Sticky, Icky Internal Mess

   The other day at work, my manager and I discovered how to pull the back panel off one of the trash receptacles so we could empty it while standing behind the counter instead of going to the front side of the counter. This will (literally) save our bacon ~ (I overcooked bacon once because I forgot it was in the microwave because it takes soooooo looooong to empty all the stupid garbages and get them to the dumpster, which means we don't get a chance to empty them until they are overflowing and then it becomes an emergency because customers can't fit more of their trash into the receptacles and changing it from the back saves LOADS of time, hassle, etc.) 

   Anyways, complaining about my lousy job is not the point of this post, although I might do that post another time, featuring the Best of the Best of the stupid/heinous/grotesque/hilarious things that occur at that Place I Earn Money (For Now).

   I didn't have time to do much with our newfound discovery until today. I pulled the back panel off, emptied the bin liner, and when I reached down to pick up the stray coffee stirrers and sugar packet wrappers that had worked their way underneath, I stopped just in time before touching IT with my bare hand. Putting on a glove, I reached into the sludgy mess and grabbed a handful of gooey detritus. 

   At least a year's worth of coffee, creamer, and other assorted yuck had dribbled down under the shelf and began growing its own colony, with stirrer skyscrapers and highways of semi-molten Splenda packets. Hidden away, content in its secret revolting-ness, the mass grew, plotting for the night it would take over the store when the last light was shut off at closing time.

   Last night I had a bad dream. It brought up a lot of emotional sh*t for me, stuff that I've been trying to deal with for the past 5-6 months and haven't been doing so well at managing. 

   See, about 6 months ago, someone I trusted, someone I cared for very deeply, someone I thought would be in my life forever kissed me, then stabbed me in the gut. While smiling. I didn't feel the knife going in at first, just that flicker of recognition that something was wrong, so very, very, horribly wrong, when he stabbed me again. And then I knew what he was doing, but when something so out of the blue is happening to you, you can't think, you can't stop it, you can't even do anything to protect yourself. You just stare at him, mouth agape, and wonder what on earth is happening, what did you do wrong, why is this person you trusted doing this to you?

   I speak in metaphor, because thankfully I was not literally stabbed, but the betrayal feels the same as if I had been.

   Shock and horror and confusion, pain and bewilderment and desperate grasps at making sense of it all...but there is no sense to be had. Perhaps in some alternate universe, all has been revealed and the plot explained, but not in this one. I still don't understand the situation. Hardly a day goes by where I don't mourn the loss in some way. 

   Some days I recognize that the only way for someone to spew that much hatred upon another person is because they hate themselves and I can feel sorry for him. I pray for the opportunity that he would know exactly how much pain his actions caused me and to know that I forgive him anyways, so that he can reach a place of forgiveness for the people that have hurt him and created the type of person who would behave the way he did...and his wounds would heal, ending the vicious cycle.

   Other days...well, other days, I feel like that disgusting mass of convenient store coffee station offal. I mean, only someone who is trash, someone who is gross and horrid, someone you wouldn't even dream of touching without gloves on, someone who has a dark soul, putrid heart, only someone like that is treated so heinously, right? Because people who seem wonderful just don't treat decent people that badly, so that obviously that means I'm not decent. We get what we deserve in life. Karma. What goes around comes around.

   It's weird. When you talk with female victims of domestic violence, they almost always say the same things. They say that they were sure the first time was just a misunderstanding, that they pissed him off and any man would respond like that. They say it was their own fault, if they had just did what they knew they were supposed to, it never would have happened. They inherently claim responsibility for their abuser's despicable actions, because the idea that a man who says he loves you actually hates you as much as he hates himself is just too foreign of a concept. 

   We take people we trust at their word. When someone we love tells us we are bad people, we believe them. We want their approval, we want them to love us, and we do all sorts of things to try and achieve that goal. But here's the dirty little secret the panel is hiding...we'll never achieve that goal. We won't achieve it because perfection is impossible. They can't love us because they don't even know what love is. They despise us for loving them because they don't love themselves. They see us as weak for caring about them, pathetic for not standing up to them, standing up for ourselves. All abusers were once victims. They let crap build up behind the back panel until it got to the point where a vat of lye and a pressure washer couldn't even clean it properly.

