tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20641129908040486792024-02-18T23:35:52.801-08:00Love Me Or DieWe're like those girls from Sex And The City, but we swill beer, drop f-bombs, and aren't awful.Love Me Or Diehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176182356763187625noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064112990804048679.post-86585722128951765232011-09-11T15:40:00.000-07:002011-09-11T15:49:51.929-07:00Twenty Nine: A Very Special Guest Blog<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:targetscreensize>800x600</o:TargetScreenSize> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:donotpromoteqf/> <w:lidthemeother>EN-CA</w:LidThemeOther> 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10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%" lang="EN-US">So I just celebrated what the superstitious might refer to as my “champagne birthday” – where the age you turn matches the date of your birthday, stars align, and you have a magical, awe-inspiring celebration…<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At least according to the little bit of info I managed to hunt down about this so-called phenomenon (high-five, Internet!).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>So uh, yeah – I’ve got some questions…</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%" lang="EN-US">Just to be clear: this magic stuff, does it start automatically?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Were you supposed to sign up somewhere?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Is it only for dog owners? <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>‘Cause it’s been a few days and I’m fairly certain that the heavens stayed put and the awes were kept to a minimum.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Emoticon.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%" lang="EN-US">It could be the date though, let’s not blame the superstition; after all, that notion that one event could cause another sans any physical process linking those two events<a style="mso-endnote-id:edn1" href="#_edn1" name="_ednref1" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language:EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA" lang="EN-US"></span></span></span></span></a> is completely plausible if not <s>foolish</s> foolproof.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Wait a tick – the date!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Yes, the date robbed me of the champagne effect!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It has to be the date.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Simple math would have us know we’re dealing with < 31 and > 1 (yeah calendars!), so …which one is it?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Which number is guilty of the transgression?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%" lang="EN-US">[Pregnant pause] </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%" lang="EN-US">Twenty.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nine. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%" lang="EN-US">Ha, you were thinking thirty.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Everyone does.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Thirty’s got a bad reputation; Thirty’s the one in the leather jacket smoking the Gauloise behind the gym in high school.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Thirty’s trouble.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%" lang="EN-US">Or is it?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Has twenty-nine been squeaking by due to its close proximity all these years?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Careful now, it would appear that thirty’s been taking the heat for a little while.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Think about it – what birthday do you most fear?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What party did you drink enough to not feel feelings?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What did you used to tell yourself when you were a kid you’d have accomplished by the time you were thirty?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Chances are you didn’t elucidate to your tween friends: ‘By the time I’m thirty, I’d love to be renting a place I can’t afford and not saving a dime, going on dates that are planned to include an exit strategy, gorging myself on Teen burgers, and working at a job that already makes me tear my hair out.’<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Chances are there was a 6-figure salary and a rewarding career underway, an emotionally mature and fulfilling relationship, maybe a white wedding, maybe a baby, and puppies and gumdrops and rainbows.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Or: not, but </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%" lang="EN-US">Growing up in small town North America with cultural babysitters such as Walt Disney, Hollywood, and other mainstream media thirty is sold to you as a goal of sorts.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There’s a pretty word for it (oh hi there, Milestone) but no matter how you dress it up, thirty comes with expectations.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%" lang="EN-US">It sneaks up on you.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s couched in false relief that it’s not thirty – it waits until you aren’t looking and you wake up one morning and realize that you are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">almost</i> thirty.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And there it is.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The nuance is subtle, but it’s there:<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>when you turn thirty you’re all ready there, what is done is done (and what isn’t, well…oops).