Tag Archives: Gen Y

Leave My Uterus Alone, Rick Perry

*This was originally posted last summer after spending a lot of time at the Texas Capitol groaning and eye rolling as Rick Perry’s team played for a dirty victory where the prize was women’s reproductive rights. Today I will be going to see Queen Wendy, House of Davis, Mother of Dragons and I thought it was about time to revisit all the reasons she MUST win the governorship.

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Let’s get real for a second.

Hey Rick Perry, do you remember that time you said you pray because you’re “prone to make a lot of mistakes” and also, when in front of America, you claimed there were three very important agencies of the government you were going to get rid of and oh wait, was it the EPA? I still don’t know because you never remembered.  Also, remember when you said you hoped to be the Tim Tebow of the Iowa caucus? (Sad about his career now, huh?) Or when you said OUT LOUD that the minimum voting age was 21? (Gotta get that apathetic youth vote!)

I guess you really are prone to make mistakes.

See, that’d be funny and all if you were my 103-year-old senile grandfather peeing on the lawn and not the person who runs the state I live in and who is holding my reproductive rights in your hand like a soft tomato (are you surprised I didn’t call it a delicate flower? Well, fuck you.) You’re own republican friends have called you “Bush without the brains” so I think you should tread lightly when passing judgement.

You’ve been talking a lot about Wendy Davis, who has recently been described as a “former teen mom” — which is so great because we usually only hear about teen dads. Nope, that’s not true…

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You claim she clearly hasn’t learned from her own example as a teen mom. Obviously, as a middle-aged white man you would have a lot of expertise on being a teenaged girl. Now, you are calling a second special session — because all those people flooding the capitol to protest your BS was just a coincidence — to push through the draconian bill that would close 37 out of our 42 reproductive health clinics and make abortions illegal after 20 weeks. Because why wouldn’t five clinics in the massive state of Texas be enough for over ten million women? Oh right, because math. But you claim that you are fighting for human rights by passing this bill. That’s weird. It didn’t seem like you were fighting for human rights when you vetoed the bill that would assist women in the fight for equal pay because you were afraid it’d hinder job creation. Yay! Human rights! Let the free market work itself out!

See the thing is, Rick, people like Wendy can’t just pick and choose the human rights’ issues that’ll best serve their political agenda like you and your conservative cronies. People like us don’t have that freedom. Because you exist. Because you think it’s your right to determine who gets married and what I can do with my own body. Do you hear me telling you what to do with your penis? No, that’d be creepy and invasive. Yes, Wendy Davis had a baby at nineteen — she chose to have a baby. That’s the point here. Pro-Choicers are just that. We are not pro-abortion. We are for women’s abilities to make an informed, educated choice about her body and her health (which will be soo easy to do when there are only five women’s health clinic in the entire state).

So no, old white haired men, I’d rather you not tell me when and when I cannot have a baby and I’d rather you listen to some ladies. I want to be clear here, though, that I think any baby-having decisions should ultimately be discussed with both parties involved and not just up to the female. With that said, if it’s the responsibility of both parties then we should make a law where men must wear full prosthetic baby bellies for the entire gestation of the fetus and/or microchip every man so his whereabouts are known and therefore, he is unable to leave his pregnant partner until the baby is born. Because that doesn’t seem like an invasion of privacy or anything.

RickPerryCorndog

Wendy Davis already schooled you once, filibustering like hell so ya’ll wouldn’t cut tons of money for education. And you know what? Filibustering in Texas is hard! This isn’t no reading the telephone book Congress bull shit or handing it off to your colleague when you’ve run out of lines from Alice in Wonderland. Sister couldn’t even lean on her desk! What I’m trying to say, Rick Perry, is that you’re a hairdo and a nice face on an ignorant republican robot body so get the corn dog out of your mouth and back the fuck off my uterus. Or I’m gonna go get Wendy.

Looks like You Need an Adjustment…

nobody got timeSometimes I like to think I’m invincible. My definition of invincible basically being the song “U Can’t Touch This” by MC Hammer. My fiance often likes to joke that he gets nervous when I have a random ache because I have such a high tolerance for pain that I let a lot of stuff slide. I like to share this with a lot of people because it makes me sound like a totally bitchin’ badass, which, let’s face it, I am. I once called a healthcare hotline while nannying when I didn’t have health insurance. The conversation went as follows:

“How can I help you, today?” Super nice (and I imagine super cute) nurse lady who helps people without health insurance.