   When I woke up this morning, I laid in bed for a long time, thinking about the dream I had. It was kind of simple...just me and my abuser hanging out, watching TV, having fun together. Then he turned and looked at me and smiled with that quirky side grin he had...and started saying all the things at once he'd ever said to hurt me, to manipulate me, to make me feel like dirt. 

   Maybe this doesn't sound so bad to you, but to anyone reading this who's ever been emotionally abused, degraded by someone they cared about, made to feel small and useless and pathetic...you know that can be so much worse than getting punched. Those words echo in your brain forever. They never go away. You'll be in a perfectly happy moment and something innocuous triggers a memory, and you are right back there again, stab marks appearing on your skin, your blood seeping out, wounds that refuse to heal and re-open again and again. Each time it happens, you hope it's the last time, because each time it happens, you never know if you'll be able to convince yourself the voice you hear is lying to you.

   Today I wasn't able to convince myself. All I could think was how to best drive the new person in my life away. You see, I might have the chance to be really happy with him. I might have the chance to spend the rest of my life really happy, with him, making every dream I've ever had come true, so obviously I need to ruin it, throw it away, get rid of him, because inevitably, he'll find out that I am garbage, and it'll just be so much better for everyone if we stop this right now.

    I got pissy with him for no apparent reason and he was obviously upset and a part of me didn't care. No, worse than not caring, I was happy to hurt him. Happy to shut him out, to act like I was cold and uncaring, I got a little rush and thought, “See how you like it!” Then it hit me...Who on earth was I talking to? Who was I trying to hurt and get “back” at? This guy who has never done a single thing with ill intent towards me? This guy who has been amazing, and for some bizarre reason seems to really want me, and care about me? Or...Him?

   I didn't want to open the can of worms with my guy about the other guy. I wasn't ready to bare my underbelly and make myself vulnerable. I've been shutting my guy out of my past thinking it was protecting our future, but it turns out to only be ruining our present.

    One of the things He used to do was try and make me feel crazy for having legitimate feelings and emotions. He'd act like my inner thoughts were insane and I was an idiot for having them, much less telling Him about them.

    So telling my guy anything about anything emotionally intimate is a challenge for me...I don't want to seem weak. Or crazy. So being all logical and therapist-y is my default mode...but then we never get past the surface with anything, and that's no way to have a serious relationship, so I let a little bit spill out. He was still listening so I spilled out a little bit more. I gave him this analogy about cars and accidents and how even though he was a different car, I was still afraid it'd crash like the old car did.

He said that was a good analogy. (I like it when people like my analogies; I use a lot of them.)

   And then I had to go to work, thus halting the conversation, which was super crappy timing.

   I guess there is no one, single point to this post. Normally I have a specific destination in mind when I sit down and write these things, but this one is different. The story isn't over yet, the lesson isn't fully realized.

    I don't yet really know yet if my guy is going to end up thinking I'm a sludgy, repulsive mess. I'd like to be able to say I'm perfectly healed because I've had a few epiphanies and a break through or two and about to trot off into the sunset, but I missed tonight's while I was writing this post and who knows what tomorrow's holds? 

    I do know that I've wanted to write about this stuff for months and tonight is the first time I've felt up to it, felt that it felt right to do so (lotsa feelings being felt up in here, yo). I do know my guy didn't make me feel poorly or embarassed, shameful or weird, crazy or blaming it on me PMS'ing for sharing what I did with him.

    I also know that by keeping quiet, by blaming myself, or running away from the opportunity to be happy...that would mean I really was a victim. A person can be victimized without staying a victim, I think. I don't want to hold onto that role any longer than absolutely necessary. Maybe letting some of it out is the only way I'm going to get over it. Drain the poison. Skim the dross. Purge the bilge. Analogies. Told you.

   Maya Angelou died today, the day I write this post. I've never read a thing by her until today...and this poem is what I stumbled upon first. While she was writing it for Black Americans, the words speak to me nonetheless. They are words of victory, of hope, of allowing ourselves to revel in the glory of our human-ness, our insinkable spirit, and our freedom from those or that which try to enslave us or bring us down to their level of hate and hurt...It seemed appropriate to share. 

And Still I Rise

You may write me down in history


With your bitter, twisted lies,
 

You may tread me in the very dirt


But still, like dust, I'll rise.


Does my sassiness upset you? 


Why are you beset with gloom? 


