Here’s the Deal: Toddlers and Tiaras

This show is sickeningly addicting, mortifying, hilarious, and depressing. But there are two things in particular that need to be addressed. Moms, actually. And they couldn’t be more glaringly different from one another.

1) The Sterling Twins’ Mom

The amount that I would like to get into this is far greater than the amount that I will go into it, and neither are reflective of my pure hatred and desire to bring the House of Pain* down on this hoebag. To be honest, I hate knowing that she exists and I think we should all pitch in to save Ashlynn and raise her as our community child. Seriously. She can come live with me and we will read books together and catch frogs and live happily ever after. Dear God, someone help that poor, sweet child

And PS her dad is an asshole for letting this happen. Create friction in your marriage? Um. Yes. Please do. It needs to happen. For the sake of your kids.

2) On an opposite level, we have Brock…and his mom. Who I kind of just fell in love with.

One, he’s the first kid I’ve seen that I think actually likes and wants to do pageants. Two, his mom is so unbelievably open and protective and supportive and I would like to send Ashlynn to her because she would never make them compete against eachother.

Three, this reminds me of one of the little boys that I used to work with. Brock is carbon-copy. He loved playing with dolls, he played with the girls constantly, he was more likely to hang out on the swings and gossip with me than play soccer with the other boys. And I adored him. His dad, however, was a total dickweed and whenever he would pick up this little guy, the boy would inevitably be hanging out with the girls doing his own thang and his dad would chastise him in front of my little class of kids and it broke my heart every time.

So I was pretty moved by that one. I wish my little buddy could have had the same love/acceptance from such a young age that Brock does.

And weirdly enough, I think we could all take some life lessons from Alana**, everyone’s favorite. And yeah, her mom doubles as Jabba the Hut.

I think some of these parents truly don’t know a good thing when they see it. It’s too bad that for some of them it’s their own child.

*No, but seriously, I will serve her ass like John McEnroe.

**Get this kid her own show. I’d buy the DVD set and the t-shirt. And I’d come up with a “Special Juice” drinking game for every time she talks about money or honey boo-boos. No Mountain Dew allowed though, because it terrifies me. Ok, I’m done.

I think I’m addicted to social media, you guys….

More than once, this thought has popped into my head.

“Nicole, you have a problem…”

Of course, it hasn’t always been with social media. Sometimes it’s men. Other more regular times, it’s booze. Sleep and immunity tend to be issues. I mean, I can be a bit of a wreck sometimes. But can’t we all?

Lately though, I’ve felt as if I am locked in some weird circular thing that I can’t escape. It goes like this:

1. What’s happening on Facebook? Another comedy show invite from that guy? Gag. Over it.

2. Did anyone favorite a tweet on Twitter? Holy shit, did Lisa Landry retweet me AGAIN? #humlebraggggggg

I live for this. Please don't judge me.

3. OMG! Thirty-two people repinned that recipe on Pinterest!

4. Who’s g-chatting me? Or was that a Yahoo Chat?? Or maybe a BoldChat? Is that a pornbot chatting me? Yuck.

5. Should I do a Tumblr post for LadyFace today? I prob should. I kind of want to move it over to WordPress.

6. I wonder if anyone tried to connect or recruit me on LinkedIn today. Nooope.

7. Whoa! Where did I get all these blog hits from? I haven’t written in eons! Wait…that’s a weird search term in Google Analytics…how did…never mind.

8. I haven’t checked that old hotmail account in awhile have I? And I should prob delete these 1100  emails in my gmail.

9. Whoaaaaa Joss & Main is amazing today! Pin city!

10. I wonder what’s happening on Groupon. Also Google Deals. And Living Social. Can’t miss out on a deal. Can’t ever miss out. On A Deal.

11. And I can’t live out the ever-embarrassing online dating sites. Or can I. I can leave them out. Or not.

12. I wonder if I’ll get a badge if I check in on Foursquare here………hmmmmmmmm…..nope. Damn it.

13. I know I needed to Google something. What was that word I wanted to definition check? Oh yeah: addiction.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

That’s simply how I feel. My brain moves so fast right now that my body is constantly in overdrive trying to keep up.

The thing with social media is that I can handle it, right? I can handle it. The constant noise, the constant keep-uppance, the constant, the constant.

It’s becoming a mindfuck you guys. My digital footprint is like something out of Jurassic Park. Glasses of water shake when I move from Pinterest to Facebook to Twitter to gmail to the point where I just find myself typing Facebook.com into my browser over and over again like my mind is a skipping cd and all it wants is just one notification. Refresh. It’s such a motherfucker.

And of course there are the disappointments. The tweets and pins that I think are God’s gift to social media that no one notices or understands or a friend just ends up texting me “Um, are you okay?”

Why am I doing this to myself? Why are we all doing this to ourselves?