“I have some pretty severe pain in my stomach. I’m pretty sure my colon has been inflamed for about a week now but I wasn’t sure if it was that serious.”

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to go the emergency room… like yesterday.”

“But do you think I’ll have to wait long? I need to be at my other job at 1:45.”

So, when last week, my back was all like, “oh hell, noooooo” to the whole walking thing, I decided I should probs see someone. The problem is, I keep asking myself, “it is worth it?” as in “is it worth paying money to feel healthy?”

Ahh, and then I understood (clouds parted and healthcare angels began to sing in hushed, angelic whispers). It could just be me but as a member of the (hashtag)millennial generation, I’m going to say it: we suck at taking care of ourselves. But it’s not completely our fault. Amidst the whole growing-up-and-living-on-your-own-and-being-responsible thing, we all kind of thought: hey, we’re young, we created Youtube and Twitter, we can handle a little chronic back pain, a little Strep throat, a little [insert sickness here]. Couple this with the whole skewed health insurance system in our country and it’s a recipe for a generation that is not taking care of themselves. I mean, we’re the first generation who thought searching symptoms on WebMD constituted a physical check-up. Self-diagnosing your vertigo via the interwebs is not helping anyone, people.

So when I found a chiropractor, who I’m pretty sure moonlights as the soothing voice in every late night telemarketing ad for a neck or body massager, or “being your whole self,” I knew I struck medical gold. She gets me, in the way that she wrote a note to my boss saying I can no longer lift the heavy boxes of sodas that Staples delivers every week. I’m also an advocate of healing yourself without using medication — could be the whole substance abuse thing that runs in my family but hey, to each their own. (But seriously, everyone, stop relying so much on prescription drugs).

So back to my question: is it worth it? Well, when your doctor tells you your neck is in the shape of an “S” and no, that’s not how it should look and oh, see this pinched nerve, that’s probably the reason you’ve been losing feeling in your hands, then I would go with a solid yes, it’s worth it. I’ve been twice so far and I felt very proud when she said my “back was adjusting really well” — my spine high-fived itself for being so responsive to treatment. keep calm I’m not saying everyone should go to a chiropractor — I still feel weird about it myself to be honest. But let’s at least make a promise to ourselves to take care of our bodies. And no, I don’t mean finally getting that adderall you’ve been trying to trick your doctor into writing you a script for. I mean like, putting down the In and Out burger fries and The Call of Duty controller and going for a walk or some shit. Ugggh, did I just sound like my grandmother talking about Call of Duty like that?

How often do you go to the doctor? Have you ever been to a chiropractor? Is your neck also shaped like an “S”?

Someday You’re Going to Be the Oldest One in the Room

adulthood-brad-pitt-demotivational1Being an adult is assembling office chairs with an Allen wrench until your thumb grows an additional layer of old man skin. It’s the sinking realization that rush hour traffic at 6:30 PM is more intense and resentful  than rush hour traffic at 5:30 PM — the man in a Men’s Warehouse suit cutting you off is more intentionally bitter about the life decisions that brought him to that very moment, being stuck in traffic with you as you suck on your e-cig, playing that Pink song “Give me Just One Reason” with the lead singer from The Format over and over again because Matti will murder you in your sleep if he hears it one more time at home. This is being an adult.

It’s walking into a bar and not immediately crying when you realize you’re the oldest one there. It’s putting on your big girl panties and apologizing to that one person you work with that you have dreams about publicly humiliating even though it should really be the other way around. It’s figuring out the best way to outsmart your insurance so you can pay the lowest possible deductible when you go in for a colonoscopy. It’s coming to terms with having to get a colonoscopy at age 24. It’s accepting the fact that you’re going to hear a lot of people poop in the bathroom at work because not everyone cares enough to find an underused bathroom on the 2nd floor to take care of business in. And it’s learning to appreciate those casual poopers with enough empathy to give a few courtesy flushes as you innocently pee in the stall next door because in the end, we’re all in this together.

welcome-to-adulthood_o_1955335Most of all, however, being an adult is realizing that most things aren’t going to go your way. And you’re just going to have to deal with it. And when someone at work speaks to you like that bitch second grade teacher you still have nightmares about you’re going to have to cry in that same stall you go to for strictly poop business because crying in public at work is unprofessional and you’re not a baby. And when you come home to your apartment to find that your prince of a puppy has had a poop party while you were gone, well you’re also going to have to deal with that (but crying is okay, because you’re home and you’re only human after all). And yeah, maybe you didn’t realize that being an adult would require so much thinking about poop.

