Mythology blends with history to create gripping romance.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

A Woman's Biological Imperative. Or, Hos Be Trifflin'.

I'm about to tell you a story.   (names redacted to protect the innocent)  It's not about the proudest moment of my life.  In fact, I'm stewing in the sour scent of my shame as I conjure the details.  (or that smell could be my flip flops... you know the ones).  Anyway, this is partly because I pride myself on not being one of those "catty bitches" everyone also claims not to be but are usually wrong.  (before you get offended, wait until you see where I'm going with this)

You know, I like to be someone who can "hang with the guys" and is completely self-confident.  I step out onto my porch in the morning with both middle fingers extended, supporting a "take me or leave me" sign.  I don't get grossed out by much.  I can pick up my end of the refrigerator.  I can give another woman a compliment and genuinely mean it.   I'm brutally honest, which can chafe sometimes, but you'll never have to wonder if I'm being disingenuous.  And, I can take just as much brutal honesty as I dish and walk away thinking the better of you for it.

As some of you know, I work in Law-Enforcement which is a male dominated field.  I enjoy it, for the most part.  Also, many of my personal friends are men and it's been this way since elementary school when I realized that guys were more apt to share their toys, say honest things, and be easily manipulated.  I often go to lunch or coffee with various male friends from work or that I know socially.  Just as often, I'm the only woman there, and I work very carefully to make sure these men are comfortable being themselves and saying what they want, so that I'll continue to be invited to said lunches.  (I don't like to go to lunch with the women where I work... they're catty bitches).


Men can't help it either, but
that's a different blog.
So, it is at one of these lunches that my point begins.  About 5 men and I are sitting at the table of some generic chain burger joint.  We're all digging into our greasy whatevers and talking about how we're going to eat healthy someday.  In the middle of one of my brilliant monologues, right as I'm about to deliver the punch-line that will have them spraying diet soda out of their noses, I notice that two of them are looking past me with a brainless glaze in their eyes.
    "Dude," one of them whispers.
As if part of some testosterone-fueled collective and, might I add, with the subtly of a mac-truck using it's engine breaks, they all turn to hone in on one focal point.  No gestures.  No further explanations.  No questions.  It's as if they just KNOW.  They just can feel in their primitively programed DNA that across the room, the genetically gifted, exotic, paragon of sensuous femininity is about to wrap her generous mouth around some kind of phallic food item.  They're quiet for a time, ponderously munching on their lunches while simultaneously eye-raping her.
Yes, I did want to stab her in
the face with my spork.
   "Dude," the rest agree.
It occurs to me that I should pity this woman.  Can't she eat her pornographic lunch in peace without being fantasy-violated?  Instead, I'm pissed.  I'm no longer the center of male attention.  She stole it from me.  And, I'm beginning to have the sneaking suspicion that she did it on purpose.
The inevitable witty dialog ensues from my lunch companions (cover your ears ladies if you're a feminist).  i.e. wanting to drink a gallon of her bathwater.  Speculating on what ELSE they would like to feed her.  Wondering at her sexual preferences, etc.
I roll my eyes.  Not because I'm incensed on behalf of my sex, no, I understand the way a male mind works and I'm resigned to the mechanics, thereof.  Instead, my eyes have just honed in on a drastic flaw in the woman that I can use against her.  You know, other than her being a rank whore.
   "Ugh," I say as she finishes her lunch and sashays out of the joint, her perfect tight ass taunting my stout Irish genetics. "How could she wear that purse with those shoes?"
The men remained silent until she'd completely vanished from sight before the smartest of the group asked:  "She was carrying a purse?"

This is when I realized something horrible about myself.

Let me note here:  I am not the self-designated fashion police. This lady was wearing a lime green shiny Gucci knock off with rhinestones that didn't match her bronze dress or teal sling backs, okay?   It REALLY did look ridiculous, but that isn't the point...  The point is:  I am a catty bitch!
Now, in the scramble to rectify/excuse/research/understand this new and repugnant fact about myself, I came across some interesting information that might leave some hope for catty bitches everywhere.  (and, if you think you're not one, you probably are steeping in your own unpleasant scent... the overly flowery, old-lady -drenched-in-perfume smell of DENIAL).

