#500wordsaday: I'm Not Afraid Anymore (spoken like Kevin McAllister)

1) A time you lied
2) A time you were hurt
3) The last time you were happy for a week straight
4) Family
5) How you wish you started your day (and then why you aren’t doing that already)
6) Your most authentic moment
7) When you really loved yourself
8) When you were scared
9) Why you long for love
10) Something about you that you’re hoping people don’t notice   / Something about you that you’re hoping people do notice

500 Words a Day: When You Were Scared

A time I was scared?? I don't know...I can't think...

**fast forward 3 hours**

According to one of my girlfriends, I have writer's block on this subject because I don't scare easily. Which is true; aside from monkeys and outhouses, of which I have real fears, I just don't find myself all that afraid, all that often. Plus, I have written several blogs about facing my fears, overcoming fears, and the likes...so I felt that to make this a different post, I really needed to think of a specific moment of being afraid, not a general fear.

But I still can't think of one. Because I have writer's block, hence why I needed this blog challenge to get my wheels turning.

**fast forward another hour**

It's no secret that several years ago, I found myself smack dab in the middle of an abusive relationship. After he smacked me in the face with a Tupperware plate only a few weeks into dating, somehow I was moving into this guy's apartment, then buying a house with him, cooking all of his meals, raising his daughter, and living in a shadow of what I used to think was my life. It was weird.

It's still weird, after a lot of time and a lot of therapy. I'm the opposite of the "type" of woman who gets abused by a guy. I'm tough. I'm strong, confident, and stubborn. And at that time in my life, I was also controlled, manipulated, and bullied. I made decisions out of fear, constantly on edge and trying to avoid starting a fight. I was certainly not myself.

There was a summer when we were together, that two of my cousins were getting married, just a couple weeks apart. Of course, being the typical abuser, my boyfriend hated my family and didn't want to attend either event. We compromised though, and he agreed to attend the first as my date, and that the second - in which I was the Maid of Honor - he'd skip.

Clearly, I actually think not attending a wedding with your girlfriend makes you an absolute douche bag, BUT at the time, and in my state of mind, this seemed fair enough.

So the day of Wedding #1 arrives, and I am really excited; I borrowed this sexy vintage wrap dress of my mom's that I worked out tirelessly to fit into, and I am so excited that he's finally coming to something with me. I spend an embarrassing amount of time getting ready, curling every one of my individual ringlets so they're perfect - even though I have natural, bouncy curls - and perfect my makeup. I come bouncing out of the bedroom, ready to go, expecting that he's ready and waiting for me - as any decent man would be.

He's in basketball shorts on the couch, watching basketball.

"Are you going to get ready? We need to get going in a few."
"Nah, I'm not going...there's a Lakers game on."
"But...you said you'd go with me to this wedding."
"I don't want to."

My obvious disappointment is showing on my face, and I get upset; I find myself practically begging him to take me - my family was waiting, I was really excited for him to come (who the fuck knows why). And now 10 minutes from go-time, he literally is like, nah.

Angrily, he throws on slacks and a shirt and walks to the car, as if I have somehow done something wrong. I blindly follow and get in the car, and am already pulling up the directions to the church in my GPS before he's even out of the driveway.

We've not quite made our way from the house to the freeway, when my gut signals my brain in a way that I can't quite explain. You know the feeling you get when someone is following you in a dark alley? It's like that. A sort of light-headed, uneasy feeling, like all I want to do is dive head first out of the car. I don't say a word, just sit patiently and still, letting the GPS in my phone direct us from the southbound freeway, over the Fremont Bridge into downtown Portland. He's been yelling since the freeway on-ramp. I'm ruining his life by expecting him to miss this basketball game. I clearly hate him and want him to be miserable. He hates me, his daughter hates me. I'm fat and ugly, and I disgust him, and maybe if I didn't have these horrible tattoos he wouldn't be so embarrassed to take me out on a date or to a wedding.

And while he's yelling at me, I'm just sitting in the car, listening to the GPS, trying to keep myself composed. No reason to cry, no reason to yell back - that will only make it worse.

"You need to turn right at the end of the bridge."

And in a second, he went from yelling at me, to a white-knuckled, brow-furrowed silence. Because you know, repeating GPS directions is a clear no-no. As he aggressively flipped his blinker, I flinched, and with that, he snatched my phone out of my hand, and from less than a foot away, threw it - full steam - at the side of my head.

From the second the hard plastic hit my temple, I didn't move an inch. He didn't say anything else, nor did I. I picked my phone up from the floorboard, and we sat in dead silence, with the exception of Siri's voice, directing him to the church. My heart was racing, my lower lip trembling, my eyes staring straight ahead; I don't think I even blinked. My throat was dry, and my thighs were trembling, until finally he pulled up at the curb about a block from the wedding venue.

I don't know exactly what came over me, but I practically leaped from the car. The second his foot laid on the brake, I had my purse and cell phone in my hand, and slammed the passenger door in his face, and was halfway up the block before I exhaled the breath I'd been holding for what felt like an hour. I didn't turn around, didn't look back, just walked as quickly as my inappropriately high heels would carry me towards the church, as he drove towards Vancouver, probably seething.

This was a turning point in our relationship, as I could no longer deny what was happening. I was being abused. I had just had a cell phone thrown in my face, and had then been left on the side of the road in downtown Portland, by my boyfriend, who I had been scared to get into a car with. This was a moment of true domestic violence, of which I was an obvious victim. I knew, walking into the church, that my family knew something was wrong. But I still didn't say a word. And I still had a great time at the wedding, danced all night with the groomsmen at the wedding (and considered going home with any one of them, if just to prove a point), and got incredibly drunk before getting a ride home at the very end of the party, in the wee hours of the night.

