Reading and Mockery are a Few of My Favorite Things

I LOVE reading. Like, I just finished book 9 of 2015. Love it. And I am a very accepting reader. I've even read all of the Twilight books. Twice. In my defense, I read them the first time to see what the hullabaloo was about, and then again because I figured I missed something since there was still said hullabaloo. Sigh.

Despite my ability to read garbage and enjoy it, I have a few pet peeves that  really get my goat.

1. Typos

From my understanding, books have a lot of people touch them. Writer, editors, friends, family, more editors, publishers, advanced readers, etc. So many people, so how do all of these people not realize that there is a sentence that says, "and despite her flowning face..." WHAT. THAT'S NOT EVEN A WORD. YOU HAVE ONE JOB. How are typos even a thing with all of those people reading it? ONE JOB. 

2. Over Description of Outfits

One of the downsides to my willingness to read whatever is put in front of me is that I read some terrible writing. I usually enjoy the story despite said awfulness, but there is one thing I can't stand. I have come to realize that there is a hallmark of bad writing - describing what everyone is wearing. ALL THE TIME. 

I read a book that listed five different colors of pink nail polish. FIVE. "And her Ice Princess Pink nails...." and "she looked at her Fru Fru Magoo Pink nails..." What. Why. I was really starting to get into this ridiculous story and suddenly all I can think about is how often your main character is painting her nails. 

3. Literally

"He was so angry that his eyes were literally on fire." SOMEONE HELP THE DYING MAN! THAT SOUNDS TERRIBLE!! Unless you are Rob Lowe on Parks and Rec, and deliver this line with absolute sincerity, do not use this word. Just don't risk it. It literally always goes wrong.  

4. Decimate

This one irritates me so much because it's been misused to the point that the definition of the word has changed. Decimate means destroy one in ten. Writers LOVE this word. "The war decimated the population.." I mean, 10% loss isn't great, BUT IT'S NOT WHAT YOU MEAN. Devastated. Destroyed. Annihilated. All lovely options. 

5. Hair color

I finally read Gone Girl the other day, and it was really good! BUT as a girl who has dyed my hair a gross amount of times, I had one major pet peeve. The main character dyes her own hair brown (fine, that's a thing) but then dyes her hair right back to blonde. Nope. No no no. Not a thing. Dying brown dyed hair with blonde dye from a box has two outcomes - horrifying or blood curdling. Neon orange. Or green. 

Am I nit picking? Yes. Would her green hair have ruined her whole story? YES. 

What's your biggest pet peeve in reading?

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RAR!! I'm Angry Like a Dinosaur Stuck in a Party Hat

When I write, I do it to help my own process and to entertain, because making people laugh is pretty much the best thing in the whole world.

Today, I don't feel like being funny. You know that feeling you get when your soul feels like it is physically on fire because you are so aggrieved and/or hurt and/or stabby? I have that in spades today. I could give you an outline of all my internal organs because my feelings are so visceral.

As I told Princess Consuela, "I have rage in my soul," and she suggested we name our band that. T-shirts are in the works.

Typically, I would not deal with this online for all the world to see, because it's not nearly as fun to read about gross feelings as it is embarrassing stories. However, the whole point of all this is that I am tired of keeping silent.

I wrote a while back about the idea of shame and how damaging it is (if I remember to, I'll put a link in the comments, but I probably won't). Being a people pleaser, with a very external locus of control, I'm often impacted by shame, real and/or perceived, so it shouldn't be a surprise that I have more to say on the subject.

I'm frequently shamed for who I am. Let's look at the facts - I'm fat, I don't put effort in to my appearance often, I'm loud and opinionated, I'm emotional, I often take up more space than allotted, I wear a sock monkey hat on a regular bases, and the list goes one. I am not dainty, I am not put together, I am not demure, I am not traditionally attractive, I rarely say the right thing, and, boy howdy, does that piss society off.    

"But Anna, we live in a society that is liberated and women are free to be what they want and look how they want. Society is so much more progressive now, you're behind the times, this isn't the 1950s!"

BULL SHIT.

Well, not totally. You are correct it is not the 1950s, I stand corrected. But as to the rest, BULL SHIT.

I am shamed by friends and strangers alike. People often think I can't hear them in places like the grocery store. Friends think what they say doesn't get back to me. A look communicates so loudly you might as well yell.