It’s accepting failed expectations and tricking yourself into believing it’s never too late (because it’s never too late to start saying it’s never too late).

Like when you have intentions of seeing people over the weekend outside the confines of the barely functioning heat box you call your computer because your trying this new thing where you “break routine” and do things you normally only watch people do on television, like go to work Happy Hours and take a shower more than twice a week.

But then adulthood pays you a visit by asking you, “were those two pieces of pizza you siphened from Matti tiny adorable bite by tiny adorable bite really worth it?” And of course they weren’t because now your writhing on the couch like your trying out for the lead in the Exorcist. Friday then turns in to “remind Aly why being adult is more than casually going to drinks with friends” day. And this of course, only happens when you have grand plans to meet and exchange hilarious stories with the amazing people behind the blogs you read at an awesome event called Blogger Interactive. And you’re going to cry on the couch about it as Matti asks, “are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital because your pain tolerance really scares me sometimes?”

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Being an adult is realizing that time is not going to magically multiply, allowing you to complete the tasks that are actually important to you, like say, writing posts for your blog. And you’re actually in charge of your own life now. Which means choosing to buy a half gallon of coconut milk cookie dough ice cream is ALL on YOU and you have to deal with the repercussions. It’s appreciating the small things like when you finally get health insurance and your doctor uses the phrase “stupid anemic.” It’s realizing that not every single thing you do is going to be flawlessly brilliant and witty and that you still need to try to be a successful, compassionate human being. People will forgive you for your imperfections, mainly because they’re too worried about how bad they will look judging you.

Being an adult is finally accepting yourself for the flawed but hilarious person you are because at this point, what choice do you have?

The Walmart Microwave Hunt

Welcome to Wal-Mart. Sorry are the giants bin displays of fun pops, batteries, and aloe vera in your way?

Welcome to Walmart. Sorry are the giants bin displays of fun pops, batteries, and aloe vera in your way?

I would’ve put up a better fight, but I was feeling bloated and hungry and the appeal of a cheap and easy nuking machine beat out my conscience.  So we went to Walmart for a microwave. I don’t take this sentence lightly, I assure you — I spent an entire semester Sophomore year of college on a journalism research project about the class action suit brought up by women against the corporation; I’m convinced I only got an A- because my teacher was halfway through having her tenure revoked and fully on her way to becoming a crazy conspiracist.

But Walmart’s just so much cheaper. Sometimes, we compromise our supposed morals for low prices (especially when unemployed) and, of course, for the chance to watch an entire family go from clothes shopping to vision appointments to toy shopping to grocery shopping and finally, to a quick dinner at McDonald’s without having to leave the comfort of their local Walmart SuperCenter — It’s like watching the ultimate Supermarket Sweep challenge live.

mckayla-notimpressedBut Walmart still triggers the spoiled six-year-old brat response in me — My face morphs into a McKayla Maroney “I’m not impressed” look like a true diva. If walking down a frozen aisle where there’s fifteen freezer doors worth of frozen pizza variety and only six worth of frozen veggies doesn’t elicit an automatic face-palm-response then we obviously just wouldn’t get along.

I knew I was losing my mind when Matti held up frozen mozzarella sticks with a remember-how-I-used-to-eat-dairy-and-fried-foods-before-I-met-you face and I said, “Are you fuc– well, actually, I’m kind of in the mood for mozz sticks.” Translation: Sure, I’m kind of in the mood to turn into Ursula from the Little Mermaid later, when the fried dairy starts to Perfect Storm my stomach — but at least I won’t know when it’s coming.

But when we get to the microwave aisle I’m less “not impressed” and more about-to-turn-into-the-Hulk because it’s not even that cheap — it’s basically the same price as Target except I don’t get to venture off next door into the aisle of plates that perfectly matches our apartment’s color palette as Matti pays for makes the hard microwave decisions. (I can sense olive green home decor from an unparalleled distance.)

