I was walking hurriedly down an aisle at work yesterday and something I saw stopped me dead in my tracks. I’m still fuming about this two days later.

A young girl, no older than 10 and followed by her slightly older brother walks casually toward me. Oblivious of her surroundings and talking in that usual, self-conscious pre-teen way, she says “Oh c’mon, Jess. WHAT-evah!” She giggles and flips her hair behind her to irritate him. He shook his head and asked in a weary voice, ” Would ya please stop talking like that?” His tone left no doubt that this question was oft-repeated and just as often ignored. None of these things were my particular irritant. In fact, I barely noted this interaction. I was too busy looking for something I needed about 10 minutes ago.

What shocked me, annoyed me and rankled me, was the girl’s attire. This young child, not necessarily old enough yet to have a monthly cycle, was wearing a very low cut tank top. With a Wonderbra. And crotch cutter shorts. The little boobs she had were on display and out to play. Are you KIDDING me?? Where are the parents? This is unacceptable! Will I one day see the parents of this child on the news, sobbing out their astonishment that their child was kidnapped or worse? Or scaling it down a bit, maybe their daughter has a hard time knowing how to conduct herself in relationships in the future? Her parents certainly condone the “show a lot of skin to snag a man” theory. Maybe she’ll be a stripper and they’ll say they just don’t know what happened.

I’ve seen a lot of this lately. Especially in the retail line of business. Young kids love to hang out in stores. They, thankfully, still can’t get into bars.  Barnes and Noble (where I used to be employed) is a hot bed of preteen dating. I actually saw a 13 year old girl in a mini skirt drop a book and slowly bend over in front of about five 17 year old boys. Yes, on purpose. Yes, without underwear. Their reaction was exactly what you’d expect. What I see disgusts me, concerns me and more than anything, fills me with shame. Shame for everyone involved. The culture of Can’t Show Enough Tits & Ass that we live in. The celebrities that promote it. The men that drive it and drool over it. The women that don’t teach their daughters that brains matter just as much as beauty, and that sometimes, less is more. Even shame for myself. I’ll admit it, I like my legs and I wear my shorts, short. However, I’m 26 years old and my Mommy and Daddy don’t tell me what to do anymore. Plus, the shorts still cover both cheeks, completely.

We are so fortunate to live in a time of freedom. Women have every right a man does here in America. Every single one. The battle was won, many years ago, not that you can tell. I think we’ve accomplished as women, what men never could. We’ve let ourselves be a sex symbol first, and a person second. We lowered our standards and never made anyone rise to ours. A long time ago, women (and even some men) fought hard to have their voices heard on this matter. Bras were burned, marriages shattered, marches organized, families destroyed. All over the issue of equality. An issue that we take for granted today. Of course equality is right! “Pish posh, we aren’t ignorant fools anymore. Hardy har har.”

Wake up. We are pissing away opportunity every day. We as a people, not just women. Our values suck. My generations seems to think we’re more enlightened than our fathers. I’d say we are. But being more enlightened assholes doesn’t make us smell prettier. And if we don’t do anything with that enlightenment, that just makes us outright stupid.

People will say that women make more strides everyday in the workplace, in college, in test-taking statistics. Ok, fine. Lovely. I don’t give two flying rats asses. Look around you!! What are my eyes telling me? What does my heart know? What do you see? I see an entire new generation, raised on TV as a substitute for parenting, that think it okay to dress like a slut and/or treat women like sluts, and worse.

Someone I worked with once told me to always strive to be better than the best, and not to pride myself on being better than the rest. It was something I needed to hear at the time. I was complacent with being better than most, and had stopped trying anymore, content to settle in the top percent. I think we’ve done the same, but actually one step worse. We’ve lowered our standards as a people. We look at Jerry Springer shows and think, “Ha! I am way better than them!” And you know what? I don’t blame TV/movies, I don’t blame the media, and I sure as hell don’t blame music. Those things are forms of expression, don’t you know that? They are birthed from us! Blame yourself first. Ugh, people who want to point an accusatory finger at today’s media piss me off even more. How about this? MONITOR what your children watch! I know, it’s a tough concept, but just follow the bouncing ball. YOU control what your children absorb.

Baywatch is popular because a bunch of guys, all ages, shapes and sizes want to watch boobs jiggle around. It’s simple enough. Sex has always sold, in whatever form was popular for the time. In Muslim territory, I am sure an ankle glimpse can sell the crap out of some Cola. Back in the Roaring Twenties, sleeveless dresses sold cigarettes by the millions. Millions of cartons, I’m sure. This is not going to change. We are hardwired for sexy time, and there isn’t anything wrong with that.

The problem is that somewhere, down along the path of time (now strewn with discarded clothes, empty synthetic drug containers, older weapons abandoned as newer and more advanced models take their place) at some point, we started communicating these messages to our impressionable youth in a way we never had. Coincidentally or not, our youth has become a demographic for the first time in our history. Children not even close to old enough to work, have oodles of dollars to spend and oodles of time to shop. I again, blame the parents. Stop giving your 5 year old’s cellphones and your 12 year old’s padded bras. I promise that your child will one day recover from the crippling damage that lack of brand name clothing will have on their social status. There is a world beyond the doors of high school, thank god.

Our youth, unable to drink, smoke, even be outside alone legally, should not shape our TV programs. They should not be a stock on Wall Street. We, the adults, should shoulder that responsibilty alone. As adults, we’ve found out that the world can be heartachingly unfair. That no matter how hard you try to be the best, sometimes you still fail. We found out that you can be kicked out of your home, compensated with a paltry sum because the government needs to build a lake there. That sometimes the people you love will not love you back. That parents die, that dreams don’t always come true and we learned that our childhoods were precious gifts. So, we now have the responsibility of keeping it precious for them. Keep them young.

Better yet, learn to say no. It’s a small but effective word and boy, does the world ever need to hear it.