While the fight we had when I got home was far more heated, far louder, an far more physical, it was nothing like the part of the evening where I was stuck in the car being verbally assaulted by someone who was supposed to love me. I wasn't scared at home, fighting, being slammed against the front door. I wasn't scared of that, because that was routine in our house. It was far scarier being stuck in a vehicle with him, while part of me wondered if he was considering driving it off the side of the Fremont, just to avoid me getting to spend time with my family.

This would sadly not be the defining moment in our relationship, where I would realize I could never make it better and needed to leave; that moment was still more than a year in the future; but this was a defining moment in which I realized I lived with someone I was afraid of, and whom I deeply hated. I would never ask him again to attend an event or party with me; we lived essentially separate lives from that night forward, two people in the same house, who rarely even made eye contact unless we were fighting.

Ideally, I would never have met this guy, and would never have fallen victim to a manipulative narcissist, but several years later I can at least look back confidently. I know I suffered a lot, tolerated a lot, and was bullied a lot - but I did learn to always stand up to what I'm scared of. It's easy to think of things that scare you, or moments you were afraid of something - but what really matters, is that you are able to overcome it all.

And that you don't allow your fear to keep you from forging ahead. #nofear

#500wordsaday: Maybe Next Time I'll Wear a Dress

1) A time you lied
2) A time you were hurt
3) The last time you were happy for a week straight
4) Family
5) How you wish you started your day (and then why you aren’t doing that already)
6) Your most authentic moment
7) When you really loved yourself
8) When you were scared
9) Why you long for love
10) Something about you that you’re hoping people don’t notice   / Something about you that you’re hoping people do notice

500 Words a Day: Family.

Oh boy.

It has taken me a long time to learn the lesson that genetics, does not mean family - that just because someone is related to you, does not make them family. And even more, that that's okay. I have only recently been able to accept that not everyone in my genetic family will always love or protect me, and that not everyone who loves and protects me, will be genetically related to me. 

And that's fine. 

I thought for a long time about how to approach this prompt - do I talk about who my family is, where we came from, what we've been through over the past 10 years? Do I vent about my frustrations or feelings of abandonment, or perhaps talk about who has become my family in the absence of my 'real' family? 

But, to what recourse? At what point does being upset by these things become useless. It won't change. My fate is sealed. I'm different; I stand up and speak out, and because of this, I "can't let things go." So why continue the uphill battle?

No. Instead I focus on what's great about my family; I focus on the moments that fill me with joy to be a Whitmore. I focus on the parts of me that are wholeheartedly Whitmore - the stubbornness, the passion, the dramatic emotion (both good and bad ), the deep-seeded feelings, and the ability to express them passionately. These are things that I possess, just like my grandma, just like my aunts and uncles, just like my cousins; these are things that we all possess that make us who we are, and that's fine. It's fine that we scream at the TV because our team is losing. It's fine that we laugh loudly and that we gesture expressively while telling a story.

It's all just fine (mostly). 

So instead of groaning at the family prompt, I am choosing to focus on a positive family moment. While they may not be as common as the negative ones anymore, they do still come around, and I do still have them. And I think they are often overshadowed by all of the negative. 

Last month, I took my grandma to mass at her church. 

I should preface this with, I hate going to church. I am not a Catholic, nor do I believe in most of what the Catholic church preaches. Going to mass makes me incredibly uncomfortable, and in my jeans and tee shirt I certainly stuck out like an awkward non-believing sore thumb in the middle of the building. For 2 hours I was fidgety in my seat, unsure of when to stand or sit or kneel or do cartwheels (those Catholics, man, they really keep up the cardio during all those prayers). 

Anyway, I wanted to spend some more quality time with my grandma, so I called her and told her I was coming to get her for mass. She was surprised, but pleasantly. I have made a commitment to spending more time with her, and I don't always want to just chill down in her apartment to do so - taking her to mass was a nice way to get her out of the house.

By the way...things no one told me before I picked her up, that would have been nice to know: Grandma is a greeter, so she gets to mass an hour early! 

Awkward.

So here I am, in jeans and flip flops, standing next to my grandma in the front door of a church, greeting every Catholic in Milwaukie as they come through the door. It was hilarious on every level, as she introduced me to everyone as "one of my many lovely granddaughters," as I awkwardly shifted in my sandals, saying hi and being introduced to all of them. 

The best part was, she was IN. HER. ELEMENT. I have never seen my grandma so in the zone, so happy, so excited, or smiling so big. I've never felt so loved or valued by her, as I did as she proudly exclaimed to all of her church ladies that I had called to tell her I wanted to go with her to mass. It has been many years since I've seen her thriving like she was that Sunday morning. 

Side note: The old, single men at St. Johns, are all about my grandma. She's their queen, and they adore her.

I tell you what, she was called beautiful by so many old men, I about died. All of them with their hugs and cheek smooches, and then the you're just as lovely as your grandmother hand shakes. My oh my, was she the prom queen of the 10am mass or what?! Every one of them asked about her son, who was dying of cancer, every one of them asked who my mom and dad were, every one of them offered her a hug, a kiss, a prayer, a million dollars. It was amazing. 

