**I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I just don’t seem to be able to get my Femme Writes post down to blog yet. Sorry for the delay.**

Last night, I was up late listening to the huge storm outside. I love thunderstorms. There’s something about them I find so comforting and cozy. There wasn’t enough thunder for my taste, but there was plenty of rain.

After sitting on my wet balcony reading for a while, I decided to watch a Netflix recommended movie. TiMer had been on that list for a while. Called a “sci-fi romantic comedy,” I was a little more than skeptical. I was right to be, as I would barely consider it “sci-fi.” In a technical sense, maybe, but on a practical level, it is simply a sort of love story.

The premise is this: Someone has invented a way for people to know exactly who their soul mates are and exactly when they will meet said soul mate; they call it TiMER (and they implant it in your wrist for $79.99). They don’t even try to explain how this TiMER works, other than some vague statement about oxytocin levels. The divorce rate has fallen, couples are happy, few people leave anything to chance any more. (The TiMer only works if both members of the soul mate pair have one; if only one member has it, his or her TiMER is blank until the other person gets the implant.)

What unfolds is a question about love, fate, and destiny.

What happens in the movie doesn’t really matter, as I am left with the question: If I could know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I could meet the “right” person for me, because of some TiMER implanted in my wrist, would I get one?

Let’s set aside (for now) the fact that I don’t believe in soul mates or the “right” person. Is life about the journey or the destination? I’ve always been in the journey camp. Would knowing your destination affect your journey? I think it would. Maybe for the better, maybe for the worse, but it would definitely be affected.

In this movie, all these people are running around with these TiMERs implanted in their wrists, just waiting for the moment they lay eyes on their soul mates. How could you possibly have any other relationships, if you knew that the “one” for you was out there and you would meet him or her in 536d 4h 46m 17s? What if you meet your “one” when you’re 14 years old? What if you know that you won’t meet your “one” until you’re 70?

Life is all about cultivating relationships, in my opinion. The idea that you would know exactly who the “one” is when you meet him or her just takes all the fun and adventure out of it. I don’t think I would want to know.

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I guess I can’t be trusted.

A couple of weeks ago, I found evidence of something pretty frightening. I did a photo shoot, and a rather extensive one, in which I tried to make it look like I was, um…twins…who were kissing. Seriously, figure this out. I have no idea what the fuck I could have been thinking. I’m also not entirely sure when this photo shoot took place, but I think at least three years ago. I’m pretty sure I recognize that apartment wall behind me.

Of course, I immediately destroyed all the evidence. Who wants anyone to KNOW they’ve done such a thing? I won’t tell you how many photos there were, so don’t even try to ask. There’s no way that you’ll get me to tell you that there were at least 30 photos.

And it is your lucky day. Because I only deleted 29 of them.

That’s right. I saved one just for you guys.

What the fuck am I DOING? Seriously…I’m worried about me. I can’t be trusted alone with my laptop any more.

And just a reminder, the 5th is coming up on Sunday! As always for a weekend, we’ll be accepting submissions through Monday or Tuesday. This month’s Femme Writes topic is Politics, Religion, and Women. I think it’s a pretty good topic. There’s plenty of room to find something that suits you, be it how far women have come or how far we have to go. Thanks in advance for your participation!

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I really started thinking about it, though. This whole makeup thing…what’s the point? To enhance my beauty? That just doesn’t seem fair to the other women around me. I am dead sexy. To cover my flaws? I kind of like my flaws. Those flaws are what make me so very me.

So…I stopped wearing makeup. Almost entirely. In the last three months or so, I think I’ve worn makeup about three times. In the interest of full disclosure, I wasn’t a huge makeup wearer anyway. I’ve never been able to stand foundation on my face and I don’t even understand eyeliner. I’m a simple girl.

I do like to get all gussied up (shut your whore mouth, I live in Texas, where we say things like “gussied”), and put on some makeup and a pretty dress and heels. Day in and day out, though, I am purely a creature of comfort. Why then, was I bothering to put all this junk on my face?

Goal: Learn to love my face, without any makeup at all.

Result: After three months, I can tell you guys that I truly love my face. I can now officially look at it in the mirror and not think I look tired or sick, simply from a lack of mascara or blush. I like my eyes and my smile. I wish I had a bit more color in my cheeks, but it’s nothing terribly important. I’ll just have to do something fun to get a flush, right?

I still feel a little weird when I’m out without any makeup on. Mostly because everyone else is wearing makeup. I’m starting to realize, though, that really, no one notices but me. The difference between mascara and no mascara? That’s pretty much all in my head. No one else cares how long my eyelashes are.