We are spoiled, world. Straight up, mad spoiled. Just think, less than 100 years ago, people were going through a real depression. A wide spread, deeply felt dark depression. They were worried about how they were literally going to clothe their children. Parents were watching their children starve because they didn’t have enough to feed them, much less educate them. Alcoholism hit an all time high as did child labor. Bank robbers were idolized because they represented fighting the system. Big bad government was born. Those people shouldered what life gave them and swore to give a better life to their kids. This was not what they had in mind. Kids throw a shrieking fit just because they didn’t get an iPhone for Christmas? I’m sorry, what is so important that you do in 2nd grade history class that you need unlimited access to the Worldwide Web and text? Gluttony is not the opposite of poor. It is the opposite of wisdom. There is a difference between what you need and what you want. I should know, my father told me that on a weekly basis.

I just hope that we all wake up before we go hurtling down some trash chute, stuck all over with a label that reads Rotten to the Core.

“The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you lived and lived well.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

While desperately pursuing a sweet spot in life, a carefree happiness that’s eluded me for some time, I’ve recently lost sight of any higher purpose. I, like a child, wanted instant gratification. Intentionally forgetting that enlightment and wisdom most often come through great adversity and pain, I’ve just been trying to get the pain to stop. Doing so, I believe I may be inadvertently slowing the process to that eventual goal. When we set aside our problems to be looked at later and drown our sorrows in the protective prescence of friends and beer, those problems don’t disappear. I know this, but I am not living this. I don’t want to just get by in life, I want to experience it to the fullest, to the absolute hilt. What I am doing now, how I make use of my time now, will never get me to the hilt.

“In the end, it’s what gets you through the day that counts.”  So many people repeat and/or subscribe to this theory but, dwelling on it this evening, I realized it couldn’t be more wrong. Making the most of your life means doing the exact opposite of that, for sure. It has everything to do with what you choose to do to get you through the day.

 For the people who regularly end a long workday with a six-pack of beer and mind numbing television programs, they are making a choice. A life choice. That choice, poor or not, is to zone out, veg out and otherwise zombie-walk through the rest of their lives. Rather than face each day clear-headed and vulnerable to life’s inevitable disappointments, they prefer to immune themselves to trials and tribulations with numbing agents that narrow their fields of perception. There are nearly endless ways to zone out; video games, movies, talking mindlessly on the phone, bottles of wine, whatever. ANd I’m not saying that a few mind numbing nights are not in order…we all need to zone out once in awhile. However, the ease in which you can slip into that numbing process is dangerous. Suddenly, it’s every night and you wake up one day, wondering what the hell you’ve accomplished in your life. Well, the answer is in the moments you let slip away.

I made some serious promises to myself about a year ago. Promises concerning patience and kindness to others, pursuing wisdom in all things, learning from my mistakes, indulging my insatiable pursuit of knowledge and realizing important goals. I’ll admit it. They’ve been put on the back burner recently. No, not just on the back burner, if I’m being honest with myself. They’ve gone largely ignored as of late and the fault lies only and solely with me.

Coming to the realization a few years ago that I’d lived my life somewhat indulgently and even been reckless with other’s feelings and hearts, I decided then to be more cautious in all aspects of life. That is a difficult task for me, considering my naturally flighty and spontaneous nature. Well, I would say that in many aspects, I was successful. Today I can say with confidence that I am an honest, straight-forward and thoughtful person.

Unfortunately, I can not say that I am any closer to realizing my goals and I am no longer learning or moving forward. I’ve reached a wall in my evolution, and in order to scale that wall, I think I’m going to have to accept a certain amount of fresh pain and grunt work is a must. It’s time for me to cleanse, refresh and start over. Since I don’t have outrageous sums of money to hide away, contemplating in a lake cabin for a year, I’m going to have to suck it up and say no to the temptations around me. I must learn to focus, or I will never reach a single one of these goals.

I see a long and winding road yawning before me.

Deviating from my usual indoor routines, I stepped out into the sunshine this afternoon, fully intending on taking a little detour through the nearby woodsy area and sit languidly beside a stream, while reading my book.

The dogs had other plans for me.

As soon as I exited from my cave (my horrendously messy room) and stepped into the backyard, they eagerly rushed towards me. Bailey’s butt was shaking back and forth at warp speed and Diego, with his signature single-mindedness, was pushing his slobber covered, floppy red Frisbee on my leg. Diego dropped the slime covered thing on my bare foot, and looked up at me expectantly with watchful doggie grin. Meanwhile, the little Maltese mix my roommates and I are babysitting danced excitedly around, trying not to get squished.

I abstained from throwing the toy and stared back at Diego, smiling, waiting to see his next move. Bailey took this showdown as an opportunity to grab her ball and come back wriggling in sheer happiness. Diego looked down at the Frisbee in confusion, as if astonished that it hadn’t moved of it’s own accord by now, and nudged it with his long nose impatiently toward my foot, his eyes never leaving the red disc. Nudge, nudge. Nudge.

I giggled to myself and backed up, watching him. Ooh, a nudge and a bark this time! Jumping forward and batting me with both his front feet, Diego barked his wants at me. He ripped his eyes away from the Kong Frisbee for only a second to glance up at me anxiously and butt me with his head.

Unable to resist the elation and play of the pups, I grabbed both the ball and frisbee, at once deserting my plans for a nature walk and changing them to an afternoon in the backyard. I threw Bailey’s ball on one side of the yard and Diego’s Frisbee to the other. They both sprinted off, sublimely happy for that moment in time. Bailey’s ball bounced off the fence and she leapt her large body straight up off the ground, twisting to snatch the ball right out of the air. Diego, lithe and inexplicably fleet, beat the Frisbee and spun to catch it. All lean muscle and sinew, he resembles a cross between a Short-haired German Pointer and a Whippet. The boy can fly. They both returned to me and quickly dropped their toys at my feet, completely ignoring the tiny, still dancing Maltese mix, Toby.

Grabbing up the toys, I repeated my previous throws and spent the next 30 minutes trying not to accidentally toss the damn things into the neighbors’ yards.  Bailey, panting heavily, finally stopped at my feet and keeping her ball safely in her mouth, dropped unceremoniously  onto the cool, freshly cut grass. Diego, he of the unlimited energy, was also out of breath and content to temporarily accept my pushing away of the Frisbee. After a quick glance to ensure no piles of dog crap were underneath me, I took my cue from Bailey. Stretching out on the lawn, I rubbed her black fur idly with one hand and ran my fingers through the newly shorn grass with the other.

