I am not a pretty girl .....

Ani DiFranco - Not A Pretty Girl


Back in high school, I discovered the greatness that is Ani Difranco. At that age, I was just looking for something different from Britney Spears and the other cookie cutter "artists" flooding the music scene, so it was refreshing to hear someone like Ani.

I am not a pretty girl. That is not what I do.
I ain't no damsel in distress, and I don't need to be rescued.
So put me down, punk; maybe you'd prefer a maiden fair.
Isn't there a kitten, stuck up a tree somewhere?

It was the biting remarks that I appreciated at the time. They were a not so subtle "screw you" to pretty much anyone who misunderstood me, especially the boys. Oh, those silly boys. Thankfully, I have gotten past that.

I am not an angry girl, but it seems like I've got everyone fooled.
Every time I say something they find hard to hear,
They chalk it up to my anger and never to their own fear.
And imagine you're a girl, just trying to finally come clean,
Knowing full well they'd prefer you were dirty and smiling.

The one thing I hated about being in high school was that I had been in school with the same people since I was in the 4th grade. That kind of consistency does not allow for evolution of personality and character. Instead, even as I grew and changed, mostly for the better, I was stuck in this weird limbo of geeky girl who never spoke much more than necessary. And then apparently, I became what the above lyrics described. It even lingers somewhat to this day, at least to the people who didn't get to know me much past a "hi" in the hallway.

And I am sorry I am not a maiden fair,
And I am not a kitten, stuck up a tree somewhere.

Who would have thought that nearly 8 years has gone past and I am still moved by what she has to say? The same lyrics come through the speakers, but suddenly, it all has new meaning. This interpretation is much more universal, rather than specifically geared towards my peers. It speaks towards my position as a woman; I'm expected to be something I'm not. I'm not a quiet bystander and I will call you out. And I'm not looking for someone to take care of me. There's a certain amount of accomplishment from making it on your own.

And what if there are no damsels in distress?
What if I knew that and I called your bluff?
Don't you think every kitten figures out how to get down,
Whether or not you ever show up?

For me, the question is this: should I feel more accomplished because I am a woman and I did something all by my onesies? I'm not asking this out of malice, believe me. It is just very frustrating to be a woman and have all of these expectations of me. I am more than my appearance. I am more than the words the come from my mouth and from my hands. But I'm not viewed that way. (And by no means am I claiming that men have it easy. That is a whole other set of issues that I cannot even come close to accurately describing, seeing as I don't have to deal with it.)

Anyway, I will close with Ani's final stanza ...

I am not a pretty girl.
I don't want to be a pretty girl.
No, I wanna be more than a pretty girl.

Please, The River, Teach Young Girls to Give It Up to Musicians

I was listening to 107.5 The River. Why? I'm not really that sure. I probably was focusing on the asshole who cut in front of me or something of that nature. But there I was, with my radio dial turned to one of two major Nashville pop stations. By the time I had started paying attention, it was on a commercial break, and something about the JoBro came on. At first, I couldn't tell you what the hell a JoBro was, but I guess that shows you how big a rock I've been under. I thought it was an ad for a new brand of fashionable boxers or whatever. It became abundantly clear within a few seconds that is was actually an advert for the Jonas Brothers.

First of all, let me clarify. I only know a few scant details about this new tween craze. I know that they are boys, that they are a "band," that a lot of people think they suck, one of them dated and may still be dating Miley Cyrus and/or Taylor Swift, and that one of them danced and lip synced to Beyonce's "All the Single Ladies."



But other than that, I'm totally out of the loop. But this absurd apparent dedication of preteen and early teen girls irritates me, akin to the rabid fixation that I've read and heard about in terms of Robert Pattison (or whatever his name is) and the whole Twilight silliness. When I was growing up, I followed the trends of picking a Backstreet Boy or N*Sync member to fawn over, but it was mainly because all of my friends were involved with this. If it were up to me, I would have been harboring my severe crush on Fyodor Dostoevsky or Johnny Depp in the open, but alas, I had not developed a backbone at that point in my life.

