In elementary school I knew the girl colors were pink and purple. So my favorite color was blue. I actually didn’t much care for the color red for years because it seemed too close to pink.

I tend to balk at strictly defined “girly” traits. Which was how I found myself boldly dissecting a squid and a grasshopper in middle school. Head pops off? No big deal.

When I’m joking around with guys it’s usually me who pushes things to the “too far” line because I need to be grosser than them…because that’s “winning”…somehow.

Despite these dubious achievements, I am aware that I’m hopelessly stereotypically “female” in certain weaknesses. Most specifically in the arena of gaming. I never played video games as a kid and even now as an adult I can’t drive a Mario kart worth a damn or maneuver the buttons to successfully…what? Eat the magic mushrooms in the Princess Peach palace run by the giant gorilla man? I have no idea what the point of that game is.

I didn’t much care about this personal failing. Until.

A friend invited me — for funsies — to try out a helicopter simulator. This was something at his disposal to offer, apparently. I immediately said “no, thank you” and it wasn’t necessarily because I didn’t want to.

No, my first thought was self-preservation. I don’t try things out in any realm of the public sphere if I’m fairly confident I’m going to show my incompetence clearly. Times that by 100 when it comes to failing in a very obvious “female” capacity.

“Of course a girl crashes the helicopter simulator. Women can’t drive!” or whatever hypothetical insult you want to put in this scenario. And I would have no response. Just flustered stammering and probably a great deal of sweating. (It’s great that displaying my insecurities brings on added moisture. Is it a self defense mechanism? Am I supposed to “slip away”?)

So I said “no”. And truth be told, I also hate flying and things that feel like flying. I hate roller coasters. I hate being in the passenger seat of a car. I hate the thought of fake killing myself in a simulator. But I still feel a bit crappy passing on this adventure.

 

 

And it makes me think about all the other adventures I’ve missed because I didn’t want to give a black-mark to all women through my own incompetence. And all the humorous stories I missed out on had I dared to brave that which I was unqualified for.

Don’t we all know the best stories come from the most uncomfortable moments?

But I think this is true: I think sometimes men are just as scared to expose “girly” weakness as we are, and the only way to show that it’s okay to be weak is to display weakness with confidence and openness. And a good deal of good humored laughter at yourself. Let’s be honest, If you can’t laugh at you, you’ve lost your greatest source of amusement.

Fair Warning

“YOU SHOULD’VE MOVED THIS PIECE OF SHIT. FAIR WARNING: DON’T PARK IN MY SPOT.”

The “Fair Warning” note under my windshield wiper, along with an official warning notice from the parking garage at my new workplace, was accompanied by a deflated tire. And it wasn’t just that the air was let out via the valve. There was actually a cut in the tire wall.

All because I mixed up the number of the parking spot I was told to park in, and parked in 131 instead of 1×1.

Fair Warning: I’m angry.

It may not seem that I am, because I’m handling it. Like a grown-up. I discovered the flat, thankfully, before getting onto the freeway, by dint of offering to give a car-less co-worker a ride to her home on my way. In her driveway, she held a cellphone flashlight as I maneuvered the tire iron, standing on it with my full weight in order to remove the bolts when necessary, feeling thankful for those unwanted extra pounds. I’ve had to do this twice this year, and each time I’m grateful for the time my dad made me change the tire in the snow so I would know how to do it. I cut my finger on a metal burr on the edge of the jack, and had a Fat Amy moment.

Together, we pulled the wheel off, leaving grease mixed with blood from my finger, and attached the spare. Agreeing to text her when I made it home, I set up my navigation system to direct me home without getting on the freeway—a 20-mile detour around Lake Washington by surface roads.

I’m mad. I mean really, really angry. I want to let the air out of this person’s tires. I want to scream at the business owners who repeatedly told me I wasn’t worth a living wage, because I am a single woman instead of a family man. I want them to know what it feels like to cry in your office at 10 pm because you’ve been doing workaround after workaround after workaround in order to accomplish a task that should have taken 10 minutes, because they didn’t consider my time important enough to take up development time.

I want to go back to the office of my dream job and tell the partners who fired me and left me to 6 months of unemployment last year, and wish the same fate on their daughters, then flip them both middle fingers and walk out backward with Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” playing over their shocked faces. And they thought I was such a nice girl.

The Pastors who used my passion up until it became imperative to pay me and then dropped me or forced me out of jobs, the leaders who let me go because it was easier than helping me grow into a role. The leaders who overlooked me because I was quiet. The men who hit on me at bus stops, while I’m walking down the street, or use the carpool lanes as an excuse to cut off rule-following, hard-working commuters. The “Unconscious Bias” of privilege is much-talked about these days. I see men apologizing on social media, supporting Emma Watson’s #heforshe, being aware of how it affects their behavior for the first time. But they still own the public spaces without being fully aware of it.