Sounds from the neighborhood swelled around me, intermingling with the heavy pants from the dogs. Shouts, from kids and parents alike,  broke the relative quiet of the late afternoon. They were accompanied by lawnmowers and  weed wackers, all blending together into a relaxing low hum. The sweet smells of cut grass and barbecue lingered in the strong wind, which countered the warm sunshine perfectly.

In that moment, if only for just that second, all the things that have been weighing me down so much lately, lifted and I was free. I distinctly remembered doing this very thing as a young kid. Lazing in the grass, listening to the sound of friends playing nearby and choosing to daydream my time away, participating in the world from a distance.  Firmly in the grips of nostalgia, I felt a flimsy ghost of the blanket of safety from my youth. The world was wide open before me then, nothing was impossible, and no dream too big. Books had opened my mind at a very young age to endless possibility and a promise of exciting adventure someday, thrilled through my bones.

Closing my eyes, I inhaled the clean air through my nose, calming my heart, and absentmindedly (yet again) ran through the journey from Then to Now for the hundredth time in my head. Countless decisions, unrestrained joy and searing pain, detours and surprises litter my path. My father’s deep voice reverberates off the walls in my mind. “Jennifer, if there is a hard way to do something, you’ll find it. You’re stubborn, like me. You need to learn from others mistakes! You don’t have time to make them all on your own.”

Yes, instead of taking the path less traveled by, I took the one you have to chop down with a machete and even occasionally, bulldoze. And that has made all the difference. Brambles and wicked looking trees, prowling lions, swamps, quicksand…you name it and I’ve most likely been there.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about a few things more often than others. One is forgiveness, and the other, is the uncertain road ahead. I yearn…no, I ache  to fulfill a few of those youthful dreams I still hold so dear and the difference is now I feel the newer, unchanging pressure of time running against me. I want to start having more of an answer to the question, “Who am I?” and it is going to require something specific from me…I’m just not sure yet what that is or what direction to head in.

Shaking off these cyclical musings, I jumped up, spilling little Toby onto the ground and dusting off the dirt. The pups jumped up with me and we started another game. My days are often this way, as of late.  Filled with these thoughts, I mean. Something’s trying to happen inside me and I’m not going to be happy until I get it all sorted out.

Don’t get used to it.

Although I always maintain that my political viewpoints are far too scattered to attach myself to a specific party, I’ve most often leaned right. I fought my Republican father tooth and nail throughout my youth on most of his politically incorrect opinions, but as I grew older and became a tax-paying citizen, I saw the truth inherent in many of his words.

A friend of mine asked me once about what I thought it would take to encourage younger people to join or at the very least, understand the Republican party. My response is as follows.

The media, the world, the liberals, even the conservatives themselves have done an excellent job of painting a pretty awful picture of the Republican party. Remember the younger generations were raised by Vietnam war protesters, Haight Ashbury survivors, Free Love supporters, even just the silent observers of the political mess that was the 60’s and 70’s. The Civil Rights fighting, a Nation divided in thought, and truly the first example in the US of total irreverence for all things tradition and government. “Down with the Man” was born. Nixon, Reagan, Bush…these faces do not have too much of a difference and come with a HUGE negative slant when it comes to a young person these days. We’ve inherited the cynicism of our fathers, perhaps in spades. War monger’s. Power Tripping A-holes. Uncaring, rigid, unbending jerks with a private agenda and would take any measure to reach that goal. These thoughts are but a few of the ones running rampant through any typical 20 to even 30 year old’s mind.

Most of these people (my age group) are operating under the idea that their thoughts are their own and original, however, these stereotypes of the Right I just mentioned have been encouraged in many ways. Whether through media bias (which DOES occur on ALL fronts, liberal & conservative, but predominantly liberal) , through the cynicism of the previous generations battle scars with lost causes like Vietnam, through our liberal leaning educations, through the birth of the instant gratification culture where we know more about the new Mortal Kombat game and the new Batman movie than Prop 8, through excellent word-of-mouth campaigns, the ill-advised choice of the awkward Pres. Dubya Bush for a representative of the party,…and much more, it is hard to distinguish the real people involved in the party through the ugly blanket thrown over the entire Right. Remember, I am talking about the VERY common perception, not the reality.

My generation hates soccer moms and all that they stand for. They sneer at the traditional values that the members of the Right so often hold dear. They are almost exclusively children of divorce, infidelity, abuse, R-rated movies, and cynicism nurtured from the womb. They are not voting because they want to preserve the values that they see fail every single day. The failures of our parents and authority figures to uphold the truth of goodness and virtue that they preach have much more far-reaching effects than we can know. This isn’t a rebellious, teen angsty POV. It is an abhorrence of the hypocritical image so often associated with the religious and the virtuous, because the attempt to be more enlightened and a good person is no longer enough.

The common excuse of being human and failing doesn’t matter to this scarred and often childish generation. This has evolved into a preciously held belief. We can’t believe in marriage, love, happiness, and virtue (look at our examples of that epic fail) so as usual, people must find something to believe in. The Anti-values Belief. When you believe in being “groovy” with everything, being PC about everything and accepting all forms of relationships and life, it leaves little room for disappointment and failure. Everything is cool.

And this is where the Left makes its grand entrance. Liberals are associated with beliefs that are harder to pin down and harder to be scarring hypocrites about. Scarring was the key word there. The environment, animals, civil rights, women’s rights, seemingly against big business, a more hippie, earthy, open approach to life…who doesn’t care about these things today? The requirements from our country, both economically and politically, to fulfill some of the more idealistic dreams of the Left don’t factor in with my age group. Instant gratification, remember, not a ton of forward thinking. Half of us secretly believe we are headed to some kind of alien Armageddon, for crying out loud. You see how ridiculously easy it is for this generation to walk into the libs camp and act like they were destined for it? We were raised for it.

