I am beyond white. Not like cracker white; Casper the Friendly Ghost white. After about two or three sessions of tanning beds, I gave them up the because I'm cheap and skin cancer isn't a good look. I'd like to look as far from a raisin as possible when I'm 60.
I thought about waiting for white to come back. Back in the 1800s it was posh to be fair-skinned! It was a sign of money and power to be pale! Only problem was the reason pale was associated with the previously mentioned money and power was because rich people owned slaves to work the fields. Their fair complexion represented their ability to force slaves into the fields instead of working the land themselves. Ummmm...ok. Forget 'money and power' white.
I wasn't about to renounce my efforts to look like I just got back from Spring Break in Cancun so I started to think outside the box. I heard about spray tanning so I asked at my hair salon and the owner said I would love it so much I would be addicted. I totally look like the kind of lesbian that gets addicted to expressions of vanity.
There were no preparation instructions from the salon so I went as is. As I continued my conversation at check in with the receptionists I learned there was a whole list of things I should have done: exfoliated, worn a bathing suit and left off my lotion and make-up. I should have known this was already a rough start. The receptionists assured me that they "never do any of the stuff on that list". Except for the fact that they probably don't pay near what I'm paying.
So I get into the spray tan room and it's a tiny room with a three-sided giant tent. Yeah, tent, like camping tent, tent. The spray tan girl introduces herself and is very sweet and professional. She goes through all of the preparation instructions and teaches me how to use this glue stick-looking thing. She instructs me to put it on my hands and feet as well as my nailbeds so they don't get too dark. I tell her that I didn't prepare in an undergarment sort of way, but she tells me they have a set of disposable bra and underwear. Perfect! Thank goodness! I didn't want to go home with bronzed underpants.
So she leaves the room and I start to prepare. I take out the disposable "underwear" that you can barely call underwear. It's like a see-through loin cloth about 2.5 inches wide with strings on the sides! It's way less than what Tarzan wears! WTF?!
I have to move quick because she's going to be back in a minute. I start to rub this glue stick on my hands and feet. She comes back in and gets started.
First of all, the spray tan solution is FREEZING! I'm chattering because I'm so cold. Then she moves me like Gumby; elbows out, hands down; elbows down, palms upside-down; my favorite is one leg forward, one leg back. My positioning was kind of like Venus de Milo's legs underneath the drapery. Except I have arms.
As I'm moving around in different positions my loin cloth is quickly crawling up my butt. The girl spraying me clearly didn't care because she spray-tanned the wedgie. I now have a semi-permanent wedgie tanned into my behind.
She finishes and I look like Soul Man from the 80's. If you don't know what Soul Man is, Google it. It's a lot funnier if you see it as opposed to me explaining it. I seriously looked like that. The salon assures me it will be lighter once I wash off the solution because it's setting for the next 6-8 hours.
After I wash it out, it lightens up a little bit, but my hands look ridiculously dark. I start to exfoliate and can't exfoliate enough. I'm scrubbing and scrubbing and it's just not doing anything. At one point I almost snack on my thumbs due to their resemblance to carrots.
By the time the wedding comes, it looks okay and at least the lighting does me some justice, thank goodness. I don't want to be the girl with the bad tan. As for spray tanning again, I'd rather be called translucent, Casper, or anything that exceeds whiter-than-white expectations than turn over my palms and be mistaken for an Oompa Loompa.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Graduate School
Grad school. I finally decided to take the plunge. At first, the idea intimidated me. The thought of intellectuals sitting around discussing theories of the comorbidity of anxiety disorders in students with emotional impairments made me a little self-conscious. But I was ready. I was ready for group projects, research papers, class discussions; a really amazing brain workout.
It would be way better than undergrad! These people would be professionals! People already in the field, learning from their own experiences and coming to class with ideas of how to turn theory into practice! People with whom I could exchange lesson plans and behavior interventions! These people passed the GRE for crying out loud! Feel like I'm setting you up for a let-down? It's because I am.