Perhaps part of it is the pervasive aloneness of daily life. The majority of my time by and large is spent alone, but social media allows me to somehow feel connected, somehow feel a part of the bigger picture, relevant in some way, shape, or form. I can vent about the bus, share a quick fact, learn what’s happening in the world, and save all the recipes I could ever want. I can follow blogs, chat with friends, check my feeds, I can know everything insignificant about your life, and in turn, I give you more than you could ever need to know about mine.

But seriously I am losing my goddamn mind. I have to cut back. The time-suck is unreal. And the excuses are so easy.

-But how will I keep in touch with people?

-It’s great exposure.

-I really get it. I’m good at it. I am. I think I am.

-It keeps me entertained.

I could keep going. The reality is that my attention span is slowly dying and compacting itself into 140 characters or less of bullshit that no one cares about and that amasses me no type of success and I’m pretty sure all of my creative energy is being sucked dry by the constant energy I put into my next quip or my next status or my next pic of–you guessed it–my cats and I’m starting to see the light. And it’s called sunlight. And I want to spend more time with that. And less time with this. This screen.

So here goes my challenge to myself. It starts now and ends on February 29th.

1. I’m allowed to check Facebook on Valentine’s Day. That’s it. One time.

2. I can Twitter only from the @LadyFaceDenver account. (Sorry, LF’s–you’re in charge of Facebook for February.)

3. I can post to my personal Twitter only when I post a blog or for the LF show or if a friend has something cool going on. 3 tweets max in a day.

4. I can checked LinkedIn once a week.

5. I will not pin. I will not pin. I will not pin. (Pinterest is the worst. And the best. And the worst.)

6. No FourSquare. Why do I do it anyways? It’s dumb.

That’s a big cutback for me you guys. Huge actually. Now, I just have to figure out how to get all this shit off of my phone. And unsubscribe to like 900 daily deals.

I will however blog. Why? Because it requires more than just a quick thought. Because it actually gets my fingers moving on the keyboard. Because it suffers extreme neglect in the face of social media. And because I’m gonna need something. Momma needs her medicine, ya know what I’m saying?

So, in the meantime, if you’d like to contact me, you can catch me on my gmail account qualtieri.nicole@gmail.com or you can even call my phone number. If you’re my Facebook friend, it is located conveniently on my profile. If you are not, sorry. Not posting my phone number here.

Welp. As per the usual, this should get weird. Here’s to hoping I make it. If I don’t, let’s all get worried.

Now maybe I’ll stop drinking.*

*Yeah. I should probably do that too.

Here’s the Deal: Florence + The Machine “Ceremonials”

Let’s be up front about this, friends. I’m not much of a music connoisseur. I confessed to this a few months ago, and–with my typical bravado–I cannot say that I am ashamed.

But…but…but…

I’m totally, head-over-heels, turning a new leaf, in complete awe, in love with Florence + The Machine’s album “Ceremonials”. So much so I went out and bought it. Now I don’t want to confess to being some sort of felon*, but let’s all just be clear on the fact that I haven’t bought a physical album in a very, very, very long time.

There is definitely an aspect of drama, of floating angst that is somehow resolved through the sweeping rhythms and haunting vocals.

I guess the point where everything changed for me, when I truly fell for good, was when I heard Welch blasting out “Say my name” on “Spectrum”.

Say my name? Say my name????

In those words, I went back to being 15 years old, with a gaggle of girls in a friend’s mom’s minivan. The cd in the player then was “The Writing’s on the Wall” by none other than Destiny’s Child. We were all singing at the top of our lungs**. And what were those words falling off our lips?

Say my name, say my name.

Yeah, Florence. You did it. Tapped into my subconscious, brought the definitive noise, reminded me of my youth with something so new, so fresh that I feel like the best grown-up version of myself when listening to your music.

Here’s the deal, Flo. I’m on board. Whatever you have coming, I’m in. And I’ll buy it. Because I can appreciate art when I hear it. And you also remind me of Annie Lennox and Sarah McLachlan (when she sang about vampires) and Alanis Morisette (you got that drama, girl). Also, I think you’re a little batshit crazy. And you know what? I like that. Welcome to the club.

Do yourself a favor, go buy Ceremonials. It’s $12 at Target right now and it will make you wanna throw away that Adele cd.

*Pirate of the internet sea?

**Coincidence? Uh. Yep.

Drugs

Yeah. Drugs.

Drugs and I have a pretty weird relationship. My drugs of choice tend to be legal. Sertraline, acetomenaphin, caffeine, taurine, bupoprion on a seasonal basis, and everyone’s favorite: alcohol.