Now, I don’t even love my made up face in pictures. The fact that I’m posting a picture of myself without any makeup at all is a HUGE step forward. And here it is:

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And so I give you, in my opinion, five things that are way sexier in the movies than they are in real life:

Affairs: In the movies, everyone is always wearing matching underwear and getting it on in a beautiful hotel suite. That’s just not how it works. In real life, they are messy and usually take place in closets and hallways and cars and stuff.

Sex: In the movies, well, we usually only see the end anyway, but no one ever sweats or does anything clumsy. In real life, sex is sweaty and sometimes you bump heads or laugh or cough in the other person’s mouth. Maybe they should make a movie based around my sex life. I’m one clumsy bitch.

Long Hair: In the movies, women almost always have long hair and it’s never in their faces or anyone else’s. You know, because it’s someone’s JOB to keep it that way. In real life, long hair is in my face, your face, my mouth, your mouth, and I’ve probably just shed it all over the bed and the couch. I still like having longer hair, but man, can it be a pain in the ass.

Big Romantic Gestures: In the movies, these are always awesome and sweet and perfect. No one is worried about money or someone saying no or the whole thing just being one big, cheesy mess. In real life, no one can afford to do nor coordinate the level of BIG ROMANTIC GESTURE you see in the movies. Plus, anything you can think to do, they’ve probably already done in the movies, so then you’re just a big copy cat. Take out the trash when you say you will. That? Is more romantic than you know.

The Beach: In the movies, beaches are the PLACE for the romance. People splash in the water and make out on the sand and have sex on blankets that are magically sand free. In real life? Sand sucks, man. Seriously. It gets in all your crevices and it won’t go away. I’d only have sex on a beach if I was in the market for some vaginal exfoliation. Don’t get me wrong, I love the ocean. Hate the sand. Could we just make the shore out of some sort of wet suit material? Then I will happily have sex on the beach, and not just the drink.

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Finished? Okay, so yeah…

This pretty much sums up how I feel. And how I’ve felt about the whole marriage thing for quite a while, aside from my many other feelings about the efficacy of marriage as a social construct or legal institution. This is purely me, as a single woman. Minus the whole “Jersey Shore” thing. I’ll admit to watching four episodes out of train-wreck like interest, but I couldn’t stomach more than that.

But this “shirt before the shirt” concept is an interesting one. I actually remember the day when, “but you’re just so much…fun!” started to sound like an insult, rather than a compliment. And really, it’s not about marriage. I have no desire to get married.

What it IS about, though, is someone saying, “You. I want to be with you, even when things aren’t fun. Even when you’re in a bad mood or upset or sad. I want to be with you because of exactly who you are…but yeah, you could be a little less sarcastic at me, okay?”

I’m just trying to be realistic.

Being the girl who’s “a lot of fun” is great, for a while. I’m sort of tired of it now, though. I think I’ve been trying to make myself less fun, actually, in an effort to escape this bullshit. With one exception, pretty much everyone I’ve dated for any length of time has married or moved in with (quickly) the next woman he dated. It’s starting to feel like the plot of a really bad chick flick. Didn’t they make something like this with…Dane Cook? See? My life, reduced to a movie starring DANE COOK. That’s not good, people.

I can’t be anything but myself, though. It’s just that “myself” is pretty complicated. As, I imagine, are most people.

What is it about me, though, that screams “shirt before the shirt”? Why is it that married men are drawn to me like cats to catnip? To be fair, men who cling to me like Saran Wrap scare the ever-loving crap out of me, but there must be a happy medium, right?

RIGHT?

Someone asked me not too long ago why I’m not married. My reply? “I’m not marriage material.” I’m really not. I’m strong-willed and opinionated and sarcastic and funny. I probably won’t do your laundry or have dinner on the table by 6:00 every night. I’m unlikely to be waiting for you in heels and pretty dress with a martini, all fixed up after my hard day of vacuuming. I have dreams and goals and aspirations. Most of all, I don’t need you, whoever you are.

I know what you’re thinking right now. You’re thinking, but Shine, not all marriages have to be that way. Plenty of smart, funny, strong women get married. And I won’t argue with you. But in my experience (at least in the place where I live) the people who find marriage to be important? They subscribe to much more stereotypically traditional gender roles. Moreover, most people, whether they admit it or not, in my experience, really like to feel needed (to a point). I’m unlikely to make anyone feel that way, unless I’ve lost my mind. It happened once, sort of, and it wasn’t pretty.