It is really easy with family - and especially with mine - to focus on the negative, to get caught up in fights and drama, to let the bad overshadow the good. But for me, the resolve is that my grandma will know, until the day she dies, that I love her, value her, and appreciate her. I have never claimed to be the perfect grandchild, but I have made a promise to myself that no matter anything else going on, I will spend Thanksgiving and Christmas with my grandma - wherever that may be - until she's no longer with us. In my family, that may require some uncomfortable conversations and some moments at a dinner table that feel similar to sitting in a Catholic Mass, but I don't care. None of that matters as much as having a positive and memorable relationship with my grandma. And I'm prepared to make any necessary amends in order to maintain that with her. 

Family isn't always easy; in fact more often than not, it's really challenging. It's a lot of people with like personalities, trying to coexist with all of their feelings; with my family, that means a lot of highly passionate people who all believe they're right all the time. That's hard. 

But for the grin on my grandma's face when I dropped her off after church and taught her how to take a selfie, it was (and continues to be) worth every challenging speed bump along the way. 

#500wordsaday: They Say Time Heals All Wounds

#500WordsADay...that should not be so hard, right??

I have been failing miserably at blogging this year. I think in part, it's because I have had a lot of family shit hit the fan, and that's what I want to write about...but I don't want to be disrespectful to my dad, or fuel the fires, so I haven't posted any of it. Instead, I journal it, and then discuss at length with my therapist, who continues to be mind blown by it all.

That said, I miss the public forum of this blog, so when this 10 day challenge was presented to me, I jumped on it. Because really, if I can't write 500 words in a day, I am pretty much failing at my life.

So here are the prompts. Take them or leave them. I highly recommend leaving them and writing whatever is on your heart and mind but consider these the little minnows that might lead you to the big kahuna.

1) A time you lied 
2) A time you were hurt
3) The last time you were happy for a week straight
4) Family
5) How you wish you started your day (and then why you aren’t doing that already)
6) Your most authentic moment
7) When you really loved yourself
8) When you were scared
9) Why you long for love
10) Something about you that you’re hoping people don’t notice   / Something about you that you’re hoping people do notice

So here goes...

Day 1: A Time You Were Hurt

Several months ago, I met someone who was totally my type. Young, fun, and with that dirty rugged look I find so attractive. We hit it off right away - I remember feeling like, even in a room of a hundred people, even in a booth cramped with 7 of us, he was looking at me like the rest of the room didn't exist. I had his undivided attention from the moment I shook his hand, and he had mine from the moment he smiled that half-cocked grin.

There were beers, shots, and shuffleboard that night, and the obvious connection continued well into the evening - and late into the night, until at some point hours after falling asleep, I opened my eyes long enough to say good morning as he tip-toed out of my apartment. 

What surely should have been a one-time thing (we hadn't even exchanged phone numbers) did not stay that way, as the mutual friends between us made sure contact information was received, and that we were both aware that we each wanted to see each other again. I can thank said mutual friends at least, for getting my number into his hands; though it would seem that said mutual friends' loyalty may have stopped there. 

As quickly as things began, they came to an abrupt halt when this fella with whom I had shared several meals, a few movies, and some late nights, all but disappeared. Almost mid-conversation, the rug was yanked from under me, and he stopped texting me. Being the independent and somewhat stubborn girl that I am, I said fuck it then, and convinced myself he was a dick - even though it really didn't make sense, and I was more confused than confident in that conclusion. I have been buffaloed in the past, but this one just really didn't make sense; but again I am also not one to waste time on someone who isn't invested in me, so, that seemed to be the end of it. 

Until it wasn't the end of it.

Fast forward to about a month ago, when I get a call from the above-mentioned handsome fella, asking if we can have a drink. Whether it was curiosity or insanity, I'm not sure, but I agreed to hang out - I certainly wanted to ask if he'd had some sort of mental breakdown of if he'd been kidnapped, abducted by aliens, or if perhaps he'd had all of his fingers cut off. So there we are, sitting at a bar stool, and he's telling me these awful things that my friends had told him about dating me - that I was crazy, that I was in a hurry to get married, that I wanted to find someone to take care of me - you name it, they said it. And in the midst of this conversation was this very transparent moment of an apology for the fact that he let someone else sway the way he clearly thought of me. 

I'm not really sure which part was more hurtful at the time; the fact that he'd let his feelings be pushed aside by the opinions of someone else, or the fact that someone else would say such shitty things about me - especially someone who claims to be one of my good friends. At the time, I wasn't sure. However now, I'm certain - there is nothing quite as shitty hurtful, as having someone you trust, someone you have always been there for, someone you thought you mattered to, talk shit about you to someone who expresses legit interest in you.

Especially when it is categorically as untrue as it gets! 

Anyone who knows me well, knows that a rushed, intense, crazy romantic relationship is the furthest thing from what I want. A rush to get married? Yea right! I didn't have a boyfriend refer to me as a Unicorn for nothing - he (and his buddies) called me that because I am over 30, single with no kids, have no drama, and just want to chill, go slow, and take care of myself, dammit.

It's not easy to reflect on who your friends are and have to come to a conclusion that they're not always who you believe them to be. And this has proven to be one of those circumstances. This guy has continued to call and text since the night at the bar, and not in the hookup fashion - quite the opposite actually, in a very gentlemanly manner. Where things are going, I have no idea. Nor am I worried about it, because despite what my frenemies said, I am NOT a crazy chick! I am enjoying things moving slowly, asking tons of questions and getting them answered, and continuing to take care of myself in the meantime. 