It's exhausting and makes me heart sick.

And I'm sick of it. For myself and for others like me who aren't even in the same room as society's mold. It's total crap. If your perfect life is so unsettled by who I am that you have to communicate it directly or indirectly, then go away. I'm tired of being the one running. I'm tired of pretending I can't hear or see. And I bet others are too.

I am awesome. I'm gut-laughingly funny, I'm bright, I love fiercely, I have eyebrows to die for, and skin so great people want to make me into a trendy vest.

I am also deeply loved. I have people who are so affirming in my life, it's almost aggressive. But the reason I can't stay silent anymore? Because the negativity people who don't fit in face is so loud, it is so damn hard to hear the positive.

Shaming people doesn't just effect the people who are the direct recipients, but their loved ones. My husband has to deal with the me rejecting compliments about my body because I often hear things like, "oh wow, are you sure you want to take a picture next to her?"

So stop. Just stop. Leave us alone. Leave alone people who are overweight or have bad skin. The people who are socially awkward. The people who love Pokemon way past the appropriate age. Shame is so damaging, and whatever the goal is, it is not achieving any positive outcome. You telling me I'm fat isn't going to  magically inspire me to lose weight.

And you. Yes, you. The person who understands what it is like to hate parts of yourself because society says you should. STOP IT. You are so wonderful. I would much rather hear about your weird obsession with comic books than about the newest trick for applying eyeliner. Unless that's truly your thing, then I want to hear about. Embrace your quirks, your looks, your attitude. You are an inspiration, deal with it.      

Being shamed is awful. But the worst is when it translates into shaming yourself. I've been letting myself be eaten up by shame the last few weeks, for various reasons from various sources. And the tragedy is, it's my fault for letting them win.

So no more. I'm delightful. If that bothers you, I don't care. If it inspires you, wonderful. And if you ever need someone to speak louder than all the shaming bull shit in society, I'm  your girl.

A Tale of Two Screwdrivers

The other evening I had an Ordeal. Emphasis on the capital O.

It was a Thursday and I was in a rush trying to get ready between work and my husband's Christmas party. It's that harried process of transforming from a gremlin to Cinderella in under an hour.

As most women do, I have a very specific order of getting ready. Shower, half my make-up, hair, the rest of my make-up, get dressed. All without the help of musical mice. Darn the luck.

The first half of my make-up involves doing all of my eyes and then putting on my concealer like war paint. I leave it this way so it can dry a little while I'm doing my hair.

I was at this point in the process when I turned on my hair dryer, and all my lights when out.

Well. Crap.

I hobbled around in the dark, found a flashlight, and grabbed the first pair of shoes I stumbled across (they happened to be high heels). I teetered outside, checked the fuse box and was perplexed to find all the switches in the right place. That is the extent of my electrical knowledge.

A series of frustrating calls followed, one to my friend who is an electrician who helped me figure out that I had a bad breaker that needed replacing. Between his pep talk and the magic of Youtube I felt empowered to fix the problem myself.

At this point I had managed to find a pair of pajama pants, a neon yellow sports bra, and a sparkly tank top to complete my outfit of high heels and concealer warpaint (since I decided that attempting to do this outside at night in a towel was not my best plan).

I'm standing in the rocks, looking good, with a flashlight in my armpit and two screwdrivers in my hands and I successfully wiggle the old breaker out (the plan was to take it to Ace to get the right replacement).

"I got you, you wee little beastie! Success! Huh. How am I going to get my car out of the garage without the power on?"*

* I'm very external in my interactions with life. Exhibit A: The look my dog gave me as I was yelling at the TV (on an unrelated night)... this is what dog shaming actually looks like.

Anyway, there I stand wondering if I can turn my power back on without becoming an episode of CSI and decide to call my friend back instead of guessing.

I'm pivoting, arm pinned to side holding the flashlight, trying to juggle my screwdrivers, and I knock my phone to the ground (no pockets in my pajama pants so it was sitting on my meter).

Balls.

I rearrange all my accessories and pick up my phone. I didn't just drop and crack it, as is prone to happen in the smart phone day and age, I apparently dropped it into Mount Doom inadvertently. The screen was splintered into roughly a bajillion pieces. The parts of the screen I could see were green and black and pulsing.

BALLS.

I now have no phone, no power, and no way to get my car out.