Plus, I just think marriage is a ridiculous idea. I even think I won @newslacker over at dinner last night. He’s basically the only person who ever agrees with me about any of this stuff (and he’s every bit as cynical as I am), but he’s still sort of on the marriage train. And he’s done it before, so he has no excuse. To those of you out there who are happily married: Congratulations! I’m happy for you. But I don’t think it works for everyone and I think as a concept, it’s outdated and a little silly. As a romantic gesture? I totally get it. As a business contract (which, legally, it is), though, it doesn’t make any logical sense. Especially if you don’t want to have children, which I don’t.

So because I don’t think marriage is important, am I forever doomed to be the shirt before the shirt? If you’re looking to meet the woman you’ll marry or live with or whatever, feel free to date me for a while. You’ll probably find her immediately.

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Lately, I’ve been trying to find more balance. It actually all started with finally being a mature individual with a budget.

I’ve kept a clean apartment, so it’s not a mad dash to pick things up when someone is coming over. Also, it’s just nice to come home to a clean apartment. I never really knew this would make such a difference, but it’s incredible how awesome it is to get into a bed that’s made. Walking into a closet full of clean clothes on, all on hangers, is also really nice.

I’ve been trying to eat better, though so far I haven’t made many changes. Which is why I’ve decided to go vegan again on September 1st. This time I’m going to try it for two months, instead of one. Since I’ve been so successful at forming new cleaning habits (so far), I’m hoping that this will help me establish some new eating habits.

If someone could get me to the gym, that would be great. I miss rock climbing, but I’ve decided to find something more martial arts/self-defense related for now. I loved Jiu Jitsu when I took it last summer. It’s expensive, but probably worth it. This time, though, I’d like to start with something that’s straight up self-defense. I can’t wait to get back to the climbing wall, though. I just need to get myself in a bit better shape. Feeling strong, physically, is very important right now. And I don’t feel strong.

Relationships, as always, have been the hardest for me. Finding a balance in relationships with friends and family is more difficult than I thought. Adding other people into the mix just complicates things. I usually have a lot trouble with family, much to my mother’s dismay. I can’t seem to explain to her the WHY, though. A couple of week’s ago, we had lunch, because I wanted to talk to her about the trouble I’ve been having with this whole “selling myself as a writer” thing. During lunch, I got the requisite lecture about how “distant” I am with family and about how she wishes my sister and I were closer. “Because, at the end of the day, family is all you have.”

I hate that statement. It’s just not even true. Plus, I love my sister and I would absolutely be there for her if she needed me (which…she just doesn’t). I just don’t really feel the need to talk to her everyday (not to mention she never bothers to return phone calls or emails, which makes me less inclined to even bother). We don’t have very much in common, and honestly, it’s just easier and less stressful if we don’t talk a lot. And my conservative Christian grandparents? Yeah, I just…can’t. My Nana is probably the most self-absorbed person on the planet; my Pops, while sweet, comes with a side of Nana. Also, we don’t agree on anything, so it’s hard to make conversation. Which just means that for the entirety of the interaction, I feel uncomfortable and on-edge.

My dad’s parents are easier, but they live in Tennessee. The older I get, though, the harder it is to sit around and take the lectures about conservative politics and the evil homosexual agenda. I’m expected to respect them and their beliefs (and to hold my tongue), while they hold no respect for me or mine, simply because they’re older. It’s a concept I find difficult, to say the least. So rather than put myself in the position of being uncomfortable, I just avoid the situation as much as possible.

Friends should be easier, because you get to choose your friends. That hasn’t really been the case for me lately, though. Let’s just say, this is a work in progress.

As for more intimate or romantic relationships, this is where I struggle the most. As a person with a very strong sense of self, I know I have to make some compromises, if I’m ever going to let myself get close to someone again. But I don’t want to lose myself or put myself on the back-burner, either. I do that too easily, mostly because I know that I’m strong and I’m tough and I will be okay. The truth is, though, I won’t be okay if I lose myself to be with someone else. My problem is striking a balance between knowing when to hold my ground and when it’s okay to compromise. It can’t be my way or the highway, but it can’t be “whatever you need,” either.

At the end of my last long(ish) relationship, I came up with a list of ways I had felt in that relationship that I will never feel in a relationship again. These are, as they say, the deal-breakers. The things are the list on broad enough in concept that they can be applied to any relationship, with any other human.

Rather than make a list of the qualities I want to find in a partner (as in that atrocious Hallmark movie I watched last night), I think this is a healthy thing to do at the end of a relationship. Particularly one that ended poorly. This is simply a list of warning signs. If I feel this way because of someone else’s actions or words again, I will hopefully be much more likely to walk away.

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Okay, @DysFuncJunc , I’m really sorry. I know this is probably going to break your heart. However, I will still say “cotton balls” and I will still giggle every time.