'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.


Just like moons and like suns,


With the certainty of tides,


Just like hopes springing high,


Still I'll rise.


Did you want to see me broken? 


Bowed head and lowered eyes? 


Shoulders falling down like teardrops.


Weakened by my soulful cries.



Does my haughtiness offend you? 


Don't you take it awful hard


'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines


Diggin' in my own back yard.



You may shoot me with your words,


You may cut me with your eyes,


You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.



Does my sexiness upset you? 


Does it come as a surprise


That I dance like I've got diamonds


At the meeting of my thighs? 



Out of the huts of history's shame 
I rise


Up from a past that's rooted in pain 
I rise


I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,


Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.


Leaving behind nights of terror and fear 
I rise


Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
 I rise


Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,


I am the dream and the hope of the slave.


I rise
 I rise 
I rise.

Maya Angelou

Life Update, Because There Have Been No Blog Posts In A Million Years :D

    When I was little, I wanted to be Indiana Jones. Learning that the vast majority of archaeologists don't travel around the globe with a bullwhip, rescuing damsels in distress and saving mankind was a huge disappointment, so I decided to be an actress. In quick succession, I believe I added acrobat, princess, world-famous artist, author, rockstar - not a musician, mind you; years of being forced to play the flute and piano taught me that I hated playing instruments almost as much as mucking the horse stalls and putting in hay on a 95 degree August day - and several other unlikely pursuits to my list of dream careers.

     I'm now 33 and I can't be any more certain of what I want to be when I grow up than when I was 7, but I do know that being able to create art and educating other people fulfills something in me in a way that nothing else seems to be able to do. I spent almost twelve years in the field of Addiction Treatment, and while I realized early on it was not a lifelong position for me, it allowed me to develop the personal skills and tools needed to enhance my emotional health and well-being. It instilled in me the importance of being a guide for others who are struggling with their own issues. The mind fascinates me, and the power we have to nurture and heal ourselves and others with alternative therapies was proven over and over during my time in that field.

    As an adult learner returning to college, I watched many young students flail and flop their way through their first year, many not finding their way back for a second. That was me the first time around, when I was 18 and attending a four year college away from home. My experiences there were what led me to understand and empathize with the hundreds of clients I worked with in Addiction's Treatment, and I don't regret those lessons and gifts, but it certainly drove home the fact that I was not ready to be a serious student as a teenager. I had to experience some hard knocks before being capable of taking the opportunity to earn a college degree seriously.

    Art Therapy is an area I've considered on and off for awhile. I'd always talked myself out of it, as the idea of returning to school and committing to years of study to become certified seemed out of reach, financially as well as the time required to achieve that goal. So, like many people, I stayed in a job I didn't particularly care for, because it paid the bills and because forging a new path just seemed too exhausting.

    In 2012, my position was made redundant, and I was laid off for the second time in 2 years. Terrified, and yet somehow free and unfettered, I made a plan: Write the novel I'd always said I was going to, lose the weight I needed to lose, have an adventure, meet a great guy, and get my derrière back to college.

     I'm gonna brag for a sec, and there's nothing humble about it! I worked REALLY HARD to get where I am, here in 2014, and somehow, miraculously, astonishingly, gratefully, I've accomplished all of the things I set out to do, and then some.  I'm the same size I was in high school, which is awesome. I took a trip that really needed to be taken and while it was incredibly difficult and emotionally disastrous, I came out the better for it, and boy, was it ever an adventure! I did write a novel...I honestly don't know if I'll ever bother to get it published, but I'm not sure that's even the point anyways. I've met an incredible guy and he is almost certainly magical (and very, very human, which makes him all the more special). I've made so much art the past two years, I can't even count it all. SHAMELESS PLUG: I got invited to do a Plein Air painting event in June and then my work will be auctioned off and I am SO FRIGGIN' EXCITED/TERRIFIED about this upcoming event!                                           

Finally, I've completed my Associate's Degree!  I don't want to stop now. To paraphrase Newton, an object in motion tends to stay in motion, and I'm an object in motion. The school I'll be attending next will allow me to tailor a degree, presumably with a focus in the Arts and Psychology, that would allow me to continue working towards my ultimate goal of becoming an Art Therapist.