As much as it sucks to be rejected by a guy with no explanation, it really hurts to be stabbed in the back by your friends. It hurts to discover your friends are not looking out for you, and worse, that they're the ones talking about you behind your back. It hurts to realize that not all of your friends are the trustworthy confidants you believed they were. But, as much as it does hurt, it hurts even more to let it happen continuously. So best believe these two have been booted from my friends list. The last thing I need is to have people who don't love me, in my circle. #hardpass #girlbye 

#BrockTurner, That White Guy With the Dead Eyes Who Can Do Anything He Wants

I will certainly not be the only blogger to write about Brock Turner. I wasn't the first, nor will I be the last. And for a few days I've wondered if it is even worth the trouble, because every blog post I've read so far, has already made my points. Everything I've read is spot on with my own thoughts on the situation...so do I really need to write my own post? Or should I just continue sharing the ones I've read? Is it really worth writing?

Of course it's worth it. Because every post that is written about the blatant rape culture that took place with this case, is another opportunity for it to fall on a new set of eyes. Whether it's on Buzz Feed or Huff Post, or on CNN or a local news station, or if it's on my unknown blog on Blogspot - if one additional person sees it, then it was worth writing.

The back story is not needed; you've all seen it. Brock Turner, the model student athlete who was recently charged, convicted, and sort of punished for sexual assault. The jury, who found him guilty on three counts, without question. His dad, who basically agreed that he did it, but argued that there was no need to punish him and, you know, ruin his life as a swimmer. The judge, who apparently agreed that he shouldn't be punished for it. And the young woman, who's voice was not heard in court, and for whom there was no justice. Another young woman blamed for her own sexual assault. Another young woman asked why she was so drunk, why she was out so late, why she was wearing that sexy little top without her sweater.

What happened here is not surprising in the slightest. Brock Turner is white and wealthy, and he has a douchey rich white-guy name. He's a good student, and he goes to an accomplished university (insert sarcastic hand job motion here, because, who fucking cares). He gets good grades. He has a douchey white-guy hair-cut. He apparently knows how to swim. And he can do whatever he wants.

Because if you're white enough, rich enough, and athletic enough, you can do whatever you want in this country. And if someone should tell you that you cannot, your white enough, rich enough daddy will come along and say, oh yes you can, son, you can do anything you want.

And apparently, "whatever you want," does in fact include, ramming your dirty fingers into an unconscious woman's vagina and then dry humping her limp, noodly, passed-out body until someone comes by and makes you stop.

If you have not already read the victim's letter to her attacker, you absolutely need to, by the way. She shares terrifying details about what it is actually like to be fingered and dry-humped while unconscious, and she discusses in grave detail what it is like to need a rape kit in an emergency room. For those of you without a vagina, I can assure you there is nothing pleasant about anything inside you that you don't want, or are unprepared for.

This case has so many moving parts that I have struggled to even keep myself grounded as to which part I am so pissed about. Am I mad that he did it? Am I mad that he tried to argue that she consented? Am I mad about the comments under countless articles that blame the victim for being hammered? It's hard to keep tabs on my own anger, because really, I am just so mad about the entire thing, from start to finish! This woman went to a party with her sister, where she got drunk and may or may not have been dancing with a guy she didn't know.

Something every woman I know, has done, by the way.

She then finds herself in the emergency room getting her lady parts swabbed and photographed, after at some point she leaves the party, passes out, and winds up naked in the dark behind a dumpster being assaulted by a guy she doesn't know.

She is then, of course, blamed by these internet troll creeps for being drunk and slutty. Like every chick who gets hammered at a party deserves to wake up in the emergency room without the panties we had on just a few hours prior. And then, to make matters even worse, a fucking super-expensive, over-paid, creepy defense attorney sits in court, and under oath, blames her too! And then to top it all off, this fucking judge, who's sworn duty is to protect her, lets this little douche bag off with 6 months in county jail!! WHAT?!! How does this make any sense? How is this rational? How is this happening?!

Brock Turner is not a Stanford student.
Brock Turner is not a champion swimmer.
Brock Turner is not an all-American athlete or an exceptional academic.
Brock Turner is a sexual predator.
Brock Turner is a rapist (note, yes I do know he didn't actually rape her - however I do believe with all my being that had he not been stopped by two guys on a bike ride, he would have).
Brock Turner is a privileged, spoiled, catered little bitch, who has never been told no and who truly does believe he can take what he wants from anyone.

Brock Turner is what is wrong with America. He is why women don't go out alone. He is why we walk to our cars with our keys out, ready to stab one into someone's eye. Brock Turner is the reason we are worried about being drugged, why we worry about what we wear when we go out. He's the reason we take friends with us to the bathroom. He's the reason we have mace, the reason some of us have guns. Brock Turner is the reason women are defensive, the reason we are mean and unapproachable.

Brock Turner is the reason that women are scared of men.

Brock Turner's dad is the reason for Brock Turner. Dads who raise sons to take what they want, when they want, how they want. Dads who let their sons believe that if a woman passes out drunk, you can still move forward with banging her. Dads who don't teach their sons that no means no, and that the only permission you have to put your dick in someone is the word YES, from her conscious mouth.

Brock Turner and his father are the reason women in America will continue to be blamed for their own rapes, the reason we will continue to wonder what we should have done differently to have avoided being assaulted.

And Judge Aaron Persky, who's job it is to protect women in America from men like Brock Turner, is the reason Brock Turner will be the spoiled, entitled white kid who gets a slap on the wrist for rape.

Slap on the wrist. 6 months. For sexual assault. For sexual assault with the intent to rape.

Let that sink in while you're reviewing his swimming statistics and wondering if he'll be okay now that his dreams of swimming in the Olympics are dead. And then stop giving one single fuck about him, and shift your attention to the actual victim, who got no justice, and who will live the rest of her life a little bit more afraid of men than the rest of us.