There are three main disappointments for me so far in graduate school: the caliber of professionals enrolled in classes with me, the low standard of our assessments and the fact that in more than two classes I have been required to bring snacks. Yes, I said snacks.
The Caliber of Professionals
Let me step back for a minute. I met a lot of yahoos in undergrad: the kid who always took his tests drunk in our 8am class, the girl who wore the same clothes in the morning that she wore to the previous night's party (make-up included) and the guy enrolled in a freshman class after attending school for 7 years.
All of that is kid stuff. Grad school takes the word "yahoo" to a new level. Grad school students are adults who are in charge of making decisions and coordinating programs for our youth! At least the drunk kid wasn't in charge of anything besides coordination of the arrival of a keg!
I have several yahoos who continue to resurface in class after class. Of course the people I respect don't return the next semester...just the yahoos. Guy-Who-Comes-Late-or-Not-At-All-and-When-He-Does-Says-Stupid-Shit is my most recent arch nemesis. He spouts out a bunch of mumbo jumbo and figures if he talks enough (and talks over you) it's a relevant point. Arrrgh. I want to walk across the room, smack him around a little and say, "Shut. Up."
The Low Standard of Assessments
Just to throw out a disclaimer, some of my classes have been appropriately challenging and I have learned a significant amount of material applicable to my profession. However, just as many have been less-than-par in terms of the quality of what we are required to produce.
Make-N-Take Project:
For my class entitled Integrating Math and Motor we were basically required to locate or create a kiddie craft project relating to a mathematical concept. What?! Not only were we required to do a short demonstration, but were expected to bring materials to have craft time in class. I'm paying thousands of dollars to have E-Z Kiddie Craft Night?! Damnit.
Bring Language Arts to Life Project
Sounds like a great idea, doesn't it? A way to get the students involved and enthusiastic! Their faces will light up when they see the academic challenge in front of them and how learning a new concept can be so exciting! What every professor forgets about me is that my students throw things and scream, "Fuck off, bitch, I will kill you." Hmm.
I decided to place all of my visions of my students walking around the room with scissors in their hand attempting to stab me out of my mind so I could just be a "normal" teacher planning a "normal" lesson. I had this great idea to have two people in class volunteer as a colon and semicolon, wearing giant punctuation t-shirts. They would insert themselves into sentences depending on which punctuation is required. It's cute! It's catchy! It's gimmicky!
As I started planning the execution of this brilliant idea, I realized I would have to use puffy paint to create the t-shirts. Puffy paint?! Really?! I've been reduced to puffy paint?! How professional and intellectual. Who knew my old sorority picture frame decoration skills would resurface for grad school? Sigh.
Requirement to Bring Snacks
Ugh. The worst one. When my first class came up that required me to bring snacks I pictured my mom baking sugar cookies for my softball team (white frosting with red laces of course) with each girls' name and jersey number on it. Was I supposed to frost cookies with stupid people in graduation caps on each?
I told my Middle School Special Education students about my snack requirement and even my kid with a 60-some IQ makes fun of my "Snacky Class". He even makes baby noises when he talks about it to illustrate the immaturity of the requirement.
When I tell people I'm in grad school, they look impressed. They ask me what I'm studying and what classes I'm taking. Integrating Language Arts and Linguistics and Classroom Management and Social Skill Development for Students with Disabilities sounds impressive. I want to tell them not to look so astonished and that I'll puffy paint them a t-shirt with my newly refreshed graduate level skills.
It would be way better than undergrad! These people would be professionals! People already in the field, learning from their own experiences and coming to class with ideas of how to turn theory into practice! People with whom I could exchange lesson plans and behavior interventions! These people passed the GRE for crying out loud! Feel like I'm setting you up for a let-down? It's because I am.
There are three main disappointments for me so far in graduate school: the caliber of professionals enrolled in classes with me, the low standard of our assessments and the fact that in more than two classes I have been required to bring snacks. Yes, I said snacks.