I'll try to be simple and brief:

Contrary to some mythological dictates of Judeo-Christian society, we are evolutionary creatures who are at least 2 million or so years old.  That, my friends, is a veritable metric fuck ton of genetic programming that we, the more highly-evolved critical thinker, (Think homo-sapiens 5.0) have to fight with our ability to be rational and civilized.  Nevertheless, back in the so-called cavemen days, we as women had a pretty rough lot in life.  Not that it's a bowl of peaches now, but things have greatly improved.  Our pre-historic biological imperative was to propagate the species.  The best way to go about that was to attract the biggest, baddest asshole in our area and get him to want to mate with us. (Sounds easy right?)  After that lovely business, (I'm fairly certain cavemen hadn't mastered the art of the female orgasm... I could be wrong) we had to convince said alpha male that we and our offspring were worth protecting, hunting for, and feeding.  Not an easy task.  Now, with the Y chromosome having 3 to 1 odds over the X, earth has always been more populated with women than men.  So what does that mean for us ladies?

Competition.

Just illustrating my point...  yeah...
The sad fact is, many women have and will be left without a male mate which, prior to the scientific breakthrough of artificial insemination, left them childless.  Some cultures throughout time took care of this problem through polygamy, concubines, and such.  Others embraced the Homo-sexuality of women.  In fact, its a popular theory that all women are at least somewhat bi-sexual and have a greater capability of creating a lasting fulfilling relationship with another woman than males.  However, for most of our ancestors, it was all out one-on-one bitch fight to the top of the pretty pack.  So, why are we still attracted to other men and, on occasion, crave male attention even after we're happily "mated"?  Because historically, men, being the adorable yet domineering war-like creatures they are, usually led a short and violent life often leaving their women and offspring unprotected.  So, said woman needed to stay young-looking and beautiful in case she had to go husband hunting a second or third time down the road... with kids.  (Geez, things really haven't changed all that much, have they?)  So, we've been entrenched in this competition for arguably 4 million years.  With a recent population boom, propagating the species is no longer a biological imperative.  Women have a myriad more life choices than we used too, and some of us are capable of taking care of our DAMN selves.  But still, there are those pesky primitive instincts to steal the attention of all men in our vicinity that have been ingrained into our DNA.

I find this topic fascinating, but I won't go on forever.  My simple point is this:  We ARE catty bitches.  We can't help it.  If we feel like our biological imperative is being threatened, we'll do our very best to find a weakness, any subtle flaw, and rip it wide open, exposing it to others so that we can cling to our tenuous position on the feminine totem pole.  Granted, some of us are worse at this than others.

But, I'm going to look at it this way:  The next time I'm irritated at a certain friend who can't seem to pay me an honest compliment to save her life, or I'm undermined by a co-worker who takes credit for my work or makes me look stupid in front of others (not that it's hard), or a passive-aggressive female family member puts me down. etc. etc.  Obviously, she sees me as a threat, as competition in some way or another.  And that is a great compliment, don't you think?  Also, I'm redoubling my efforts to overcome my baser instincts and be less critical of other females.  We should uplift and defend each other.  We need feminine relationships to support us and empathize with us in ways that men just can't.  By doing that, we could force our entire gender to take another step in the evolutionary process, and just make the world a more positive place.  



 

Thursday, February 24, 2011

An Open Letter to Skinny Jeans.

Dear Skinny Jeans,
First of all... what are you doing to our men? (boys?)  
What the fuck is this?
Is this the Image we want to leave for future Generations?
Srsly?!


The Rhythm is going to get you!
Yeah, we're coming for you!
So, remember the 80's?  Remember how all through the 90's and beyond we pointed and laughed at the ridiculous hilarity that was stone washed skinny jeans, boys in eyeliner, and neon... well... anything?

 Well, thank you, skinny jeans.  I am holding you personally responsible for the current decline in fashion sense. You just couldn't stay dead, could you?

This is how people in skinny jeans make me feel inside.
 I was walking past Hot Topic the other day, and about had a Massive Coronary Event!  Remember wide legs and chains?  Fishnet and safety pins?
Remember the good old days when freaks dressed in BLACK and SILVER?  What do they have there now?  Mother effing skinny jeans.  And Twilight paraphernalia.