LA Face with an Oakland Booty

I hesitate to blog about racism, or perception of racism, because I'm white. I don't feel comfortable, in general, writing about racially driven topics, because we live in a country bursting with white privilege, and I don't want to risk anything I say being misconstrued into something I don't mean.

But I'm going to just come right out and say it today...

Blake Lively is not racist just because she tagged her Instagram photo with the very famous "LA Face with an Oakland Booty" line from Sir Mix-a-Lot's Baby Got Back. 

Dear Twitter: Calm the Fuck Down. 

Blake Lively is not racist. She's white. And she quoted a rap lyric. A famous one. And not even one with the N word in it, as so many rap lyrics do contain. She is not racist just because she quoted a lyric. There is nothing racist about the lyric anyway, regardless of who says it. 

Blake Lively, for the record, has a perfect ass. Perfect face, perfect body, perfect ass. She may or may not be on my celebrity crush list. I'm not into girls, but I would likely bang Blake Lively, given the opportunity. She's hot. And guess what, she does in fact have a big booty! Had she been an adult when the song was written, it could have been written about her! 

Let's review the facts about Blake Lively that would erupt these Twitter trolls to declare war on her, shall we?

1. She's hot as fuck.

2. She's white.

3. She's tall, blonde, and sun-kissed.

4. She's married to the hottest man on Earth (with the obvious exception of Jake Gyllenhaal, who I am saving myself for).

5. She's pregnant and has a better body than anyone on Twitter.

6. She has the actual LA face, coupled with the actual Oakland booty.

Give me a fucking break, seriously. 

Americans are so ridiculous these days. We're so sensitive. We are such sheep that we just jump on any angry bandwagon we find on social media and run with it. Meanwhile, Blake Lively is a human, and is probably mortified by the fact that she's being accused of racism when she literally did nothing wrong.

She better not apologize. I hope she does not make any statement about feeling bad if she offended anyone. No one is offended. They're just ass holes. This chick did nothing wrong but walk her hot pregnant ass down the red carpet and make the rest of us slobber with jealousy. But she's famous, so they'll probably have to issue some bull shit apology statement. Just know, Twitter trolls, she doesn't mean it. She knows she isn't guilty. She's only guilty of having ass for days.

People have nothing better to do these days but bitch and moan about all the ways they get offended. Everyone's offended. And for real it's like, shut up. There are more important things in the world than accusing innocent people of racism when they aren't guilty of anything at all. 

Like shedding a bad light on the best song ever written, for example. 

Blake, honey, if you're listening...don't apologize. You didn't do anything wrong. Just walk down the street knowing that everyone on Twitter is so jealous of your perfection, they can't think. I would encourage you to respond by tweeting the full Baby Got Back video. #lafacewithanoaklandbooty 

Breaking the Law with Attitude

It is no secret that people have bad habits. We all do. Not one of us is perfect. Some of us are closer than others, sure, but perfection simply doesn't exist. And bad habits are just one reason why. 

My worst habit is texting and driving. 

I know. Shut up. I am doing SO much better about it, and now that my new car connects by blue tooth, I can literally just leave the damn thing in the back seat and force myself to knock it off. That said, I have one of the worst bad habits to have, because it is insanely dangerous. 

And also because it can sometimes make you do stupid shit.

Last week, I was heading to a comedy show on a Friday night, and had to pick a friend up on the way. Driving from Vancouver to Milwaukie at 4pm on a Friday, is literal Hell. Traffic was bad. So bad. So bad, I had been on the on-ramp from Mill Plain onto 205 southbound for ten minutes without moving an inch. 

So of course, I found myself messing with the features in the new car I'd bought earlier in the week. Programming the radio stations, getting my phone to connect to the blue tooth, and loading my Pandora stations.So while I was not texting, my cell phone was in my hand.

The weather was gorgeous, so even though I have air conditioning that works in my new car, I had the windows down and the music up loud. I was enjoying the cool breeze with my sunglasses on, listening to Keith Urban's newest single, when I heard a booming male voice from outside say, "get off your phone!!"

Instantly - as I hate to be yelled at - I shouted, "oh my god, fuck off, we aren't even moving!" I mean really, I'd been sitting in the same spot on this on-ramp for more than ten minutes. We were not going anywhere. 

"Excuse me?!?!" shouts the annoyed man out my passenger window.

I look up from my phone, expecting to see some punk-ass looking back at me, just trying to be a dick. He probably hates Keith Urban. And kittens. What a dick.

Instead, I find myself face to face with a police officer.

FUUUUUUUUCK!!!! Fuck, fuck, FUCK!!!

I am now instantly back-peddling, and I lean over and say, "I am so sorry, I thought you were just a random person yelling at me. I am just trying to get my music to sync, I'm sorry!!"

And because the gods were on my side, he just shook his head and said I still had to put the phone down even though we were in traffic, before someone else pulled me over.

Oh. My. God. 

Sets phone down.

Smiles Awkwardly.

"Thank you, and again I'm sorry."

Faces front. Hands on ten and two.

Oh, and then we proceeded to sit side by side, windows down, my music up (he loved Keith Urban) for the entire hour it took to drive from Mill Plain to Johnson Creek at 15 miles per hour, both making occasional side glances.

Me not one time picking up my phone.

Bad habits are a real bitch. Apparently all I need to break this one, though, is to have a cop escort me everywhere I go. 

Five Thousand Dollar Dinners

Have you ever sat down and added up the amount of money you spend on frivolous shit each month? More specifically, on food and drinks from anywhere other than the grocery store?

If you aren’t prepared to make a change in your dining habits, don’t. It will just make you feel bad about yourself.