     Will that truly be where I end up a few years from now? I don't know. Perhaps it sounds a little hokey, but I've discovered a formula that works for me: If I simply keep putting one foot in front of the other, God gets me where I need to be. I don't need to know where I am going to be headed in the right direction. It used to frighten me, and I always thought I should listen to people who insisted I needed to make a plan and stick with it, but the reality is, life throws curve balls. Setting a goal and then being flexible about what comes along in the meantime is a lot like a high-wire act. I'm happier living this way. Perhaps I've become an acrobat after all?

    The bottom line is a degree will never be a waste if I am learning things I feel passionate about. The human mind, how it works, the value of art and creative expression...these are things I feel passionate about and pursuing next. 

 To some of you who may or may not be reading this...Thank you for the past 2 years. You were part of my life in a variety of ways, all of which were extremely important. Things don't always make sense, and I wish some things were different, but things are how they are and I'm not going to let a single one of those things tear me apart. If I had a theme song, I'd insert it here. Love, Peace, and Success to us all <3

Sneaky B*tches

Today, I overheard a girl in a class today talking about running her first 5k. I congratulated her and got chatting about running, and mentioned that I hope to do a 5k one of these days. And then she was like....oh, yeah, I have asthma and I couldn't breathe but you know, it was easy, I just kept moving, blah blah blah, running just comes easily to me I guess, aren't I awesome, etc. etc. etc.

That's when I realized she was a Sneaky Bitch. You know the type...the ones who make all your hard work and agony seem so STUPID and pointless because they just decide one day to do something, and it works for THEM, and they don't understand that not everyone can do that thing easily. They don't give a crap their words are like a knife in your back.

And today, it's just the final straw for me, because I've spent the better part of the past two years trying to be a runner. I went to a running clinic to learn proper form (ball impact, heel glance...any coach that ever told you to “dig in those heels” while running was a dumbass and likely causing you injury). I'd get so close to completing a full mile and fall short, because my lungs were going to explode. I've fallen off treadmills, nay, FLEW off a treadmill, because I am a horrible spaz. I've sprained the same ankle twice, very badly, again on the spaz bit. I had plantar fasciitis in both feet when I started jogging and only started jogging consistently because I realized running with proper form moved the impact zone off my injured tendons AND that the area was strengthening every time I jogged and felt immensely better, both localized, and as I lost weight, overall. I finally (just recently) reached the place where I can jog a whole mile without stopping to walk or take breathers.

But EVERY time I start getting a good routine going, I get hurt again, like today. Something in my hip flexor has been bothering me for a few weeks and while I've been trying to do stuff to fix it, and strengthen the area, today it “snapped” about 2 minutes into a good brisk run and I had to stop because my leg basically gave out from under me. It hurts like crazy to even walk right now and I am PISSED, because once again, my body is betraying me when all I've done is try to make it better, faster, stronger, healthier, and meanwhile there are SNEAKY BITCHES out there running 5k's without even TRYING.

It's not like I'm a nutter fanatic trying to run marathons (you know who YOU are...nutters!) and doing crazy routines. I'm just trying to jog a couple times a week as part of an overall cardio and resistance training fitness plan AND I CAN'T EFFING DO IT without getting hurt, and suffering, and experiencing delays of every imaginable sort.

Why are there always people who seem to be able to just fall into the thing we are bleeding and sweating our butts off to be able to do? Like that writer who decided one day to pen a totally ridiculous, cheesy, lame-ass knock-off book and it became an overnight sensation, selling a hundred bazillion jillion copies and inciting fan fiction of the fan fiction (complete with merchandising) to pop up faster than maggots on a cow carcass (Yeah, EL James, talking about you here, and a few other individuals who shall not be named, we all know who you are even if you don't acknowlege it) while there are thousands of writers all over the world who have been slaving away over brilliant, original, FABULOUS ideas for decades, hundreds of decades even (little bit exaggatory) and can barely sell a thing, much less get a contract.