  Seriously!!!???  It looked like the worst of the 80's blew it's disgusting coked out chunks all over and tried to get kids to buy it by slapping Justin Beiber on the front.  JUSTIN BEIBER...  In Hot Topic... Yack.

But I digress.

So skinny jeans... what the fuck?  I don't know if you know this or not, but there are those of us with hips and the fact that you have come back into style alienates a good deal of society.  The one's with an ass.  I'm not unreasonable in my supreme hatred of you, you make it easier for the world to see the rest of our wicked awesome boots, and at first, I thought I might have appreciated that.  However, I've come to believe even that trend is indicative of superman wearing his  underwear on the outside of his pants.

All I'm asking is that you let out your seams.
It's better for everyone.

Friday, February 4, 2011

My Crack - A Self Portrait.

I'm not a person who's prone to addiction. I smoked for a while, decided to give it up with no problems. I drink moderately, less than once a week. I have a diet soda maybe once a month, if that. I dabble in computer games, but can step away to have other hobbies, ambitions, interests, social interactions, a job and a sex life (trust me, this is rare). I indulge in retail therapy, but rarely have problems paying my bills. I gambled on a cruise once, and maybe in Vegas, but accept the fact that the Gods of fortune do not favor me. In fact, if I'm going to waste my money on things I can't have in Vegas, I'll pay a striper. I eat like a horse, but I'm not addicted to food. I can quit any time...I swear.... Moving on.

However, my life pretty much revolves around one thing... Coffee.
I wake in the morning and think, 'I love my house and family and cars and everything, but... there's really no reason to get out of my bed. It's comfy in here. It's cold out there. Decision made. Three presses of my snooze button later and usually a bit of humanity seeps into my semi-conscious thoughts:

Wait. I have to go to work. My coffee is there. Of course, there is coffee at home in the freezer (the only way to properly retain coffee freshness), but that's my husband's coffee. Now, my husband doesn't drink any old Liberican swill, however, his coffee isn't my coffee. I pay two or so extra bucks per lb. for my coffee. And, that makes it better.

Groaning, I throw off my covers, grapple with my clothing, schpackle on some makeup, tie my hair down, make a fruit shake, ignore and/or bark at my family, and throw my ten-year-old at her elementary school. If she's lucky, she'll have time to shut the car door before I peel out of the school roundabout and take off for coffee. I mean work.

Once there, I avoid any eye-contact with people, especially the chatty ones, until I go through two reinforced steel sliders and one security door to reach my break room. On the fridge, there is a sticker that clearly states: "For Food Only, No Specimen Allowed". Sometimes, people ignore this sticker. I won't go into the details, needless to say, I don't store my food in the fridge. However, the ignored freezer contains only some sad person's Lean Cuisines and my ambrosia.
Dark French or Italian, sometimes Sumatra, coarse ground, imported, freshly roasted, Arabican beans. They're not hauled to me by a Colombian's donkey. They do not have to claim to be "good to the last drop". The "best part of waking up" is knowing that I have enough money to not have to drink Folgers.

No, indeed not. Ethiopian governments have been toppled to get me my coffee. My morning drink is steeped in the blood of Brazilians and Nicaraguans, but roasted on american soil, FAR from the reaches of Starbucks (who notoriously over-roasts to the state of scorching, thus turning what should be a strong but smooth dark roast into a bitter brew).

Chocolate notes with a citrus undertone assault my nose as I eye-ball the amount that should go into my French press (pilfered, I mean "borrowed", from my French friend which makes it... like... Frenchier). Only filtered water, from the red spout on my office Mountain Springs dispenser, heat the beans, but don't boil them overmuch. Thank you, Government spending!

 I close my eyes and inhale the scent of a tropical climate at altitudes of about 3,000 to 6,500 feet where the slower growing process concentrates the delicate flavor the Arabican bean. 4 minutes are timed with careful precision. And then, with trembling anticipation, I pour it into my favorite mug, where the lip is tilted at just the right angle to prevent inadvertent spillage.