But if you are prepared to make a change, to start spending more wisely and making better food and drink choices, the first thing to do is pull your checking account statements and add up every swipe from a Starbucks, 7-11, Walgreens, or bar/restaurant/night club. It will blow your mind.

And not in a good way.

I recently read a blog someone had posted on Pinterest that said, basically, that if you stopped going out to eat, stopped ordering lunch in, and stuck strictly to consuming foods purchased at the grocery store, you’d save enough money to buy a round trip plane ticket to anywhere in the United States…every month. Yes, every month. A round trip flight every single month.

No fucking way. There is no way.

But then my curiosity got the best of me. What if she was right?! What if I was really spending that much dining out every month – I mean, I do like to have Jimmy Johns and Thai Terrace delivered occasionally, and I do enjoy a good happy hour. I was convinced she might be right. So I very, very doubtfully pulled my checking account statement for February, March, and April of 2016.

Mind. Blown.

She was right!

I took into account every purchase from mini marts (Pepsi and white cheddar popcorn), Starbucks, and restaurant and bar. I accounted for every food or drink item I paid for with my debit card for 90 days. I did not count the food or drinks I bought while on vacation in Phoenix – part of being on vacation is always bars and meals out, so I don’t think that should be accounted for. And then I averaged the totals and was floored to discover that I have been averaging $450 a month in lunches, dinners, snacks, and happy hours. FOUR HUNDRED FIFTY DOLLARS A MONTH!! That’s more than a thousand dollars a month, people! That’s $5400 a YEAR! On food and beer!

For comparison sake, you should know that I eat lunch out maybe twice a week – usually Jimmy John’s, because I get busy and they deliver a lettuce wrap to me the moment I realize I’m hangry. And I would say I eat out maaaaaybe once a week; usually sushi on a Saturday with my roommate, or Thai food. I am not, by any means, eating three square meals a day at a restaurant. It’s not even close to a daily habit.

But it costing me five thousand dollars every year.

I committed to a 30 day challenge starting today. I’m not going to dine out for the next month, nor will I grab Starbucks or a soda on my way to a movie, while I’m out shopping, or in the middle of a bad day at work. I am committing to eating and drinking only what I purchase at the grocery store or farmer’s market from today until my weekend road trip on June 10^th. My goal is to put that $450 that would have been spent on food, into my travel jar. Because let’s be real, all I ever want to do is take vacations. And I’d rather make my own lettuce wrap and jet off in a plane once a month than eat Jimmy John’s at my desk.

To keep myself focused and in line, I started thinking of all the things I could do with an extra $5,400 a year, and seriously the list blew my mind. I could go to Europe. I could go on a local trip every month all year long. I could live in a nice apartment without a roommate. I could finish my sleeve, tattoo my other arm and both legs. I could start a very expensive drug habit.

Okay so the last one isn’t something I’d actually do, but you see where I am coming from. The fact that I ever complain about money while I am simultaneously spending five grand on sushi and beer, is insane.

I really encourage you all to do the same. Tally your frivolous food tab, and commit to cutting it down. Even cut it in half, just to see if you can do it. The reality is, not only will I be saving a ton of money, but I’m sure to see positive changes in my weight and body size, as well as my overall health and well-being. Eating at restaurants is generally not good for you. You eat way bigger portions of non-organic, unhealthy food. You make choices you wouldn’t make at the grocery store, like appetizers and desserts. You are more likely to have a few beers instead of a glass of wine at home. In general, eating out as often as we do, is not good on our bodies or our pocketbooks. So I am looking forward to this next month, to see how much money I have to waste on other things.

Like shopping sprees with my roommate, to buy clothes that fit better after I lose weight from not eating at Panda Express.

Crossing the Bridge From One Hip to the Other

Among the many, many unattainable physical traits women chase (most commonly the thigh gap), is the elusive bikini bridge. Did you know this was a thing? I mean, I know the thigh gap is a thing, as most of us do. But did you know a bikini bridge was a real thing? And so is a skinny collar bone? Dd you know collar bones can be skinny (or fat, for that matter)? I thought bones were just dense; I had no idea they were a thing you could make skinny. Anyway, the bikini bridge is for real. I only recently discovered it was the hip new thing (pun intended) while searching on Pinterest for a squat challenge.

Why a squat challenge?

Because I also chase ridiculous body traits, and currently that happens to be ass-related. 

However, the fact is, I can do enough squats to have the ass I want. That's attainable. That's a goal - and a realistic one. I can, in fact, do 100-300 squats a day and get that Kardashian-esque booty, should I so choose. Because my ass is just muscle, and muscle can be made bigger if you work on it. That's the key point. That's the difference between a squat challenge and a thigh gap or a bikini bridge. 

But this isn't about me or the size of the junk in my trunk.

So, in case you don't know...just what is a bikini bridge?

When you lay down, do your hips jut out? Do they stick far enough out that you could look right down your bikini bottom at your vagina? That, my friends, is a bikini bridge. If you peer down the camera lens right INTO your bikini bottoms, that is a bikini bridge. Read: if you look like you are suffering from an eating disorder, you may have a #bikinibridge.

Did you know that this is an actual hash tag? I didn't make it up; it's real. And it's a "summer challenge." Get a #bikinibridge and show it off on Instagram. Thank you, internet, for the very public campaign for anorexia. This internet challenge went off the chain at this time last year, with girls from a scary ten years old to women in their thirties, both attempting and showing off their bikini bridges. It trended on Twitter. It was an Instagram phenomenon. I am not making this up!

And for those of us who have the sense to know how dangerous this goal is, it was terrifying and sad. 