But we have to get the microwave, because we’re here, in Walmart, and I’ve already started drinking my unsweetened tea without paying for it. As an attempt to make this trip worth it I stop to glance at the bath mats, since we’ve been using a dirty white towel with the word “fun” on it since we moved in. Apparently though, bath mats are the only product where the price, despite the store, never changes. I swear to Mindy that I’ve been in 20 different places looking for a bath mat and they never get cheaper — no, not even at Walmart. What are you good for, Walmart, if not for everyday low prices?

flowersI start to get mad at Walmart like it’s my half sister– what’s up with your flower section? You have carnations, carnations, florescent carnations and dying roses. You could maybe utilize the space being taken up by the giant bins of batteries and fun pops in the middle of the main aisle for a blossoming, slightly neater flower station. Maybe? How about just getting that old man that works in produce to get his hand out of his pants?

I leave Walmart right after handing the cashier an abandoned rotisserie chicken left on top of the People Magazine rack. She seems appreciative and I immediately start worrying about what they are going to do with the chicken. How long could it have been sitting there, getting cold, decomposing, alone in an aisle of candy and soda and last minute grabs. I hoped like me, the chicken would get out of there soon.

Where I Thank You All and Give You a Recipe for Delicious Cookies

There’s an old proverb I just made up that says “all good things happen to those who force themselves to leave their apartment to complete the tasks they’ve been putting off for weeks.” It may seem a bit specific, but I have some pretty scientifically conclusive anecdotal evidence that proves my point.

A few months ago is when I knew Kelly Oxford was meant to be my writing mentor and ultimate life-spiration. I finished her book Everything is Perfect When You’re a Liar in about 30 seconds and I appreciated her honesty. I’m also not embarrassed to say I only started twitter this year. I’m sorry that I was busy living — and yes, by living I mean watching The Office re-reruns in my carpeted apartment with the shades drawn, sometimes crying into the bowl of popcorn littered with delicious raisenettes. But when I figured out you could like, directly talk to celebs via bird noises tweeting, I was as intrigued as any pop culture obsessed ex- Nysnc fan (Screw Backstreet Boys!) would be. But I’m also an educated person, so I follow classy chicks like Joyce Carol Oates and Representative Wendy Davis because, you know, I care about what’s going on in the world. It’s called being cultured.

I was super weary to tweet to celebs though, mostly because it’d take me too long to draft a perfect 140 character message that hints at my subtle yet brash humor without sounding wholly desperate and fanatic. (Love me, everyone!) But one night when I finally agreed to babysit the two boys — we’ll call them energetic –that force me into a Dark Vadar mask every time I’m over, a miracle of fandom happened. I was walking out of what felt like was the modern re-make of the classic Full House estate when I started thinking about how awesome the Olsen Twins had it back then — one uncle plays with the Beach Boys and the other has a cool radio show where he personifies a beaver; My uncle still tickles me inappropriately and threatens to throw me in my family pool whenever he sees me.

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This conversation was actually severely awkward for me, yet it still makes my top five life moments.

But it was in the middle of this embarrassingly mundane thought, when I heard the noise that means someone on twitter hasn’t ignored you.  Of course, thinking it’s the same spam robot that keeps favoriting old tweets about Community, I continue to find my way out of the labyrinth that is every rich person’s neighborhood in Texas, glancing down to check directions, and seeing a big old Kelly Oxford shaped tweet on my phone’s now beautiful screen. So, that happened.

Then, yesterday, I finally decided it was okay to bring my engagement ring in to get resized and oh yeah, I’ll make sure that “check oil” light on my dashboard doesn’t mean anything important. I don’t know why, but the highways in Austin this week have been scarier than the first time my brother held me down and made me watch the original Chucky Trailer when I was six. Of course,  I have to go see Al Bundy in North Not-Austin-Anymore-Ville to get the “wholesale discount” from Anita the antique jeweler’s guy, which is forty minutes away, or forty minutes longer than I want to be driving.

freshly-pressed-circleBut then… Brrrrrrrrrng! The best sound in an unemployed, self-obsessed writer’s life: A wordpress notification. And then another. And then another. Another. Another. Never before did I believe and want so badly for Transformers to be real so I could shape shift my way to the nearest guy station and figure out why the shit I was blowing up so hard (Because, yeah, I don’t text/use my phone and drive like an idiot teenager practicing for a roll in a tragic car accident ad.) Eventually I got to a gas station where I could read my email and allow my head to fully inflate upon reading the words “Freshly Pressed.” Man, I should’ve started doing errands sooner.

