Trump Doesn't Scare Me

Yesterday was the 75th anniversary of the Pearl Harbor attack.  Other than the indirect implications of being born an American citizen long after the war ended, I boast no direct ties to that time, place or event.  Just like 9/11, I have no ties other than being an adult human who can remember that day.  But we all have the Pearls of our lives.  

My Pearl Harbor was January 27, 2014.  It was approximately 9am.  I got up, got the kids ready and drove them to school.  We were in the middle of a bad winter.  It was cold and snow was on the ground.  When I got home, I picked up my then-husband's cell phone and discovered texts to and from another woman.  That was my bomb, D-Day, and the moment my life came crashing down in a flaming heap of poo.  That was the day I was attacked by a foreign nation and outed a traitor in my own home.  Another way of putting this--my safe space was violated.  

I told that story to write about this one:  Trump doesn't scare me.  I've watched some of my fellow citizens tear themselves up at the seams and freak out.  I've watched other Americans try to justify this.  I've watched an elite press so angry that voters would actually elect a narcissist that they stuck their noses up in the air and became even more disdainful of fellow citizens who feel a lack and are willing to believe in a snake oil salesman because nothing else thus far worked for them.  I've watched hate and hateful groups unleash their fear as ire on those they considered minorities.  I've watched factions in our nation try to grip power.  The thing is, it isn't power.  It is fear at work.  Fear mongers have infected the traditional Left and Right.  Corporations, billionaires, and other elite people who control money finally managed to pit Us against Us.  Because as citizens, we're in this hell together.    While I'm just one voice blowing in the wind here, I'm not scared.  Why?  Because I've already outed one traitor. I've hit absolute rock bottom. Guess what? I'm still here!!!  The thing about my traitor?  He moved on to someone else before the ink was dry on the divorce decree.  Just like Trump will move on to something better/newer/shinier than the factions that elected him before any one job is created or life improved by the campaign promises he touted in his bid for marginalized votes.  

To those who want to provide a safe space for others by wearing a safety pin, I applaud you.  This is an excellent idea.  I don't think this is going to work.  I doubt outward symbols will make a significant difference.  When I look back on the dark days of flaming poo, the people in my life who were a "safe space" for me were those who I never expected. They were friends with an already established relationship ready to provide coffee and lend an ear. They were acquaintances who were there in the moment.  There were nice strangers who gave me a hug during a particularly ugly crying jag.  There were new people who didn't know me, my situation, or any of the other trials that I faced in my life.  But they were there in the moment.  The point is, I don't think we can predict when we will need or be called upon to help our fellow human.  In this case, it it is living with a spiritually open heart and mind.  It is the internal knowledge that the Universe/Force/God/Jesus/Zeus will sort it out and put one in the proper place and time to help. Help comes from the expected and the unexpected places in life.  I, personally, will not be wearing a safety pin.  However, I will return the favor to my fellow humans should someone be in need.   

How to wrap this up?  By heeding Yoda's words.  Fear leads to anger, and anger leads to hate.  Keep calm, meditate, and don't give into the fears of others.  Once you let go of the fear, the fear mongers can't control you any more.  Respect yourselves and respect others because none of us are leaving this world alive.  

Words of Yoda

Detritus Update

I have been talking about my grandma's stuff for years.  YEARS!!!  I've read about getting rid of stuff, keeping less to make more room in our lives.  I've studied cleaning methods for slobs like me (still having problems on that front).  But, I think I've had a breakthrough. I sold a set of Grandma's china that sat in a box for ten years.  Since Grandma owned several sets, parting with this seemed natural.  Though it took me several years of reflection and constant repeating of my mantra "I don't have to keep the detritus of other people's lives."  For some reason, getting rid of this china made me feel lighter.  Physically lighter like I've lost ten pounds.  Putting into words what happened emotionally when these dishes went to a new home where they would be used and loved made me feel better.  Physically lighter.  And, I don't have to worry about yoga money for the week.  That will make me feel even better.