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>BAM!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No more illusions.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But twenty-nine still has potential…there’s still time – right?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Of course there is.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%" lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"></span>It’s true – technically, you do have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">one</i> year left to fit all of the life markers that your cultureparentsgrandparentsDisneyJesusandOprah modeled for you into your timeline – but what does that mean?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Make a mad dash for the proverbial finish line and force the issue by sprinting through your goals?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>(Sure you can marry that rugged looking [read toothless] successful [read self-taught exterminator] homeowner [read double-wide trailer] that’s been giving you the eye down at the tasty-freeze, that’s like a three-for isn’t it?).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If it’s a future ripe with banjos, mullets and juice harps that you’re after then you’re all set.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;" lang="EN-US">Change the timeline.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Balk at the quarter-life crisis<a style="mso-endnote-id:edn2" href="#_edn2" name="_ednref2" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character:footnote"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height: 115%;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA" lang="EN-US"></span></span></span></span></a>.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Flip your cultureparentsgrandparentsDisneyJesusandOprah the bird, establish your own markers and embrace this last year - after all if thirty is the new twenty then twenty-nine must be the new nineteen n’est pas?!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;" lang="EN-US">___________________________</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%" lang="EN-US">Approbation to: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Superstition and http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/08/10/AR2009081002317.html<br /></span></p> <div style="mso-element:endnote-list"><a style="mso-endnote-id:edn1" href="#_ednref1" name="_edn1" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-special-character:footnote"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height: 115%;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA" lang="EN-US"></span></span></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US"></span><div style="mso-element:endnote" id="edn1"> </div> <a style="mso-endnote-id:edn2" href="#_ednref2" name="_edn2" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-special-character:footnote"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height: 115%;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language: EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA" lang="EN-US"></span></span></span></span></span></a><span lang="EN-US"></span><div style="mso-element:endnote" id="edn2"> </div> </div>Love Me Or Diehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176182356763187625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064112990804048679.post-50545944134331515112011-06-16T11:30:00.000-07:002011-06-17T00:09:10.317-07:00We Were Made For This?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" 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unhidewhenused="false" qformat="true" name="Book Title"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="37" name="Bibliography"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="39" qformat="true" name="TOC Heading"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0cm; mso-para-margin-right:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0cm; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-fareast-language:EN-US;} </style> <![endif]-->Last night, the rioting started 10 minutes after we closed the store early to get our staff out of downtown quickly and safely.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Burning cars and tear gas surrounded my old apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Four hours later, looting stopped a block away from the store.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> No, Canucks, no.</span><span style=""><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"></span>This was not anarchy. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This was not a revolution.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This was the rage of a mob of drunk 21-year-old frat boys who were dumb enough to have their faces broadcast all over the news and social media and, thanks to the VPD and facial recognition technology, will now have to face the consequences that hopefully involve criminal charges.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">There are people dying in this world.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Greeks are rioting because their economy has collapsed and they have nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Iranis protest (and relatively peacefully, I might add) because their political leaders are murderously corrupt and they want democratic justice.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Whether the crowd was from Kits or Langley is irrelevant.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The fact that it also happens in Montreal is horrifying.