As if that weren't bad enough, inevitably these “blessed” people like to oh-so-innocently rub our faces in their success...“Oh, I didn't need painkillers for the dentist or childbirth!” (True story...I call Alien Species on that particular sneaky bitch, but whatever). “I ran a 5k while having an asthma attack, and won first place!” (Ok, exaggeration, but whatever, my hip effing hurts, I'm allowed.) “I'm now going to share the secrets of my success with you all and show how you, too, can be an overnight writing sensation like me via pompous windbaggy douchery webcasts and books I've written on the subject which you should buy so I can make more money, wheee!” (Not really an exaggeration on that last bit, sadly)

Here's the thing. There are always going to be people who seem to be really good at something or fall into a bit of luck. And if YOU are one of those people, don't be an effing jerk about it. Don't pretend you somehow magically have all the secrets of the universe at your disposal. Don't pretend you're an expert just because you were in the right place at the right time. Don't knock other people's efforts, or belittle their hard work and talent, and don't offer to “help” them or give advice with a supercilious smirk or self-righteous attitude. Be genuine, and humble, and grateful, and don't be a sneaky little bitch, ok? The world does NOT need more of those people.

For the rest of us, I guess all we can do is dust ourselves off, take an ibuprofen, and get the eff back to work. Here's a quote to help us with that~

Release the Zombies!Release the Zombies!

Today I finished the third and final book of Angela Scott's brilliant Zombie West series, Dead Plains. 

It was gloriously gruesome, ridiculously romantic, and totally threw me for a couple loops. Never tiresome or tedious, Scott does superb details and descriptions with the best of 'em. I loved the conclusion to the story I've been following for almost two years now (holy cow, I can't believe how fast it's gone!) and I so appreciate Angela letting me read and review all three books. It's been quite an adventure alongside Red, Trace, and the rest of the gang. I loved Willa, a new character introduced, and I felt so bad for those farm animals at the end (don't worry, I won't ruin the details, but it absolutely has a happy ending)...

It's likely that if you are reading this blog, you already know a little about Angela Scott and the Zombie West series, but if not, here are the links about why you should read the first two:

My Blog Entry about Book One


To Buy Book One or read other reviews- Wanted: Dead or Undead


To Buy Book Two or read other reviews

Haven't read either of them? Don't worry, we've got you covered!! All commenters will be entered to win an e-copy of Book 1, "Wanted: Dead or Undead" or Book 2, "Survivor Roundup," Winner's choice of which book. Details Below :)

A little about the lovely author herself:

BIO: 
I hear voices. Tiny fictional people sit on my shoulders and whisper their stories in my ear. Instead of medicating myself, I decided to pick up a pen, write down everything those voices tell me, and turn it into a book. I’m not crazy. I’m an author. For the most part, I write contemporary Young Adult novels. However, through a writing exercise that spiraled out of control, I found myself writing about zombies terrorizing the Wild Wild West—and loving it. My zombies don’t sparkle, and they definitely don’t cuddle. At least, I wouldn’t suggest it.

I live on the benches of the beautiful Wasatch Mountains with two lovely children, one teenager, and a very patient husband. I graduated from Utah State University with a B.A. degree in English, not because of my love for the written word, but because it was the only major that didn’t require math. I can’t spell, and grammar is my arch nemesis. But they gave me the degree, and there are no take backs.

As a child, I never sucked on a pacifier; I chewed on a pencil. I’ve been writing that long. It has only been the past few years that I’ve pursued it professionally, forged relationships with other like-minded individuals, and determined to make a career out of it.

You can subscribe and follow me on my website, where I blog obsessively about my writing process and post updates on my current works. I’m also on Twitter and Facebook, but be forewarned, I tweet and post more than a normal person.

You can pick up a copy of Dead Plains for yourself (or as a gift, but honestly, you'll want to read it) at the following places~

Kindle~Amazon
Smashwords
Barnes & Noble
Kobo

Now for the commenting and your chance to win a free e-book...Tell us what fictional character you'd most want by your side in the event of a zombie apocalypse and WHY? (All commenter names will be put in a hat/jar/other opaque container at my disposal and ONE winner's name will be drawn on Tuesday, October 29th, 2013 at 8 pm EST. You must leave your email address with your comment because that's how we'll contact the winner and send you your book....I promise never to mail you anything else!)


If you so desire, you may "like" and follow my nonsensery on my Author/Artist/Photographer Facebook Page here Rebecca L. Fisk and my twitter account here wishywash27 

Good luck and happy reading!

Who Told You It Was Okay To Be A Lecher?

In this day and age, I find myself surprised that any man over the age of 18 still thinks it's perfectly acceptable to engage in lechery, but yet I witness it nearly every day. What's worse is I'm not sure many of the guys who do it think what they are doing actually is lechery, or that most women don't “secretly” like it.