There are less differences than one might think between the Right and Left. This is an arguable point but I would deviate from this point far too much if I went into specifics. The party differences are at the core and issue related and people are forgetting that. What seems to be the new thought and new common belief is that the differences are more emotional and more personal. What I mean by that is, our two parties seem to be divided more along lines that have less and less to do with the real issues and more to do with the surface politics, the perceived faces. Each day the parties seem to polarize more along these new, ill-defined fault lines.

SO the first step in reversing this trend before it is too late would be analyzing the situation correctly then applying a well thought out treatment that adapts to the problem, versus sticking to our guns and refusing to change.

If you haven’t heard about Susan Boyle by now, you must be living in a cave and not able to read this. Whatever the case may be, you’re missing out.

On Britain’s Got Talent, a 47 year old woman with caterpillars for eyebrows and a quirky personality simultaneously admonished and won over the heart and minds of the world. Near 48, never dated and never-been-kissed (not by choice) this aptly described as “cheeky” and guileless woman stood bravely in front of a jeering audience and cynical judges, attempting to fulfill a lifelong dream. If you have any imagination at all, you’ll know what a lifelong dream means to someone near the age of 50.

I’ll admit, as I slowed the elliptical machine long enough to plug my iPod headphones into the nifty box that allowed me to hear one of the several TV’s in the place, I was expecting another William Hung incident. We’ve been conditioned by shows like American Idol to expect to laugh at the hilarity of truly terrible singers trying to make it as a singing sensation, marveling at their audacity to even try. As I geared up for the waves of cringing and pity sure to follow, I turned up the news at just the right part…and received the smack in the arse that I so richly deserved. I found myself hiding a sniffle from my fellow gym rats and wiping away a few stray tears. This was all nothing compared to the downright deluge when I watched it in it’s entirety at home.

To say that this video changed my outlook on life would be dramatic, yes, but not so far off the mark. I think this video is circulating so rapidly because it means just that to so many. In these turbulent times of economic instability and rampant cynicism, Susan Boyle is a bright shining star of hope and dreams realized.

We, society today, are like the skittish children of a really bad divorce. We’ve been lied to, used and manipulated so much that we’ve found solace in expecting the worst of everything. As a shield, I think we’ve childishly adopted costumes of apathy to disguise the calluses and fend of further disappointment. We’re all trying to find a happy pill these days, when one doesn’t truly exist. Life is hard, it is pain and yet, it is also beautiful, as our Susan reveals this night.

I don’t know if you all have noticed the attitude I’m referring to, but it seems to be a common ground these days; in our humor, children and normal discourse. No longer is the cool, nonchalant attitude being left in high school halls where it previously held court. Now, it’s being adopted nation, if not world, wide. I’m always running up against the “too cool” factor and it never fails to piss me off. I think my views on elitism are well documented by now. The cool policy seems to require we don’t be idealistic, overly emotional, or excitable. Instead, remain aloof, hands in pocket, and slam every single establishment we have with snark and sardonic wit.

How much more courage it would take to be vulnerable, to approach a moment with childlike excitement and glee. There is so much more to admire there, the humanity of it could bring you to your knees.

As with anything negative, it starts to wear away at you after awhile. It was one such night, when I felt weary with the weight of the world and it’s disappointments, that I watched Susan Boyle. This woman, having been through a lifetime of trials and disappointment, trots out on stage and faces her demons with a giggle and a hip swivel. In the face of Simon’s eye-rolling and a packed house of ridiculing laughter, Ms. Boyle opens her mouth and unleashes the full-bodied voice of an angel. As the song crescendos and her voice swells effortlessly out to accommodate, ruthless Simon Cowell actually sighs and smiles like a little girl in love, chin in hands.

I found my heart joining her voice, circling joyfully in wide arcs toward the vaulted ceiling and outwards, into the fervent shouts and applause surrounding her. Exalted and untouchable, if only for that moment, she wowed much more than an audience and three entertainment hardened judges that night. She wowed the world, replacing derision and exclusiveness with belief and love. The power of music to inspire and change has never failed to astonish  me. This is a shining example of that exact thing.

As an added note, I don’t know if she choose the song deliberately for it’s message or to show off her vocal range, but the lyrics are stunningly perfect for her situation. Anyone who has had to let loose some long coveted dream will identify with this excerpt from Les Miserables. I’ve included them below.

done

I Dreamed A Dream

from Les Miserables

I dreamed a dream in time gone by
When hope was high
And life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving
Then I was young and unafraid
And dreams were made and used and wasted
There was no ransom to be paid
No song unsung, no wine untasted

But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hope apart
And they turn your dream to shame

He slept a summer by my side
He filled my days with endless wonder
He took my childhood in his stride
But he was gone when autumn came

And still I dream he’ll come to me
That we will live the years together
But there are dreams that cannot be
And there are storms we cannot weather

I had a dream my life would be
So different from this hell I’m living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed.

Over the years, I’ve had the same When Harry Met Sally-esque conversation with my various guy friends over and over again. I’ve had it and decided it’s about time to put an end to this discussion, once and for all.

The debate never changes, the words just rearrange. Things like the dreaded “friend zone”, “nice guy” and  questions like “Why do women want a guy who treats her like shit?” are rephrased and repeated ad nauseum.

It’s difficult to convince these guys that women don’t actually want a guy who treats them like shit. I can understand that.

One reason is that, on the surface, this does very much seems to be the case, as women do often shack up with the jerk that sleeps with her best friend instead of the sweet guy friend who has been in love with her for ages. My friends cite comedic movies to hit their points home, like My Best Friend’s Girl starring the very sexy Dane Cook as the outrageously manipulative asshole lead character, anything starring Vince Vaughn, or The 40 Year Old Virgin with the hilarious Steve Carrel as the hopelessly timid and virginal main character.

Before I go on, let me just say that I am actually on your side. You. The guys I am about to school.

First of all.