Anyway, back to The River. As this commercial continued, it sounded harmless. Girls were instructed how to respond if they ran into a "JoBro," repeating, "I love you" ad nauseum. Which, you know, teen girls use the word "love" in regards to their favorite leggings, so I wasn't really concerned here. But unfortunately for me, I listened to the very end of this, mainly out of curiosity. Well, the final recitation from the girls at this "How to Speak to Famous Boys" academy was, "Yes, I will go back to your hotel room with you."

I turned off my radio and sat in silence for a minute. Seriously???? It's bad enough if you are an adult woman to do this, because you don't know how many other women and diseases they've slept with out of opportunity, but to encourage that behavior to a member of the demographic that listens to the Jonas Brothers? Irresponsible. I got angrier and angrier as my drive continued.

Working in DHS as I do now, I understand that girls are having sex (and getting pregnant) at very young ages, so the idea that someone as young as 13 would offer herself is not really that shocking. Well, on a personal level, it is, because at 13, I was like, ew, penises are gross, but statistically, it isn't that uncommon. I suppose what is so disturbing is that it was a sort of subliminal message that they just tagged on at the end. In marketing terms, brilliant mode, but what exactly are they marketing? Was it really necessary?

Okay, before I go on a diatribe, because I'm still seriously angry about this, I'm going to go hop on the treadmill to work out some angst.

Imagination Station

Don't worry, kiddies, I am not suffering from writer's block. Well, that's good news to me, anyway, but I think that's just the weird artist in me. Either way, I've just been super busy and super exhausted for the past two weeks.

I knew it was going to be metaphorical murder on my body as soon as I found out I would be starting work again. The fact that my sleeping schedule was all out of wacky sorts was only one part of it. You'd think that nearly 11 hours a day of sitting would be easy, but it's really not. I wake up between 5:30 and 6 am every morning, drive between 45 minutes to an hour to work, sit at my desk until 4:30 pm, then drive home, which usually takes a little over an hour, depending on afternoon traffic. When I get home, I have to fight to stay awake past 8 pm. I have started this "stay healthy" regimen, where I exercise when I get back to the house, but it's getting harder to stick with it.

Now, this is not to say that I dislike being employed. Au contrair, mon ami. I didn't realize how much I missed having to get out of the house. Plus, my entire office is full of incredibly nice people with whom I have a lot in common. And of course, there's the benefits. Thank God for Uncle Sam and his state employee health care.

Anyway, with my above stated sleepiness comes overactive imagination during sleep. I had a very strange dream the other night involving a particularly sexy Viking in a lush fur coat. Okay, I have to describe it as I saw it, and I'll just go ahead and warn you now: it's like a really weird, indecipherable arthouse film. So, I'm in the ocean next to this wooden boat, and the water is up to my shoulders. I'm basically looking like a mermaid, only I'm wearing clothes. Whatever. Moving on. I look up and the sail has started to smolder, even though I haven't seen any lightning and it's only drizzling. My gaze then moves towards a Viking (who looks oddly familiar, like a character actor that you always recognize but can't place where you saw them last) who is staring down at me with this serence expression on his face, and I ask him, "It's going to burn, isn't it?" He smiles and says, "Of course." Suddenly, the water starts to rise from beneath me, and I'm nearly to the deck level of the boat. The Viking extends his hand to me and helps me aboard his doomed ship, saying something along these lines: "Before I die ... I love you." Then he starts to cry, and he kisses me, briefly stopping in between smooches to say, "I love you" and cry some more. And then I was woken up by the sound of my cell phone ringing. (I'm determined to use this in some way in one of my stories, but I'm unsure as to how I'm going to do that. But I will do it.) My dreams have been weirder than that, but that's the most recent one that I can recall.

Well, I'm going to have to cut this short, seeing as I have to get up in a few short hours to hop on the treadmill and then go to my first day of training. Wish me luck!