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We actively participated in electing a majority-government that is peppered with criminals and led by a man who was found in contempt and prorogued Parliament twice, and Canucks 'fans' push someone (apparently a Bruins fan) off the Viaduct, burn cars, and rob businesses all because of a hockey game?!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Our perception of our Canadian identity is despicable.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Go Habs go.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >As per Mayor Gregor Robertson, anyone with identifying photos or other info can upload them to various fan pages on Facebook, call <span class="skype_pnh_print_container">604.717.2541</span><span tabindex="-1" dir="ltr" class="skype_pnh_container"><span class="skype_pnh_mark"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">or email </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="mailto:robbery@vpd.ca">robbery@vpd.ca</a><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:78%;">Photo courtesy of http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/national/british-columbia/photos-of-vancouver-rioting/article2062983/</span></p>Love Me Or Diehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176182356763187625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064112990804048679.post-19265684366259910522010-12-10T15:34:00.000-08:002010-12-10T23:49:29.249-08:00Biologists Do It In Their Genes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXj3-HbkRJOfjvKCGbYqOxQddKGsxqeRDQn3aRfOv2AuIeZFEKMZmcc2kRRpIg2Vv9yadfkbqs6FUvjdkGZ_rRm8W2ab4YwtxhZow_ui6An6TycS7JhGNzXpgdP0u8fya4Exu8JDOqRPU/s1600/nuns.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 249px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXj3-HbkRJOfjvKCGbYqOxQddKGsxqeRDQn3aRfOv2AuIeZFEKMZmcc2kRRpIg2Vv9yadfkbqs6FUvjdkGZ_rRm8W2ab4YwtxhZow_ui6An6TycS7JhGNzXpgdP0u8fya4Exu8JDOqRPU/s320/nuns.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549214917658917682" border="0" /></a><br />Thanks to some dude at Binghamton U in New York, we now have a reason other than our Daddy issues to be promiscuous. It’s in our genes.<br /><br />Seriously, there was science involved! Beakers and test tubes. Lab coats. Cotton swabs. Sexy, right? Apparently. Science guy Justin Garcia has found a link between a variant of dopamine-receptor-affecting DRD4 and drinking, jumping out of airplanes, and casual sex.<br /><br />Headline: <span style="font-style: italic;">Science supports sex, drugs, rock and roll.</span><br /><br />Justin ‘Bill Nye’ Garcia goes on to moralize his discovery by asserting that this proven predisposition is no excuse for partying and infidelity. Peruse the Internet for ‘slut gene’ and you find a plethora (that’s right) of outbursts at its isolation. <span style="font-style: italic;">Easy now, prudes.</span> Social evolution is in our midst. Which is not to say that morality is <span style="font-style: italic;">devolving</span> – quite the contrary. Think about it: ‘mores’ is Latin for ‘customs’, extrapolated from generations past. “The moral person lives in terms of his or her emotions and needs unless and until this interferes with the rights and interests of others” (hey thanks, http://www.enlit.net/morality.htm). I think we can all agree that infidelity is unacceptable. Eroding the values of others is cruel. Morality, unlike promiscuity, is not biological. And while genetic determinism might be a fashionable excuse, <span style="font-style: italic;">notandi sunt tibi mores</span> (inside-joke alert: ganesh, ganesh). If Bio328 taught me anything, it’s that animal behavior is the evolved result of interactions and environment. An environment with a moral compass that replaces instinctual promiscuity with monogamy. So while some of us may be genetically predisposed to one-night-stands and infidelity, probity keeps it in check. We express our biology in the context of our 21st century society.<br /><br />Wait a tick. 21st century society where commitment is all but scorned? Canada in 2010, where 50% of marriages end in divorce? Where 99% of the men in this city own various remixes of the played-out track ‘I Just Don’t Want Anything Serious Right Now’ by I’m An Ass-Hat featuring Madame Ex? What exactly is the morality that Dr. G is trying to preserve here?<br /><br />Despite that little bit of scorned-woman sass (haha? Oh), I’m no cynic. I believe in a thing called love, and maybe someday it’ll come back into style. But I’m not about to let an outdated and inapplicable socio-cultural paradigm negate the existence of DRD4 and the high-risk/high-reward behavior that quenches it. If I want to, I’m going to jump out of a plane, dammit. And when I land, I’m going to want to go up again. In the appropriate company, I’m going to drink. And after making it through that awkward phase of never-drinking-again and noon, I’m probably going to include beers in my regularly scheduled programming. And the same goes for sex. If guys are out there sailing on the coattails of their sexuality in this modern context, refusing to cuddle and heading to a place with no phones for days afterwards, I don’t have to commit either. If I don’t want to, that is… (Ouch, my feeling.)<br /><br />Obviously, morality has evolved enough to prompt geneticists like Justin Garcia to <span style="font-style: italic;">search</span> for a biological explanation of the impulsivity and hyper-sexuality that rages today. If it stands that I will be judged on my morals, such adjudication would only be negative in <span style="font-style: italic;">contrast</span> to popular conduct. Conduct that today, for all intents and purposes, is teeming with uncommitted sex. With deductive reasoning on my side, it follows that any prevalence of a ‘slut’ gene is socially acceptable in this 21st century morality. I’m golden.