Post Thanksgiving WrapUp

The biggest story of this year's Thanksgiving:  There is no story.  The turkey was juicy, the cranberry sauce came out of the can.  The boxed dressing dressed up nicely with some fresh vegetables and didn't taste out of a box.  People came to the table in their PJ's and that was fine.  It was relaxed, happy, and a good holiday.  The best holiday of all because there are no stories to tell, no drama to report.  It was the best of all the holidays.

Tactical Error

I may have made a tactical error.  Ok, I probably made the error, but what's done is done, and the only thing to do is move forward.

Last Saturday, my sister-in-law texted and asked what my kids want for Christmas. In the past Christmas meant so much crap.  I'm sure all the other mommie bloggers out there have this topic covered about the uselessness of so much stuff.  I'm not going there.  What really set me off about this innocuous text was that I found out on our vacation last July that they came and spent a couple of days within 15 minutes of my house.  They spent DAYS within my area, and not once did they reach out and ask for a meal/visit/or other time to visit and reconnect with family.  I didn't say anything at the time.  It wasn't the right time.  So I moved on.Several weeks ago, my brother asked for me to do some genealogy research.  I sent him an email and gave him all the information that I knew about the ancestor so that he could begin.  Genealogy is a time suck, and I don't want to be pulled back in the past while I'm trying to focus on the future.  After contemplating my sister-in-law's request, I texted back that my kids would like more time with their cousins for Christmas.  Because all of the kids are growing up too fast. Time is starting to march forward with a quicker beat.  I'd like to at least give my kids a chance at bonding with my brother's kids.  But like the vacation, email concerning genealogy, and this last text, I haven't heard a word from from them.  Not a thank you for the information, nor an obligatory "we'll try" text to at least acknowledge my presence.  I do know that I'm tired of the crap the comes in the door.  We're not for sale or beholden to gifts.  We want real expressions of love and caring, not something that they will forget about in a few weeks after the flurry of wrapping paper gets recycled.  So, we're always up for a new experience,  Because making memories and building familial bonds with family is a much better use of our time and effort.

One Red Carnation

"Patriotism is not dying for one's country, it is living for one's country. And for humanity. Perhaps that is not as romantic, but it's better." ~Agnes Macphail

In the wake of Veterans' Day, protests, and surprise election results, I have one red carnation sitting on my kitchen counter to remind me that there is good in the world, our election process is fair and just, and there is an army of volunteers that run elections to ensure that one voice and one vote is heard. I spent this election cycle helping out a friend who became a candidate for our state House of Representatives. (Since this is going out on the interwebz, I'm going to refrain from naming the candidate or our state, as a way of protecting my anonymity.) I canvassed neighborhoods, got my exercise leaving literature on doors, and even made phone calls at the 11th hour. The most important volunteer activity was that of Poll Observer. Until I volunteered for this task, I didn't know the position existed. I attended an hour training session, filled out a form, and was assigned a rural poll to go sit and watch people vote. The mission of this is two fold. First, this was a party-centered post. As people voted, I checked them off of a list so that HQ could take that list and call those registered voters in the party and remind them to vote. This is legal, and all of the paperwork for this post was duly completed and submitted in accordance with local law. The second part of this job was to ensure that everyone at the polling locations adhered to election laws. Before my shift began, I stopped by HQ to grab a sandwich and was in time to hear the horror stories from other polling locations of illegal signage and Poll Judges interfering with the Poll Observers' job. Needless to say, I was nervous concerning my reception at the location I was assigned to. My fears were for naught. I found four gracious, caring, and laudable women who took their position seriously and worked to follow the rules. When a rule was in question, they consulted notes to resolve the dispute and allow the person to vote. They made sure that I was comfortable then offered me treats and ice tea. When someone from the party that I never met before stopped by to check on the observations, I happily reported that they treated me well and that no issues needed resolving. That was before one particular voter. She was elderly, spry, and seemed excited to see everyone. She wanted to catch up on the local news and chit chat with the volunteers, but the volume of other voters precluded much visiting. She cast her ballot, and then like other voters, left the vicinity. She then came back. This thoughtful lady brought each one of us a long stem red carnation, wrapped in paper, and tied with red, white, and blue ribbon. I sat stunned, and don't think that I expressed my gratitude. This lady did not know me, but she included me with the other volunteers. By design of the system, I was supposed to be an outsider watching the process. However, this did not stop her from thanking me or including me with the rest of the volunteers. Since the election has concluded, I've been sniffing and thinking a lot about my one red carnation. This single flower represents the phalanx of volunteers who deal with disgruntled voters all the while making sure that the election process goes smoothly and legally. While these ladies never set foot on foreign soil to protect our rights, I want to acknowledge their contribution to one of the most basic and vital rights as an American--that as a voter. I'm sure all around the country, in rural and urban areas, a phalanx of volunteers ensured a legal vote. Thank you, Volunteers, for protecting our freedoms and showing an outsider respect and decency.