I mean sure, I’ve smoked pot. I’ve probably smoked pot with some of you over the years. And you know what? I pretty much hate it. It’s like having me breathe something into my system that is not only going to completely shut me down, but it’s going to make my heart race* anddd I’ll prob think everyone in the room hates me.**

Case in point: My freshman year of college I got high for what was most likely the third time in my life. I’m in a room surrounded by cute dudes. Said cute dudes start talking about how awesome I am–not because I am awesome–which I am–but because I smoked pot with them. After this is said about nine million times, I burst into tears and run out of the room crying/screaming something like “YOU DONT EVEN KNOW ME. I AM NOT AWESOME BECAUSE I SMOKE POT.”

So maybe that is a bit of an over-dramatization, but you get the point.

I’ve been offered drugs. I’ve been offered the whole gamut of drugs that are normal for young white people to take. Blow. Shrooms. Acid. Hash.The last of which I was tricked into smoking once. Which resulted in me being curled up in a fetal position for three hours, laughing hysterically at jokes in my head that I refused to tell anyone else. I mean it wasn’t horrible. But do I care for the experience? No. Would I do it again? Nope. Did I want to do it then? Sure didn’t.

And still I hear this:

“Don’t knock it till you try it.”

“It’ll change your life.”

“Well, if you think it’s going to be a bad experience, then it IS going to be a bad experience.”

I mean, cool. Good for you. Drugs alter your experience of the world. They changed an insight to something. I can understand that. Weirdly enough, my insight changes all the time through things like “reading” and “talking to people” and “watching Planet Earth”.

Listen you guys. Call me a goody-goody, but the more legal the better. The more syllables in my drugs the better. The more mentally stabilizing the better.  I mean, booze being the exception in the latter. Booze is always the exception.

The reality with booze is I’d probably be better off without it. But as I have learned to deal with my social anxiety with booze holding my hand, it’s just something that is kinda hard for me to let go of. Like saying good-bye to that friend who is almost always shitty to you and encourages you to make shitty decisions but somehow you always have a great time together. My God. It’s so us.

The fresh scent of juniper berries is my go-to experience. A nice gin topped off with a little tonic and lime is my signature. Ice cold true potato vodka with a pickleback? It’s the only way to do it. I’ve even learned to like a nicely-aged bourbon, rich on the caramel with perhaps a touch of citrus. And of course the bright pungent rush of tequila (also ice cold) with a touch of lime. I love liquor. The variety, the depth!

And I know how much of an idiot I can be while locked in the arms of my favorite drinks. It’s not all rainbows and happy memories, it’s not all enlightenment and good choices.

But it also has involved a lot of dancing. I like that a lot. Too much, probably. It’s also involved a lot of weird memories. I like those a whole lot. Weirdly enough, it’s cemented a lot of friendships that may have never existed. Ones with more depth and strange vulnerability and human connection than you might think.

And yeah, I do occasionally wake up and wonder if my weird-o-meter got out of control the night before. Sometimes it does, which I then regret, and then a moral hangover sets in, and then I talk through it with my best friend and life goes on.

I guess maybe I’m just kind of a snob when it comes to drugs. I want my drugs to come with papers, not from the humane society. I want my drugs delivered in classy glasses and kitschy coffee cups and neat little white-capped bottles signed off by a doctor of medicine who truly believes that I am in need.

I guess I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. Not because I’m interested, more because I’m so disinterested. And it’s weird to be 27 and have things like this pop up in your life. Like, really weird. And like way further cementing of my cemented opinions.

So. Anyway. Anybody got any Tylenol PM I can borrow? Or is it just time for a nightcap?

*It really does. Like the kind of racing heart that happens when you watch a legit scary movie.

**Also, dry mouth. Yick. And like I need to be any hungrier than I already am. No thank you.

“I can do it myself” or “Pride”

I read this as part of the Denver storytelling show “The Narrators”. The theme was Pride. And it’s the hardest theme I’ve had to write on thus far.

If “I can do it myself” was not my first sentence, I’m sure that it was up there. From the time I was in tune to language and the world, I’ve had a fierce desire to be independent in a way that is nearly pathological. I could ride a horse solo by age three, I could read at a first grade level by age four, I was off training wheels by age five, and so it went from there.

As I grew older, the challenges became more complicated than the removal of training wheels and scraped knees. I faced my tragedies and my obstacles with the same determined mentality. Other people have gotten through this. I will get through it too. And I will do a better job of it.

Where others fell apart, I built a castle that kept me together. And when I needed help, I sought after my own answers. That seeking became the mortar, and every answer I found became the bricks.

You could probably say that this castle was built by pride. If pride were a person, they would slather on the mortar, lay the bricks, and be muttering “I can do it myself” over and over again. There’s no reasoning with this person. They exist only in their actions, they live only for the next brick.

I guess that’s the problem with me and pride. Although I am proud of the fact that I have been able to stand on my own two feet, to divide and conquer my own life, to manipulate and maneuver my path, pride has also been the biggest thing that has stood between me and what’s beyond myself.