Cotton balls (hehe) kind of freak me out, though. I don’t like the noise they make when I squish them. I don’t like that they’re not food. They really seem like they’d be tasty. They’re not.

And now, I have my choice of cotton squares or cotton rounds. They can be textured or not. They probably come in colors. I’m secretly hoping for flavors, but so far, no luck on that front.

Who needs a lowly cotton ball any more? They shed and they’re too small and I don’t really like the way they look in the container on my bathroom counter.

It’s been fun, cotton balls, and I will still giggle every time I think of you, but I think we’re finished. I’m going with the ever versatile cotton round, from now on. Textured on one side, smooth on the other, the cotton round really knows how to make me happy. It really knows what I need in life.

It’s not me, cotton balls, it’s you.

*Basically I just wanted to see how many times I could legitimately say “cotton balls” in one post, in an effort to make @DysFuncJunc and @GingerMandy pee their pants from the giggles. Squish mitten!

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I remember the days when all it took were five little words: “I’m not wearing any underwear.” I fear those days are gone, my friends.

Sex these days is like a three-ring circus. Or at least, it sounds that way. My suspicion is that sex actually hasn’t changed all that much, just the way we talk about it. But the fact remains that there is so much porn now, with people doing things that…well, that I probably don’t even want to do. And the sex toys. Wow. I mean, not that I’m against a good sex toy. I think we all know I’m not.

It’s weird, though. Maybe I’m just crazy, but it doesn’t seem that the expectations of men in the bedroom have really changed all that much. Show up, well equipped, all engines firing, and you know, get the job done. Women, however, are now supposed to be up for anything. It’s like an actual game of Hide the Salami, only apparently now, we’re expected to let you hide it anywhere. And while you’re hiding it, we should be gymnasts who are open to the idea of having sex with a woman (if that strikes your fancy) and don’t mind dressing up like your third grade teacher and giving you a spanking all the while making you feel like the king of the castle manly man.

It wears me out. What happened to regular ol’ sex? Which, by the way, was really good.

I don’t want to swing from a chandelier, dressed like Catwoman, while I regale you with my fantasies of making it with the toaster oven, but of course I’ve never done any of this before because you, you’re the only man I ever want to touch.

PLEASE.

Actually, in my life, I’ve mostly only dated simple guys (long-term). Guys who were happy with a girl in some cotton panties and a T-shirt. Guys who, if I tried to wear anything that might be considered fancy (we’re talking more than three hooks, people), would look at me and say, “Seriously. Take that off, it’s ridiculous.” And of course, I never had SEX with any of them. Hi, Aunt Kim.

For most of my life, the only thing I’ve really been confident about was sex. Again, not that I’ve had any. Hi, Mom.

These days, though, sexy feels cheap. Okay, plus, I SUCK at being sexy. Like in any sort of obvious way. I’m much more likely to giggle and fall on my face than be actual sexy. But sex was the one place I always felt I owned.

NOT in a wetsuit, with five of my girlfriends and a trout, waiting to be shot in the eye with man juice.

Just sex. The good old fashioned kind. Without a movie set full of props.

I’m just not sure how I feel about it any more. Mostly, I feel like because sex has never been some hugely emotional thing for me, I’ve had a fairly casual attitude about it. Not that I’ve had a lot of it. I mean, you know, because I’ve never had sex and all that. Hey, sister’s boyfriend.

This is getting awkward. So I’m going to shut up and just say this:

Men? When did sex become this big production? Do you guys all feel like this, or is it more talk from the peanut gallery than anything else? Is just sex good enough? Should I keep my little black panties, or shall I wear a French Maid costume permanently under my clothes? Do you feel like women have crazy expectations of what you’re willing to do during sex, too?

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As of two years ago, you could use the following methods of communication to get in touch with me:

• Cell Phone
• Email (I have at least nine email addresses)
• MySpace (I SAID two years ago)
• Facebook
• Google Chat
• Twitter
• Comment on my blog
• Knock on my door
• Send me a letter or card in the mail
• Carrier Pigeon

The list is shorter now, as I’ve deleted my MySpace and Facebook accounts. All the other methods are still completely valid (secretly, I’ve always wanted to get a message via carrier pigeon). If you’re reading this, you have, in your possession, at least TWO ways of contacting me, as you can comment on this blog or you can email me.

Please don’t knock on my door, you creepy freak.

I’m puzzled then, when people choose to leave messages on a Facebook wall or Twitter that say, “I miss you.” or “I miss talking to you.” Because generally speaking, any and all people who do that have some way to get in touch with me that might, you know, SOLVE THE PROBLEM. Like, if I know you in real life, don’t leave me a fucking message on some social media message board, text me. “Dude. I miss you. Wanna get some coffee and catch up?”