<br /><br />The ‘slut’ gene? More like the ‘awesome’ gene. Tell your friends.Love Me Or Diehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176182356763187625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064112990804048679.post-57049205654180184052010-10-01T13:47:00.000-07:002010-10-05T15:39:49.454-07:00Tick Tock Biological Clock<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-kSK89hS_nWwU7greZv_y9qkYW1yo1ve-fjTnXbhhoyG-kI4zGsSrVgj1Os8ytEM3H_jFwx-2vBS-AP8CST4xIJMYfav-0CVW_gJ2Nr9jeDv03Xt_tau81pC3-l4LM25n00eH6dfn178/s1600/mash.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-kSK89hS_nWwU7greZv_y9qkYW1yo1ve-fjTnXbhhoyG-kI4zGsSrVgj1Os8ytEM3H_jFwx-2vBS-AP8CST4xIJMYfav-0CVW_gJ2Nr9jeDv03Xt_tau81pC3-l4LM25n00eH6dfn178/s400/mash.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523185067706304226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">I had some quality time with a calculator today and discovered that there are less than 1,000 days left until I turn 30. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Not to panic! The Internet tells me that </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >30 is the new 20</span><span style="font-family:arial;">! That's 10 extra years I've got to accomplish things. 7 years into it, I'm feeling good.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But there is one thing I wasn't when I was 20 that, with less than 3 years to go, I am now: </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >single </span><span style="font-family:arial;">(ish).</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">I look down. I look back up. I'm on a stool at my kitchen counter on a Saturday morning. I did <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> just close the door behind some chiseled bachelor who does that thing I love. Nay, I'm alone and in sweatpants. Eating cold lasagna for breakfast (don’t judge, it's delicious). A glance in the mirror tells me I’d better wash the dye out of my hair (oh, the upkeep!) before I take my dog for a run in the mud… and by 'run' I clearly mean 'quick pee' because there is lasagna to be snorfeled! Sitting here, basking in my solitude and reading an article about how women over 35 are <span style="font-style: italic;">sold</span> into marriage in 'post'-war Iraq, I'm suddenly saddled by the thought that I myself might hit 35 and still spend Saturday mornings eating leftovers straight from the pan. Not that there's anything wrong with that; it’s just not what I had envisioned for myself when I was 20. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Despite pressing snooze on ye ol’ biological clock these past few years, I’ve finally settled in to the fact that I <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> want a husband and kids. I think many young girls start to plan out their matrimonial futures from an early age – thanks, MASH – and, being a child with a strict schedule thanks to hard-working (and divorced) parents, I had it all planned out. By the time I was 7, I had, quite logically, planned to be married at 27 (woops), and have 2 sons and a daughter by 32 (yikes). That family portrait also included 2 big, goofy dogs and a wonderful, goofy husband whom I would grill steaks and bake pies for precisely because he didn’t need me to. All nested in a modest but comfortable home. Oh, and of course with a cabin by the water and a chalet on the slopes. Apparently 7-year-old me thought 27-year-old me would marry that werewolf dude from <span style="font-style: italic;">True Blood</span> (inside joke alert: or, Ryan Reynolds).</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">When I was 20, there was still time. When I was 20, I was still following that 7-year-old's plan. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">27-year-old me turns to my childhood dreams and says "<span style="font-style: italic;">PSYCH!</span></span>"<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Today, calculator in hand, I have a rough sketch of my reconfigured goals – a few blobs and doodles, really. Career goals, adventure goals (Harley Iron 883, you will be mine), philanthropic goals, and family goals. Like kids. With a husband. I would be lying if I said I’m not window-shopping for one of those. Not that I’m out there in the dating world in a white frilly dress standing at the end of some petal-strewn carpet [retch], but, for me, there’s only so far I can go with someone (emotionally, I mean… quiet, you) if it’s not going to go to <span style="font-style: italic;">there</span>.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">20 years ago the average age of marriage was 22. Now, it's 29. That's <span style="font-style: italic;">almost </span>30 (yay, math). Sociologically speaking there are numerous contributing factors: cost of living, a larger percentage of the population pursuing graduate and post-graduate education, more social options, and a greater acceptance by society to remain available. Accomplishing all the evolved societal 'norms' (a university degree, a house, a car, a job) now requires such a greater commitment of time, it's no surprise that commitments of the heart have been subsequently delayed.<br /><br />Sure, here I am writing a blog about being single, having professed that I would like to not be one day. About aging and sitting around in sweatpants. Here I am simultaneously reading articles about women in my age-bracket in the Middle East, cringing at their plight. But, even mowing down on cold lasagna, I don't feel like some used car, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">selling for cheap to make room on the lot for the new 2011s – now with heated seats and locking differential (look it up, boys). </span><span style="font-family:arial;"> Because paramount on my smeared, crumpled list of reconfigured goals, there’s one that’s content with whatever happens, at any age. Whether or not I fall in love again, whether or not I have children. I am settled with my life as I've lived it, as I continue to live it, as I will live it tomorrow. With the possibility of being single at 35. 