If pride is building my castle, every other sin and virtue and quality and quirk that I carry with me lives inside.

And it’s a weird party in there. Anxiety is in the corner nervously tapping her foot and eyeing the door while clinical depression is sleeping on the couch. Always sleeping. The joker is dancing really inappropriately to weird techno music, and memory is watching home movies in the basement. The drunk is crying with her arms draped around anxiety, while happiness just hangs out with a weird grin on her face, taking it all in. The introvert is begging Memory to let her watch Jurassic Park on the big screen, and the extrovert is trying to get everyone involved in a game of beer pong that only the competitor wants to play. The fat kid is eating  the entire Christmas ham while the hostess is bringing everyone lactose-free eggnog and the whole crowd chatters constantly, their voices echoing in the gray matter that is my brain.

It’s fucking exhausting.

One of my best friends in the world once told me “You know, if I would have to choose anyone in the world for something bad to happen to, it would be you, and I don’t want you to not take that as a compliment. I know you can handle anything.” I was both mortified and curiously, strangely flattered by the comment. I still don’t know how to feel about it.

I think that’s because I know there’s something else. Something beyond my own personal consumption, my tedious brick-laying, my inner battles and my whimsical indulgences. I know this doesn’t have to be so exhausting.

I was recently talking to a friend who loathes being single and I asked him why and he said because he wants to take care of someone, and I laughed because I couldn’t even see myself giving anyone that option. I take care of me. I always have. I can’t imagine giving that over to another person. I can’t imagine compensating the thing that I have always been so defiantly proud of–my independence–for anyone. I can take care of people, and to be honest I love to do it, but I’ve learned that this can also happen at my own expense.

Over time, I’ve convinced myself that there is something that lies in the middle. That maybe two people who believe in self-reliance can have a mutual existence and understanding and perhaps even love. I don’t know for sure.

What I do know is that for me the rote monotony of the classic relationship seems boring and scripted. That the idea of dependence on another goes against every one of my survival mechanisms, every one of my principles. It goes against those words that have created me and molded me and challenged me and perhaps even isolated me. “I can do it myself.”

I’m sure a psychiatrist would look through all of this and point the finger and say “Fear. You are consumed by fear.” And maybe they would be right.

But all that I see is a castle, as ominous as it is beautiful, as filled with mysteries as it is with truth.

If pride is as much a sin as it is a virtue, then call me proud. If pride comes before the fall, well, que sera sera.  Perhaps I am both the builder and the destroyer. Or maybe something entirely different awaits.

Lunch break thoughts

Oh hey new blog. Sorry but I’m not sorry for seriously neglecting you this month. Turns out I have a lot of cool friends and a life where I do things, unlike some other “writers” I’ve met.*

Anywho, I have twenty minutes to write so i figured I’d get down to biznass and get b’s deep in some thought on my lunch break.

Thought #1: Prob shouldn’t have just eaten a hamburger with a bun. But guess what? They grilled that bun and it was f-ing delicious and if you thought grilled meat was good try it on a grilled bun, preferably from H Burger. They have $5 Burger Madness on Tuesdays and I ate that thing so fast I hope my body wont realize that it was loaded with gluten**.If you go and you know what’s good for you, don’t have one of their amazeballs nitrogen milkshakes. Seriously. You’ve been warned.

Thought #2: It’s my friend Chris’s birthday at work. He turns 24.Please send him a birthday email at chris.harrison@readytalk.com. Tell him Nicole sent you. If you do this, I will kiss you on your mouth with my mouth. Or I can give you a firm handshake upon request. I made him this picture:

Thought #3: I’m on the verge of some big writey stuff. I’ll keep you guys posted, but you could be seeing my name a few other places than just my blog and social networks very soon.

Thought #4: I wonder what my cats are doing right now.

Thought #5: Probably sleeping.

Ok, that’s it. Meeting time. Talk soon you guys.

*SICK BURN RIGHT GUYS

**I’m a failure.

I Hate NaNoWriMo. There. I said it.

Last year, I stumbled across a thing for writers called “NaNoWriMo” or National Novel Writing Month for long.

Basically, it’s a writing challenge for humanoids to write 50k words in a continuous work throughout the month of November. I mean, it’s a lot of words when you have things like jobs, and relationships, and drinking problems, but for the second year in a row I decided to try and tackle the thing.

Set this aside for a moment.

A few months ago, I said to myself “Self, if there is one thing in the world that makes sense to you, it’s probably writing. Why the balls haven’t you been doing it?” So I set out and made a plan. Short stories. New blog. Submit. Submit. Submit. Build the writing resume. Do it to it.

I did well. Got this blog into the cloud and hit the ground running. Albeit at about thirteen minutes per mile, but still–with life going on all around me–not a bad show. Had a few posts a week. Submitted some things here and there. Short stories going strong. I was back with a writey vengeance.