You are most likely some woman’s jerk. Did you know that? Whether it was a casual high school nerdy chick that you ditched to moon over some hot babe cheerleader you would never get; your first serious girlfriend that you never truly loved but promised the stars to; or the girl who adored YOU and you ignored because she wasn’t what you were looking for at the time.  Maybe it was something as simple as leaving someone that did love you, in a determined quest for the unrequited love of this chick whose supposed bad taste in men leaves you tormented. Whatever the case may be, you were someones jerk. So, bearing that in mind, let’s move ahead.

Here are my thoughts as an attractive young woman; I’ve seen, known, spoken with and observed more than my fair share of jerks. Let me tell you something…as usual, guys, you’re looking for the easy explanation where one doesn’t exist. The quick fix. That thinking is just the beginning of the problem. It is a lot easier to say that all women are just attracted to the jerks than to take a look at yourself and think it might actually have something to do with you.

Let’s quickly review one of the movies given as an example of the women-only-attracted-to-total-assholes theory.

My Best Friend’s Girl starred Dane Cook and co-starred Kate Hudson as the inevitable love interest. It is a MOVIE, so Kate Hudson’s character is the perfect woman; smart, beautiful, classy and yet naughty, with a rockin’ body and great sense of humor. She had no flaws, except her near virginity which she is anxious to shed (did I say flaw?) and is only waiting around for the right guy to sweep her off her feet. The guy in love with her, Dustin, is a whiny, self-sacrificing, insecure doormat and his best friend is  (drum roll please) Dane Cook, playing the sadistic misogynist with a heart of gold.

First things first. Many guys align themselves with the lovelorn Dustin’s attempt to woo the perfect Alexis (Kate Hudson) and her obvious lack of desire for him, despite his bending over backwards to make her happy. They see that and get ten kinds of over-excited.

“Well, that is exactly what happens. You treat a girl like crap and she likes you. Treat her like a princess and she hates you.”

Umm, no. Not so much.

How about this? Women (like men) are attracted to confidence. Woman want a man who does sweet things, most certainly. We DO like being treated with thoughtfulness and gentleness…but by a strong man with a mind of his own, not a pushover. There is a difference. In the movie, Dane Cook has an excellent monologue, that sums up my whole point in a succinct, vicious nutshell.

I wanted to post the quote here, but I can’t find it anywhere on the dad-blasted Internet and my friend’s copy of the movie seems to be misplaced somewhere. So, paraphrasing here, the point Dane’s character, Tank, made to the insecure, befuddled Dustin, is straightforward enough. He simply says that Dusty’s smothering with love behavior isn’t indicative of his true self and is therefore, a sham. As such, the girl doesn’t get to know him anyway and naturally rejects the guy not secure enough to be himself. Furthermore, he’s been “in love” (quotes were Tank’s, not mine) with quite a few girls and had it turn out this way. Tank attempts to make this Dusty’s wake-up call, but to no avail.

Unfortunately, confidence is often easily confused with bravado, arrogance or cockiness. None of those things are true confidence and they tend to be traits that lead you to the jerkiest of jerks. Hence, the general idea that women want an asshole.

Well, no, most of them don’t. Nearly all of us want the love story. Whichever romantic plot will do, they’re like expensive cars, you’re not really going to turn down one when it’s handed to you.

What’s your fate, little girl? See behind door number 1, 2, or 3, your choice. Cue Jeopardy music. The bad boy with a heart of gold, changing only when he finds his heart hopelessly ensnared by special you; the prince who forsakes everything in order to spend the rest of his life with you; the man whose still waters do run deep; or just that stranger who ran into you with a cup of hot coffee in his hand and you ended up spending an entire night walking and talking on the streets of your city…whatever the fantasy is, don’t judge it too harshly, boys.

You’ve got some pretty ridiculous ones of your own. A gorgeous woman, with the rack of a goddess but Adam Sandler’s sense of humor, smart but not too cynical, dressy but quick about it, seen not often heard, full of praise and low on criticism, and loves nothing more than to please you in bed, whenever and however you feel like it. These are, of course, adaptable depending on level of maturity and how many times the guy’s been burned. Toward the end, you’re just hoping for someone who will agree on the same TV shows you do.

I’ve deviated from my point here, so I’m going to sum this up. Basically, all you guys lamenting over the fact that your personal Kate Hudson, Jennifer Aniston or Catherine Zeta Jones won’t stop going after the jerk/asshole and ignoring you in the process, think again before the next whine comes out of your mouth. If you don’t like you, no one else will either. I had to come to terms with it and so will you.

I can consider myself an expert here, because I’ve played all positions in this game. I’ve been the wallflower nerd with smarts (basically all my school years), I’ve adored someone unachievable from a distance, I’ve been a hottie with a heart of gold and filled with naivete, and I’ve been the smarter,  choosier, knowledgeable and attractive woman. I’m telling you, take your own personal journey now. Learn to look in the mirror, assess all the bad and good qualities, set aside the bad, shake yo ass and show ‘em what you’re working with. If you don’t spend every minute wondering when if you’ll ever get laid, or pining away after someone, you’ll be amazed at how appealing that mind set can be to whomever you wish to attract. Yes, obviously, looks matter, but far, far less than you’d think.

Oh, and speaking of looks mattering, one last little rant before I go.

Guys, you have it remarkably easy, I must say. Beauty and the Beast ring a bell? You don’t have to look good to get an attractive woman. Why do you hear the constant question, “How did that guy get HER?” Sure sometimes it’s because she’s a shameless gold-digger and he’s blissfully willing to buy his happiness. However, most often, it is because he believes in himself. His game worked because it was real. For women, the unfairness only continues. If you’re slightly overweight and/or unattractive, as a woman, you’re fighting a much harder battle. As usual, guys get off easy. No period, pregnancy, or menopause. What, you lose your freaking hair? Whatevs. So, stop your bitching.

You can be the guy the girls want, without being an asshole. It’s just whether or not you’re too lazy to make the necessary changes to do so.

Rain, rain, go away,
Come again some other day,
We want to go outside and play,
Come again some other day.

Tonight could easily be a bad night for me.

Truly, any night lately could be a bad night for me. I am, however, doing very well at the distraction game for the moment. When some unpleasant memory comes up, I shake it off. I’ve been devouring distractions left and right.