I admit defeat. I toddle to my neighbors house, crying because that's what I do, and ask to use her phone. I call my husband and he zips home to save me, Christmas party being one of the many casualties of the evening.

We go to Verizon, cry (me), get new phone, we go to ace, cry (still me), get a new breaker, and go home.

John looks at me and says he'll finish fixing the breaker.

Like hell. Move over buddy. This is my epic battle, I shall not be defeated.

We go back to the breaker, this time he holds the flashlight (that's a game changer), I wiggle it back in, connect all the dillywops, flip all the little a-hole switches, and step back.

Deep breath. Walk around the house.

Angels start singing, because I'll be darned, my bedroom light is on.

I fling my arms wide and crow (I get you Peter Pan, crowing is an appropriate expression of joy).

"I DID IT! LOOK!! I DID IT!! AAAHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOO!!!" Double fist pump. Happy butt wiggle. Eighties side jump.

John looks at me and says, "Very nice. I have to pee." Man of few words. I respect that, it takes a lot of patience to be married to me. It did not slow down my front yard victory boogying.

RARRRRRRR. I AM WOMAN HEAR ME ROAR. I CAN DO ALL THE THINGS.

Forget being a counselor, I'm going to be an electrician.  

Anna Is Unimpressed

Today is a black letter day. I got a B on a major project.

Now, if you know me, you know I HATE getting anything but a solid A. It fills me with angst.

Especially when I have poured my soul in to a project, for an elective class, and felt like I rocked it. I mean really. It felt like my crowning achievement in graduate school, AND I GOT A B. 

WHAT. THE. CRAP.  

Frequently, when I'm unimpressed I text my friend " -_____________________-" - this is my unimpressed whale face. As I was talking to her this afternoon, I realized I frequently make this face internally. Like daily. 

Some examples just from this week. It's Tuesday.

Example A: My cube mate, Thistle (you may remember her - she wants to make me into a skin coat), listens to her radio at an unfriendly level. And she likes to whistle along. Loudly (my boss has IMed me from across the room to ask if that is really Thistle whistling that she can hear. It is. It always is). Especially to Adele. I'll set fire to your rain. 

Example B: I got half way to my internship yesterday when I realized I wasn't wearing shoes. I wish I could say I was shocked and embarrassed. I wasn't. This is a frequent occurrence. I was irritated I had to drive home to get some, but alas, it would not be incredibly inspiring to walk in for counseling just to see your counselor sitting there with no shoes. I have a bright future.

Example C: I had to get a flu shot on Sunday so I can work at a hospital. Demanding jerks, it's like they care about their patients or something. The guy who was helping me was slow. So slow. Painfully, want to shake him violently, slow. Thirty minutes after I got to the pharmacy (I was helped right away), THIRTY MINUTES, I sat down to get my shot. Considering the standard Mr. Slowpoke had set I figured it would take him another fifteen to actually give me the shot. I was rolling my sleeve up, turning to ask him some inane question to prolong the exhausting small talk, and BAM he ninja chopped me in the shoulder with the shot. All the blood wooshed into my ears and I toppled over. Really, now is the appropriate time to morph in to Sonic?  

   

Basically what I have realized today is that my internal expressions are made up of memes. Sigh. 

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I use to be a Hooker

When I was 16 I started playing the most glorious sport in the world - rugby. Pardon me while I wax poetic for a moment. Rugby has the endurance and pace of soccer, the brutality of football, and the agility of basketball. It is all things that are good. It is wonderful.

Not to mention that if you are the All Blacks you start every game with aggressive dancing. Dancing in short shorts and it's scary as all get out? Only in rugby. (I'm in no way making fun of the haka, i think it's awesome)

Every day I drive past one of our old practice fields from high school on my way to work (I also played in college, but Waco is not part of my daily drive) and this morning, as I basked in the glory of the good old days, I realized that rugby and graduate school have a lot in common.