Then–like a shot of the drowsiest Benadryl–November hits and the plan comes screeching to a definitive halt. NaNoWriMo in full effect like a bad eighties rap song. The behemoth of words. The elusive seven minute mile.

About one week into my first attempt at NaNoWriMo, I decided to get a boost of the social aspect and went to one of the posted writing events in Denver. It was a Sunday. I was wholly unaware of what I had signed up for.

I walk into the slated cafe, and I scan the room. I discover a table of people who are without a doubt the NaNoWriMo table. There are about fourteen people, probably an equal mix of dudes and ladies. They are chatting. I suck in my breath. I am looking at the table. The table stops chatting. The table is looking at me.

The following scene from Forrest Gump ensues:

[Forrest/Nicole quickly gets on the Army bus]

Recruit #1: This seat’s taken.

Recruit #2: It’s taken.

Forrest Gump/Nicole: [describing his induction] At first it seemed like I made a mistake, seeing how it was my induction day and I was already gettin’ yelled at.

Bubba Blue: You can sit down… if you want to.

[Forrest sits down next to Bubba]

The stares are deadly. The discomfort is palpable.

I sit down next to the self-designated Bubba, a smiling-faced round cherubby man who warmly welcomes me to the table. Everyone else is dead silent, their world rocked by my intrusion. I introduce myself. I try to be as nice and friendly as possible.

I guess the realization didn’t hit me until that moment: Normal people aren’t supposed to be writers. Normal people are supposed to drink and go to bars and live on their own and work in sales and have kids that play soccer and talk to people on the phone and shop at the Gap and ski in Aspen and go jogging a couple times a week. Normal people are supposed to live in their own separate world.

Now, the truth behind the matter is that if I’m normal, everyone is normal. I have some things going for me. But they’re all things I’ve worked for in some way or another. Or perhaps I’m more lucky than I give myself credit for. I am not a vain person.* And I am most certainly not normal. Who is for that matter?

But this is how I was perceived. Among what I now understand are a group of people that had been invisible to me–simply because our paths never crossed. A group of people who lived inside of their own heads and created their own friends and chatted in virtual rooms with each other on their souped-up computers.

Never one to back down from a challenge, I sat at this table for the duration of the writing session. I plugged in my headphones so they could get back to talking about wizardry and ancient worlds and feel somewhat at peace. I typed and I focused, avoided the social conflict staring me dead in the face, which half of them were doing for pretty much the entire two hours, while the other half just as uncomfortably avoided all eye contact. And I mean all.

I took away a few things from this experience:

1) A weird sense of guilt that I should not be a part of this at all.

2) A strange sense of fascination and mischief that made me want to continue going to this writing group and disrupting all of their norms. (I did not do this.)

3) A newfound interest in seeking out the things that are invisible to me. To not be so blindsided by people living another existence again. Or…the opposite where I just sink back into my normal world, the one I have created for myself much like they have. There was a lot of push and pull here.

Perhaps there is a strange underlying thing here that has blocked me from wanting to continue with NaNoWriMo. Maybe I associate it with something that should be beyond my understanding, that is very much outside of my own personal norms, that I almost want to give over to this group of people entirely. Have your fun. Have your personal thing. I won’t take it away from you, I promise. That was never my intention.

To be honest, I really just don’t feel like writing a novel at this point in my life. I have nothing burning inside of me that could grow into 50,000 words. I have alot of smaller things that could definitely add up to 50k words. Prior to November, I was pluckily chugging along, getting words on the page daily. Writing what I wanted to write. Gaining ground towards publication. Doing my thang, so to speak. For the last eleven days, I’ve written less than I’d write even in a less-than-normal circumstance. The counter-productivity. It’s killing me. Making me feel like a failure. Reminding me of the people that so fiercely disdained me. And I want no part of it.

So here is where I quit you, NaNoWriMo.For this year and all years forthcoming. I’ll continue with my plan. You continue with yours. We shall co-exist politely. And I shall get published anyway. Not because I’ve committed to a word count but because I’ve committed to myself.

Fare thee well. And happy writing to all of us.

*Uhh. Uhhh. Maybe I am?

The Slash Generation: Is this who we are?

Bartender/comedian. Financial analyst/mountaineer. Accountant/horse trainer. Receptionist/fashion designer. Sales professional/aspiring writer. Lawyer/future sports mogul.

It was my mother who introduced me to the term “Slash Generation”. A new coin phrase for those of us in our mid-twenties to early thirties. The babies of the eighties, if you will.

Instantly, I fell in love with it.