The Caliber of Professionals
Let me step back for a minute. I met a lot of yahoos in undergrad: the kid who always took his tests drunk in our 8am class, the girl who wore the same clothes in the morning that she wore to the previous night's party (make-up included) and the guy enrolled in a freshman class after attending school for 7 years.
All of that is kid stuff. Grad school takes the word "yahoo" to a new level. Grad school students are adults who are in charge of making decisions and coordinating programs for our youth! At least the drunk kid wasn't in charge of anything besides coordination of the arrival of a keg!
I have several yahoos who continue to resurface in class after class. Of course the people I respect don't return the next semester...just the yahoos. Guy-Who-Comes-Late-or-Not-At-All-and-When-He-Does-Says-Stupid-Shit is my most recent arch nemesis. He spouts out a bunch of mumbo jumbo and figures if he talks enough (and talks over you) it's a relevant point. Arrrgh. I want to walk across the room, smack him around a little and say, "Shut. Up."
The Low Standard of Assessments
Just to throw out a disclaimer, some of my classes have been appropriately challenging and I have learned a significant amount of material applicable to my profession. However, just as many have been less-than-par in terms of the quality of what we are required to produce.
Make-N-Take Project:
For my class entitled Integrating Math and Motor we were basically required to locate or create a kiddie craft project relating to a mathematical concept. What?! Not only were we required to do a short demonstration, but were expected to bring materials to have craft time in class. I'm paying thousands of dollars to have E-Z Kiddie Craft Night?! Damnit.
Bring Language Arts to Life Project
Sounds like a great idea, doesn't it? A way to get the students involved and enthusiastic! Their faces will light up when they see the academic challenge in front of them and how learning a new concept can be so exciting! What every professor forgets about me is that my students throw things and scream, "Fuck off, bitch, I will kill you." Hmm.
I decided to place all of my visions of my students walking around the room with scissors in their hand attempting to stab me out of my mind so I could just be a "normal" teacher planning a "normal" lesson. I had this great idea to have two people in class volunteer as a colon and semicolon, wearing giant punctuation t-shirts. They would insert themselves into sentences depending on which punctuation is required. It's cute! It's catchy! It's gimmicky!
As I started planning the execution of this brilliant idea, I realized I would have to use puffy paint to create the t-shirts. Puffy paint?! Really?! I've been reduced to puffy paint?! How professional and intellectual. Who knew my old sorority picture frame decoration skills would resurface for grad school? Sigh.
Requirement to Bring Snacks
Ugh. The worst one. When my first class came up that required me to bring snacks I pictured my mom baking sugar cookies for my softball team (white frosting with red laces of course) with each girls' name and jersey number on it. Was I supposed to frost cookies with stupid people in graduation caps on each?
I told my Middle School Special Education students about my snack requirement and even my kid with a 60-some IQ makes fun of my "Snacky Class". He even makes baby noises when he talks about it to illustrate the immaturity of the requirement.
When I tell people I'm in grad school, they look impressed. They ask me what I'm studying and what classes I'm taking. Integrating Language Arts and Linguistics and Classroom Management and Social Skill Development for Students with Disabilities sounds impressive. I want to tell them not to look so astonished and that I'll puffy paint them a t-shirt with my newly refreshed graduate level skills.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Arm-Wrestling Will Win You a Man
If you told me it costs $20 for all-you-can-eat hors d'oeuvres and 26 people who are forced to speak with me for five minutes a piece, I'd be in heaven. Which is why you can completely understand why I decided to go straight speed-dating with a couple of friends. Nevermind that it's straight speed-dating or that I already have a partner. The important part is 26 people at five minutes a piece means 130 minutes of guaranteed conversation. I love it.