1. It does permanent damage.

Rugby:

I sustained a significant amount of injuries playing rugby, which gives me deep sympathy for Wes 'Crazy Eyes' Welker. During a neurological exam the following conversation happened:

"Have you ever had a concussion?" - Doctor

"Yes, from rugby." - Me

"Your right shoulder is significantly separated." - Doctor

"Yeah, that was rugby too. It was brutal." - Me

"Wow, what caused the compartment syndrome in your leg." - Doctor

"I don't want to say. Fine. Rugby. Again." - Me

"Huh. Did your parents hate you and show it by letting you play?" - Doctor

Graduate school:

"Have you gained weight? Wow, where did those dark circles from? Do you ever bathe anymore? Is that a bald patch?!" - Others

"Yeah, graduate school. It's brutal." - Me

2. Just when you've got the hang of it, the rules change.

Rugby:

Most of my first year was spent playing the position of Prop.  A Prop is on the edge of the scrum, and your job is to hold it up, ram into the other team, and support the Hooker in trying to steal the ball from the other team with only their feet. It is glorious grunt work.

One day, in the middle of a game, I was scampering onto the field after shoving Vaseline up my nose to stop the bleeding (you haven't lived until you've tried running with a mouth guard and a nose full of petroleum jelly) when my coach yelled after me , "by the way you are playing Hooker*." I stopped running so abruptly that my dad said I looked like a cartoon character.

*Despite my concern of playing a position I had never even practiced, I ended up loving playing Hooker and played that position more often than Prop. Forget being a grunt, give me brutal finesse any day!

This is a scrum. #3 on the white side is a Prop, #2 is the Hooker (it looks similar, it's not)

Graduate school:

"Write in APA. Now in Turabian. Five points off for indenting instead of using five spaces. Five points off for using five spaces instead of indenting. Great job, you really nailed this paper!" Huh? How? What do you want from me??

3. You get to know your teammates better than you ever wanted to.

Rugby:

Look at the above picture. Take it in. When you play rugby,especially as part of the tight five, you get incredibly close to other people - literally. And let me tell you, it can get stinky. So stinky. Yeuchhhh.

Graduate school:

The things I've heard in school. It gets stinky. So stinky. Yeuchhhh.

"Thanks for your vulnerability, but I don't think the class needed to know that you have those kinds of feelings for your bunny slippers."

4. A significant amount of shit is involved.

Rugby:

One day (and many subsequent days) during my first season our practice field was covered in fresh snow. Now our field was not maintained by the school, because we weren't a sanctioned sport. This meant that our field was also covered in goose poop. Lots and lots and lots of poop. Covered in wet snow. Mud, poop, snow. Awesome. We stood in a huddle before practicing bemoaning the fact we would probably have to get really wet and cold during practice, but hoping it could be avoided. Our coach marched out, took one look at the field, heard one bit of our complaining, and told us to run and slide around in it until we were ready to actually practice without being big whiny babies.

I quickly learned that after games and practices in conditions like that, I would get so gross that my mom would make me strip down outside before she let me in the house.

Graduate school:

"Write a paper about your brokenness. Now one about the brokenness of your brokenness. And maybe one on the brokenness of the brokenness of the brokenness. Tell me about how that makes you feel. No really, how you really feel. Really role around in it. Like you mean it!"

Maybe I should invent a hose that can wash of emotional goose poop.

5. It might make me a better person. 

I will never forget the worst game of my life. It was blizzarding and in response to asking if we could wear our sweatshirts under our jerseys the referee said, "what are you, soccer players?!' (I have no problem with soccer as it is my husband's true love, but that is not totally true for all rugby players). We were running around aimlessly, unable to see other players, let alone the try line. When you get tackled into ground that is frozen solid you find the will to get up abandoning quickly. We all cried. Every single player. And we were a tough bunch. AWFUL.

But, it is one of my favorite games to think back on. I didn't know I could dig that deep, I didn't know I could keep getting up again and again and again in a blizzard and keep playing. I didn't know I could play through the tears. And, the big thing, no game was ever that bad again. And, all the goose poop was frozen!

Graduate school is making me dig deep. Real deep. Deeper than I thought was possible. I know I can keep going through the tears. I will keep getting up again and again and again in the blizzard of clients, assignments, self-reflection, and analysis. I'll know that things can only go up.

And at least the poop is frozen.

Bunch of aholes. 

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My Subconscious Has Great Taste in Music

I'm recently returned from an amazing, whirlwind vacation. The hope is that after you've spent a week soaking in the magic and wonder of Disney and Universal you come back ready to rock through the rest of the semester/rest of graduate school full of pep and zeal.

Alas, that is not the case. 

I'm currently sitting in class debating between flinging myself on the ground and/or jumping out the window - possibly a particularly dramatic fling, followed by a tuck and roll, followed by a dive out the window? (Don't worry, it's on the first floor, I'd be fine). I'm full of irritation and apathy. 