White Privilege?

In the wake of the election, I want to know what exactly is "White Privilege?" The tone of my skin is considered white. Does my skin tone mean there is absence of adversity that I have faced or will have to face? Does my skin tone lessen my talents? Have I been granted some sort of "hall pass" to not have to struggle as hard as others? Does my skin tone mean I have more opportunities than others? Does my skin color insulate me from trials and tribulations of life? Does my skin color make my story any less real? Do I have to feel guilty because of the way I was born?

"I'll keep my guns and money, you keep the 'Change'"

The title of this post was a bumper sticker seen after Obama was elected 8 years ago. It got me to thinking about the word "Change." It is bandied about in every campaign, called for on a international, national and local level. But what does it mean? According to Dictionary.com, the first definition is:

verb (used with object), changed, changing. 1. to make the form, nature, content, future course, etc., of (something) different from what it is or from what it would be if left alone: to change one's name; to change one's opinion; to change the course of history.

Of course, there are other definitions, however, this post is about the first. I find it ironic that Obama ran on a platform of "change." He was going to make America wonderful as well. Despite conservative fears, we still have our guns, the second amendment, and other than not having access to affordable health care as promised, I cannot report how much change has happened during the 8 years he was in office. My life changed radically on a personal level, however, I cannot attribute my life's course to the federal government's actions. Thus, I'm very skeptical about the sorts of changes that Trump can actually make. Except repealing Obamacare, because I really would like to have some sort of health care, but that just about the only positive thing I see happening. The tone of my Facebook feed altered as well. Folks who were normally quiet during the campaign process are now speaking up and urging everyone to get on board with this election. Those who were scared during the campaign and posting cat photos are still scared, and have up the cuteness level of their news feeds. I'm not sure if this is some attempt to soothe their followers or themselves. The number of cute cat paws is getting out of control. Those who were verbose and outspoken during the campaign have been silent. Haven't heard a word out of them. Normally eloquent people whose voice and opinion that I respect slipped out of social media, and I'm not sure what to make of this silence. What I want to say is that the election was legal. It was conducted in accordance with Federal, State, and local laws. Just like I had to eat a shit sandwich when Obama was elected, now others will have to eat a different form of the sandwich. Is Trump going to be a good president? I highly doubt it. Just like Obama wasn't able to fuck up too much, the same argument stands with Trump. There won't be very much change. Just a lot of hot air, broken promises, and the same ole tripe from our government. This isn't a freak out event. Just an event that we're going to have to live through for 4 years, and then hopefully get our head out of of collective asses and find someone who can actually lead.