So yeah, shit goes down when you’re busy being completely ordinary, stuck in traffic, wishing you charged your phone more so you could plug it in and play that song Matti is sick of hearing on repeat. And yeah, when my book deal goes through I’ll be sure to thank you all for my humble beginnings.

Seriously, I want to hold all your faces in my hand and kiss both your cheeks like Heidi Klum in Project Runway except none of you will be eliminated. Then I want you all to sit with me on my pull out couch and watch Gilmore Girls reruns and talk about how Lauren Graham was famous before Parenthood. We can eat homemade vegan cookies I made for you all because I’m bad at being vocally appreciative and thankful — something about it not looking “cool.” Seriously, here’s the recipe for said cookies, because you deserve it! (Thank you all and don’t ever leave me!)

Vegan Chocolate Chip Cookies (recipe modified from afa-online.org)

Ingredients:

2 sticks (1 cup) vegan margarine, softened

1 ½ cups flourcookies

1 ½ cups light brown sugar

1 ½ cup quick oats

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp salt

1 tsp vanilla extract

2 egg substitutes (1 T ground flax seed + 3 T water for one egg)

8-oz vegan semi-sweet chocolate chips

Mix dry ingredients in a bowl, including flax Seed. Add the margarine and the water from the “eggs” and mix with a hand blender (I use a fork and a can-do attitude!). Add vanilla and mix again. Dough should hold shape in ball: If too dry,
add a teaspoon of water; if too wet, add ¼ cup flour or oats. Add chocolate chips and fold in by hand or with a mixer. Using a spoon, form balls of dough and place on cookie sheet about 2 inches apart. Bake at 350F for 8 to 10 minutes.

Do insanely good things happen to you when you’re busy being average? Where’s the weirdest place you received great news? Did you wish you were somewhere else?

Waking Up Late to Poetry

I was up last night till 4:00 a.m. watching Orange is the New Black on Netflix and fully intended on writing ya’ll a mini review on Jenji Kohan’s (the creator of Weeds) colorful take on the prison system. Instead, I woke up at 11:45 — just in time to still call it the morning — with way too much to do, by which I mean way too many places to go wearing my new engagement ring. Instead, I’m gonna take some advice from fellow blogger, Jennie and share a poem I recently revised:

When I Was Six:

When I was six

me and my brother

spilt our sea monkeys out

of their glass home.

My brother grappled and thought

“what bad luck”

sea monkeysI cried and got a spoon.

There on childish knees

scraped from rocky driveways

and swinging too high

I scooped up my best friends

like I was building a house

with the wrong side of a hammer.

I didn’t watch television

that night, survivor guilt

absorbed me and nights were

dreamless for a while

just haunted by tiny dancing

friends. Until one day

I got a dog, named her Casey,

and fighting boredom,

I washed her sandy coat

with dishwashing detergent.

 

Did You Get My Email? (and other virtual concerns)

Dramatic reenactment of me writing an email if I were a member of the Brady Bunch.
Source: michaelmccurry.net

When I begin to write an email, I am openly engaging in a never-ending struggle to get the greeting right — my face transforms into that of an important person, about to solve world mysteries through the click of some buttons by well manicured fingertips. In reality, my fingernails are half painted blue, half bitten off and the email I am writing is solely an attempt at modest employment, returning a hello, or sharing an embarrassing youtube clip — So, not in any way an effort at saving the world.

But I can’t just write the email because it’s too hard — because most of the charm of being myself is how I am in person. That’s a total cop-out as a writer but seriously, I’m super captivating and dynamic in person. My old boss told me I get the engagement award at meetings (which didn’t exist) for emphatically bobbing my head, smiling and just really connecting with everything she said. I’m a head bobber. I look interested and engaged in what you’re saying and that makes you feel good. And then you make me feel good for making you feel good. Do you see what I’m saying? It’s hard for you to see how good I’d make you feel over email without me being that person who overly uses emoticons.

What’s worse is that I was born in the age where virtual communication is supposed to be super natural. Sure, I grew up on AIM, so I know a bit about flirting my way into a virtual relationship virtually communicating my personality — but this had nothing to do with being professional.