Unfortunately my speed-dating experience didn't start off with a bang. It started off with a bust. Or a bust-ed rather. So I try to fly under the radar using a fake name so that people don't know my real name. Since I'm a genius, I use my credit card which has a completely different name on it. The girl from the dating service busts me so I 'confess' that I'm nervous because I've never been speed-dating before. Works like a charm.
So it's an hour before the event and I'm in my bedroom looking through my drawers: softball t-shirt, flannel, softball t-shirt, Ani DiFranco t-shirt...hmm. Nothing suitable for pretending to look for a male date. I decide that since I need to look straight I'll borrow something from my roommate! She dresses me up in a black lacy cleavage-filled tank top with a cardigan over it. I put on my bootleg jeans with eff-me boots I bought for a sassy Halloween costume in 2006 and voila! Straighty McStraightster!
Speed-dating is actually a lot like the way it looks on TV. The girls sit on one side of a table, guys on the other and someone taps the guys on the shoulder when the five minutes is up and it's time to change partners.
So I'm taking notes on which guys I like for my friends (i.e. too dorky, too old, too douchy) and this guy sits down and stares shamelessly at my tits. So I say, "You should totally open a boobie bar. Then you could stare at girls' boobs and no one would care! Everyone looks at boobs, guys and girls."
I get into another conversation with a guy about arm-wrestling so we clear the table of the salt and pepper and proceed to have a match right in the middle of the table. I, of course, lose on purpose because I don't want to embarrass him in front of all those pretty ladies.
So at this point I'm warmed up and having a great time. I can say pretty much anything I want and who cares? I'm talking about jello wrestling and boobie bars and piercings and all kinds of trashy things (which in turn makes me think about my own white trashness since I have participated in all three of those activities). I'm not really looking for a date!
So afterwards Angela, Mari and Dave and I go back to our house to of course talk about everyone. The procedure after the dating part is everyone goes back online and puts a check by each people of interest and if there is mutual interest contact information is exchanged. Angela has this bright idea that I should check all of the guys just to see who's interested.
So 12 matches and 10 personal e-mails later I've gotten myself into a mess. What I realize however is between my jello wrestling and boobie conversations guys like complete trash! So I e-mail them all back and tell them that I recently got out of a relationship and thought I was ready but wasn't. In case you're thinking I'm a heartless bitch I did feel guilty.
So for all you guys out there reading this I understand you all want to date a lesbian. I mean, what's better than a jello-wrestling, boobie bar-attending, girl-kissing, intelligent and witty chick who can almost kick your ass in arm-wrestling but looks great in heels? NOTHING! But, I'm sure you can settle for second best and find yourself a nice, girl-next-door breeder. She probably looks better than a lesbian in jeans and eff me boots anyway.
Unfortunately my speed-dating experience didn't start off with a bang. It started off with a bust. Or a bust-ed rather. So I try to fly under the radar using a fake name so that people don't know my real name. Since I'm a genius, I use my credit card which has a completely different name on it. The girl from the dating service busts me so I 'confess' that I'm nervous because I've never been speed-dating before. Works like a charm.
So it's an hour before the event and I'm in my bedroom looking through my drawers: softball t-shirt, flannel, softball t-shirt, Ani DiFranco t-shirt...hmm. Nothing suitable for pretending to look for a male date. I decide that since I need to look straight I'll borrow something from my roommate! She dresses me up in a black lacy cleavage-filled tank top with a cardigan over it. I put on my bootleg jeans with eff-me boots I bought for a sassy Halloween costume in 2006 and voila! Straighty McStraightster!
Speed-dating is actually a lot like the way it looks on TV. The girls sit on one side of a table, guys on the other and someone taps the guys on the shoulder when the five minutes is up and it's time to change partners.
So I'm taking notes on which guys I like for my friends (i.e. too dorky, too old, too douchy) and this guy sits down and stares shamelessly at my tits. So I say, "You should totally open a boobie bar. Then you could stare at girls' boobs and no one would care! Everyone looks at boobs, guys and girls."