**Let me side bar here by saying I understand that there is a population of young ladies out there who are naturally rail thin, who without any effort have a thigh gap or a bikini bridge. And you are not the ones I am intending this blog at. You, you lucky little bitches, can just click away now and enjoy your hotness.**

For the rest of us, this is an unattainable, unhealthy, and honestly quite frightening ideal to put our focus on. Not because it looks bad (because it doesn't), but because it's not realistic for most of us. Just like we can't get a thigh gap by working out to no end, we cannot get a bikini bridge by following any sort of healthy diet or exercise routine out there. 

The scariest part about these trends, is that we are raised in a society that pressures us to think it's what we want. I would be lying if in looking at the #bikinibridge on Instagram, I claimed not to feel some angsty want. I look at these photos and I find myself naturally falling into a mindset of, how can I get that lower body? How can I be certain that when I put on a bathing suit in a month or two, my hips jut out just like that? How can I lose enough weight to get that unnatural-looking space between my thighs, and now between my belly and my pelvic bones? 

The short answer: I can't. 

The longer answer: Do I really even want to? Do I think it's sexy to be that bony? Do I think being that rail thin is attractive? How skinny is too skinny? When I look at myself in a mirror, are my goals realistic or insane? When I do a cleanse, is it for the right reasons, or is it because I want to lose 10 pounds in one weekend? Am I mean to myself by using words like fat? Do I care too much what other people think about my body? Do I worry about having sex with the lights on? Am I too cautious about who sees me in my underwear, or am I open about it? Will I refuse to wear a swim suit this summer? Worse, will I refuse to wear shorts? 

I am, by no means, good to myself in regards to body image. I have talked about this before, and it's something I should probably delve into a bit more in therapy, now that my family drama is at bay and can take a back seat. But I would argue that I don't really know any women at all, who are good to themselves about their body. Which is frightening and alarming. In racking my brain, I genuinely cannot think of one woman in my life - friends, family, coworkers...no one.

Recently, I posted this photo of myself from a few years ago, and a friend's boyfriend commented on it that I looked far too skinny; so skinny he wasn't sure it was me in the photo. And in all honesty, he's not the first person who has made that comment about that same photo of me. Lots of people have. 

But the fact is, I was really offended. Not even offended, that's not the right word. I was mad. I felt attacked. Because I look at this picture of myself and think I look awesome. I look at this picture and think my arms look amazing, and my neck and jawline look thin, and I like that. I think my boobs look fantastic. And then I think - and do not judge me here because I know how bad it is - that my thigh looks fat.

Note, that was the thinnest I've been since I was a freshman in high school. I weighed 106 pounds when this photo was taken. I was the maid of honor in a wedding the next day, and my goal weight for that wedding was 110. I had never been so proud of myself for attaining a goal. And to clarify how small I am at 106 pounds, I graduated high school weighing 115 pounds.

And yes, I realize how unhealthy and crazy that sounds. That does not make it any less true. 

My logical brain knows that I am the healthiest in a size 8-10, weighing 125-140. That is when other people tell me I am the most attractive. That is when I feel the best, when I am not tired or hungry or grouchy. That's when I know I am healthy. However, that is not when I feel the most satisfied with my own body, nor is that when I stop shaming myself about my weight or my size. Those things don't happen until I weigh 106 pounds and wear a size 4.

And apparently, not really even then, since I did just admit I think my thighs were fat in that picture. 

When I am looking at #bikinibridge or #thighgap or #collarbone on Instagram, I thank my lucky stars that I am not in high school now. That I didn't go to school in a time where what I ate, weighed, or looked like in my bikini could be posted on Facebook. I am so lucky that in order to find images of unhealthy skinny women, I had to actually purchase a magazine, not just open an app on my phone. 

Because if this shit were available to my high school brain instead of my 32-year-old brain, I would have an eating disorder. On the real. Not even a doubt in my head.

Because at least at 32, I can be logical. Teenagers cannot be logical. Teenagers cannot look at a photo and understand that it's shopped or morphed, or that the model in it is actually starving. A teenager cannot tell the difference between the bone structure of a Taylor Swift versus that of Khloe Kardhasian. All a teenager sees is skinny and fat; they cannot identify with genetics.

There is something seriously wrong with the body shaming women are raised to do to themselves - and to other women - in America. Very, very wrong. And instead of getting better as we advance in the world, it is getting worse. We should be smarter than this. Instead we're getting seemingly dumber. We're continuing to create insane hash tags feeding into even more insane ideals of what a woman "should" aspire to, and we're doing it in mass quantities via the pound symbol. What the fuck is wrong with us??!

The worst part is that it's not men behind it; it's women. Men are not the ones who are creating these hash tags; men are not the ones following #bikinibridge on Instagram. It is us. We're doing it to ourselves, and we're doing it to each other. Women are judging other women, other bodies. We're calling each other (and ourselves) fat. Women are creating the problem with fat shaming for each other. Why??! Why are we doing that?! Why are we allowing society to convince us that we're fat, that we should hate our bodies, that we look disgusting?! Why are we letting our daughters grow up in the shadows of photo shop? We are perpetuating this trend of women feeling bad and unhappy, based on unrealistic, impossible, fake images of what we decide a woman's body should look like.

