably some truth to it. There are those times when not being picky has seemed to backfire. Once I found myself on a date with the eternal college student. You know the type: it’s been 20 years since they graduated from college, yet, they still party and carry on as if they are still part of the fraternity. Another time I was on a first date with a guy who felt the need to tell me all of his medical problems . . . and that was just during the appetizer. Bad situations like these send me into the edit list mode. In fact, the list has seemed to now fork into two different lists: the “gotta have” list and the “no way” list. Thankfully the content of the list has changed since I was a teenager. I no longer require my man to like Duran Duran or to take me to Taco Kid once a week.

My list has matured along with my age. I require that he have good hygiene, a good sense of humor, financial stability, and, above all, the ability to put up with me. I guess he also has to have teeth. Can’t forget the teeth . . . which reminds me of story that I won’t share with you. My list is obviously quite a bit more detailed than the five examples before mentioned. But just in case my future husband is reading this article, I'll refrain from going into much detail since I don’t want to scare him off.

SWM ISO

Do guys make lists like women do? It makes me wonder what’s on it. I hope the next poor sap that I date doesn’t show me his list. I have no doubt that I will never be able to live up to it. Not that I’m putting myself down, it’s just that if everyone wore their list on the back of their shirt, would anyone get a date?

There are the general polite terms that we apply to our future mates: compassionate, funny, gentle, goal oriented, funny, good job, assertive, funny, etc. If a guy had his list displayed on the back of his shirt, I’m pretty confident that I would be able to check off several of them. However, I would definitely have to take myself out of the running if his shirt said he was looking for someone who is 5’8”, 24, a red head and wealthy. But you know, I guess it would be nice to know that up front before I waste my time, huh?

It's raining men.

I don’t know if you know much about this E-Harmony Internet thing, but I have a couple of friends that are members. They seem to be happy with their cyber success so far. My friend, Bubba (name has changed to protect the guilty), joined the site a couple of months ago. He’s been chatting it up with several women and has narrowed his focus down to five. The reason I bring this whole thing up is because when you register for the site, they ask you a jillion questions about who you are, what you like, what you’re looking for and what you’re not looking for.

I have no intentions on becoming a member of the E-Harmony family, however, I did fill out the questionnaire. It was really interesting to sort through my “kind of man I want” mental filing cabinet and transferring the data into the computer. I went as far as I could without paying for anything. And, believe me, the questionnaire is pretty detailed. It took me about an hour to fill it all out. They’ve matched me up with more men in the central Arkansas area than I would know what to do with. So, if you’re matched up with someone named Becca in Little Rock, chances are you’ll never hear from me because I ain’t payin’. I’m just too much of a traditional girl to go that route. I wish Bubba all the harmony luck in the world.

Great expectations.

So, you’re asking yourself, “What’s this babbling blog all about?” Frankly, I’m not sure. It’s a mixture of things really. For one, I feel it’s okay to have a list - just as long as you don’t shut out all of us nice gals because we’re vertically challenged. I can always change the color of my hair, but I can’t make myself grow taller. Not even for you. Secondly, make sure your list is healthy. I’m pretty sure that mine is, although I’m sure I have friends that would disagree. There are things on my list that I will not budge on, but generally I feel that it’s a guideline.

On E-Harmony you answer specific questions about what type of person you’re looking for. The problem is this: The more specific you are, the less likely it is that you’ll get a lot of matches.

This is the problem in real life as well. There should be a give and take on some stuff. I won’t be able to live up to someone’s list (a.k.a. expectations) 100% and neither will he on mine. But isn’t that okay? Do we want someone perfect or do we want someone perfect for us?

Cheeseburgers

Has this every happened to you:

You’re sitting at your desk working. Your mind is concentrating on projects and deadlines when suddenly a distant memory lurks itself into the forefront of your mind. I’m not sure why this happens. You could be doing absolutely anything and then suddenly you’re thinking about your Aunt Fannie who died when you were twelve. This boggles my mind.

So, here’s what happened:

I’m working on a website, trying to figure out new ways of doing stuff. Searching other sites trying to steal ideas. That’s all that design is really – stealing someone else’s idea and then manipulating it enough to be able to legally call it "original". So, I’m really working here. Going through confusing technical website jargon when out of nowhere I think about the craziest thing...