I fell for both the freedom and the binding nature of the slash. Half practicality. Half big dreams. Half benjamins. Half fulfillment. The first priority has definitely trumped the others for the generations behind us. A life well-lived consisted of a heteronormative family with a few kids, a 30-year mortgage, a golden retriever asleep on the front porch, and a couple SUV’s in the driveway.

Of course, this dream still exists within the scope of my generation, but I believe it’s fair to say that the system has been bucked.

Yeah, sure. A home can still be a good investment. Maybe one day after my student loans are paid for and I’ve given up on wanting to relocate every 2-3 years I’ll go that route. And marriage may come, but it’s not something that I feel worried about. And children, well–I may have children. But if it doesn’t happen, there are plenty of other children in the world that I can benefit as a mentor or an aunt or even as a foster parent. There’s no shortage in that realm, and I’m sure there’s no near shortage coming. Additionally, I do love Goldens but the overbreeding has taken its toll, and I’m just more of a mutt person anyway.

I did drive a truck through college, and will probably get another in the next few years. But you can’t haul a horse trailer with a Chrysler Sebring sedan. So utility wins. Guilty on one count. Sorry, environmentalists.

I’m positive that this generational label is not specific to one gender or the other, and perhaps might ultimately lean more towards the male side. With men falling behind in the sphere of higher education, it makes more sense that they would be chasing the fulfillment aspect over the practical. Recent studies show that one in seven fathers are the main caretakers of the little guys, the general shift here being that not only are women more educated overall, but they’re becoming the main earners as well.

I would be remiss to say that there is a sort of draw to the life of a being the–and check out this upcoming non-traditional label–house partner. No more 9-6er? Playing with the kids? Minivans and soccer practice carpools??

I remember some undocumented statistic* from one of my Sociology classes that a housewife (or house husband for that matter) is worth about $40k per yr in saved childcare costs (Holy expensive!), dining out, housekeeping, all that kind of good stuff. It definitely makes sense. And it can allow the housepartner to follow their passions, whether through volunteering or art or whatever floats their creative boat.

Perhaps both sexes are simply getting their just deserts.

Women have fought for equality and now we’re facing the outcome. Men have clearly just rolled over and let it happen**. But now they get to hang out with the kids and write weird blogs and burn the Sunday chicken every now and then.

Wow. That was one hell of a digression.

Anyway. Since most of us slashers aren’t married yet and/or facing the conundrum of “Who takes care of these things?” we all have something that the generations before us didn’t have.

Time.

Outside of my own 40-hour a week job, I have a few pursuits. The first being the writing situation, the end goal there being the push to get published, something I’m currently actively pursuing. On the social end, I travel in the hyper-active stand-up comedy scene of Denver. This can range from 2-5 nights per week depending on what’s happening. I also continue to ride horses, taking weekly dressage lessons and looking to partially lease the mare I ride in the very near future. Factor in the gym, outside time with friends and family, and the miscellaneous, well there really isn’t much time beyond all of that, is there?

I’m not alone. Each of the slashers I mentioned initially are guys and girls that I know well, all working very hard on both ends of the spectrum. And other spectrums that exist even beyond the initial.

It’s inspiring to say the least. I find that there is a delicious freedom in being part of a movement towards a new status quo, and I’m certain that we–the Slash generation–are unknowingly on the edge of a cultural revolution. One that will redefine relationships and gender roles, rebuild the notion of family, and pave new paths to fulfillment on a multitude of levels.***

And I have to give credence to the ultimate goal of the Slash generation, which would be to remove the slash and push the passion into the forefront of life. Some of us will have the moment where dream becomes reality. Why not you or me or us??

Here’s to the Slash Generation. We finally have a name. And it is good.

*As far as I can tell, I’m not graded on this. So twisted statistical memories fly here.

**HAHAHA. Just kidding guys. Shhh, ladies. Just keep getting degrees.

***Whoa. Maybe I’m more of an optimist than I give myself credit for.

Cat Problems: The Tail Incident

Great news, everyone! My hyper-neurotic overly-demanding beyond co-dependent societal menace of a cat has stopped licking his tail compulsively! Let the heavens rejoice!

Now, to his credit, he’s been through a lot this year. Multiple moves, a couple of traumatic car rides in his travel box*, the weird almost-sensual doting of an overly cat-affectionate male ballet dancer that I lived with for 6 months in Boulder. He even had to live in Aurora while I was in-between apartments for a month. You know, that whole “late twenties and I’ve gotta move back in with Mom for a snippet while I gets my life in order” phase?? We all go through that one, right?? Man!

Then, he went from a life where he could play outside to living inside full-time. Inside and–AGHAST–alone! His former outside past times of bringing me the occasional live baby robin between the hours of 5-7am, catching huge moths to slowly torture for hours, and sunning himself in a bed of flowers were traded for a couple of shitty toy mice and a non-existent neglectful “But I’ve gotta pay the bills”-type mother.