I do not taint my coffee with creamers or milks. Do not mistake me, I hold no ill will against those that do. I just chose to enjoy my morning cup black, or lightly sweetened with a bit of Stevia.  This way, I take my much anticipated first sip and fully enjoy the dark, sensual taste of a carefully cultivated drink grown in just the right climatic conditions. Plus, I can hold onto the moral high ground that my not addiction is the healthiest there is: Calorie free, won't raise my glycemic levels, contains no artificial sweeteners, flavors, sugar, or carbonation. Probably has the most Antioxidants of anything that I will drink that day (including green tea), is a vaso-dilator, mood elevator, and just tastes divine.

After finishing about half a cup, I become aware of my surroundings. Welp, I'm already here, and my socks match, (mostly because I only buy black socks) so I might as well do some work or something. I have coffee to pay for, after all. And, now that I've had something to fuel my morning, I can work like a mother-fucker until lunch. I may need another boost around lunch time, but I try to make THAT green tea, just so I can retain my stomach lining.

I sit at my desk and listen to  people with addictions to drugs, kiddie porn, alcohol, and cigarettes, who are chained to the bench outside my door in bright orange or yellow jumpsuits.  They lament their problems and I scoff at them inwardly as I savor my elixir of life...  Because people with addictions are weak.



Sunday, January 30, 2011

Just "Writing This Shit Down".

I've been batting around the idea of a blog since 2007. This whole time, I've been pretending that I don't have one because I'm being anti-conformist or something. If I'm being brutally honest, I find myself generally bored with a lot of my families' blogs and I feel pressured to read them. I didn't want to subject others to this kind of pressure. It's like, I really could care less if little Timmy took his first shit in the "big person's" potty. Hopefully, we all conquer that obstacle in our development and continue to use this skill until we have to get our diapers changed again.

Also, your salsa garden makes me feel ashamed of my neglected, weed ridden plots of dirt. Your weight loss journey doesn't motivate me, it just makes me want to eat cheese and drink bacon grease. I hope to never meet your grandkids as most small children tempt me to rip out my uterus with a wire hanger. And health blogs are the worst! After I'm done reading them I'm certain I'm a delusional schizophrenic with eye ball cancer caused by some undiagnosed degenerative terminal disease.

So, generally, I ignore most of the blogs written by people I know and love. Being the terrible human being that I am, if I were to write this hypothetical personal blog, I would have some kind of emotional double standard. After each new post, I would stand at anyone's door ringing the bell insistently yelling, "Comment on my blog post! It's fucking brilliant!"

Welp, To make a long blog post short(ish), I have to say I FINALLY found a place where I belong. As a semi-creative type, I find that I've attempted innumerable outlets for said creativity i.e. Dancing (ridiculous amounts of dancing, which I still haven't given up), musical instruments, theater, poetry (a brief and pathetic trip into "emo" land set to perfect meter), herbalism, "new age" what-not's, etc. With every attempt to immerse myself into these new pursuits and the "worlds" within which they exist, I found only one thread of consistency. I could bullshit my way through them all, the entire time feeling like some kind of empathetic voyeur. Later, I would come home and spill characterizations and observations into some kind of semblance of a sexy plot line like the one's I read. in 2010, I finally committed myself to what I wanted to be... A Romance Novelist.

I recently started immersing myself in my local chapter of RWA or "Romance Writer's of America". They're constantly sending out links to their various blog posts and I thought to myself, "I need to get to know these ladies... so, what the hell, I'll give these blogs a try." Well, I guess what I've been trying to get to this whole time is: I LOVE reading about writers! It stands to reason that writers would be good bloggers, but there is something fundamentally different about romance novelists, especially. I think we take in the world through a different scope.

I found myself in the living room of a dear friend and critique partner while we celebrated our RWA Nano wrap up. Surrounded by about a dozen ladies who've all known each other longer than I have, and yet l instantly felt at home. Which is rare. It was because, these ladies, as unique and wonderful as they each are, UNDERSTAND and accept my eccentricities because they ALL have some of their own! We wrote goals for our next year down, and mine was to start a blog. Their unanimous advice was to just "write shit down!"

So, here I be. Writing shit down. Thanks ladies for your support and encouragement. I hope to join your ranks as I write about well... writing.