Old Dishes

My grandma joined a bridge club sometime back in the 1990's. This was our small town's equivalent of the retired intellectual bourgeoisie getting together to share gossip and snacks. Due to the generation gap between me and Grandma, snacks were homemade and served on nice real plates and "services." As a result, I have a box of reproduction glass plates sitting in a box in my basement with matching punch cups. Several years ago, I ran an experiment in which I had some sort of direct sell party at my house. It was candles or Pampered Chef. I don't really recall. However, I drug out the plates, complete with tea cups for the punch I was serving. My esteemed guests totally flipped out. Seriously, I knew that these plates would have to be washed in the dishwasher, and that they were not as convenient as plastic or paper. I even went so far as to assure my guests that these are reproductions and not original, or of very high quality. They're just pretty and I wanted to share them. I stopped short of using the real silver, but still. As a hostess, I felt embarrassed that my guests were uncomfortable. The next thing I hosted had paper plates. So that brings us around to my serving things from Grandma. I think they're pretty, and cool that you can put your cup right on your mini platter. But what do I do with them? In our casual society, using paper plates is the norm. When people find out that they're from Grandma's estate, they get all paranoid about breaking them. I can honestly say that I'd rather lose one of them to breakage by a guest because they're out being used, instead of packed away in a box in my basement. So what do I do with them? People on the internet do not seem able to see their china sets that are of better quality and a name brand. I've been around to antique stores, and have seen several sets of rare, quality china--enough to feed 12 people off of--sit around and not get sold because our society just does not use these things any more. So, what do I do with my old dishes? Do I throw another party and get them out anyway? I am taking suggestion as to the proper way to handle these things.

Book Review: Embattled Ever After

Embattled Ever After by J.M. Madden
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I went back and read my review where I gushed over the first book "Embattled Hearts" in this series. Since then, I've been a faithful reader and have waited patiently to see who would capture Duncan's heart. Sigh. I loved this book. I enjoyed catching up with the characters that have developed through the series, and loved how Madden set the stage for the next series. But I can't recommend this book for everyone. This is a 3rd in the series book that depends heavily on knowing the backstories of the other characters to make the story work. While this was a very enjoyable read, please read the other stories in the series first! That said, I can't wait to see where Madden takes the set up she described in the book, or where she goes with her next writing endeavors.

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Thoughts on Architecture and Consumerism

Several years ago, we read The Maltese Falcon for book club. Since I saw the movie before reading the book, all of the dialogue sounded like Humphrey Bogart in my head while reading. The book ended on the note that there will always be another race for another treasure around the world. It was better for Sam Spade to stay home and not participate, because the end will never justify the means. I felt like this while working in commercial construction. It bugged me on a very fundamental level that I "helped" to build one of those ubiquitous chain restaurants that people flock to, spend their hard earned money on mediocre unhealthy food, while in 15 years the structure will be torn down to make way for something else in the most wasteful way possible. Everything in my architectural and environmental values screamed out against the abomination to our collective humanity, much like most people react to Donald Trump. I found a glimmer of hope. I recently read The Architecture of Happiness by Alain de Botton. In the book (which I bought used from an Amazon bookseller), he espouses the differences between good and bad architecture. While most of this is opinion, and a lot is drawn from the fine arts world concerning balance and construction materials, this book gave me hope that our human failings could be overcome and something amazing could be built. Amidst the backdrop of famous projects, both ancient and modern, de Botton uses verbiage and illustrations from the art world to accentuate his points about the ascetics of having architecture as art in our lives. After working in the desert of urban sprawl, his words soothed my thirsty soul with the idea that our society is not merely comprised of sheep to be led, but that there are those who would build something grand that could last and speak to generations. While this idea intrigues me along with the thought that my children will inherit and inhabit the property that I worked so hard to acquire, I know this to not be the case. Seeing how buildings are built with fast techniques, materials that are cheap and not meant to last generations, and laborers who are more interested in a pay check in the present to support their families, gives rise to de Botton's final idea that bad architecture is a failing of human psychology. The idea that architecture, like art, shows what our society is lacking is a rather shaky argument and perhaps not one seen through the lens of consumerism. The projects that I directly worked with project managers and craftsmen on are not testaments to beauty, but testaments to the almighty dollar and ways for those who are already wealthy to be come wealthier. Sure, they provide jobs, not only to the craftspeople who helped build them, but also to those who will work in the space. The clock is ticking. Soon the newest hot spot with the trendiest decor will be pronounced passe by the people that once lauded them vogue. They will be torn down or remodeled to make way for the next newest fashion. So what was once kind of grand, will now be rubble in a landfill in a few short years. In all, I do not want to contribute to this sort of waste, wasteland, or economy that refuses to conserve. The art that de Botton speaks so highly of is soon forgotten when something different comes along. In the book, De Botton forgets to account for money in his entire narrative. Being in construction accounting, let me assure the gentle readers that cash is the number one driver of why we have ugly buildings, perfectly fine buildings torn down and replaced with new also perfectly fine buildings. Because those who hire contractors for these sorts of projects know that we consumers will flock to their buildings, complete with flashy facades. They can charge money for goods or services. It has a kind of Field of Dreams if you build it mentality that usually works. The flashier the better. But we as consumers flock to these places and don't demand better architecture or quality of food for ourselves or our families. It is this kind of laziness across our society that has caused a sense of complacency with our collective lot. Bad architecture is a psychological failing, driven by money and we as consumers are in fear that if we don't eat at that ubiquitous chain restaurant, then we're somehow lacking as a people. That just isn't the case. We deserve better, and need to demand better. But, like many bloggers, I am a solitary voice trapped in a vacuum of consumerism. I can choose to not eat at that chain, write many more blog posts like this one, yet my message will not be heeded, understood, respected, or otherwise taken to heart when hungry kids are in the back of the car and food is easy. But what I do know, in 10-15 years, that restaurant will not exist. But I will still be here, blogging on about my cat, social issues that I cannot change alone, and other interests that will surly be around in the next decade, along with the bad architecture that accompanies them.