If I know you in real life, but you don’t live near me, don’t put some passive aggressive message out there on social media about missing talking to me. TALK to me, if you miss talking to me. Is that so hard? Why sit around and bitch about something you can actually fix? Email me, chat me, text me, whatever. I have faith in you that you will figure this out or shut up.

My personal favorite is the person who says, every time I see him or her, “We never hang out any more. Why don’t you call me?” Well…why don’t YOU call ME, if you’re so upset about it that you feel like you need to say something? Honestly, I don’t really need the guilt.

Now, I realize, most of the time these are just empty statements. Things we say that we don’t really mean. “Call me!” rarely means “No, actually, call me, damn it.” Usually it means, “I don’t want this to be awkward, so I’m going to tell you to call me or that I’ll call you because we both know neither of us is ever going to make that happen, but this way we can save face and pretend to be friends when really…we’re just not.”

I try to avoid that. Actually, I try to avoid saying things I don’t mean, the end. If I say we should hang out, I probably mean it (because I don’t want to be put in the awkward position of having to hang out with you when I don’t really want to hang out with you). But I might forget to make it happen. If I do forget to get in touch with you to make plans, however, I’m not going to try to make YOU feel guilty about it. That’s just ass.

I’m not completely opposed to people saying they miss me, though. Don’t get me wrong. There are plenty of people who probably just mean that they miss me. It’s these few scenarios in which people say shit that they can easily fix or change that bug the shit out of me.

Also, I should say, I’m not really one for “missing” people. I’m more of an “out of sight out of mind” kind of girl. Yes, I know, you can just add that to the list of many characteristics that make me impossible.

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There are lots of people in my life who would probably tell you that I have an overwhelming need to be right.

They’d be right.

Ha. No, but really, I do like to be right. I like it a lot. But, believe it or not, I can admit when I’m wrong. It just doesn’t happen very often.

Again, I joke. I’m wrong all the time. I just approach being wrong with less enthusiasm than I approach being right. Generally speaking, I try not to shout from the hilltops about things, unless I’m pretty sure I’m right. Even then, I really don’t shout from the hilltops because that’s really obnoxious. At that point, it ceases to matter if I’m right or wrong and it only matters that I’m being an obnoxious prick.

I have confidence in my opinions and the things I believe because I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about them. I do the research, if I can. I study. I like to know things anyway, so it’s not really a chore. I am certainly not the expert on everything, however.

I would also never presume to tell you how to live your life (aside from this whole leggings as pants situation, and I think we can all agree that no one is listening to me anyway, right @gingermandy ?). Which is why I find “life coaches” or those “quarter-life crisis” types really irritating. Also, seriously, people. Twenty-five? It ain’t shit. It’s not a crisis. It’s growing up. It’s life. It’s figuring out who you are and who you want to be and how to achieve your goals and chase your dreams. It’s not a crisis. It’s LIFE.

/rant

And now I’m going to tell you about being wrong. Lots of people would probably say that I’ve been pretty unfair to men, in the past (I’d argue that it was mostly with damn good reason, but that’s not the point). Over the last, say, eight months or so, I’ve really been thinking about my attitude about men and what it says about me. I’m a feminist, yes, but I’m not the sort of feminist who dismisses opinions or ideas simply because they came from men. In my opinion, that diminishes the message and makes you a hypocrite.

What I never really saw, though, was how much pressure there is on men to be…well, men. It comes with very strict rules, you see. You must not be emotional. You must never appear weak. And above all, you must never, ever, in any way, appear to be feminine or gay. This can dictate your reactions, your clothes, your attitudes about everything and everyone.

Now, in my opinion, this speaks to the sad state of all things men and women, but today, I want to apologize. I want to apologize for anything I’ve said or done to promote a masculine stereotype that forces men to be anything but “like women.”

I don’t like crying, but that’s about people, not just about men. I will admit, that despite my best attempts to curb it, there is something more unsettling about a crying man than a crying woman. I’d rather not be around either, though. It makes me uncomfortable. I have no idea what to do or what to say. I think it’s safe to tell you guys that I’m a bit of an insensitive ass, so my only recourse is to try to make said crying person laugh. This doesn’t mean that my friends can’t come to me with problems. They just have to be aware that my default switch is set at “make the crying stop.”

Also, seeing someone cry makes me want to cry sometimes, and I don’t really like to cry.

(True confession: I totally cried at the end of a book a month or so ago. Like heaving sobbing had-to-get-a-box-of-tissues hiccuping crying.)