I get into another conversation with a guy about arm-wrestling so we clear the table of the salt and pepper and proceed to have a match right in the middle of the table. I, of course, lose on purpose because I don't want to embarrass him in front of all those pretty ladies.
So at this point I'm warmed up and having a great time. I can say pretty much anything I want and who cares? I'm talking about jello wrestling and boobie bars and piercings and all kinds of trashy things (which in turn makes me think about my own white trashness since I have participated in all three of those activities). I'm not really looking for a date!
So afterwards Angela, Mari and Dave and I go back to our house to of course talk about everyone. The procedure after the dating part is everyone goes back online and puts a check by each people of interest and if there is mutual interest contact information is exchanged. Angela has this bright idea that I should check all of the guys just to see who's interested.
So 12 matches and 10 personal e-mails later I've gotten myself into a mess. What I realize however is between my jello wrestling and boobie conversations guys like complete trash! So I e-mail them all back and tell them that I recently got out of a relationship and thought I was ready but wasn't. In case you're thinking I'm a heartless bitch I did feel guilty.
So for all you guys out there reading this I understand you all want to date a lesbian. I mean, what's better than a jello-wrestling, boobie bar-attending, girl-kissing, intelligent and witty chick who can almost kick your ass in arm-wrestling but looks great in heels? NOTHING! But, I'm sure you can settle for second best and find yourself a nice, girl-next-door breeder. She probably looks better than a lesbian in jeans and eff me boots anyway.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Best Karaoke Night of My Life (original post 2.25.08)
I had what one could call by far the best karaoke experience of my life. I know I'm only 26, but I believe that few could top this.
So I was at the Elks Club in Dearborn. Yes, I said Elks Club. For any of you who don't know what the Elks Club is and have seen the Flintstones it's like the Loyal Order of Water Buffaloes Lodge. If you don't know what the Water Buffalos are, too bad. Just keep reading; it's still funny.
I walk in and my friends Ve and Wendee are late so it's basically me, the bar tender and the karaoke guy. Finally my friends arrive and as I'm watching other people show up I realize they have something in common: they all have the potential to be my grandparents.
So we grab a drink (I should have had an alcoholic beverage) and start to look through the books for some good tunes. The first singer is a man who is (and I'm seriously not exaggerating) 78 years old. He gets up there and belts out "New York, New York", successfully completing the song without his Polydent losing it's grip.
Another elderly man, if you will, gets up to the stage and pulls out his harmonica to play a little jig for us. I'm telling you I haven't heard harmonica like this since...okay I've never heard harmonica like this because I'm not 84 years old.
Ve, Wendee and I sing a few warm-up songs and the total number of people actually singing karaoke is six (tops) so we are singing practically every other song.
Then my favorite act of the night comes to the stage.
You have to get the visual in your head. This woman looks about 60-something (even though Ve claimed she was in her early 50's) and got dressed up for karaoke night at the Elks. I put 'dressed up' in italics for a reason. This woman has a red velour shirt tucked into a (sit down for this one) leather mini-skirt which accentuates her well-equipped fupa. A fupa for you out there who don't know is the pouch under a woman's belly button. Your grandma probably has a nice one.
So this woman gets up to sing and already I'm excited for the potential of this karaoke number. Well, let me tell you she exceeded my expectations to say the least. She gets up there to sing "Hey Big Spender" and tears it up. Between being unrecognizably off key and practically performing a strip tease next to the prompter I was blown away. I'm poking Ve to look because she for some reason thinks it's important to continue to look for a song to sing with this incredible show going on.
So here comes my favorite moment of her presentation: she chooses one of the men and dances near them to sexually taunt him, right? He responds with a howl. Yes, I said a howl. A full on head-tilt-back, face-towards-the-moon howl.
At this point I am jabbing Ve so hard I think she might bruise but I know she'll thank me later and disregard the injuries for bringing her attention to this magnificent sight.