She Works Hard for the Money, So Hard for It, Honey

Well, today is the last weekday in which I am an unemployed woman. It kind of makes me tingly and nauseous at the same time. I'm not quite sure what to expect for this first week of eligibility counselor-dom, but I'm looking forward to it. Getting up early, not so much, but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make for the sake of buying dog food for Zola. Oh, and for getting out of debt. That's going to be nice.

I've put myself on a budget plan, which, for me, is a brand new scary delving into organization. I'm not good with money, and this is something I've known since, well, I got my first job at Sam Goody/Suncoast (RIP Bellevue Mall) and blew all of my money on DVDs. It's up in the air as to whether or not I can learn this apparently vital skill, as I'm worried that it may be a personality flaw. But the debt I've accrued has motivated me to at least give it the old college try. Because, damn, having creditors call you ... not fun in the slightest.

Here's the new me: annoyingly frugal. Reusing plastic bags, drinking box wine, planting gardens for my own produce, yard-saling ... yep, I'm turning into my grandmother. Well, except for the wine part, as she has never had a drop of alcohol in her 80-year lifetime. And the fact that, while I'm living through an economically stagnant time, I did not live through THE Depression.

Like I've said in previous posts, it's time I grew up and accepted this thing called adulthood. Even though I've worked before, I never had a career, even though I didn't really want one. I was the quintessential writer/artiste, but as time trudged along, I realized that I wasn't giving up on my dream to be a published and hopefully famous writer if I got a career. I could write all I wanted, but it's a lot easier to do when you don't live in under a bridge and have to beg for tampons.

So now I have two jobs: one that is paying and one that is not. In one, I'll be helping others, meeting people and welcoming responsibility into my life, and in the other, I will further my artistic endeavors, market myself and continue to follow my dream. It's just starting to get interesting. :)

(PS I will so be listening to Donna Summer on the way to work on Monday.)

I've Never Met You in Person, but I HATE YOU!!!

Do you want to know why people think that people who play video games are losers? Because sometimes, they are. Big, whiny baby losers who seem to forget that there is life outside of the virtual. I mean, whether or not a tree makes a sound when it falls in a forest devoid of humans is a more important issue than successfully completing a self-imposed mission or perfectly executing a triple jump with a midair twist while throwing a grenade and shooting another player right between the eyes at the same time (although that would be pretty cool).

Now, I'm going to make a confession here. I was sucked into Vampire Wars (pun only slightly intended) by my dad, who has, since joining Facebook (which was strange enough), joined about 5 games. I am now a level 18 modern vampire, working on the third tier of missions (adept level) and buying as many minions as I can. I spend way too much time on it, but it's that kind of game that you sort of have to. My deadline is July 20th because, well, I'll have a job and they'll probably frown upon my insistence that I must battle the other online vampires for superiority (and blood). That, and I ran into Velkyn, the type of gamer that makes the rest of us look really bad.

I honestly didn't even remember who the hell he was until I looked back through my history. Apparently, I attacked his vampire avatar and ended up killing him, so he sent me this message: (sic) "oh, you attacked me without cause that's not very nice is there an explanation or shall I just allow hell to descend upon you for this vile transgression?" That question mark at the end of the sentence is mine because he has no idea how to use them. Maybe proper punctuation is like garlic or crosses for this useless human being. Either way, he keeps bothering me because I won't respond, telling me that I'm not playing the game properly. I guess I didn't realize that threatening to send hell in my direction warranted my giving him a reason as to why I fought him once on the combat board. I've been clobbered more than once by the same person and I just laughed it off, but this guy I'm assuming has waged little online wars since he could type "you're a poophead" onto a message board.

Still, I suppose I could be overreacting to his childish ways. It could be wrong of me to expect people to behave like adults, but then again, people have a hard time proving this to me in the real world, so I'm kind of screwed in this department.

I think this is why I love the legend that is Leeeeeeroy Jenkins.