Before I was even fully aware of this concept, I broke up with a college boyfriend. Only recently could I really explain and understand why I felt uncomfortable with the patronizing tone he took with my art, with my friends and priorities, with my church and even with the way I dressed and talked and ate, the college I chose, my family, and with the way I lead my teams in the summer program where we worked together. He didn’t respect my place of leadership—he seemed instead to sense that he was conceding, indulging me somehow, by allowing me to lead, by allowing me to even be there. It was a concession, not an equal relationship. By the last week of the final summer we worked together, not a day went by that I didn’t feel like punching his smug, now-engaged-to-someone-else face. I mentioned to one of my staffers that we had dated briefly and she fell off her chair and rolled on the floor laughing at the idea.

I am so grateful for the vague sense of confused discomfort that finally led me to follow my gut and say the relationship wasn’t for me. I’m even a little angry that I grieved losing the relationship.

And I’m mad that he is now a pastor. It’s been many years since I worked with him, so it’s likely he’s changed. But honestly, when I go to churches, my bullshit radar is set to super-alert. Many pastors are now my age and younger, too. It’s hard for me to trust the system that fostered their leadership (even though I also know many good and faithful leaders and pastors who are full of integrity and worthy of respect). And if I catch an echo of patronizing attitude, of what we now term “unconscious privilege,” I want to run as far and fast from that person’s leadership as I can. I see the faces of betrayal and patronization staring back at me from pulpits and stages, no matter how casual the dress code, no matter how authentic the tone, no matter how artistically designed the backdrop.

Am I a victim? Am I wallowing in injustice? Probably some of the time, yes. I’m a perpetrator, too. I’m white, middle-class, educated, and own a (nearly worthless) car and half of a house. This makes me one of the richest people in the world. I have my own “unconscious privilege” biases, too.

To those who didn’t take care of me when they could have: I’m angry. To those who attacked me for innocent mistakes: I’m angry. To those who took advantage of their privilege, however unconsciously, instead of fighting for those who had less opportunity and less advantage. To those who did not and do not begin with love instead of power. To the owner of parking spot 131, who slashed my driver’s side rear tire, as confirmed by my Goodyear tire dealership.

I’m angry.

FAIR WARNING.

But because I am angry, I will not attack your car in return. Because I am angry, I will be more patient (if, because of the cost of damage to my car, a less-frequent customer) at Starbucks. And I will smile and thank the barista who messed up my order and took a few extra minutes to make that magical cup of coffee.

I will be kinder. I will work harder. I will help out when I don’t strictly need to.

And this will be my rebellion.

I will not make fewer mistakes, probably. But possibly one day the barista may become an executive who owns both a shiny black new BMW and a matte-red custom painted sportscar. Possibly someone in a thrice-recalled (thanks, GM), nearly worthless vehicle may park in that former barista’s spot. And perhaps, just perhaps, that barista will remember what it was like to be struggling. Maybe that former barista will not leave a nasty note, will not slash the tires on the GM junker, but will instead simply and reasonably call security and wait for the car to be moved, assuming (correctly) that it was a simple mistake by a stressed-out newbie.

Be kind. Make the world a better place.

Awhile ago Jana and I had this idea: let’s go see the new Nicholas Sparks movie at the theater. (I’ll confess, it was my idea. I thought it would be hilarious.)

So I filled up a water bottle with gin and tea (because you never should suggest seeing a Sparks movie sober) and we went to the theater to watch The Longest Ride because we all know that I have a little crush on Clint Eastwood’s kid and honestly, you start to think “how bad could it be?”

And we were right! Because that was the best time I’ve ever had in a movie. By the time we left the water bottle was empty and I was crying real tears. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

The movie is about a bull rider and an art major who improbably fall in love in the present day and about a couple in the 50s who struggle with the very real pain of infertility. And I know what you’re thinking, I can see the parallels already. Totally.

From the first scene Jana and I were hysterical with laughter. The opening, first introduction to the movie scene is a crotch shot. I mean, sure, “it’s about the championship belt buckle he’s wearing”, okay, but come on, it’s a romance, it’s really just a crotch shot. It was really downhill from there as we tried to discreetly make jokes through our laughter.

When you’re primed to view a movie as a comedy there’s very little that can change your mind. But there were still low points in the movie that sobered us.

• Gratuitous butt shot of Eastwood (the younger one). Because that’s what a sensitive, thoughtful plot line needs. Butts.
• Looking around the theater and realizing everyone is crying real tears of sadness and wondering if someone removed your sensitivity gland. Or if maybe you weren’t born with one to begin with (I didn’t cry the first time I watched A Walk to Remember OR The Notebook. Clearly there is something wrong).
• Finishing the contents of the water bottle and realizing with sinking dread that the movie is definitely not over.