I’m apologizing because I don’t really ever want to spread around an opinion that promotes traditional gender roles. I don’t think the man needs to be the care-taker, any more than I think the woman must do the laundry. Such ideas are ridiculous to me. I mean, if that’s the way your relationship works out, I have no issue with it, but those aren’t the sorts of things that should be forced on someone just because of their genitalia.

Everyone is different. That’s what makes relationships so complicated. We all need and want just what we need and want. Some people are willing to make compromises, some aren’t. Some women want a nice guy, some want an asshole. Some men care about nothing but a skinny girl, some want to be with someone who is confident and smart. Some of us want it all, wrapped up with a lovely bow.

So while it’s easy to try to put everyone you meet in some neat little box, it just won’t really work.

I’m working on my attitude, and really learning to think about things before forming an opinion. I’m keeping in mind that it’s pretty ridiculous to pigeonhole someone simply because of gender, since I don’t like it when that’s done to me. I think it’s important to be cautious and to use your experience as your guide, but not to let your fear get in the way of something that might be good for you.

Life is hard, y’all. And this maturity thing is for the birds.

And a note to my girlfriends: If you’re going to get all outraged that he couldn’t look past the size of your ass and see the real and wonderful you as a human being? You best the fuck not count some guy out because of a bald spot. It oozes hypocrisy and it’s kind of disgusting. Also, he can probably do less about that bald spot than you can do about the size of your ass. Just sayin’.

Yes, this is coming from someone who doesn’t really like to date guys who are shorter, but there’s a REASON for that. Shallow as it may be. And it’s not even about height. So there. Also, I like to think I’d give anyone a shot who impressed me in some way, unless I just legitimately couldn’t stand to look at him. Funny goes a long way, but attraction is key.

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Yeah, I’m done with that.

Instead, I think I’ll be Katie Holmes. I mean, she’s got that whole “I married a crazy scientologist and now my life is everyday news for the tabloids” thing going on, right? Plus, she was in Dawson’s Creek and yes, I watched every season of that show. Twice. I was young! I was stupid! I was in love! With Joshua Jackson. I couldn’t help myself.

Oh wait…she’s got kids and stuff. I don’t need any of those. And Tom Cruise actually kind of freaks me out.

Moving on.

Paris Hilton? She’s got all the money and stuff. But those old lady hands really don’t do anything for me. Plus, you know, I can’t stand anything about her.

I’ve got it. No, but really. Cameron Diaz. I think we’re a lot alike anyway, except that she’s really tall and really skinny and her mouth looks like it could eat me whole. I love that woman more than I can explain and I always have. When HuffPo started reporting that she was saying things like, “Yeah, I’ll travel for cock” (a phrase, I’m sad to say, some rather un-evolved people still take to mean she’s some kind of slutbag) and “Love rarely lasts forever,” I have to admit, it only made me love her more.

If you’re wondering why we’re having this conversation, it’s because I have a date tonight. What I would have said to you two days ago is this: I have no idea how to BEHAVE on a date any more. Like, what does one DO?

But I’ve now said this to several people and every single one of them (with the exception of one, and I told her not to say it) said the EXACT same thing: Be yourself.

Well…

NO SHIT.

Who else am I going to be? Really. Be myself. What sage advise to someone who has an extremely strong sense of self and can’t even stretch the truth about herself to get a JOB. Yes, thank you, I think I will be myself.

Now I’m not faulting these people. I have no idea what the answers are, so maybe it’s just that no one does. My fault is with offering up a lame platitude. In what universe is the advice “Be yourself” going to be helpful to me? Is it helpful to anyone? If you’re not capable of it, you’re not going to suddenly become capable of it because someone told you to. If you’re me, you’re going to do it whether you want to or not (and lord help the poor dude who’s also on the date, right?). And if you are the sort of person who pretends to be someone else, you’re probably just going to keep down that road. It’s not like this is some novel concept.

OH! Be MYSELF! Well, this changes everything. Guess I’ll give that the ol’ college try, eh?

So wish me luck. Also, you might as well wish him luck, as he may very well be reading this. Yeah…he reads my blog. And I swear, if even one of you leaves a comment that says, “Well, he reads your blog and he still likes you! That’s good!” my head will explode. First, that’s mildly insulting. Second, it’s not really about that and it just makes everything all lopsided. Plus, don’t you think it’s probably better to tell someone much later than a first date about that time you pooped yourself at work? Yeah, I kind of do. Oh well.

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I collected nine trash bags of clothes for Goodwill (getting them TO Goodwill is a completely separate issue). NINE. Just think about that. I had nine trash bags worth of clothes in my closet that I didn’t even want. Moreover, I gave away half my clothes when I moved into this apartment, so this was mostly stuff I had collected in the last year and a half.