A Fishing Story

It was a bight and sunny morning in the high country. The sun was warm, the air cool. Birds sang and the vista from the bank of the lake showed ragged peaks in the distance. Small white fluffy clouds broke up the endless blue of the sky, reminding everyone that that there was still some moisture in the air but not enough to actually rain. While the rest of the group unloaded an ungodly amount of fishing gear, I rolled out my yoga mat and ditched my sensible shoes and socks. Being useless to anyone because of my voluntary lack of fishing license, I stretched out on the bank and soaked in the the early morning rays. Lulled by the sounds of the birds and the quiet murmur of voices that discussed fishing, meditation soon turned into a nap. The fishermen moved to a shadier and hopefully more lucrative spot, leaving me to my peaceful slumber. It was my exposed toes that proved to be too much. An obese chipmunk wondered into my spot (they're all obese, as they get fed by humans who find these rodents too cute to resist), looking for a snack. Deciding that I was not a normal human and should be feeding the wildlife, the rodent knocked his nose into my toes. The first time the little beast came sniffing, I hardly noticed his presence. The second time woke me up with a start. I never imagined that the nose or face would be so soft, but judging by the fatty chips he probably consumed from others, his fur and nose were luxurious. Being woken up by a rodent looking for a snack was rather startling, and I was awake. Deciding that I had no snacks to share, Mr. Chipmunk darted off into some nearby grass, probably looking for a new mark. After being awoken by the chipmunk, there was no more napping for me. I moved over and "supervised" the underage fisher people. We soon packed up and left the lakeside spot. The ironic thing is that out of the group, I'm the only one who chose not to fish, but got a good story out of the experience.