Moving back to Texas wasn’t without its dangers. I knew the risk I was taking by being back in my old stomping grounds. I knew the memories that lay dormant here, just waiting for my presence to ignite into a dancing fire of whispered regrets and deserted dreams. I still feel my freedom was well worth the price.

Driving down familiar streets (which is kind of everywhere as I’ve  lived in nearly every suburb of the large City), faces from the past long buried are unexpectedly exhumed. I stare reluctantly at the nearly visible faces in my car window, long after the street/house/apartment complex has faded from view. Cursed with a temperamental memory, I seem to have no control over my ability to be rocketed back to the past at any given moment with just a mere turn of phrase or a specific fast food joint. Yet, I can barely recall my own childhood, drawing on a few distinct memories and relying on my best friend Nik’s nearly photographic memory to fill in the blanks.

Last week it was the street I spent all my preteen years on, a few days ago it was a Hannah Montana backpack on some random kid’s back, today it was unpacking and a TV program . Finding mementos from a past that should never have existed, I did everything I could to shove the memories down, back into a dark corner of my mind where they couldn’t drag me into No Man’s Land. Taking a trip down that Memory Lane can only bring on sadness and a deep seated regret I am dead tired of having to reconcile with myself. I took a deep breath, stopped unpacking and went to make myself some lunch while watching TV. Distraction.

I’m content that the path I’m on now is a better and more enlightened one, for all my hinted at tragedy I speak of here, and I know better than to indulge my dramatic nature right now. Things are too tenuous and I am not in a stable enough spot to delve into the darkness that I can sense shadowing my steps. In Florida, I was forced to slow down and face these things head on…I set my shoulders, resigned myself to being completely alone (not even close to an easy task for me) and faced the shadows head on.

I’ve had enough for awhile.

It is partly why I’ve been wasting my time, staying up late and sleeping in, while occupying my waking hours with non-stop and most often, non-productive activity. I’m avoiding the aforementioned thoughts and yet not making the best use of my distractions. Overall, I am disappointing myself and it must come to an end.

It’s all a matter of baby steps, chunking out each process to avoid being overwhelmed by the possibilities. I tend to look about 20 Life chess moves ahead and scare the shit out of myself. Therefore, I need to set up some very clear goals soon and start the path toward them. Most of my life, I’ve been paralyzed when it comes to decision making, mainly because of my fear that I will make the wrong one and the previous choice will be lost to me forever. That indecisiveness led to my often waiting until the last minute, when either a choice was made for me or I was forced to pick one. I love deadlines for this very reason. They’ve always pushed me where I hesitated to go. For some odd reason, my fears never seem to translate to my job. I’ll learn anything, take risks and suck it up when it comes to work. A good work ethic or just yet another oddity about me? …I really don’t know.

Thankfully, I’ve made quite a few large decisions lately when I felt I needed to and as I get older, I find myself relying more confidently on my abilities and believing more in myself. A lovely exchange for the more insecure yet still carefree days of youth, I think.

Meh. To sum all this blathering up, I’m holding off the melancholy for now because I enjoy being happy and being home. I’m aware of it’s presence; I’m just hoping to deal with it on more of my own terms in the near future.

As many people know by now, I finally made my way back to Texas. It was a long and eventful journey back, but I did it…and not without the help and support of some amazing friends. My arrival back has been a fun one, filled with events, dining out, spending time with old friends, drenched in memories from even a decade ago, and some drastic adjustments from Florida country living. Nothing I can’t handle of course and I couldn’t be happier to be here.

What you may not know is that I stopped in New Orleans during Mardi Gras on the way from Florida to Texas.

What. A. Blast!

We (my friend, Tim, and I) coasted into NOLA around 1:00 pm, just 15 minutes before my birthday surprise, a French manicure appointment. As if just being in New Orleans wasn’t enough already.  Poor tired Timmy fought the ever thickening throng of wandering pedestrians to get me to the Hotel Monteleone in time for the spa treatment. Which is just a fancy way of saying, “Got mah nails did, ya’ll” at Spa Aria, located on the second level of the grandiose hotel.

As Tim navigated the crowded streets, I stared out the window at the city in a state of pure excitement and simultaneous total exhaustion. We both had barely slept over the last two days and we’d been in the car for well over 10 hours at that point.  I peppered our tired yet building excited silence with loud and ecstatic exclamations.

“Would you just LOOK at that balcony?!”

“Hey! All the dogs are wearing costumes!”

“Wow. I think that chick was a dude!”

“Where is Bourbon Street?!? Is that one Bourbon Street? Wow, SO many streets!”

This was a oft-repeated one. –> “I can NOT believe we are in freaking New Orleans!!”

Tim would grin, murmur and nod in gleeful agreement while devoting his attention to not running over the oblivious masses of people filling the streets of the French Quarter to brimming with laughter and life. This was not an easy task, as it was apparently a dog parade day and the sheer number of dogs running around in elaborate, brightly colored and even metallic costumes was a sight to behold. As we neared the heart of the Quarter, the number of people swelled and we were halted shortly by ropes that barred any further vehicle access.

Tim slid the car quickly into a narrow slot near the curb and looked at me apologetically, ignoring the woman motioning for us to move on outside his window.

“You’re going to have to walk to the hotel alone, Jen. I’ll take care of check-in at the Hotel Bienville but your appointment is in 5 minutes.”

A million thoughts flashed through my mind in response. I heard the countless warnings I’d received from good friends once they’d heard about my plan to detour in New Orleans for Mardi Gras weekend.The warning varied but all carried the same message. The message was: New Orleans is dangerous. Be very careful.

I spoke urgently, quickly.

“My cellphone is dead though! What if you can’t find me??”

Then, in the same breath, I took a look at my options and committed to going with the flow.

“Hmm. Umm. Okay. Where is the hotel?”

Tim kind of winced when I asked that pretty important question.

“That’s just it, Jen. I don’t really know, except it is that direction.” He waved back toward the street we’d just left. ” Stay on Rue Royale and you will find it.”