The craziest thing:

Let’s go back to the 70’s… you’ll probably remember those drive-in theaters. I’m sure they were around before the 70’s, but I wasn’t and can’t account for it. There was one down on Asher Avenue near Colman Dairy and there one also down Cantrell hill. In the groovy 70’s, my family – I’m sure clad in bellbottoms, disco shirts and crocheted hats - would go to either of these theaters for our weekend entertainment.

I loved this. I thought going to the drive-in theater was the best thing in the world. Those metal speakers that had really bad audio could either be left on the metal post or you could put it in your car. I remember the sea of cars all pointing in the same direction as if it were Mecca. Ok, I didn’t think of Mecca when I was eight, but the comparison works anyway. My uncle used to work for Colman Dairy in the 70’s and on Friday nights he would take his date on top of a Colman milk truck and watch the movies for free. Cheap, but romantic.

Anywhoo, if you were ever one of the lucky ones to go to a drive-in theater, you’ll remember the concession stand. All that processed food re-heated by a light bulb. A-really-bright-and-hot-light-bulb. Food just sitting out basking. I guess this was somehow okay with the health department. It makes me wonder: If handling food like this was okay, what would a restaurant have to do in order to be in violation? I gag to even think about it.

They offered food like popcorn, pizza, hotdogs, candy, french fries and ice cold soft drinks. They also had cheeseburgers. The kind where the patty was really really thin and had an after taste that was unrecognizable and odd. I’m not even 100% positive that it was real beef. I think if cloning were available back then, the burger would have come from a hamburger cloning factory – not even from a real cow, just from another so called burger.

These were not award winning burgers. They did not have “The Best Of” posters hanging on the walls. To even call it a burger is an insult to the other burgers. Here’s the crazy thing: I’m craving one right now in the worst way.

I'm just not al'right….

So, like I said, I’m working. Really. I clown around I know, but at this point there was too much to take care of. I was actually truly earning my paycheck. Suddenly out of no where thoughts of drive-in theater burgers were dancing in my head. Why is that? I’m not particularly hungry. I haven’t had one since 1977. What’s the deal? Why is it that I can still imagine the taste of those nasty things… and still have an overwhelming desire to eat one?

Who knows. Like most of my blog entries, I have no point, story or plot. It’s a “take it or leave it” kind of thing. I also don’t have a science background to explain long term memory and its retrieval process. Maybe someone will let me how it all works – in layman terms of course.

I do think it’s pretty cool how a certain smell or a visual cue will suddenly throw you back into the 70’s, 80’s or, shoot, even yesterday. Memories are cool. They’re like “in”.

Now if I can only find me a petrified, over heated burger...

Taboo: Chapter One

I'm about to embark on some sensitive territory here.

There are certain topics that people don't discuss. For whatever reason. They are private issues that make people uncomfortable. The topics are taboo. Announcing your point of view sometimes can either ridicule you or make you a hero. It depends on the audience around you.

Why is it that we can’t talk about them? Is it because we carry so much shame? Was the shame ignited by our own hands or are we carrying around the shame of others?

Do we not talk about these issues because of our fear of stepping on toes? Because it’s politically incorrect? Can’t offend people? I personally feel that today’s society is too sensitive. I find it funny that everyone gets in an up-roar when something off-color is said, while the stuff we watch on TV makes those statements look like a nursery rhyme.

Sex, religion, abortion, homosexuality, politics

… fill in your own blank. There are many more to choose from.

There’s this 26 year old guy from Michigan who’s causing a stink in the court system about reproductive choices for men. He’s fighting for an equal level of protection under the “freedom of choice” law. He wants men to be given as much a choice as women if there’s an unexpected bun in the oven. He says that women have complete control… they can abort, keep the kid, or put it up for adoption while men are left having to put duct tape across their mouth and accept the choice. Apparently his ex-girlfriend ended up preggers and he wasn’t ready to fulfill any fatherly duties.

Ok, so here’s my view point:

I agree with him.

I’ve actually wondered about this for many years. I’ve often wondered about all those men who actually WANTED their kid, but then having to surrender to the baby’s momma’s choice for abortion. And then there’s the flip side… the women who choose to have their baby with men who have no desire to be fathers.