When Sex Kitten's song is over, I realize it will be a long time (if ever) before I have an experience like this one again. Looks like I'll for sure be going to the next karaoke night at the Elks. And I'll bring my grandma.
So I was at the Elks Club in Dearborn. Yes, I said Elks Club. For any of you who don't know what the Elks Club is and have seen the Flintstones it's like the Loyal Order of Water Buffaloes Lodge. If you don't know what the Water Buffalos are, too bad. Just keep reading; it's still funny.
I walk in and my friends Ve and Wendee are late so it's basically me, the bar tender and the karaoke guy. Finally my friends arrive and as I'm watching other people show up I realize they have something in common: they all have the potential to be my grandparents.
So we grab a drink (I should have had an alcoholic beverage) and start to look through the books for some good tunes. The first singer is a man who is (and I'm seriously not exaggerating) 78 years old. He gets up there and belts out "New York, New York", successfully completing the song without his Polydent losing it's grip.
Another elderly man, if you will, gets up to the stage and pulls out his harmonica to play a little jig for us. I'm telling you I haven't heard harmonica like this since...okay I've never heard harmonica like this because I'm not 84 years old.
Ve, Wendee and I sing a few warm-up songs and the total number of people actually singing karaoke is six (tops) so we are singing practically every other song.
Then my favorite act of the night comes to the stage.
You have to get the visual in your head. This woman looks about 60-something (even though Ve claimed she was in her early 50's) and got dressed up for karaoke night at the Elks. I put 'dressed up' in italics for a reason. This woman has a red velour shirt tucked into a (sit down for this one) leather mini-skirt which accentuates her well-equipped fupa. A fupa for you out there who don't know is the pouch under a woman's belly button. Your grandma probably has a nice one.
So this woman gets up to sing and already I'm excited for the potential of this karaoke number. Well, let me tell you she exceeded my expectations to say the least. She gets up there to sing "Hey Big Spender" and tears it up. Between being unrecognizably off key and practically performing a strip tease next to the prompter I was blown away. I'm poking Ve to look because she for some reason thinks it's important to continue to look for a song to sing with this incredible show going on.
So here comes my favorite moment of her presentation: she chooses one of the men and dances near them to sexually taunt him, right? He responds with a howl. Yes, I said a howl. A full on head-tilt-back, face-towards-the-moon howl.
At this point I am jabbing Ve so hard I think she might bruise but I know she'll thank me later and disregard the injuries for bringing her attention to this magnificent sight.
When Sex Kitten's song is over, I realize it will be a long time (if ever) before I have an experience like this one again. Looks like I'll for sure be going to the next karaoke night at the Elks. And I'll bring my grandma.
Roller Rink Pimp (original post 5.8.07)
I was excited when Sherrie's friend Brandon invited us to go to the roller skating rink for his birthday this past Sunday night. We did it old school; we got the cherrie Slushee as well as those brown house skates with the orange wheels.
So we're drinking our slurpees outside of the snack bar when this guy comes up to us and asks us to take them back inside of the snack bar. He was in his mid to late 30s, kind of short and had on a necklace with skates carved out of wood on it. Awkward to say the least.
So later on, it's 'couples-skate or skate backwards' time (which always used to piss me off because I could never get a date or skate any way besides forward). So me and Sherrie try to skate backwards. Awkward Roller Boy starts giving me tips and applauding my first-time skating backwards efforts. Again, a little weird. I'm also getting the impression that although he works there, he's not on the clock. He's not in the Skate World uniform and he's only patrolling our group of friends.
About 10 o'clock that night, he comes up to me and Sherrie sitting on the side of the rink. He starts making small talk about how I should get new skates and again how I did a nice job skating backward for my first time. I'm nice, so I continue the conversation with him. Sherrie of course is no help, looking the complete opposite way and leaving me out to dry. Then, he asks me if I want to couples-skate with him later. Oh yes, I said 'couples-skate'. No, I'm not still in sixth grade. So he completely catches me off guard and the only think I can think to say is, "I don't know how long we're going to be here, and..." He says to me, "Well if you're still here, I'll come find you later." I realize at that point I just told a 30-someodd year old man with a roller skating necklace that I will couples-skate with him. I immediately want to throw up.