I giggle and occasionally guffaw each time I see this video because it just reinforces my above-stated belief that some gamers are just crybabies that take things like World of Warcraft way too seriously. Yes, video games are fun. I lalalove them and have wasted many a day on upping my stats and trying to get the little achievement bleep bloops. Right now, I'm actually trying to work on leveling up my characters to 100 on my replay of Final Fantasy XII, but I seem to be able to differentiate between the game and oh, I don't know, finding a job, having relationships with face-to-face people ... the list goes on.

But, like I said, I'll be deleting Vampire Wars because of all of this silliness. I may keep Farmville and Farm Town, though. Need to get that damned silo!!!

Back to Life, Back to Reality

It's been a strange 7 months. To be completely honest, I feel like they've flown by, even when I did feel like I was slowly losing my grip. I've been stir-crazy, enough to jump at any chance even to make a trip to the grocery store, and now, I have an honest to God job and it's a little frightening.

Take away the fact that I have to drive almost an hour to get to the office. I once managed to sit through 4 hours of standstill traffic (because a semi driver forgot that houses don't exactly fit underneath bridges) and not snap, but that was because I made the best of it. I talked to the other stranded motorists and even helped a guy whose car had died in the middle of the fun-filled, 95-degree day. Dare I say it, I even had a little bit of fun. Granted, I was riding on the high of an excellent interview (from which I got the aforementioned job), so I'm not sure how much credit to give myself. So I know I can handle the commute, at least in terms of actually driving it.

Now, the waking up at the ass crack of dawn may be a little more daunting. I'm not really too much of a morning person, but once I'm up, I'm up. I may be quietly, secretly-planning-my-revenge-on-the-bastard-that-made-me-get-up-this-early awake, but I'm functioning. What really chaps my ass, though, is that I can't stay up until 2 a.m. Well, I suppose I could, but that would mean all sorts of craziness. I tend to get loopy when I don't have enough sleep. Oh, and everything is funny to me at that point, and I don't think that laughing in someone's face at my desk in very professional, considering he or she is probably there to request some type of monetary benefits.

Forget that I have to live in Cookeville, TN, for 2 - 3 months for training. It's like summer camp, only the state will pay for my room charges. And I'm not required to go to big bonfires, although that does sound like a big heap of fun right now.

If you can overlook all of that, you'd think my trepidation of reentering the workforce is unwarranted. But let me remind you: I've essentially been a hermit since December. (Even if you have the time to socialize and attend events, you're kind of limited when you don't have steady income, especially when you require some type of fuel to get from point a to point b. Plus, you start to feel like a mooch when people offer to pay for you. Yes, I appreciate the thought, but it's kind of embarrassing.) I don't believe I've lost my interpersonal skills, as shown by my ability to talk to people I met about 15 years ago at my paternal family reunion last weekend. And I am excited. Cheerleader excited, actually. I did a little dance in the elevator when I found out that I had gotten the job, and I even got a little old man to join in on the fun. But I'm also a little nervous about how everything is going to go.

As my first day gets closer and closer, the knot kind of tightens. I mean, it's not there all the time, ready to pounce like an over-eager panic attack, but when I think about actually getting out "there" again, it makes its presence known in a big way.

It's all about "the fear." There's a sort of repugnance about losing the lack of responsibility of youth, and a certain reluctance to become an adult always rears its ugly head. We equate adult with boring. People sometimes marvel at those who manage to never grow up; I know I do. Then again, they annoy me most of the time because they usually give no consideration to the consequences of their actions, on themselves or on others. But there is a fascination that I won't deny. The 58 year old man who just quits his job and moves Africa; the 49 year old woman who still lives in her parents' house, complete with her old high school room and its dated decorations; the 83 year old man with a twinkle in his eye and a slap on the ass for his young nurse; the 25 year old mother of two who still parties like she did in college. Do they just not give a damn? Afraid to get old, perhaps?

I have spent the last few years basically bouncing around. I'm a notorious anti-planner, with flights of fancy (ex. buying a motorcycle on a whim - seriously??) and a lack of organization.* My mom calls me a free spirit, and while it does describe me fairly well, I'm thinking she's just being nice, since she is the queen of FILE IT NOW! I kept on going back to school because that was where I was comfortable, where I had some sense of control. And I finally realized that a few weeks ago. So here I am, poised atop this ledge, and all I can think is, "When can I grow up?" Not in the sense of losing my playfulness and love of life and new experiences. But to be totally self-sufficient. To be strong and capable.