45. Forever more. Sincerely – not that whole ‘<span>I’m, like, totally enjoying being single!</span>’ delusion that sticky chicks tell nice guys all the time; meanwhile, they’ve got dog-eared back-issues of <span style="font-style: italic;">InStyle Weddings</span> piled on their bed-side table.<br /><br />Singledom has its great points: discovering and cultivating interests all your own (no golf, thank God); concentrating on yourself and working through all the kinks left by the last ball-&-chain; being completely and utterly selfish in the best way possible. But being in a relationship is also really nice: regular sex. Not that that’s the only thing, but while the other aspects of a relationship are just <span style="font-style: italic;">not there</span> (thanks to my rad hetero life-mates), sex is the only thing I’m actually <span style="font-style: italic;">missing.</span> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">(Aaaaand there it is</span><span> – </span><span style="font-family:arial;">the sex talk. SHOCK!)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">If that’s the only thing, that’s not bad! And I don’t need a life-plan to find it (inside joke alert numero dos: thanks, Von). Reviewing my methodology from 20 years ago, I have deviated. I've substituted, edited, amended, and deleted full portions of that map. Those blobs and doodles have no clear path from one to the other. The reality is that I don't have a life-plan anymore. In fact, </span><span style="font-family:arial;">I don’t <span style="font-style: italic;">need</span> a life-plan at all. I've accomplished things I could never have imagined at 7 years old. Actually, I take solace in the fact that my best-laid plans as a child have <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> come to fruition. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Wouldn’t that be boring?!</span> Not that it’s exciting to have debt and a few broken bricks on the career path, but taking each day as it comes and <span style="font-style: italic;">living it</span> is thrilling. And when I’m 27, single, and thrilled, then I must have done something right.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Besides, time flies when you’re throwing your alarm clock across the room.<br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span>Love Me Or Diehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176182356763187625noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064112990804048679.post-40164802265894040142010-09-15T09:39:00.000-07:002010-09-15T10:17:01.522-07:00Paglia vs. Gaga - Gaga 1<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcgyFm2CMihSRsLvYn-OHCzENX6L684lvy1sWsC2d3uM7tZC4ckXi25AFcsEUryJn0KqrL4X7qpGWuO5fkrEeDRIvmXdSQiPcGqpNZhOkTFqCQq2pV91eabmDdFFhLubkZQEw7u7Llj0c/s1600/lady+gaga.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcgyFm2CMihSRsLvYn-OHCzENX6L684lvy1sWsC2d3uM7tZC4ckXi25AFcsEUryJn0KqrL4X7qpGWuO5fkrEeDRIvmXdSQiPcGqpNZhOkTFqCQq2pV91eabmDdFFhLubkZQEw7u7Llj0c/s400/lady+gaga.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517188322362013058" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">In the Sunday <span style="font-style: italic;">Times</span>, Camille Paglia asks if Lady Gaga is the “end of sex”. Obviously, just </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >no</span><span style="font-family:arial;">. If details of Bill and Monica’s sexy encounters, if an aging Mick Jagger, if Camille Paglia herself didn’t kill our generation’s collective sex drive, Lady Gaga certainly won’t – and nor is she the harbinger of a slow slump into anti-eroticism. Camille Paglia envisions our generation, enamoured with glowing cell phone screens, with more limber texting thumbs than, well, limbs, so dehumanized that we can no longer read each other’s faces, much less have sex.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Well, Paglia, you aging biddy, you’re wrong. Our generation is having sex, and, as far as I can tell, a lot of it. And while quite a bit is… less than stellar, quite a bit is, well, quite good. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">The popularity of Lady Gaga does have something to say about our sex lives, but not what Paglia thinks it does. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sex has been packaged and sold to us our whole lives. Well, not sold – sex has been the plastic package wrapped around other products we’re supposed to buy. As such the sexual images that are everywhere have really very little to do with sex, at least not any sex I’ve ever had. Stiletto heels, lingerie, lips, hair, nails – at least these are things I can somehow associate with sex – but look around, and so much else is really incompatible with the actual experience of having sex. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;">For example, the bodies we see are ludicrous – even with (way more) gym time, surgery, spray tans; even if I had unlimited money and time to spend on making myself look like the person marketed to me as the ideal, I would fail. Most marketing images are retouched beyond any relationship with reality. People with ribs and, you know, elbows (not to mention body fat or pores) cannot look the way women and men in magazines look. I think we know this.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The kinds of sex we see are also ludicrous. Have you ever tried to have sex wearing the kind of shiny apple red lipstick ol’ what’s-her-name sports (ed. note: Leighton Meester) in that (god-awful) music video? Not so hot, 5 minutes in. We don’t have sex in piles of fur, we don’t have sex with pneumatic robots, we don’t have instant orgasms, or fall in love during sex, or fail to sweat (or smile). We don’t have sex on the beach, at least not without a towel (are you fucking kidding me?). Sex doesn’t ruin us, and it doesn’t save us. We aren’t porn stars, we don’t DVDA, we don’t have sex with the pizza delivery guy. That dude smells like pepperoni. Come on.