There’s also no such thing as a sarcasm font and that is tragic. ‘Dear Sir/Madam who is hopefully going to fund my addiction to Starbucks iced coffees in the future’ wouldn’t be an appropriate way to start off an email. I have learned this. Professional seems to always trump quirky. There is also a problem I seem to have with being appropriate. I have a theory about this called the Michael Scott model which predicates that a lovable inappropriate asshole is still lovable — that’s basically the whole theory. The point of this theory is that it allows me to feel okay about being an inappropriate asshole. The problem with this is that the lovable part doesn’t usually transfer over email which leads to a stripping away of the whole entire character, producing an email tone similar to George Feeney’s (William Daniels) way of speaking.

See what I mean?

See what I mean?

Emailing immediately relegates me to a perpetual state of insecure teenage outsider — like that time when a Senior boy in my high school came to my table at lunch just to pop my birthday balloon. I don’t know the person I am emailing as well as I want to and basically, I want to be a part of their team. I want him or her to pick me first for dodgeball, or basketball, or swim races ( I’m really good at all those things). So you try the standard greetings: Dear Hiring Manager, To Whom It May Concern, Hello Madam/Sir, Hello Mr. or Mrs. Has More Power than Me, etc etc. And the worst possible response? You get an email reply with absolutely NO greeting because they are super aloof and hip and totally past all those formal greeting procedures, and also they are, of course, “going to pass” on you working with them.

At this exact moment I am in the middle of writing an email to a woman from a temp agency who could potentially get me a job. This sentence alone should tell you how prepared I am to send this email. “A woman from a temp agency.” Wow, Aly, you’ve really done your research. I am president of the emailers against researching club which meets daily on my couch. This might have contributed to my current, extended state of unemployment.

“You’ll literally have a job the next day after you email her” says Anna, my red-headed counterpart who I imagine goes to work in 80s power suits even though I know what her wardrobe looks like. But what if she senses my rebellious attitude towards email communication? What if she never gets the chance to see how endearing I am while bobbing my head? It’s tragic.

And then there is the reality of knowing I myself never answer emails…or text messages…or smoke signals. Usually to get in touch with me you must let yourself into my apartment and clap a few times in front of my face while offering me a dark chocolate sea salt infused candy bar, or use the pretense of wanting to compliment me on my awesomeness. I’m always available for flattery. But knowing my own attitude on email decorum negates me from taking email communication seriously — too much of a chance to be rebuffed — and it is not my preferred way of ignoring massive amounts of people (that’s usually voicemail and text messaging). And also when you see me in person and ask, “Hey, did you get my email?” I want to punch you square in your eye because why the hell would you send me an email if you were going to see me some time in the near future? Of all the possible ways to get in contact with me you’ve chosen the one in which Groupon and the Mary-Kay-lady-I-was-too-nice-to-say-no-to are among the most frequent attendees. At least put a god damned important flag on that thing.

Is this what you people want?

Is this what you people want?
Pic Source: Eharmony

I’m also convinced that emoticons are taking over and I’m desperately scared of plunging into a world of fake, creepy, emoji faces as substitutes for displaying personality through well thought out discourse. Emoji icons for Facebook statuses are deviously genius — further perpetuating people’s likeliness to adequately depict their emotions through pre-made pictures without having to physically be around anyone. Where this is headed, as I see it, is a massive population of overweight recluses representing themselves through yellow or blue smiley faces. And this is coming from someone who counts brushing her teeth as leaving the house.

There’s just too many ways to give a wrong impression. Whether it’s over email, Facebook messaging, twitter, texting, tumbling, whatever. We have all opened up communication so much that our main concern is worrying about how we sound in all these mediums. So far, my solution is perfecting communication between myself and my dog, Tengo. This is going very well. He has assured me that he would hire me for any job as long as I keep mixing wet food into his dinner — a very clear,well-received message.

Related Posts:

Gen Y and Technology

Email “Netiquette”

Response to DP Challenge

Okay Pinterest, You Win, Let’s Plan a Wedding

When I was first invited to Pinterest a while back I thought, ‘sweet I’m part of the in crowd!’ and then immediately after looking at dozens of pictures of cute shoes was like, ‘now what the hell do I do?’ Well ya’ll, I’ve finally come to see why Pinterest and Facebook would be so integral to my female life: I’m engaged bitches! He liked it, so he put a ring on it. (I’ve been waiting so long to say that to you.)

In all seriousness, Matti and I have pretty much been engaged since I was stumbling around Picadilly Circus in London wondering how I got separated from my roommates. These roommates were quick to point this out to me yesterday (we group text because that’s hip):

“I still count the first time with us in London though.”