He waved in the opposite direction and I looked at him a little wide-eyed for a minute. I was thinking, ‘Really? I’m going to go walk around the French Quarter…for the first time…completely alone??’

My next thought was the same one but with a completely different emphasis.

“I’m going to walk around the French Quarter for the first time completely alone!”‘

Suddenly I was filled with excitement. I grabbed my purse, rummaged through it and because of my typical absent-mindedness, was forced to hunt for random things I wanted to take along with me.

Shoving my feet hurriedly back into my tennis shoes, I flashed a quick and reassuring smile at Timmy and opened the car door. Tim waved off the lady assigned to make sure cars didn’t linger and we said our snappy goodbyes. He looked at my with concern but I was more than ready for this adventure.

I jumped out of the car, secured my purse to my arm and set off at a fast pace in the direction of the Hotel Monteleone. I had no idea what I was looking for, but refused to look lost or confused. I walked confidently and fast (when I say I walked fast, imagine the Flash. I am QUICK, people) down the street, letting my eyes take in the passing shops and exciting sights,  pausing only once to admire a 4 piece jazz band sitting directly in the middle of the street.

When I walk through thick groups of people, I often imagine the dodging and weaving in between them I do as a game. A game that I am very good at. This was pretend-game heaven for me. I had countless dressed up dogs to avoid, so many people to scoot past and whirl around. Tall people, kissing people, little kids chasing each other around and giggling before darting away.  I couldn’t keep track of them all. Keeping a tight hold on my purse the whole time, I danced my way through the streets and people of New Orleans, with a happy song in my heart and a smile on my lips.

I crossed about three streets before I saw the tall white building with the words Hotel Monteleone written vertically down its side. Though I still had some walking to do, I breathed an audible sigh of relief now that I knew where I was headed.

The side of Hotel Monteleone

Upon arriving at the Hotel, I walked in and realized that, yet again, I had no idea where I was going. I lightly ran up the steps and smiled euphorically at the doorman as he bowed slightly and opened the door. How lovely…

The front desk concierge was busy and not bothering to hide my astonishment at the splendor of the lobby, I stepped into line. A giant chandelier, dripping in crystal and suffused with a warm, golden glow, dominated the entry way. I looked back at it more than once while waiting in line for the front desk. I smiled the entire time. I must have been the happiest person in the room in that moment and I didn’t have one iota of concern about showing it off.

Monteleone Lobby

A friendly and beautiful full-lipped concierge pointed me in the direction of the SPA ARIA and I thanked her giddily. First time in N’Awlins and first manicure. I rode up the elevator and stepped off onto a rather bland hallway. Not the grandeur the foyer led me to expect, but I couldn’t care less. It could’ve looked like a crack hotel and I would’ve been happy with it.

A woman, maybe mistaking my happiness for crazy town, pointed me toward the Spa in hushed tones. I unconsciously mimicked her, thanking her in a delighted whisper. Stepping into the Spa Aria was a breath of fresh air after the long car ride. Little stone adorned waterfalls filled the place with the teeny sounds of trickling water.  Calming scents and voices were used in excess here in Spa Heaven. I was guided gently to the back where my hands and arms were treated like two princesses. Sitting back and relaxing for the first time in a long time, I let the calming voice and hands of Sofia lull me into a tranquil place.

It was in this trance-like state that Tim found me. He was ushered to a chair nearby, promptly provided with a Mimosa (champagne and orange juice) and they even offered him a shower after we mentioned the long hours we’d spent in the car, previous to our arrival.

Treated to my first manicure and paraffin wax just minutes after arriving in The Big Easy. Not too shabby, I thought!

This was only the beginning, however, of what would turn out to be a fantasic weekend in N’Awlins… More to come later.

My Balcony in New Orleans

I’ve been feeling giddy lately.

As this weekend nears, I can feel the excitement building in my chest. I’m trying to stifle it down (I don’t believe in tempting Fate with over much happiness) but I am finding a welcome spring in my step and a lighter feeling in my shoulders. I’ve been carrying around some burdens for so long; I think I’d forgotten what it felt like to feel excited and somewhat carefree. I’m going home to Texas and leaving Florida far behind, ya’ll.  Yes, that is a big smile you can hear in my voice.

There are also other reasons for my giddiness, one of which is my newly planned detour this weekend to New Orleans. I’ve always wanted to stop off there and see the French Quarter, eat some real Cajun food, and just absorb some of the culture. Now…I get to!

Speaking of culture, I am listening to Percy Sledge at the moment as I write this.  Sam Cooke will be next.

Someone pointed out my love and taste for older music, movies and even my turn of phrase this week. As usual, like everything does, it got me thinking about why. Well, why do I love Percy Sledge? Besides the fact that his voice is a rich, heartbreaking cry of sweet pain, I love the things Percy sings about. I may try to hide it at times, even deny it to myself and others, but the truth is, I am a romantic to beat all romantics. I sing along with and close my eyes to Billie Holiday, Willie Nelson, Stevie Wonder, Percy Sledge and the man I love, Sam Cooke because I can’t help it.

The common thread here, it seems to me, is that they sing about love, heartbreak and life with poignancy and real emotion. If it isn’t obvious already, I live in and am comfortable with my emotions. I want someone to feel about me the way Percy does about his Kind Woman. Hell, I want my ex to feel like Willie…very regretful. Ha!

It is more than that though. In the hearts of their voices, I can hear a time long since past. I can see people dressed to the nines to go out for a night on the town, wearing hats and sporting a chivalrous attitude. I can see a woman laughing up into the face of her man, or sitting at a table with her face in her hands, crying her heart out.

Sam Cooke and Percy make me see endless plains of wheat, dusty old dirt roads and T-Model Fords.  Sam sings songs like, You Were Made For Me, Baby, Please Come Home To Me, Bring It on Home To Me, and they make me melt.

My favorite song of Sam’s starts with these lyrics, “Baby, won’t you please come home, cause your daddy’s all alone…” Sam’s voice is perfect and effortlessly controlled with every song he does. It even has early rock ‘n’ roll undertones to it, but they are overwhelmed by the gospel-born smooth soul.  He is a man in a time when it was okay to love your woman -okay to love her to distraction- because real men did. These days, young boys not old enough to grow hair on their chests or palms sing sappy songs about some chick they just broke up with and we herald it as the newest love song.