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The sex that is sold to us is beyond ludicrous. Its relationship with actual sex is tenuous, and we know it. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">That is the point of Lady Gaga. Her point is not that wearing stilettos and bondage gear to the gym, or a sparkly bra to a baseball game, or ripped fishnets, embellished underwear, and a half-off gold bomber jacket at the airport (the AIRPORT) is sexy. Her point is that it is ludicrous, ridiculous, doesn’t make sense. That it is <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> sexy. Like, in fact, most of the images of sex we are sold. The outrageous sex we see everywhere has ceased to be titillating, to be sexy, to be, really, anything. Madonna alluding to BJs is not shocking. Nothing is shocking. Lady Gaga is not trying to shock, but to show us how inured to shock we are.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Frankly, Ms. Paglia, you forgot about <span style="font-style: italic;">irony</span>. You dear old thing, you forgot about that now most pedestrian of isms: post-modernism. Gaga may be no Warhol (and, being of Generation Y(awn), I’m bored with both), but she is saying something. And what she is saying is that you have nothing left to say.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Lady Gaga shows us that the public consumption of sex, that sex as commodity, has Escherized itself out of existence. There is no bustier left unturned. She shows us that we’re post-Goatse, post-2G1C, post-Britney and Madonna making out at the VMAs, post-Paglia herself. Gaga shows us that shiny, consumer, packaged sex, that shock sex, that the erotic as product is dead. But isn’t the flip side of that coin that real sex, actual sex, is alive? </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Paglia compares Gaga to early Madonna, whom she holds up as an epitome of boundary-pushing sexiness. But Madonna wasn’t really talking about sex – she was talking about our reaction to media portrayals of sex and female sexuality. She was trying to show us how repressed we are. Gaga is showing us how unrepressed we are. How little there is left to say on the subject of public sex. How we have no reaction to commodified, packaged, sex-as-product. Gaga is showing us that the death of sex is dead. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sex can never die. Like death and taxes, sex is with us. It has to be. Madonna wasn’t sex, just like Britney wasn’t (even post virginity). Sex is between you and me. It is personal. It is real. It is not plastic, it is not packaging, and while it can be sold (we know, Camille, we know), it is not a marketing tool. To use it as such is ludicrous. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Thanks for the lesson, Gaga. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >(Photo courtesy of: http://gagadaily.com/2010/06/lady-gaga-attends-baseball-game/)</span>Love Me Or Diehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176182356763187625noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064112990804048679.post-29488209086207552822010-08-30T12:19:00.000-07:002010-08-30T15:39:26.332-07:00Fade To Black<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLQrdwD14bKHn5q3-bsQres4rqtTiFHhEe8f7kihdbGw06Zyz3B04bP-ZRQmH2RmqBkkG2sG0WiSQ2w1uTFaI85d6WmSCDdzrUb1zgfTHIH1TL1vg-UC_-eUASXi22WoMujU03YAt6aOk/s1600/blonde-or-black-hair.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLQrdwD14bKHn5q3-bsQres4rqtTiFHhEe8f7kihdbGw06Zyz3B04bP-ZRQmH2RmqBkkG2sG0WiSQ2w1uTFaI85d6WmSCDdzrUb1zgfTHIH1TL1vg-UC_-eUASXi22WoMujU03YAt6aOk/s320/blonde-or-black-hair.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511330456438960050" border="0" /></a><br />For 26 years, I had been a blonde. A bubbly, voluptuous bombshell, let’s say (ha!). On the eve of my 27th birthday, I dyed my platinum hair raven black. Soon after, I began to realize that what I had done was not only an aesthetic modification, but a social adaptation as well. Who has two thumbs and loves social experiments? This girl.<br /><br />While I’ve heard testimonials from similarly-morphed women that their friends and family opined strongly (and negatively) on the subject, everyone in my immediate circles, both men and women, were supportive and positive. Whether or not they actually believe that it suits me or they’re being kind, I’m just going to take the compliment naively! They knew me as a blonde, and they know me as a brunette now, but I’m still the same person and that’s the only thing that has changed.<br /><br />Ah, but perhaps not the <span style="font-style: italic;">only</span> thing. Now, with people who never knew me as a blonde, I have found a marked difference in my social interactions. And having had no metric of comparison for the first 26 years of my life, the variation only became notable when I, now a brunette, was asked the question: “So what’s it like with guys now that you’re no longer blonde?”<br /><br />Yeah, what <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> it like with guys? I hadn’t thought about it. We’ve all heard that <span style="font-style: italic;">gentlemen prefer blondes</span> (and for the sake of argument, I’m going to lump all men in the ‘gentlemen’ category, even though rifling through my ghosts of exes past reveals no regular superior standard of conduct), but having been a blonde my entire life I wasn’t sure if that was true or not. An experiment looms.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Stand back, I’m about to do science!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Aim:</span><br />To determine if blondes really do have more fun.