And that's what I think I am nervous about. This job is a first step, and they say that is the hardest one, whoever "they" are. It would be easier to rely on my parents, sure, but it's not really that fulfilling. And they're not going to be here forever, so I'd have to pick up the mantle eventually. But now, it's my decision to move on.

And with that, I leave you with the remix:



* And this is where it's weird. At work, I'm an anal retentive bitch. I use stickie notes like nobody's business, and I immediately file things. When I'm writing my stories, I have little folders for each character, location, etc., full of pictures and ideas. And yet, everywhere else, I'm an organizational screw up.

MY NAME IS KANYE WEST, AND I APPROVE THIS MESSAGE!!!!*

I've found that most artists are pretentious. Ranging from Johnny Depp's refusal to see his own movies (because then it becomes about money *cough* "Pirates of the Caribbean" *cough*) to my Drawing I teacher kicking a girl out of his class permanently because she used "purple" instead of "violet." And then there's the ubiquitous Kanye West (now a fashion designer of really ugly shoes with tassels) who constantly uses capital letters because what he says is so important that he has to use the internet equivalent of SCREAMING (although I have this weird admiration for someone who thinks he is the Jesus Christ of the pop music/rap/fashion/political/artistic/everything else world).

I'm not exactly sure from where this sense of entitlement comes. It's like they have access to some unreachable plane of existence that normal humans just can't comprehend, so they come off looking and sounding like Lady Gaga, sometimes just for the sake of being weird. "It's all about the art." Sure. Whatever.

As an artist, I actually feel rather shunned by the artistic community. My paintings are mediocre, at best, and my photography is akin to a child getting a hold of his mother's camera and taking pictures haphazardly because he's not quite sure what this contraption actually does. When I go to a painting exhibit, it's usually, "Ooooh, I like the color scheme" rather than, "Oh, I can totally see the pain he was going through in this blade of grass because of the harshness of the brush strokes. How deep." I listen to pop music and do not spend my days searching for obscure bands just so I can say I found them first and that they are bad now that they are mainstream. And I don't watch various plays and dances that I consider weird and carry on for hours about the brilliance of the performers. For example, I still don't understand modern dance. I understand it takes skill, but when you're just throwing yourself about in what looks like an epileptic seizure, I'm not going to inundate you with praise. I'm not saying it's not art, because it is. However, I'm not just going to gush about it and ask for an encore because it's supposedly my responsibility as a fellow artist.

Take John Cage's 4'33". He says it was his most important work. Well, it's just silence. The sheet music just instructs the musicians not to play anything for four minutes and thirty-three seconds. Sure, I understand that the ambient noise is supposed to be the music, but come on. That's 4:33 that I will never get back, and the money I might have spent on that concert could have been used for a picnic in the park, where I could listen to silence for free.

But I love my art. I am passionate about my sketches, character designs and, in some cases, my attempts at using acrylic and oil paints. I spend countless hours researching for my stories and articles, and I treat them like they are more valuable than children (because they are). I keep scraps of paper with story ideas or quotes in case I can use them again, which means that I have umpteens of notebooks and boxes of loose leaf notebook paper with random scribblings, most of which are not related in any way possible. I'm sure there is some manner in which I could organize them, but I just haven't the time or the energy.

Still, I find that I'm usually sort of offput by artists. I don't find myself better than they are, but I feel like they expect me to be a certain way. I have more in common with tattoo and graffiti artists than I do with most writers, painters or what have you.

Gah, they just don't understand me.

* I'm actually not sure if Kanye does approve of this, but just so he can't come after me with his terrifying 5'7" self, I'm posting this disclaimer: Kanye West does not have anything to do with this blog, and in no way are his opinions expressed in this entry. By the way, Kanye, if you are reading this, I heart you and think we could be great friends.