Let me back up a minute and explain what I mean by “lechery,” just so we are all on the same page. The dictionary defines it as “inordinate indulgence in sexual activity.” Well, THAT was no help at all. I mean, who defines how much is normal versus inordinate? Furthermore, does anyone besides Priests or Nuns think indulging oneself in sexual activity is bad?

A new and improved definition might be this: Any behavior towards another person using phrases, suggestions, innuendoes, nuances, jokes, banter, gestures, motions, or other that is intended to sexualize the person in a way that makes them uncomfortable. Wait, doesn't that kind of sound like sexual harassment? Why, yes, it really, really does, and that's because “sexual harassment” is the ominous sounding legal term that includes lecherous behavior!!! Ding Ding Ding!

Maybe a few examples would help clarify even further. I had some specific issues in mind when I realized I wanted to do a blog post about it, but I wanted to get some other people's opinions on it too, so when I threw the topic out to the Twitterverse, some interesting stuff came up.

One of the issues at hand is that women have grown so used to this behavior from men, we simply pretend it's not happening. Guy at work makes a weird joke about your pantylines? Ignore. Facebook friend makes creepy comments about wanting your body, or wanting to see your body in leopard print jeans? Ignore. Why do we do this? A few reasons. One of which yes, I'll be frank, on SOME occasions SOME women might find it flattering. But for the 99.999999% of the time we do not want attention this way, women ignore lechery for a lot of reasons. 

We hope the person will never ever again say something so embarrassing and behave themselves. We hope their wife/girlfriend catches them at it and whomps them upside the head so we don't have to. We don't want to draw further attention to the comment by acknowledging it in any way. We don't want to banter back because we don't want to encourage the person. We DO banter back because we want to make light of it, or not seem prudish or uptight. We don't know WHAT to say, or do, so maybe we say or do nothing. AND DOING NOTHING ISN'T WORKING.

A women who got involved in the discussion said for years she always got groped in bars and she always ignored it. Finally she got sick of it, and when a guy grabbed her, she grabbed him back, right in the face, forced him to look at her, and told him in no uncertain terms, to STOP IT. He backed off, bleary eyed and drunk as a skunk. That guy, by the way, was not just trying to touch her back, or even her breasts...

Another women said when she used to waitress, she would experience things like her male co-workers blocking the doorway while she was trying to get inside to clock in, and they'd make crude comments to her. She had an owner of one place tell her to wear less clothing if she wanted to make some decent money. The outfit in question was already a tank top and shorts and the restaurant was supposedly a family dining establishment, not a dive bar or a Hooters. She said lots of times she'd be jogging and a car would slow down and drive right alongside her, and the guy(s) inside would whistle, catcall, say things like “work it” or the like.

That has also happened to me, and it's scary, because you don't know how to react, and what the guy(s) might do. I've responded to these behaviors by ignoring them. Other times I've tried a more aggressive approach like giving them the finger, or saying something like “Yeah, keep dreaming, buddy.” The thing is...their response has almost always been the same regardless of whether I've ignored them or responded verbally. I've gotten the nasty laugh and then they gun the engine or squeal the tires as they drive off. I've been called a “Bitch” or a “C-nt” and then they gun the engine or squeal the tires as they drive off. So if I ignore their advances, I'm obviously an ungrateful Bitch and deserve to inhale their exhaust as they drive off, but if I try to defend myself from their neanderthalic advances in any way, I'm an ungrateful C-nt and deserve to be mistreated for that too. Interesting.

Let's look at some less physical examples. I have this attractive friend, and at least once a week, I hear someone making a comment to her that soundly qualifies as lechery. One example I overheard was “You give guys wood.” Um...really? Wow. Who SAYS that?! And the leopard print jeans comment I mentioned earlier? Yeah, someone I went to high school with a million years ago and barely know posted that on my facebook wall. “I'd like to see you post a picture wearing those leopard print jeans.” Leer leer, wink wink. Huh?