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Hypothesis:</span><br />If gentlemen prefer blondes, then brunettes get the short end of the [Freudian slip].<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Equipment:</span><br />Feminine wiles and a box of Garnier Nutrisse.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Variables:</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Control:</span> Blonde hair.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Test:</span> Black hair.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Method:</span><br />Let me back up. Biologically speaking, men tend to have darker hair than women. It could be argued that men prefer women with fairer and therefore more feminine hair because attractiveness has been contextualized in terms of gender. Similarly, as a sub-clause of beauty is youth, another point for the Blonde Squad could be that blonde hair often darkens as people age. It’s not surprising, then, that such an experiment could be based on evolutionary theory. To test this, all that needed to happen was to revisit my relations with men once as a blonde, now as a brunette. The same bars, the same clothes, the same jokes, the same fabulous posse. Granted, they weren’t the same guys and they weren’t the same nights, but hey, I’m no scientician.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Results:</span><br />The type of guy I tended to attract as a blonde was the typical dude – liked sports, cars, beer, women, and probably blasted Alt-Rock from the speakers of his Jeep. Nice dudes, good intentions for the most part. I fell in love with some of them, and was lucky enough to be loved in return sometimes too. But, obviously, relationships ended and people moved on. And if I review them with complete disregard to any complications therein (and it’s my blog so I can do that with no comments from the peanut gallery, thank you very much), reducing it to base needs/wants reveals that what was lacking was some sort of <span style="font-style: italic;">edge</span>. I just never would have guessed that the one lacking it was <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span>.<br /><br />In researching this topic (nerd alert), I came across one study hypothesizing that blondes are more aggressive ‘due to constantly being harassed’. As a blonde, there are so many tired generalizations to be experienced, however peripherally. The <span style="font-style: italic;">dumb</span> thing, the <span style="font-style: italic;">man-eater</span> thing, the <span style="font-style: italic;">sticky slut</span> thing... I hadn’t realized I was being pigeon-holed with every move I made, but I see now by its absence that when I was blonde I was evaluated on these things solely because of my hair color. Furthermore, I was probably responding to that sort of contact and judgment with aggression. Form of: vehement rejection. Cat-call me? <span style="font-style: italic;">Fuck off.</span> Lovely.<br /><br />Now, both men and women treat me with much more respect. Women approach me more, and with a smile instead of the hostile air of feeling intimidated. Men look me in the eye instead of 12 inches lower; they open with a non-sexual comment instead of the lewd remarks to which I had grown accustomed. As a brunette, there are now presumptions that I might be intelligent, I might not steal your boyfriend, and I might not put out on the first date (I said ‘might’). And it’s not that the cat-calls are gone. With similar frequency, now those sorts of comments have an air of deference: I hear ‘You’re beautiful,’ and my response is a much more likable <span style="font-style: italic;">Thank you</span>. My new-found edge is that I’m much more appealing, even to myself.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Conclusion:</span><br />Whoa now, what just happened? All of a sudden this is a personal op-ed piece? What happened to measurable science? Well, friends, life just isn’t as easy as 3.14159265... We’re social animals, us humans. We act, we react, we interact. If I, as a blonde, felt like a piece of meat, I don’t as a brunette. And so my own poise is affected thusly. A chicken/egg argument, perhaps, but I sincerely feel as though the ‘respect’ came first. I continue to attract men in no smaller numbers, albeit a new type of man. Goodbye to Civics and popped collars; hello to tats and [gasp!] conversation. And so, I must conclude that my hypothesis was <span style="font-style: italic;">wrong</span>.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Gentlemen, in fact, do not prefer blondes, and brunettes have way more fun.</span><br /><br />Besides, a fair complexion is a recessive allele in the inherited genotype. I may be faking being a brunette, but I certainly feel preeminent.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(Credit where credit is due: many facts in this experiment were taken from my memories of university lectures. And, of course, Wikipedia. Photo from: http://myhairisemo.blogspot.com/2009/11/dye-black-hair-blonde.html. Thanks, Internet.)</span>Love Me Or Diehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176182356763187625noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2064112990804048679.post-19178282515819309262010-07-07T15:54:00.000-07:002010-07-09T13:58:39.777-07:00The First Time<span style="font-weight: bold;">Sex.</span> Of course we'd start off with sex. It's on everyone's mind these days. <span style="font-style: italic;">If you're having it, if you're not having it, when you'll have it next, </span>and that always awkward<span style="font-style: italic;"> how you can avoid having it with that guy you've been out with twice now... </span>Without riding on the coattails of every social commentator out there, sex actually is everywhere. And why not? It's just so... FUN.