Percy sings his heart out in the song Stop The World Tonight, appreciating a moment in time. In this day and age, who stops to appreciate any moment in time? Time is always a-wasting in our hurry up and wait world of today.

Billie makes me see a smoky room, long handled cigarette holders, and a single spotlight on a soulful, troubled black woman singing out her pain on stage. Her voice slides over and between the notes, filling them with longing and sorrow. You can hear her battle in life in every haunting note.

Willie, the best of Willie, can make tears roll down my face. Hello Walls, Angel Flying To Close to the Ground, Darkness on the Face of the Earth, and Funny Time Slips Away, will twist your fucking heart. His simply put, naked lyrics paint a picture of the most human of emotions. The emotions you face alone in your room at night, when you don’t hide behind a bottle of whiskey or wine, a string of meaningless relationships, or even just petty distractions like T.V. I don’t even consider him a country musician; he is in a class all to himself, as far as I am concerned.

Stevie Wonder. He makes me believe in love. If the others sing out about the pain of losing love, he sings out the joys of finding it waiting and willing. His voice lifts my heart into wreathes of smiles and his lyrics make me think. You can’t help wiggling and dancing to his music. The man not only represents beating the odds by virtue of just being a blind multi-faceted, unbelievably talented musician; he shares his success with others with a sweet, unique voice of dreams coming true.

Now, I could go on like this about many musicians. Paul McCartney, Paul Simon, the Beatles, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Pink Floyd….so many more. They make me think of hopeful ideals, good times, a nation changing a great deal in a very short amount of time, revolutions meant to change the world for better, people uniting for a common cause, and the ultimate demise and corruption of those ideals.

But the original musicians I mentioned have a special place in my heart.

I am love with a time I never lived in.

Who knows how I would’ve rebelled against a time when women couldn’t vote or hold down a job like a man. Maybe I would’ve thrown a fit and become a flower child, maybe I would’ve been one of the few women who fought my way into corporate America by whatever means necessary, maybe I would’ve been content to have my babies and husband and spend my energies taking care of them.

All I do know is that it seems like there was a time when someone’s word meant something, that some values were held sacred, that family had real meaning, kids still played outside in their neighborhood, and people could stop and help a stranded woman on the side of the road without worrying about being killed for the 40 bucks in their wallet. And I like to escape to that world in music long since past, but not forgotten.

Tell me what has come out in the last decade or two that can rival that, and I might listen. But my heart knows what it knows.

Dawn, this one is for you. Dawn is @morsemusings on Twitter and can be found here. Morse Musings from the sweetest Dawn.

The other day I left my house, Twitter and my problems behind to venture outside with my camera and see what I could see. It was a rare cold Florida day and I wanted to take advantage.

It was cold enough to surprise me back in; to change into my heavy Adidas jacket and some tennis shoes. I went outside, newly armed against and invigorated by the brisk wind I wasn’t expecting. I started out around the large pond in the front yard. I was brought up short by a gorgeous and wild heron, watching the rippling water intensely. I held my breath, not daring yet to bring up my camera, as she craned her neck and tilted her head, eying a fish in the water I could never see. She broke her stillness abruptly, striking out with rapid precision. I nearly jumped but managed to regain control of myself in time to watch her come back with a tiny fish wriggling furiously in her beak. She waded backward in what should have been ungainly movements with those spindly legs of hers, but somehow maintained the grace and poise of a classically trained ballerina.

I dared to move my camera up then and her hair trigger survival instincts reacted instantaneously. Huge white wings unfurled and pumped heavily through the air; she lifted  up, legs dripping, out of the water and flew away with her prize, alighting delicately in top of a nearby tall cypress tree. I smiled and began my photo hunt. Passing two baby daisies gave me the idea to try out my macro setting that a friend told me about and I got to work. As I snapped away at a cactus growing out of a tree and some tiny red berries, I felt a calm settle over me.

The tiny red berries

The air carried just the barest whiff of a fall long past, and the animals were in a shy mood. They would chirrup, snuffle and buzz every now and then, but most seemed to be huddling somewhere quietly for warmth and winter companionship. My grandparent’s dog, Missy, (the old, blind and stubborn monster) danced around by my side with a happy little grin on her face.

I moved around to the back few acres next, and stopped by my Papa’s garden. It is over a half acre of the best vegetables around. Sweet corn, rutabagas, turnips, mustard greens, beets, tomatoes, cabbage and even more planted in long rows of soft, slightly dry mounds of earthy smelling dirt. I knelt down and ran my fingers over the tips of some beets poking out of this dirt, letting it sift through my fingers and smelling the rawness of it all.

Top of corn stalk in garden

I took a few pictures there, then just set the camera aside and sat down next to the garden. You can see the rest of the pics on Through My Jendow. Missy sat a few feet away, watching me out of the corner of her eye, while playing Ms. Big Bad Watchdog. I felt soothed by the whisper of the wind as it wound its way through the many trees around me, the monotone tiny voices of countless insects and the sound of faraway voices laughing.

It was a perfect time of day, sunset was still more than a solid hour away, but the sun was starting its tentative goodbyes, the color of its rays less sharp now and more golden, its face larger and warmer. I looked up at the baby blue sky and thought about the wispy, light clouds…I wished, not for the first time, to be a bird for just a second and feel the freedom of  diving and swirling through the sky, temporarily unfettered by the laws of gravity. I thought about life, love, and happiness. Filled with the contentment of perfect moment, I let my mind wander at will, drifting through and around topics with an easy and light mind.  Startled out of my lazy reverie by Missy’s loud, insistent barking, I looked over as she announced the slow arrival of a car up the long gravel road.

We don’t like visitors in these here parts.

Grunting, I lifted myself off the ground and dusted the dirt and grass off my behind. Before going back inside though, I took one last, long look around me. Nothing beats going home…but I will sure miss the slower pace of this little nature heaven.