Hillary Is A Victim

I have another blog post in the works about the representation of women and the Bechdel Test. But that can wait. This is about the national election. Specifically, the presidential election. This is the the reason why I can never vote for Hillary. She is a victim. By her own agency, she has stayed in an unhealthy relationship with a known victimizer. We know all about Bill's transgressions. There was an unprecedented impeachment trial that we all had to live through in the '90's where his debauchery was on full display. Thanks to that media circus, we know Hillary is the victim in infidelity. And still she chose to stay. When I pointed this out to someone, they wrote it off as the Clintons' "dynastic aspirations." That's double speak for "I'm going to trade my soul to the Devil for untold riches and power." Or, "I'm going to tout feminist ideals and the dream of becoming a world leader, but not live by my soundbites." Sounds hypocritical to me. When I say this to people, and point out her flaws, I get one of two marriage responses: "Marriage is what you make it" and "We don't know what goes on in other people's marriages." BULLSHIT!!!! Lets break this down: 1. "Marriage is what you make it." I am so sick of this line. Marriage is not what you make it. It is what both parties contribute. If a party is cheating in a marriage, then the marriage is crap. There is nothing one can do to control the actions of someone else! How many times to we tell children to "control yourself" and "you are the only one you can control. Don't hit people." Same logic here, people. Only instead of getting "hit" by a spouse, you get cheated on, which is kind of worse than being hit. Hitting is an assault charge. Infidelity isn't prosecutable (except in North Carolina). Seriously, Hillary made a great marriage to a man that would humiliate her on a national stage. 2. "We don't know what goes on in other people's marriages." This is true. We don't. Usually. Unless someone shares. Like the media circus that surrounded the Clinton impeachment trial which everyone has seemed to forget about. We do know what went on. I felt humiliated on Hillary's behalf that everyone knew about the famous BJ in the oval office with some co ed that managed to snag an internship. It was gross. It was demeaning to everyone. It tainted the whole image of the presidency. We do know. And we aren't proud of what happened. If Hillary isn't strong enough to leave Bill in the dust, then what good are all of her works and accomplishments? Because she failed to accomplish it on her own. Would it have been easy? No. Divorce never is easy, even people who amicably decide to call it quits. But then she really would have been a role model. As it stands, she is an example of "what not to do."

Book Review: I and Thou

I and Thou by Martin Buber
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I have yet to write a book review over a philosophical text. I will attempt to do so, but probably not do the work justice. If someone is reading this review and wondering if they should read this book, let me give a couple of warnings. It is tedious reading. I consulted my dictionary app (because we don't have real dictionaries anymore) more times than I want to admit to. I stopped and reread passages that were convoluted and that I failed to comprehend. I probably lit up some critical thinking areas of my brain that have lain dormant since college. Despite all of these challenges, this book is worth the read. The philosophy, once grasped as best as one can, fits with lessons from yoga. Biblical references are there, but do not beat one over the head with the Bible. There is a certain beauty to the ideas that Buber wants to share with the world, but I cannot comprehend why he used arcane German in which to communicate this. Translations of the arcane can only lead to misinterpretation. If anyone in the Goodreads community knows why, please drop me a comment and explain it. I would highly recommend this book despite the challenges.

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Thoughts on the Bechdel Test

What is the Bechdel Test?  It is a simple feminist test to see if women are represented in movies.  You can find a video that does a great job of explaining it here.  The problem I have with this test it that it is aimed at movies and popular entertainment.  I love X-Men, Star Trek, Star Wars, and just about anything sci-fi.  To have two women in a story arc filled with digital magic and a story arc set around saving some sort of world or going on some sort of quest would destroy the whole movie.  Women aren't necessarily  represented in sci-fi.  Is this an issue? Yes.  Would having "Captain America: Civil War" be better if it passed the Bechdel test? Ummm. No.  Why?  Because I'm there to see a move about two bros battling it out over good and evil with lots of special effects thrown in.

The Bechdel test does have a point.  Where are the women?  In supporting roles. Just not superheroes.  If we want movies that pass the Bechdel test, then we as a public must demand that they be made.  This is where it becomes a circular argument, because these demands need to be made with our pocketbook.  Boycott movies that don't have women!  What?  Um....no.  Why?  Because I'm not giving up my sci-fi movie watching.  Because at their heart, they're good movies in the vein of the epics of yore. I offer up the timeless classic of Beowulf as not passing the Bechdel Test.  Even in ancient times, our stories are comprised of gratuitous violence and no named women having a conversation about a topic other than a dude.  Or in the Arthurian Legends, there's action and romance.  Still doesn't pass the Bechdel test, but does have one selfish woman who wants two men.  Something in our human natures, even in these old stories, wants to be entertained by the fictional possible while impossible in real life.  In entertainment, we want to hear the juicy gossip that we don't give ourselves permission to indulge in with our neighbors and coworkers.  We want to know that someone has power and control over the environment and will use violence to change society, protect our villages, or otherwise go on a crusade or quest. We want the story arc to know the fictional world is safe.  Having a conversation between two named women in the middle of this would break the laws of storytelling, and also ruin the experience of the big budget box office smashes that I've come to adore.  Is this to say that we should abandon the Bechdel test?  No.  Women should fight and be considered equals in society.  Women should carry on and go about their business of making the world better for our daughters.  But just leave my stories alone. Because I know they are fictional.