It was about a month into living in my new place–a delightfully renovated 1930′s studio with French influence might I add–when from his tail went missing a sizable patch of fur. A patch that was replaced by an open and very raw wound. Additionally, he would start to panic as I got ready for work. And then would wail when I would leave the apartment. He also stopped eating. Basically, he was just being a total, total pussy** about the new situation.

I was hit with a brick shithouse of emotions by this, as any good mother would be. So I began to dissect the situation, and came up with a laundry list of possible solutions. I present you with…

the laundry list of possible solutions

1. Euthanasia. Looking back on it, this was definitely an extreme choice. But perhaps I could have donated his body to the AP Bio class down the street at East High School. He’s the perfect size and weight for easy dissection; however, two years old seemed a bit too young and a scab on the tail just isn’t feline AIDS is it.

2. Craigslist. I’ve tried this a few times. No one really bites on the opportunity to own The Wizard. Perhaps my explanation of Wiz is a little too accurate for anyone to really want to take him into their house. I mean, he is sort of like the pit bull of cats. Cant be too careful, right?

3. Bonzai’d him. The whole keeping-Wiz-in-a-jar thing just seems like it would be super convenient. Wouldn’t have to worry about him meowing as loudly with the compressed lung space, and just a lot less general clean-up around the house.

4. Let it slide. He was either going to starve himself into non-existence or lick all the way through that god-damned tail so I might as well have let him choose-his-own-adventure and write his own demise. I didn’t ask for these reactions. I didn’t ask for ANY OF IT. Cry it out, kid. Cry it all out.

5. Get him a friend. Stave off the loneliness with companionship. Go the way of the cat lady. Give up basically.

I went with number five.

Being the compassionate and empathetic human being that I am, I said to me-self “Self, if I was alone all day for ten hours, I would cry too. I would probably lick holes in my theoretical tail from anxiety. I might even start pissing outside of the litter box to prove some sort of point.” It was really that last thought that sent a shudder down my spine. Not that he would ever do it, he’s meticulous if nothing else. But the thought…the very thought…

To the Dumb Friends League I went. And lucky for me, cats were on sale! Ten bucks would buy me a new friend and a new mouth to feed! After much deliberation, I took home one of the older models, a big blue-eyed fluffball. I dubbed him Burt Reynolds because he is obviously a Mr. Lover-lover, if you catch my drift***.

The whole worry with this approach was that it might not work. They might hate eachother. Or something might go horribly wrong. What if Burt had some weird disease? And what would I tell guys when I brought them up to my apartment for the first time? “No, really. I’ll never have more than two of these things. I’d rather have a dog anyway.” No, really.

It’s taken some time. But Wiz has stopped screaming at the door. He’s gained back a substantial amount of the weight he lost. And that final vestige of skin that is totally healed and growing back a tuft of black fur is my final answer.

I done good. I done weird. But I done good.
*A duck-taped cardboard box with holes punched in it, to be exact.

**ZING!

***Seriously, I have no drift. What am I even talking about?

And I’m a Mormon.

No, I’m not.

The other day I’m sitting at my computer (Where else?) mindin’ my own biz, watching Zooey Deschanel’s New Girl so that I can pick out all of the reasons why I hate it*, and Hulu rolls to the initial commercial.

A hottish blonde lady fills the screen. Telling me about her perfect imperfect life as a wife, mother, and a blogger**. Children are running around, someone with disabilities is hitting someone else, clothes are flying, the husband is nowhere to be found, basically she’s living my nightmare. So I’m wondering, “What is this all about? I’m not sold on shit yet.” And I’m an easy sell, you guys.

And then she goes “And I’m a Mormon.”

And then I go “Ah. That’s what this is about.”

Now, I just got done reading Jon Krakauer’s book “Under the Banner of Heaven.”  Like any religion, Mormonism is rife with its share of shitty history. So, now that I’ve read one book on the matter, I figure that I’m an expert and would like to enlighten my faithful readers on the basic tenets of the Mormon religion. Here is my extremely truncated & highly accurate version of Mormon history:

-Joseph Smith Jr.–some hick kid from Vermont– finds a bunch of magical Golden Plates on a hillside that “only he can see” (What are we, five years old?) and proceeds to translate them into the Book of Mormon with the help of another idiot who thinks Smith is cool and is also literate–which Smith isn’t by the way. Smith also claims that he’s seen Jesus and warrior angels and that he talks to God! Like, if toasters had existed back then, I think we know who might have appeared to him around breakfast time…

-People actually listen to this guy. The thing is, there wasn’t that much stuff to read back in those days. So people ate up anything that was printed like it was for real. Example: If JK Rowling was around in those days, people would have jumped out of trees with brooms trying to play Quiddich, only to end up with a gangrenous broken leg and then die from it because even medicine sucked back then. Anyway. when Joe Smith’s crazy-ass stories hit the press, people be goin’ all kinds of nuts about it. Especially those readin’ types. And lucky for old Smithy, he convinced his literate friend to also give him an assload of cash to front for the print job. That shit really got around.