Obviously, this means I need a pep talk. 

I was going to whinningly post on Facebook, requesting everyone who has love for me to give me a pep talk. However, I really try to keep my Facebook entertaining and, honestly, I know I can do this, I know I'm following God's plan for my life, I know how great I am. Blah blah blah, fooey. 

What's a girl with a bad attitude and a wretched case of the post-vacation blues, who needs tough love and a smack upside the head supposed to do? Give herself a pep talk.

"Okay Anna McCrankypants, listen up. Here are some helpful facts about your life that should make you feel better:

1. At this point, the world is not going to run out of wine and coffee before you finish school.

2. You don't have the bubonic plague. 

3. If being a counselor does not work out, you have a solid back up plan of being a professional tight rope walker.

4. You have terrible balance, so point three shows how full of dreams you are. Bright eyed optimism will get you far.

5. It's not too late, maybe Hogwarts has an adult learner program. 

6. You aren't at the dentist right now, so your day is already better than some peoples'. 

Lose yourself in the music, the moment, you own it, you better never let it go, you only get on shot, do not miss your chance to blow, this opportunity comes once in a lifetime.

You saw the sign it opened up your eyes, you saw the sign. Life is demanding without understanding.

Don't stop believing.

Hey Jude, don't make it bad, take a sad song and make it better."

Um. Thanks inner voice. I think that pep talk got away from you, but none the less, I feel better. 

My subconscious does make party appearances, ask me about pricing.  

Always a Bridesmaid, Never a Bride

The movie Bridesmaids makes me laugh. Every time. I realized this morning that my week can be summed up in quotes from it and I decided to embrace it.

5. 

I was walking up the stairs with my incredibly, dorky, after-school-special-warning-heavy backpack when I tripped and slow motion started falling. I was doing the awkward windmill, grab at anything, going to save this move (and winning!), when my backpack started sliding up my back and over my head. The added weight pushed the battle in favor of gravity, and I found myself pinned to the stairs. The way I landed resulted in my having an epic five minute struggle to get out form under the pack.

4.

I had a rough week of cancellations with clients, and went in to "I need these hours else I can't ever graduate, and I have to get out of here!!" panic mode. My fifth cancellation prompted a flurry of calling referrals and packing my schedule to the point of bursting. Want the last hour of the day? Sure! The butt crack of morning? Awesome! Five in a row? Of course! Over compensation at it's finest!

3. 

This morning I was in the midst of an existential crisis fueled by regret, Ebola, insecurity, and indigestion. I filled in two of my closest friends. The one in Texas sent me the sweetest, most affirming text extolling my virtues, and the other said, "pft, it's fine, you'll be fine." Both approaches were needed, helpful, and affirming!

2.

I have a co-worker, "Thistle," who hates me. A few months ago she mentioned to another co-worker, "Princess Consuela," that she didn't send me a fundraiser item because she didn't think I could afford it. Now, I've never spoken with Thistle about my finances. Ever. So that was weird. Today, Princess Consuela told Thistle that we all owed a certain (incredibly reasonable) amount of money for something.

Thistle: "That's really expensive."

Princess Consuela: "Not really, considering."

Thistle: "Well, I mean, how is Anna going to afford it?

Princess Consuela: "What world do you live in."

So apparently I just exude poverty. Maybe I should brush my hair more.

1.

If you know me at all, you know I have an unhealthy love of Dazbog. I LOVE IT. There is one right by my work and I am a frequent patron. Like Stan from Cheers frequent. Yesterday, Princess Consuela texted me, "I have to tell you something. You're not going to be happy. Our Dazbog has broken away from the franchise and rebranded." I didn't take it well.

As a side note, another friend at work when Princess Consuela mentioned to her that Dazbog was changing said, "oh man, how are you going to tell Anna?"

So this morning I walked in, and sure enough it's not a Dazbog anymore. I threw up my hands and yelled, "you guys! What is happening?!?" All four baristas proceeded to tell me all the reasons it was good, they gave me free coffee, and told me I was doing really well.

I grumpily, and skeptically, took my coffee and drove to work.

"Locally roasted small batch beans. Nice. Nice touch. Holy crap. This is good. Damnit. I mean really good." 

Dazbog who?

*All pictures via pinterest.