Hunting Urban Prey

Part the First: Introduction

There is a dumb book on the market about how affairs are OK, and one should be allowed to pursue their own happiness.  I think there should be a good old fashioned book burning and ban, but whatever.  The fallout is that I’m single.  At 39. I think this is what Robert Frost would refer to as “the road less travelled.”  In an effort to move on, be strong and otherwise pretend I’m not so pissed off about being single, I went out.  The goals on these adventures are confusing.  

The overarching goal is to hunt and capture an equally single male.  The camouflage isn’t the traditional leaves and ugly green. It is a lot of skin showing and mostly black plumage.  Face paint is referred to as “make up” an it is applied with a heavy hand.  Scent is equally important, thus we douse ourselves in eau of whatever to boost pheromones in the unlikely event one of those elusive males give us a second glance.  Weapons for the hunt are shoes.  Most of us show up in some sort of spiky heel with a platform to give our height a boost.  Since this isn’t a solitary hunt, the height is required to compete with the other huntresses who are naturally tall.  In the event of emergency, the spikes could double as a real weapon.  Any intelligent hunter will give the cammo and weapons a test run.  My test run was over to the neighbors under the guise of “outfit check.”  I did so well, my awesome neighbor gave me a beer.  

The beer is the key to the other goal.  As a friend said: “You’re getting fucked up, bitch!”  For some reason, this lingo isn’t offensive but hilarious--even hours before the first libation.  Now we have two goals:  bagging a male and chemically altering our reality so that our inhibitions and decision making skills are lowered almost to the point of illness.  I find this highly confusing but still participated.

Part the Second: Hunting Urban Prey

Our chosen hunting ground is a “country” bar. This must be said in quotes because it is as country as New York City.  A few mounted heads, print of the famous John Brown painting where he is brandishing a Bible and rifle, and an American flag doesn’t make a real country bar.  But whatever, I’m with a group and there are rules about this.

When we arrive, I’m two beers in and winning in the race to get “fucked up.”  First stop is the bar so that the others have an opportunity to catch up.  Another beer for me and some standing around while one of the group texts a different group that we’re going to meet up with.  This is all a part of the pre arranged plan, and the other group isn’t competition since they all have diamonds advertising that they bagged a male at some point in the past and left him at home for the evening.  This is excellent, as the percentage of huntresses in the vicinity just went down.  

Two beers in means that I have to go to the bathroom.  Already, and we just got there.  I head off.  I find the women’s room in this place fascinating.  First, all the toilets are automatic flushers, so that our drunk asses won’t forget, miss the handle all together, or injure our drunk selves while trying stand on one spiked heel and flush with the other one.  Totally genius.  There are also posters on the backs of the stall doors.  The hottest males in the whole place adorn the posters hanging in the bathroom walls.  I text my neighbor with this revelation.  After making sure the automatic flusher works, the sink is totally awesome.  This is a huntresses’ temporary lair to repair the face paint and fluff hair.  It seems like every woman stands in front of the mirror to make sure her hair is a rat's nest like one has actually been riding in the back of the pickup on a country road. Never mind the nearest gravel road is 25 miles away and there isn’t a real truck in the whole parking lot.  Again, totally confusing but I participate in hair fluffing to blend in with the surroundings.

I locate my group back.  For some reason, we hunt in groups.  There are more rules to follow that are unwritten and equally confusing.  First, you stay with your group.  Second, you don’t go pee without letting your group know that you’re leaving.  If you lose a member of the group, the evening halts until she is located and everyone is assured of her safety.  The groups are kind of like wolf packs.  There are Alphas, Betas, and Omegas.  The Alphas of my group and the group that we met up with are still trying to align themselves and work out how the evening is going to go.  By now I’m two and a quarter beers in and kind of bored.  The music is modern country and I’m not familiar with the songs. This isn’t my scene, but I’m here and draw on my yoga lessons to “be in the moment.”  This calls for a drunk text!  