-Smith starts a cult in Ohio. (Sound familiar?) Now people is jumpin’ on the bandwagon, getting balls’ deep in his ideas about things.

-Smith is super hot. Bitches go crrrrazy for Smith. He does get married. But later on realizes that being married sucks because all these super fine teenage girls are all about it. So he decides that if he feels like he’s gotta make the whoopie, that God is making him feel that way. So God wants him to get poon but in a way that is holy and sacred, not philandering and evil.What does this mean? It means he needs to secretly marry a ton of bitches. Which his wife totally hates by the way. She didn’t sign up for that shit.

-But he does it anyway. Why? Because he’s a prophet. He speaks to God. God says  “Marry some more bitches and it’ll all be good” and Joseph is all like “Hells yeah.” Because he was an honest, good man, you guys. Yup. Honest. And good.

-A lot of massacres happen. Joseph gets murdered. They end up in Utah because everyone in the midwest hates them***. The US government gets pissed because of the whole polygamy thing (Fuckin’ Protestants.) And so they “stop with that lifestyle”.

-But a ton of Mormons are like “Hold up, heee-ey. Mothafuckas be thinkin’ we soft.” They know the truth about Joseph Smith. He had all those ladies. He went buckwild with it. That’s the true prophecy of J Smith, marry tons of hoes, have a ton of kids, and get all kinds of weird incestual with it. You know, to keep the bloodlines pure. They abscond from the church, start their own pure version of Mormonism and essentially force young, uneducated women into horrible situations with creepy ass pedophiles who keep marrying ‘em young. Real young. The sad kind of young. This part of it realllllllly sucks. Especially for women.

-Brigham Young?? Total asshole. And not hot at all. But he’s practical and prob could have been a killer marketer. Alls I gots to say about him. He decides against the polygamy thing, and paves the way for some sort of normalcy within the LDS church.

So basically the Latter-Day Saints of the commercials are better than that. They aren’t involved in the polygamy thing anymore. As a matter of fact, Joseph was wrong about that.

Wait. Joseph was wrong about that? What else could he possibly have been wrong about?? What else could he possibly have schemed up in his incredibly creative and manipulative brain?

Oh. A whole fucking religion. That’s what.

The fastest growing religion on the planet. That’s what.

Mitt Romney. A Presidential candidate. That’s what.

Are the end times coming yet, Mormons? No, wait. What was my point about all of this?

Oh. Right.

So I’m watching this commercial and throughout the end of it, I have my mouse hovering over something very important. It’s Hulu, and it’s asking me to pick yes or no regarding a very important question. That question being, “Is this ad relevant to you?”

I hung in there for the two minutes. Why? Because then Zooey never has to get interrupted. And I can be at peace with my judgements without some jackoff commercial taking up all of my time.

And, when I got to end of that commercial–that commercial that made my eyes bleed and my head spin, that blew my brain up with its killerly unforgettable headline–what did I do?

I clicked yes.

Because 1) The Mormons probably have to pay for that shit. And 2) I’m in awe with how normal these people are. They’re so…normal. They surf. They raise children.They ride Harleys. They work for NASA.  You guys. They BLOG.

Also, there was this one time that a super hot Mormon missionary came to my door and we talked religious turkey in my front yard for like an hour and a half. God, he was beautiful. Tall. Athletic. A thick shock of blonde hair. Perfect teeth, gorgeous blue eyes. He was going to college at BYU, on his summer break mission in Denver. I was 15, of marrying age in his book. And well, we had a lot in common. When he took my hand and placed within it the LDS brochure, I looked into his eyes and I saw the compassion of Jesus Christ. With the holiness of the Dalai Lama. And the gentle wisdom of Winnie the Pooh.

We fell in love that day. He promised to come back. He said that he would. But…he didn’t.

I haven’t forgotten you, Israel. I’ll be waiting. I am waiting. Anytime I see a lanky man on a bicycle wearing a suit, it takes me back, ya know? I’m here, Iz. Waiting.

My case? Rested. I’ll see you on Hulu, Mormons.

*So about the whole New Girl thing, Deschanel=totally adorable. Those guys she lives with? Sort of hot. The general humor? Uh, prettttttttty low brow. And I think we all know how I feel about that.****

**BLOGGER!!!!!! It’s–like–almost a real job. Way to go, Mormon mom! You’re a real sign of lady progress. I applaud you.

***Seriously. How do you get Midwesterners to hate you? They like EVERYBODY. Have you ever met a midwesterner??? Soooooooooooooooooooo nice.

****I kind of think it’s funny? Shit. This is not going to be good for my street cred