<br /><br />Sex has become perhaps the only one of 4 measures of compatibility that can, in one fumbling episode, trump the remaining 3. Social connection? <span style="font-style: italic;">Woo!</span> Emotional connection? <span style="font-style: italic;">Aw.</span> Spiritual connection? <span style="font-style: italic;">Amen.</span> But lacking that physical connection? <span style="font-style: italic;">No, I don't want brunch - get out of my bed.</span> And maybe it takes more than one time to test the waters. Maybe a little less wine, maybe a little more stretching beforehand to really get into the 'motion of the ocean' [cringe]. (Maybe a Gravol?) Besides, it's true that it's not the size of the [insert naval penile euphemism here] that matters. Only women with no emotional depth need, uh, girth.<br /><br />So what is it, then, that fires off those synapses? That makes one neuron say to the other: 'Holler!'? Drum roll please...<br /><br />Balls. Actual testicles. No, seriously - a <span style="font-style: italic;">man</span>. And we don't mean of the ass-hat variety, although going through our recent trysts, you'd never guess... We mean the confidence to be a man and take control. Check it: we love to fuck (men, not each other... Hey now). We do it often, and with vigor. Sure, we're still delicate flowers, but if one more guy asks 'Is this ok?', so help us... Yes, we are confident. Yes, we know what we want, and we know what we like, and we know what we need. And don't worry, we'll tell you. We'll point this toe and raise that knee and ruin a clean set of sheets. And in our professional, spiritual, emotional, and social lives, we've got it all covered! We take care of business, of ourselves; we're successful; independent; if we want something, we go out and get it. We make every attempt to crash through that glass ceiling with a smile and a great push-up bra. But sometimes, sometimes we just want to be taken care of. Sometimes we want to feel, well, like <span style="font-style: italic;">women</span>.<br /><br />(I must pause here to exclaim that we are feminists of the truest sort. We, all of us, advocate for equality, choice, and the evolution of women's rights. We respect and love other women, and we respect and love men. Each of us has been lucky enough to enjoy at least one long-term relationship, and while we may not be desperate to get back into another one, we're all enjoying our current varied states. Some of us are in relationships, some of us are in love; for others 'it's complicated!' The point here is that just because the role of women in society is shifting, that doesn't mean that we want to fill the role of men, that we don't still want to be <span style="font-style: italic;">women. </span>In fact...)<br /><br />In this month's <span style="font-style: italic;">Atlantic </span>there was an interesting article titled "The End of Men: How Women are Taking Control - of Everything." In all the tired analogies depicting women driving 425HP+ cars glossing their lips in the rear-view [how did they get into my car without me noticing?!], men were portrayed whimpering in the dust. Women, for all our past struggles, have necessarily developed support networks and niches in society since before our suffragist foremothers. Groups that have either been created organically, or displaced men in that role. There has been an interchange between men and women; whereas men once brought home the bacon to their apron-clad wives, now more and more men are ceding the bread-winning to their partners, are taking paternity leave, are in the very least collaborating on the important decision-making of the household. Even in areas of our own lives that were once filled by men, we have taken matters into our own hands. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Like sex.</span> Sex for procreation is no longer imperative thanks to in-vitro; sex for pleasure has long been in solitude. But what we can't recreate with a battery-powered oscillator is the rest of the, er, package - a <span style="font-style: italic;">man.</span> Although surely some biometric lab is out there somewhere perfecting a prototype, we want a man who will fix the dishwasher (because Lord knows we're too damn busy to wash dishes by hand); a man who will kill spiders, rest their hand on the smalls of our backs, and at the same time that they recognize our vulnerability (and yes, it's there! Just don't tell anyone...), make us feel safe.<br /><br />And of course, in order to make a man feel like a man, we, as women, need to let him! Sure, we'll make supper when we can. We'll clean house, ask him how his day was with sincerity, let him hold the remote. We might bear his children. We'll love him and honor him, protect his feelings and support him to the best of our abilities. And in daily banter: <span style="font-style: italic;">Can you change my oil, sweetheart? Would you mind opening this jar for me, babe? Could you hang this closet door, honey? </span>While it's possible (nay, probable) that we could do those things ourselves, frankly it doesn't behoove us to fully negate the rubric: 'the fairer sex.' Especially when it comes to when we most desire a man: <span style="font-weight: bold;">sex.</span><br /><br /><span>So, guys:</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> man up</span> to hot, sweaty, raw, and maybe a little bit dirty sex.<br /><br />We'll still continue to climb corporate ladders. We'll actually write blogs about enjoying sex. We'll take the reins from 9-5, but afterhours we still need a <span style="font-style: italic;">man.</span><br /><br />Just one that can change our flat tire, and then sit in the passenger seat while we floor it and apply fresh lipgloss.Love Me Or Diehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05176182356763187625noreply@blogger.com1