“Yay totally right before she got lost in Picadilly Circus.”

Thanks for the memories, guys. But after that “engagement” I wore a 2 dollar metal ring on my ring finger until the blue stain on my skin was thicker than the ring itself. Now I got myself a real life adult diamond ring. I cannot help the feeling that I should be dancing in a Beyoncé video — B, holla at a girl. I at least now understand why everyone’s always writing songs about diamonds.

photoring

I’ve seen a lot of people that put out these elaborate engagement announcement cards which I think is fine if you’re really into making cards but I am not. Writing a thank you card, in my eyes, is equitable to running on a treadmill for an hour straight. (Don’t get me wrong I’m super athletic I just don’t like to ever prove it to myself or anyone else.) This is why Facebook is the best. All I had to do was snap a photo of my hand looking elegantly slender in my new diamond and blue sapphire engagement ring, post it on the FB and blamo, everyone knows I’m engaged! (Not to mention over a hundred people liked it which, let’s face it, I never knew I had that many friends). So thank you Facebook and thank you “Like” button for validating my life choices and making me look like I have a ton of friends! Weddings already rock!

pinterest weddingOn to you, Pinterest. I won’t lie, when I was invited to Pinterest I used it for like, a day and then forgot about it. I had like three pins. I’m not too embarrassed of my neglectful “board” making skills but now I understand the charm of the site. Er meh Gerrd. I just want to have a virtual Pinterest wedding. Can I do that, Pinterest gods?

It’s so unfair because there’s no way I can recreate this scene. Look at all the mismatched chairs — it’s so ironically beautiful, or something. And what is that, moss as the centerpiece place mats? Who thinks of this shit. It’s amazing and I want it all. I’ve never wanted to have a party in an old rustic barn as much as I do now. Just like Footloose. Thanks a lot, Pinterest.

This social media craziness is perfect for me too because I live in Austin but everyone I know and love is basically somewhere else with the exception of like five people. Massachusetts, New York, LA, Austin; all my peoples are spread out. How does one deal with this? Someone give me advice. Okay, I have to go now guys, I’m super busy, I have a wedding to plan. More self-indulgent wedding related posts to come, I’m sure.

How do you use Pinterest? Are you a fan? Do you know a cheap wedding photographer? What about good wedding venues? Do they have wedding groupons? Help me.

Dpchallenge

Leave My Uterus Alone, Rick Perry

Let’s get real for a second.

Hey Rick Perry, do you remember that time you said you pray because you’re “prone to make a lot of mistakes” and also, when in front of America, you claimed there were three very important agencies of the government you were going to get rid of and oh wait, was it the EPA? I still don’t know because you never remembered.  Also, remember when you said you hoped to be the Tim Tebow of the Iowa caucus? (Sad about his career now, huh?) Or when you said OUT LOUD that the minimum voting age was 21? (Gotta get that apathetic youth vote!)

I guess you really are prone to make mistakes.

See, that’d be funny and all if you were my 103-year-old senile grandfather peeing on the lawn and not the person who runs the state I live in and who is holding my reproductive rights in your hand like a soft tomato (are you surprised I didn’t call it a delicate flower? Well, fuck you.) You’re own republican friends have called you “Bush without the brains” so I think you should tread lightly when passing judgement.

You’ve been talking a lot about Wendy Davis, who has recently been described as a “former teen mom” — which is so great because we usually only hear about teen dads. Nope, that’s not true…

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You claim she clearly hasn’t learned from her own example as a teen mom. Obviously, as a middle-aged white man you would have a lot of expertise on being a teenaged girl. Now, you are calling a second special session — because all those people flooding the capitol to protest your BS was just a coincidence — to push through the draconian bill that would close 37 out of our 42 reproductive health clinics and make abortions illegal after 20 weeks. Because why wouldn’t five clinics in the massive state of Texas be enough for over ten million women? Oh right, because math. But you claim that you are fighting for human rights by passing this bill. That’s weird. It didn’t seem like you were fighting for human rights when you vetoed the bill that would assist women in the fight for equal pay because you were afraid it’d hinder job creation. Yay! Human rights! Let the free market work itself out!