This led me to create a new rule. The shopping rule: I will not purchase new things (other than large, necessary purchases) without getting rid of something of approximately equal value. Except books. (I mean, let’s be realistic.)

I also have a bag of shoes to donate. The shoe rule is this: If the shoes do not fit on the shelves where the shoes live (except boots, which don’t fit because they’re too tall), I must get rid of some shoes.

Clearly I haven’t been following the shoe rule very closely. Mostly because there were just shoes everywhere.

So now my apartment has been clean since Saturday(ish). There hasn’t been a dish in my sink or a misplaced item of clothing since then. I have gotten up early every morning. I have made my bed every morning. Yes, you read that correctly. I have MADE MY BED. I’m a firm believer that there is absolutely no point in making your bed, and yet…I feel better when it’s made. It’s like a magic fairy has come and made my room slightly more like a hotel. Except that my bed broke in the last move, so all I have is a mattress on the floor (and also I am the magic fairy).

(Cooper is far less cute while I’m trying to make the bed, since he spends his time being in my way and trying to unmake the bed. He’s a hooker-faced asshat sometimes.)

In other news, my bed really isn’t half bad. Having not seen it in six months or so, I had kind of forgotten. Also, my desk? That fucker is adorable. Who knew? It’s been covered in stuff for a while, even when everything else got picked up.

Every morning this week, I have woken up at 6:30 am or earlier, made myself some tea, and read the news while eating a banana. I have had time to get ready for work. My clothes match. My hair has been brushed. My face has been washed. I’ve done some writing. I’ve spent time with Cooper.

So why the change?

You know, I couldn’t really say, except that I think I’ve finally decided maybe it’s time to get my shit together. I’m 30, after all. I’ve trimmed some figurative fat from my life. The literal fat is still there, but I’m working on it, too.

I think maybe I was just finally pushed too far; mostly by people: people who lie, people who stop being there when you actually might need them, people who expect you to be something you’re not just to make their lives easier, people who live to stir up drama and make a big deal out of things that are not. I feel like it’s time to take control and be the person I know I can be, instead of just the awesome, funny, charming person I am. Right?

Here’s the deal, though. If, in a few weeks, you guys have noticed that the only things I ever talk about any more are calories and Jesus? You’ll know that I have, in fact, turned into my Grandmother. That would be the time to intervene, okay? I’ve seen this in action, and it’s not pretty.

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I give you – What Women Want: The Push Pull Technique.

Today, for once, I’m going to leave aside the commentary on what this pathetic thing this says about the state of things between men and women. Let’s just focus on the funnies, shall we? (That picture is just…awesome.)

Here’s an example. Establish a physical contact, touch her, show your interest, then move away a bit, push her off.

See what they did there, men? They made you seem like a schizophrenic asshat.

Most women like to be persuaded. This means, when you suggest something, even if she would want to do this or to go there, she would not say “yes” immediately, she would wait until you try to persuade her. Don’t do this, if she does so, just say “no problem” and don’t insist. This would make her confused and understand, that you are not to play with.

And here all this time, I thought you guys WANTED us to play with you? No?

• Show your interest in her, but not all the time. Behave sometimes, as if you don’t care.
• Don’t be like other men.
• Don’t always give her, what she’s expecting from you.
• Be playful. Tease her.
• Be strong not only with muscles, dominate her in conversation.
• Be a challenge for her. A challenge increases woman’s interest in you.

Again, you’re just coming off as a schizophrenic asshat. But let’s note the completely random use of commas. I think my favorite rule of the day is: Be strong not only with muscles, dominate her in conversation. Yeah…DOMINATE HER.

It can also be compared to bodybuilding – you want to gain more muscle mass, as soon as you have reached a particular result, then, when you’ve done another step, you again want to “grow” further.

I’ll admit that I don’t know a whole lot about body building, but it would seem that consistency would be important? And I’m pretty sure that last bit is about an erection.

So, men, there you have it. More regurgitated Pick Up Artist schtick. This time with even worse grammar.

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Okay, so last week, I had a bit of a crisis. In which I almost shut my blog down. I’m not telling you this to get your attention or force you to compliment me. I’m just telling you because I’m telling you.

I feel like a different woman than the one who started this blog, in a lot of ways. The same, but different. Interestingly, when I started this blog, I was, for all intents and purposes, in a really bad place. A couple of months ago, I found myself in a really bad place again, for a slightly different (and various) reasons. There wasn’t a lot of funny in me for a while.

I’m not sure if the funny is back or not, but I find myself passionate about serious things. And I want to write about these serious things. The question is, do those passions really fit on this blog?