But I digress. You wanted to know about the plot or whatever.

You discover in the movie that our young bull rider is apparently one concussion away from brain dead and suffered a serious fall the previous year that left him in a coma for eight days. This is a pretty serious matter despite the fact that I couldn’t take anything in this movie seriously.

Which is unfortunate, because the 1950s’ story line is so good, so painfully real that I would have gladly watched, for what seems like the first time, a movie that seems to accurately describe the painful realities in store for those people who want a family desperately and can’t have one.

But no, concussed bull rider and his art majoring love interest keep popping in. I keep bringing up the art major because it’s a plot point. Perhaps the one time majoring in art has come in handy (hah! jokes!).

As the movie ends our art major turns to our bull rider and says “what took you so long?”, because it’s never too early to start nagging someone in a relationship, and Jana leaned over and says, “Well he had brain damage!”

And I laughed so hard I cried. And that is the story of the first and only time I’ve cried in the theater during a Nicholas Sparks movie.

What is it that’s so fascinating and appealing about James Bond? Is it the possibility of excavating the heart of a man? Is it simply confidence, ruthlessness, and sex appeal? Do we think he’s wounded, in need of nursing? Or is it that we hope some man will find us to be a mystery? Will want to pursue and unravel the mystery?

Perhaps it’s only tied in to wanting someone high position, power, strength to see something of value in us, to find their equal in us. How much of who we’re attracted to is about trying to find our own value?

That took a very deep introspective turn, eh?

Or maybe we want our own adventure for 90 minutes with an attractive man we can then kiss off later as a “could have been” when we realize he can’t/won’t give us the stability we desire.

Let’s face it, most straight women would enjoy being pursued by a sexually confident, attractive man of mystery, even if she has no plans to take him up on the offer, and wouldn’t know what to do with his room key in her hand.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s a matter of intensity and focus. Of having piercing eyes stare right into you and not flinch, not lose interest. Maybe women just want, with an exhilarating energy, to be a man’s sole focus, sadly, even if for a night.

Does it sound whorish and pathetic to say that? Perhaps, but in a technology obsessed day and age where every five seconds a new email, text or facebook message distracts us, maybe attention is really the most appealing thing of all.

Don’t we all go through life assuming everyone notices everything we do—good and bad—and hoping vainly that we’re right? The miracle of someone noticing the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re tired, the way you wear sweatpants to work on Thursdays and call them “relaxed slacks”…

Maybe this has gotten off topic. I mean, really I meant to write about a man with sex appeal. Gratifyingly, exterior appearance doesn’t seem to hold my attention too long—even in writing.

…Though I suppose my James Bond movie collection may invalidate what I just said.

A few months back I house/dog sat for Jana’s parents. They’re lovely people with a large kitchen that houses, among other things, a food processor. Maybe it’s because I don’t even own a blender, but I just assume people that have a food processor are closer to chef rank than anyone else. Point being, their kitchen does not lack in amenities.

However, past experience has taught me that when I house sit, it’s advisable to bring my own wine bottle opener.

I’ve house sat a few times over the years and have been able to evaluate and analyze the variety of wine bottle openers on the market (or at least in people’s home). Even if i’m just visiting friends, I’ll often refrain from assisting with meal prep that includes wine bottle opening to set the table instead. If your bottle opener is a corkscrew, you’re on your own.

Sidenote: Everyone I’ve ever met who owns a corkscrew to open bottles will tell you “It’s easy” and then demonstrate but with Herculean muscles I don’t possess, Usually it’s some combination bottle opener/can opener/handcuff unlocking type tool as well. Pass.

At one house I was without a bottle opener and needed to make sangria for a party. I called my brother-in-law who understands how to MacGyver situations like this and he suggested shoving something into the bottle to push the cork in, which does work, but he neglected to mention the inevitable vacuum effect that resulted in a small temporary geyser in the kitchen. Fun for all.

So now I travel with.

Except this time, after house sitting, I forgot to bring the bottle opener home. So a couple weeks ago I bought a bottle of wine and then realized my mistake. You may have gathered that my kitchen is lacking in amenities and among those amenities I lack is a long thin instrument with which to shove corks into bottles. Or so I thought.

For my 25th birthday my parents gave me a mixer. Mixers have little beaters attached to them. And now we have the perfect storm for shoving a cork into a bottle.

Sidenote: If you’re someone who reads innuendo into everything, this next section is perfect for you.

Beaters have a little knobby end to hook into the mixer, and this is what I pressed into the cork, very slowly and carefully because again, you want to avoid the previous geyser situation. After working at this for a bit, I managed to get the cork shoved into the bottle with minimal spillage.