And therein lies the crux...some guys seem to think it's okay to make sexual comments to women BECAUSE they've never met, and aren't likely to, or because they live thousands of miles away. For some people, the greater the physical distance in miles, the more acceptable they seem to think it is to make offhand or pervy comments. I've seen lots of married guys or ones who are in a relationship, make sexual comments to other women and they think that lets them off the hook in some way, because “I am spoken for and they know I'm just joking.” Guess what, it's NOT OKAY even if they DO “know you are joking.” Adding a grinning winky face or a “JK” after a lecherous comment doesn't make it any more okay than if you say it to someone's face. If you wouldn't say it to their face while your grandma and their grandma is sitting right there, as well as your wife or S.O., then it's not okay to say it at all via social media when you think no one is looking. Telling someone on twitter that you'd like to blankety blank their blank is not okay. Telling someone on Facebook you'd like to “ride their merry go round” is NOT OKAY (unless they actually have a Carousel, in which case, hook me up 'cause I love those things).

I won't even get into the number of times where a woman has to deal with some guy stalking her with his eyes and doing the lascivious look-down/undressing-while-licking-his-lips thing - like you are walking around the grocery store just for his personal viewing pleasure and sexual satisfaction - Meat selection, ground beef or female flesh, yum. You just haven't LIVED until you've thrown up in your mouth a little because you know exactly what he's thinking about doing to you, right?

For the record, to be completely clear, I'm not talking about males and females who have the kind of relationship where they BOTH find it acceptable to make crude jokes and comments to each other. That's their business, and more power to 'em. I'm also not talking about flirting. If you find someone attractive, then ask them out on a proper date, don't make crude comments about their body parts or other such nonsense before you are absolutely certain they are fine with you doing so.

What I'm talking about is behavior that one person thinks is funny and entertaining, and their right to dole out, while the person on the receiving end is disgusted, humiliated, scared, confused, and hurt by the one doing it.

For everyone who is the recipient of lechery, I think we need to do things a little differently from now on. Let's not ignore it if someone says something to us that makes us uncomfortable. Let's call the person out on it. Let's tell them straight up, “Hey, I don't find that comment appropriate.” “That comment made me uncomfortable.” “Please don't make any more jokes like that, thanks.” To the drive-by cat-callers? “Your conduct is disrespectful,” and keep walking away. Etc. Etc. Be direct. If you know the person, say it's a friend or acquaintance, let's say what we need to in a private message, or pull the person aside...most people respond better and more respectfully when not admonished in public. If they continue making comments after you've asked them in private, by all means, shine the spotlight down and call that sh*t OUT, such as on social media or the breakroom. Block them, unfriend them, file a complaint, whatever you have to do. You don't need to put up with it. There is a HUGE difference between flirting and being lecherous, and it's up to us to draw our comfort line between the two.

Rape Culture teaches women to be afraid to stick up for themselves. We don't like to offend, we don't like to create waves or cause tension, we don't want to be called a Bitch or a C-nt, nor do we want to be thought of that way. But you know what? Enough is enough. Either we tell someone it's not okay for them to be a Lecher or we are basically saying it is. If it makes you uncomfortable, it's not okay for the other person to be doing it and you have the right to say so. Will this stop everyone? No. Bottom line, there are still neanderthals among us, no question. But no one should have to stay silent and just take it, and there is still power in saying, “No. This is not okay. Stop it.” And you know what? The more people who say it, the more powerful it gets. Pass it on.

Perfection and Lies, a.k.a. Using Photoshop

So the first is a picture of myself unedited from the original except for cropping, and small amount of smoothing of skin. 

Second picture is me with a digital nose job and even more smoothing.

Which is funny, because I think my nose looks more like the second image in real life, but in pictures, weird angles and "flaws" are captured, and I seem to have my Italian grandmother's large beak (Thanks, Grandma! :D )

Anyways, I thought it was interesting how I've come to recognize basically every professional picture any of us see now days in any media image has been altered. Think your favorite celebrity is "perfect?" Not even close, baby!

As a graphic designer and artist, it's my job to do this stuff. But I hope I never lose sight that beauty comes in many shapes and forms, and to stay proud of my real and darling shnozzy nose. Not only does it suit me just fine, but it works very well...I can detect odors with practically superhuman ability! :D

What Kind Of Writer Are You, Anyways?

There are many ways to describe a garden...or, we could call it finding your Voice...some people may disagree, but there are absolutely right ways to write and wrong ways to write. Perhaps "right" and "wrong" are misnomers. Words you'd be terribly bored by and would never want to read, or find extremely tedious- those are the “wrong” ways to write. Words that pull you in, and make you want to know what's going to happen next, that is the "right" way.