Now don’t get me wrong, if two people are married, I think you are both responsible. That's just the contract of marriage. I know of too many women who have gotten knocked up on purpose just to trap their boyfriend into a life long miserable commitment. I also know too many people who have gotten pregnant waaaay on accident and it always has been the woman who makes all the decisions.

I’m an “equal rights” kind of gal.
I’m a “freedom of choice” kind of gal.

I have never had an abortion. I’ve never been faced with that type of gut wrenching choice. But to be honest, I personally couldn’t do it. I couldn’t abort my baby – embryo - fetus – whatever you want to call it. However, I’m not going to judge another woman’s choice to do so. I’ve had friends who have had abortions. Shoot, I drove someone to an abortion clinic myself many moons ago. We were both very young, she was scared, and it was the only option she felt she had.

But so much attention is on the woman. What about good ole dad? The child is part his, too. That kid may have his eyes and nose and DNA, but Daddy has no say so in whether this child lives or dies. And what if he doesn’t want to be a father? Doesn’t matter. He’s forever stuck with the label of dead-beat-dad when the truth is he was just trying to get laid. If the woman doesn’t want to be a mother, she has two options. He? None.

Ok, I’m going off on a tangent, I know. That’s what happens when I start writing without a plan. Ok, fine. I never have a plan.

If I were to ever find myself in that situation, I would hope and pray that it would be with a man who will love me and our child. If he chooses to leave, I would be pissed and heartbroken. I guess the solution is to always play it "safe" – both guys and dolls.

I would love to go into the other taboo topics, but I feel that I’ve said enough in this little blog entry. Who knows, maybe I’ll tackle one of the others later.

Cracked, Flawed and Imperfect

Ever since I was a teenager I wanted to take pottery. Well, I finally did it. Took at ten-week class at the local arts center and absolutely loved it. I think I'll go back this fall for the second course.

I made several pieces of pottery. I actually still have some up there that I need to finish and bring home. When people found out that I was taking pottery, several of them said they wanted a piece. They wanted a customized piece of pottery with my initials carved in the bottom.

Since I can't handle the pressure of making EVERYONE a piece, I chose a selected few. I chose people who I felt understood the creative process and appreciated the piece’s flawed and charming presentation. Ok, basically I chose people who would (hopefully) love it no matter how crappy it really is.

I don't know about you, but I put a lot of demands on myself. Probably in the wrong areas of my life. Sometimes I get so worked up that the anxiety builds pretty high. Here's the thing though... I try my best to not let it show. I know. I'm lying to myself if I think people don't notice. They notice.

So, after the ten-week class was over, I had a variety of different original pieces to pass out to my selected audience. The audience that won't reject me. The people who accept my wacky creativity and love me anyway. The people who would normally consider original artwork as their "style". These are safe people. These are good people. These are people who search for the cracks and unevenness because they actually LIKE them.

As time when on after my last pottery class, these customized pieces of kilned sweat-n-tears were needing to be passed out to their designated owners. Just thinking about each exchange, my anxiety heightened. I feared that it wasn't what they expected. Afraid of the, "Oh, but I really was wanting a bowl... did you make a bowl by chance?" I toughened myself up for the pleasant, "Oh, now that's nice. What a nice piece. Thank you." As thick skinned as I was hoping to be, I quickly realized that I was a bundle of insecure mush. I had as much confidence as a bowl of jello.

So I made a mental list of my pottery victims and decided to just go for it. Just do it. Just give them that exposed tender piece of my heart and to say “to hell with you” if they didn’t like it. I did a quick google on “death by pottery giving” and turns out I was pretty safe. I straightened my shoulders, held my head up high, walked with confidence, and with my shaking hands I handed each one of those suckers over to my judge and jury.

What was so crazy about this whole experience is that these kind souls actually loved their pieces. Each one expressed in their own way their appreciation and made my exaggerated anxiety unjustifiable. I was secretly taught that I wasted a lot of good energy.

Why is it that we define ourselves by how others view us? Why is it that we put our self worth into their hands? Why is it that a couple of bad experiences as a child turns into a life time of doubt?

I don’t know. All I know is that I’m one lucky person to have some great people around me. This makes me wish I had given pieces to those other people who didn’t make the receiving list. Makes me wish I had opened myself up emotionally and creatively to others.

Who knows, maybe those pieces I still have up at the arts center have a chance to be gifts.