I tried to triumphantly remove the beater from the cork, but to no avail. It was firmly stuck. I pulled the beater out and the cork came too. I realized that if I shoved the cork back into the bottle and jiggered the beater a little, I could still managed to get the wine out.

Sidenote: The rest of the story should be innuendo free. If you don’t have a dirty mind.

Never before have I had to use two hands to poor out wine, but desperate times.

The plus side to this whole adventure is that when I was done drinking for the night I simply pulled up on the beater and the bottle recorked itself.

Despite the obvious inefficiency of two handed wine pouring, it’s not a terrible kitchen hack. So, go forth and buy some beaters! Or…just buy a mixer, already. What are you, 24?

Note: This letter is many months old, no need to be alarmed.

Dear Attractive Receptionist,

First of all, you’re probably not called a receptionist. My bad, I didn’t take the time to figure out your title at check-in. I was preoccupied.

Second of all, when I showed up in the ER wearing a salmon pink striped pajama shirt under a giant red fleece with purple flannel pajama pants and a maroon stocking hat, you need to understand it wasn’t because of you. Had I known that an attractive man would be asking me for my personal information, I might have dressed more appropriately. Or at least put on a bra.

I also want to apologize for not being flirty and congenial. Normally, you would have brought out my A-game of coy smiles and quippy one liners and stellar eye contact, but as I had an undiagnosed kidney stone and felt like vomiting, I was kind of terrified what might come out of my mouth at all. I didn’t mean to be business-like and cold.

Also, if you witnessed the later actual vomiting, I’m sorry about that too. Throwing up in a trash can and on my slippers was not the highlight of my evening either.

I want you to know, too, that I would have loved to come in at a later time to meet you under different circumstances. It was so unlike me to meet you and not be interested. And the truth is that we won’t ever meet again because I actually don’t find my dates in the ER. I’m pretty sure you don’t either. It’d probably be one of the things I like about you if I knew you at all. And knew you weren’t married. But I was so sick I didn’t even check for a ring.

I was thinking about this when I finally managed to shower three days after meeting you that this probably happens to you a lot. You meet all these people who just don’t care about you at all. They don’t dress up to see you, they aren’t nice to you, they don’t care how you’re doing at all, and I thought having a job like that would suck a bit.

So I just want you to know, I’m sorry you work in the ER, but there was that one beautiful moment when you put that hospital bracelet around my wrist and I got a little fluttery, I did.

Also maybe that was the nausea. But either way, I’m glad you work in the ER. I’m sure a lot of us are.

With fond remembrance, Pukey Girl in the Hat

There is, in women of a certain age, an attractiveness born from singleness. Pity pretty.

It’s a magical age when you go from being ‘attractive’ to ‘attractive for your age and circumstance.’ All your accomplishments become excellent reasons for why you should be married, though hardly selling points for falling in love. And no one quite knows how to wrap their heads around the fact that someone attractive, accomplished and mostly inoffensive could ever be single, remaining oblivious to the fact that unattractive, unremarkable, offensive people get married every day.

While people are pleased and happy to acknowledge and praise your skills, your fashion sense, your commitment to your job, your volunteer work, your availability to teach Sunday school or lead the youth fundraiser, and your bravery in “living your life,’ it’s often a lead-in to lament that “it’s a shame no one has snapped you up yet.”

Pity-prettiness is conditional. You’re still pretty enough, it says. Pretty enough to not be single for the rest of your life, as if singleness is merely a manifestation of genetics.

When I was in summer camp leadership, a friend of mine had a whole repertoire of folk songs memorized, and we all would learn various funny, antique lyrics. The one the girls thought was funniest was called “If I Die an Old Maid in the Garrett.” They lyrics are about a lonely spinster wondering why in the world she doesn’t have “a wee, fat man, who would call me his own dearie.”

We sang it because the lyrics were comical, but one time when we finished a rousing round of the chorus, one of the male staffers shook his head and said he didn’t like us to sing it.

“Why not?” I asked, surprised.

“Well…well,” he thought for a minute, “… because all of you are too pretty to die old maids!” He said, with the flourish of bestowing a compliment.

We all looked at each other, unsure of how to respond. The thing is, pity-pretty isn’t a compliment. Pity-pretty is an assessment and estimation of value, based on cultural expectations.

At the same time, I know that this language of pity-pretty is used by friends, elderly relatives, acquaintances, and church family with the kindest and most loving of intentions. They want to build me up, encourage me that it’s “not too late.”

And so, we smile and accept these sunflower compliments, and put them in water with a good boulder or two of salt. After all, at least it proves they think we’re not complete mutants. At least they’re not among those that are saying “No wonder she’s single!”