Styles also vary by genre. There seems to be a formula between genres, of how to write about something, because HOW you convey the mood is vital to your reader, not just the subject matter. Understanding these subtleties is important.

I read across all genres. Some people only prefer one or two genres (boring little trolls!) and that's fine.

But here is the truth...if you make something really interesting, and I mean REALLY interesting, you can break as many rules as you want to, and readers will still love you. (I'm not claiming to be able to do this, I'm just stating an opinion I like to call a fact)

Just for fun, I've written several different paragraphs about a garden and a tomato. Each is a different mood, or “genre.” Can you spot the terribly boring, bad, DO NOT DO THIS paragraphs? And it hardly matters what genre they might be lumped into, because they are BAD and WRONG and BORING!!! 

I'd like to think it'd be super easy for anyone to pick out the crap paragraphs, but to my dismay, I've seen stuff written quite similarly in recent works. Amazing writing transcends genre, as does horrible writing. I may not be in the category otherwise known as “Amazing” but I sure as heck know boring when I see it.

(Have fun reading these, for they are meant to be taken with a side helping of salt. Wait. I wasn't intentionally trying to make a pun about putting salt on a fresh sliced tomato....oh never mind!)

~The garden was in front of me. There was a tomato growing in it. The tomato was red. I walked over to it and picked it. It was heavy for a tomato. There was a small spot near the stem. The stem was dark green but the spot was brown. The garden was nice. The tomato will go in a salad later.

~I wasn't sure why the sprawling garden beckoned to me so, until I spotted the ripe, luscious glint of red peeping out from behind the vine. Before I could stop myself the plump fullness of the tomato was pressing itself into in my hand. I shuddered, overwhelmed with my longing to taste its succulent flesh and feel the juices dripping down my chin. I bit down, and moaned with pleasure as the explosion of tangy sweetness erupted on my tastebuds.

~The greenery of the garden was dark and forbidding. The metal spikes of the vine trellis leaned toward me in a vaguely threatening manner, as if to say, do not come closer, there is nothing good here for you. I jumped as the sudden screech of the rusty windmill indicated a fierce wind was rising. The sky loomed over me, full of grays and jagged clouds. A storm was coming in fast, and the dilapidated barn ahead was the only shelter for miles. I ran for it as the first raindrops pelted my face, hearing my mother's warning voice echo in my head as I tugged on the door handle. "Never mistake opportunity for destiny..."

~The tableau was strange to her new eyes, a haphazard tumble of greens, yellows, and reds. There. The brightest orangey-red caught her eye and she made her way towards it. A small spherical shape was growing from a vine as thick as her index finger. “Classification: Food. Edible fruit called a 'toe-may-toe, and sometimes a 'toe-mah-toe,'” chimed the electronic identifier in her ear. “Toe-may-toe. Toe-mah-toe.” She repeated out loud. She touched its skin, smooth and poreless, and utterly foreign.

~Once upon a time, there once grew an enchanted tomato. The legend of her beauty and plumpness had spread far and wide across the land, and many had tried to rescue the beautiful fruit, but alas, it was not to be. The surrounding garden protected the fruit with savage ferocity, thick vines that strangled any man that came too close, and vicious thorns that punctured him unto death. The tomato longed for freedom and had begun to despair of her rescue. “I shall wither on my vine and perish,” she thought. “I shall turn brown and my skin will crack.” As the tomato continued to muse, she began to understand. “If no one can rescue me, I MUST find a way to escape. I must rescue myself!”

~The small boy skipped across the lawn and into the garden where he wandered around for several moments before spotting a tomato that his mother had asked him to bring inside because she was preparing lunch for his father who was coming home early from work to to eat lunch and then he had to drive to the airport to pick up his sister who was flying home from college on her summer break. The airport was almost an hour away from their house and he wanted to go with his father to watch the planes because he thought maybe he wanted to be a pilot when he grew up but also maybe a fireman and he didn't really want to spend more time than necessary with his sister because she always picked on him and it was bad enough she was going to be home for almost 4 months straight so adding the extra hour it would take to get home was not such a great idea after all.

Please write your own version of a garden tomato descriptor in the Comments section...you know you want to! And definitely poke fun at the paragraphs I wrote ;)