See the thing is, Rick, people like Wendy can’t just pick and choose the human rights’ issues that’ll best serve their political agenda like you and your conservative cronies. People like us don’t have that freedom. Because you exist. Because you think it’s your right to determine who gets married and what I can do with my own body. Do you hear me telling you what to do with your penis? No, that’d be creepy and invasive. Yes, Wendy Davis had a baby at nineteen — she chose to have a baby. That’s the point here. Pro-Choicers are just that. We are not pro-abortion. We are for women’s abilities to make an informed, educated choice about her body and her health (which will be soo easy to do when there are only five women’s health clinic in the entire state).

So no, old white haired men, I’d rather you not tell me when and when I cannot have a baby and I’d rather you listen to some ladies. I want to be clear here, though, that I think any baby-having decisions should ultimately be discussed with both parties involved and not just up to the female. With that said, if it’s the responsibility of both parties then we should make a law where men must wear full prosthetic baby bellies for the entire gestation of the fetus and/or microchip every man so his whereabouts are known and therefore, he is unable to leave his pregnant partner until the baby is born. Because that doesn’t seem like an invasion of privacy or anything.

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Wendy Davis already schooled you once, filibustering like hell so ya’ll wouldn’t cut tons of money for education. And you know what? Filibustering in Texas is hard! This isn’t no reading the telephone book Congress bull shit or handing it off to your colleague when you’ve run out of lines from Alice in Wonderland. Sister couldn’t even lean on her desk! What I’m trying to say, Rick Perry, is that you’re a hairdo and a nice face on an ignorant republican robot body so get the corn dog out of your mouth and back the fuck off my uterus. Or I’m gonna go get Wendy.

It’s Okay to Be Young and Afraid of Technology

FAQ: “Can you fix this [insert piece of technology]?” – old person

Technology is not a good friend to me and I can’t blame it. While everyone started tweeting in college, I was smoking with my roommate as we watched Freaks and Geeks reruns. It didn’t help that the WORST class I had (New and Emerging Diseases) required each student to start a Twitter and then tweet about the new diseases we were learning about. I decided not to discuss the characteristics of HPV through some bird noise website. I still don’t understand the name Twitter but it works for me and it is a fun and addicting pass time. But that’s NOW. I’m so behind! I was told since I was young I was supposed to be good at technology but they lied.

Thinking about it now I should’ve known technology was not my strong suit; in 5th grade I was the girl who pronounced floppy disks “floppy dicks” and I can still feel it coming out. LaToya Reddick just ate it up. Come on, LT, I thought, what about sister solidarity? No luck; I would hate floppy discs forever.

And so I hated computer class for the rest of my secondary education (except on Fridays when we could play Lemmings). Mostly I only remember Ms. Smith repeating, “a,f, d, f, space. J, k, l, semi, space AND return.” I totally had that row down.

Remember when you used dial-up internet? (If you still do I’m so sorry) I mentioned dial-up to the kids I worked with and they all looked at me like a took a crap all over the cafeteria floor. It was astounding.

“You know? You have to wait for it to connect and it goes like EEEEE-OOOOOO-EEEEEE,” and of course my impersonation of the hideous noise was spot on. I still have NO idea why the connection had to be SO audible. It’s not as if the noise made any sense. I get really upset about dial-up; It was such a hard time in my life. Seriously, I remember countless nights sitting in my dad’s office chair holding my ears to avoid the noise, unable to get up for fear  my brother would steal the internet time.

Also, my brother was the one who was “good” at technology, you know, like it’s assumed men are usually smarter at math and science (Patriarchal society, get with it people). Since I was more interested in writing my own renditions of pop songs in my journal I was okay with letting him be the expert. But now, I’m like, what the shit? Why didn’t I stop reading Dream Street fan fiction in creepy chat rooms and start my own website as a teenager? I couldn’t upload a video to anything till college. At this VERY moment, I have no contacts in my phone and it has been that way for a month because I cannot comprehend how to successfully Sync my iphone. Help me. But I am learning. I hope.

I’m more mad that I didn’t the whole brother-being-better-at-technology-thing for what it was: not true. Sure, he went on to get a degree in Civil Engineering from Penn State but he was a mess trying to use my MacBook Pro. So, I got that going for me.

Being a Generation Y kid means being technically savvy. I’m not and that’s okay (for now). But as girls, we had some other stuff we were known for and a lot of THIS crap set up some crazy, heavy expectations for Gen Y girls: Gen Y girls status symbols