I never found a schtick. I never said, “This. THIS is what my blog will be about.” It was always just supposed to be my stories. My observations of daily life. My adventures while navigating my way through this fucked up thing.

There were to be curse words and inappropriate stories and rants and sarcasm. And I think those things are still here.

I think, though, that there’s a disconnect between the way I’m expressing myself, and the way people perceive that expression. That will probably always be true, but I used to pride myself on being a good communicator, if nothing else. Now, I’m not so sure.

It seems that all I’m communicating lately is that I’m angry. And I’m actually not angry (I mean, sure, I’m angry about some things…aren’t you? But I’m not an angry person). I can tell you that I’m more than a little sad, I’m very tired (mostly of people), and well…the last few months have done nothing for my cynicism.

There will always be people who think that anyone (and particularly any woman) who has an opinion and expresses it passionately is angry. I can accept that. It’s just a problem when people who are supposed to be my friends, people who are supposed to know me and care about me, simply see anger and negativity because I don’t subscribe to the same bullshit fake happy that they do, or because I am passionate about certain issues.

One of my friends told me recently(ish) during a conversation about men and relationships, “Yeah, I don’t ever want to be the way you are about this stuff.”

Ouch? Nah. Don’t be like me. The sad thing is, I don’t even think she knows what “like me” is. Because I tell her to be careful and be cautious with someone who has broken her heart over and over, I am negative and a “man-hater.”

The truth is? I’m actually much less negative about men than my happy, sunshine, rainbow counterparts. Yes, I’ve had bad experiences, but I’ve had good ones, too. I choose to approach new people and new relationships with a certain amount of caution, because frankly, I’m not stupid. Does that mean that I won’t give someone a chance? I think if you read the archives of this blog, you will find that I do, in fact, give plenty of people a chance. But there are certain things I simply will no longer abide (face licking and maternal fellatio being two of them). If that makes me a negative man-hater, so be it.

(Wait. Oh dear, “maternal fellatio” isn’t…well, fuck it. You either know what I’m talking about or you don’t.)

Moreover, if the fact that I choose to be careful with my heart and not give everything to people who may not deserve it makes me those things, I’m okay with that. I’m picky. I’m picky because in the past, I wasn’t so picky. That never turned out well.

I am a feminist, but that doesn’t mean that I dismiss the opinions of men just because they’re men (this is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately). I don’t really listen to opinions that I find to be irrational or unintelligent, and it doesn’t matter who has those opinions.

My way isn’t the only way. Neither is yours. Understand that this is a BLOG and sometimes it’s easier and/or more entertaining to rant about something or exaggerate a little for effect. I’m not writing the news, here. Hell, I’m pretty sure no one is writing the news any more.

I guess all of that is to say that I decided not to shut down my blog. But I think I am going to add a separate page for the more serious topics. That way you can have a choice in whether or not you read them.

Femme Writes is something that is really important to me, and I don’t want the perception of me as someone who is angry and negative to affect people’s perception of the project as a whole. I think we’re doing something good. I think, at the very least, we’re starting a conversation. And while these first topics might seem daunting or you may not want to write about them, I think that we’re providing an excellent platform for those who want to to be able to share their stories and experiences. I expect and hope, like anything else, Femme Writes will grow and evolve through time.

Once I get the new page set up (I actually set up the subdomain ages ago, but I haven’t done anything with the page itself), I’ll let you guys know. If you want to take a look at it from time to time, feel free. I’m setting up a Twitter account to tweet about posts and such. Follow @seriouslyshiny if you’d like updates.

That being said, I’ll try to keep the posts on the regular page more light-hearted. Get back to my roots, maybe. But there will still be serious things that I think are deserving of being on Shine Out Loud.

/sadface

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I feel like I might have talked about this before. If I have, I’m mildly apologetic that I’m doing it again. A search for “underwear” in my archives brought up more posts than I was expecting and I didn’t feel like sorting through them.

So I have this problem. I can’t seem to get rid of old underwear.

You’re probably thinking this is completely ridiculous right about now, but it’s not.

Okay, maybe it is. But my Grandmother has the same problem. And you can shut your whore mouth before you make fun of my Grandmother.

The problem is this: I don’t want to throw out dirty underwear (because ew), but if I wash it, I usually just put it away without thinking and then I end up wearing it again. Rinse and repeat. Ad nauseum.

It’s a vicious cycle and I’m tired of it.

I need a new plan, people. How do you get rid of your old underwear?

You should probably understand that I have more underwear than a sultan has concubines. And no, I’m never ever getting rid of my knee socks.

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