Several months ago, a friend texted her colonoscopy results to her whole contact list.  This text went across the nation and possibly to the CIA stating the results were clear and she never has to have another one.  Nearly midnight in a bar is a perfect time to text her.  Nothing better than a sweet drunken revenge text that includes a lot of beer icons.  Message away!  I don’t hear back from her, nor have I heard from her at the time of this writing.  Oh well.  We have hunting to do.

By now, I’m two and a half beers in and hit a philosophical phase.  Apparently, we’re not “fucked up” enough to hunt.  Back to the bar and shots.  This may be one of those rituals to bond our group and the group with met up with together which means a prime opportunity to observe the Alphas in action.  But really, I have to go because of the don’t leave your group rule.  I’m standing at the bar observing my surroundings and trying to locate a quarry. No luck in the quarry department, but a glass is shoved into my free hand.  It is dark and reddish and smells like NyQuil.  Then, I’m part of the group and there is a photo op.  Crap.  I tip my glass up and take a sip.  It tastes like NyQuil as well.  The gag reflex kicks in, the photo op is over.  Then I’m instructed to drink it.  I try again.  Nope.  No way am I drinking more than half a tablespoon of NyQuil.  Then I’m informed of another rule:  If someone buys you a shot, then you’re obligated to drink it.  Crap.  Another rule that I didn’t know about.  I broke that rule.  It was for the safety of those around me.  Shooting that much NyQuil would have caused an instant “Eject! Eject! Eject!” message in my stomach, and the body would have instantly purged itself of everything in the fastest way possible.  And no one wants that to happen while hunting.  I passed the remainder to another group member on the sly so that it looks like I did drink.  Problem solved

After the whole NyQuil fiasco, I was up to two and three quarters of beer to get the NyQuil taste out of my mouth.  Things get a little hazy here.  The bass is thumping on songs that were never meant to have that much bass, there’s a lot of standing around and lost observations since inhibitions and decision making skills are now crap.  One of the group managed to attract male attention for a while.  He was somehow known to the group.

By now I’m three and a quarter beers in along with some NyQuil.  Things are really hazy.  There are frequent trips to the bathroom with lots of hair fluffing, not much hunting, and some dancing.  Dancing mostly consists of running out to the dance floor when a non-country comes over the speakers.  It is here that I put my yoga practice to use that it isn’t meant for.  I can twerk.  Yep, two years worth of cursing the pigeon pose, throwing my ass up in the air for downward dog, and working out means that I can look equally dorky while going lower.  In heels.  I still don’t have any rhythm or form, but I have much much more muscle tone than I did in high school.  

Last call finally came.  It is a bit hazy, as the forth and final beer of the night nearly did me in.  I quit drinking way before then, but  things don’t metabolize the way they used to.  The women eventually quit fluffing their hair in the bathroom.  Faces started glistening from the sweat of dancing or the alcohol or the combination of both.  The plumage didn’t look so fine and our sober driver was leaving. The other group headed out at some point before us.  The lone male that one of us managed to snag for a short while was seen on the dance floor with some other chick.  We made our way as a group to the car and headed to the nearest McDonald’s for some much needed salt and grease.

Part the Third:  Conclusions

While it was all fun and games for a short while, the truth is, I won’t be going back.  The amount of prep time vs the number of eligible males vs the number of other women on the hunt looks something like 1-1-infinity. I would have a better shot at attracting a transvestite at Hamburger Mary’s than I did scoring in a “country” bar.  The odds weren’t in my favor.  “Country” really isn’t my thing.  Sure, the music was OK, but the only two songs that I knew were “Baby Got Back” and “Friends in Low Places.”  Both of those songs are over 20 years old and were playing when I was in high school.  Thus:  I’m too old for this shit.


These events took place last spring sometime. I forgot to date the post.