So from there on it's like a trip back to middle school. Sherrie tells the group of friends we're with and they suggest I hide in the bathroom when the last song comes on. Roller Boy keeps circling the floor to show off his roller talents while staring at me every time he passes our group of friends. When the DJ comes on the mike to change up the skaters, I want to vomit thinking he's going to say "couples-skate".
So finally the moment I've been dreading is here. The lights go down on the rink floor and I beeline to a deserted location, hoping he won't find me. But, sure enough, like all roller predators he locates me within 30 seconds. He skates over to me, does a fancy stop and holds out his hand to whisk me away to Roller Heaven. I tell him he completely caught me off guard and that I was here with my girlfriend. And I swear if I didn't think I was on a TV show before, I'm expecting the camera crew to come out when he says, "Oh. I didn't know you played for the other team."
So although Roller Boy went home without a Roller Queen to spoil with lavish gifts of skate wheel oil and glow bracelets, he still has next Sunday. Maybe he learned his lesson about hitting on women at the skate rink. I have a feeling though he'll be trying to teach another girl how to skate backwards or on one leg. All I have to say is thank God it's not me.
Picture Imperfect (original post 11.27.06)
So being a teacher, I had the day after Thanksgiving off. I decided to get some things done and one of those things was laundry. I stuck a load of jeans and sweatshirts into the washer and got them into the dryer before Sherrie got home from work. When she got home, she asked me if I was drying shoes because something sounded like it was banging around in the dryer. I blew her off and told her I wasn't but she went and checked and didn't find anything. So we went shopping. After we got back, I went into the basement to fold the laundry and realized that Sherrie was right; there was something clunky in there. I pulled out all of the laundry, along with the clunky foreign object and I realized it was her digital camera. I had washed and dryed her $300 digital camera.
For those of who are thinking "How could Melissa be so dumb as to wash a camera," or "How could Sherrie be so dumb for dating Melissa," I completely understand. I ended up buying her a new one and she is still dumb enough to date me. Lesson learned? When you find someone who not only forgives you but doesn't even get the slightest bit mad when you wash their $300 camera, never dump them.
For those of who are thinking "How could Melissa be so dumb as to wash a camera," or "How could Sherrie be so dumb for dating Melissa," I completely understand. I ended up buying her a new one and she is still dumb enough to date me. Lesson learned? When you find someone who not only forgives you but doesn't even get the slightest bit mad when you wash their $300 camera, never dump them.
Extreme Love vs. Everyday Love (original post 10.24.06)
I don't usually do serious blogs, however the ideas swirling around in my head lately deserve print.
There's extreme love and everyday love. When authors write love stories or song artists write music, they write and sing about extreme love. They write about the most pain you can feel and the most pleasure that you can feel; the highest high and the lowest low. But that's not what we experience day to day. In fact, people probably experience extreme love only 10% of the time. If you mapped it out, comparing extreme love to everyday love would form a bell curve. Extreme love has been normalized because of all of the songs talking about that all someone needs is love or they are nothing without it.
So maybe what I'm getting at is that love isn't about jumping off of a cliff for someone. Couldn't love just be enjoying each other's company? Couldn't love just be knowing someone wants to work to better their life and yours?
I'm not pessimistic, just logical. I don't believe in love at first sight or soulmates. I believe in the power of a team, two people who work hard together to create, build and maintain a relationship. Relationships aren't a fairy tale land where people live happily ever after. It takes two committed people who dedicate themselves to bettering themselves, their relationships and in turn their partner.
So why did I write this? I believe we don't all deserve love. It takes a lot of energy and a lot of effort. Anyone not willing to invest doesn't deserve it.
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