It's so bad. It has to stop, needs to change. Because your little girls are standing behind you while you call yourself fat in the mirror. Because your little boys are sitting outside the fitting room hearing you look at your body in disgust as you try on clothes. Because I can assure you right now, that all of the tweenagers in your life, are at home searching #bikinibridge on social media, trying to figure out how to lose an unhealthy amount of weight before their summer vacation. And many of them are taking it way too far. You know at least one teenager who is throwing up her food or leaving her lunch in her locker at school. You know at least one woman on a cleanse for the wrong reasons, or on a fad diet trying to get her body ready for vacation. It's everywhere. And it isn't changing, And it isn't changing because we aren't demanding change.

Women have the power to change the message.

But we don't.

The question is, how far will this trend go before we finally do?

Just Another TSA Agent, Just Another Airport, Just Another Human Rights Violation

I was on vacation this week and traveling, and anyone who has ever taken a trip out of town knows, it can be a real nightmare. Dealing with flights, rental cars, hotels, shuttles, meals, bags, trying to get out the door on time...while vacations are much-needed and usually relaxing in the end, the prep can be quite a bitch. 

Which is why I can usually forgive people being a little more rude, a little more on edge, when they're at the airport. Because let's be honest, I am probably not in my finest hour when I'm at the airport either. I hate it. I hate flying. I hate lines and close quarters and limited options for a meal before boarding a plane. I hate being patted down by strangers, taking off my shoes on old dirty carpet, and the overall smell of everyone else doing the same. 

That said, while I can usually forgive travelers for being a little edgy, I cannot do the same for those of you who work at the airport. You're not going anywhere, you're not tired from spending several days packing and getting things tied up at the office. You're just, at work!

If I acted in my office, the way TSA agents act in the airport, I would no longer have an office. 

I know, I know, we've all read a thousand blog posts about how TSA did something horrendous in the security line at some airport across the country. This isn't news. It happens every day. It's in blogs. It's on Buzz Feed and Huff Post. Sometimes it's even on the local news station. But it's always the same story: TSA agent does something that violates some basic human function, nothing comes of it, and life continues on.

Here's the thing. I don't like bullies. I don't like people who exert their power over everyone else for no reason. I don't like to be harassed, nor do I like to see other people being harassed. And even more, I don't like to see people being harassed in public, while other people pretend not to notice. 

And so, I found myself inclined to write just another blog post about the way I watched TSA violate someone's basic human rights this weekend, just because they could, and the way I stood up and said something, while everyone else in the airport stood there like cattle in line for slaughter, saying nothing...

After an amazing - and I do mean amazing - long weekend in Phoenix for my cousin's wedding, I was headed home on Tuesday afternoon. I had already checked out of my hotel, returned my rental car, and taken a shuttle to the Southwest terminal at Phoenix Sky Harbor International. I was early, so I was in no rush, and planned to get through security and grab lunch and one last vacation margarita before my 5:20pm flight. The woman at the Southwest Airlines counter was pleasant, friendly, and helpful (as they always are on Southwest Airlines). I left my bags to be checked, took just my purse, and headed over to security, noticing somewhere along the way that all of the Phoenix Sky Harbor signage said "the friendliest airport." 

The irony will not fail me. 

I'm in line for security, and things are moving pretty slow for as short as the line is, so I find myself looking around wondering why we're not going any faster. In Portland, the line can be 30 miles long, but you cruise through faster than you'd ever believe. Because in Portland, we're efficient cattle. Shoes off, no water bottles, no metal, laptops out. We're ready in Portland.

Probably because anyone leaving Portland is thrilled at the thought of escaping the rain, so sure, we'll make the airport easy! 

Anyway, so the line in Phoenix is moving slowly, and I make a joke with the woman behind me that we've all had too much Vitamin D and can't get our lives together in line now. Then we see the real hold up - while there are three TSA agents checking ID and boarding passes, they are funneling us all into one line, to go through one body scanner. One. So there is a back up, of course. 

Please note that at this one body scanner, are six TSA agents and also three additional metal detectors and scanners. Not sure why those other six TSA agents who are literally just standing around aren't utilizing those three other machines that are literally just standing there, but it is what it is, as they say. 

So as I said, the line is now backing up to the point that the woman operating the one body scanner starts yelling at us to stay in line. Umm. We are in line. We're just all crowded in this tiny space between the three guys who checked our boarding passes, and the one woman trying to get us through the only scanner. We didn't plan it this way. We don't work here. Maybe stop shouting. 

And this is where things escalate. We're all in this tight space, and we're all getting yelled at...for really no reason at all. For incorrectly standing in the line that TSA put us in, I guess. And then three very polite young men from Southwest Airlines come through, pushing three people (two elderly, one disabled) in three wheelchairs, needing to get through security. As I would expect, these three people are pushed through to the front of the line (which, by the way, is now getting incredibly long and moving even slower). The three agents from Southwest inform the agent from TSA that these three meet the requirements to leave shoes on, and they leave, headed back to their ticket counter - but not until they've wished these three passengers a safe and pleasant flight. 

Because they work for Southwest, not for TSA, so they aren't required by job description to be ass holes. 

The woman in control of the body scanner is now visibly agitated. Her resting bitch face is now an active bitch face. She looks at this woman who has a visible physical disability and - loud enough for all of us to hear - tells her that she has to get up and walk through, that they cannot scan the wheelchair.

1. That is absolutely not true. Wheelchairs DO go through the body scanners. 

2. You're a bitch.

The woman is now struggling to get out of the wheelchair. Actively struggling. She can't walk, but she's now been told by TSA that she has to, and her pleading explanation got her no sympathy. So now, as the line continues to grow and grow, and as people are increasingly frustrated, and as we are all in a tiny place with nowhere to go, where they've just added three huge wheelchairs, this woman attempts to get up. 

Time basically stops and stands still, until the TSA agent finally shouts "you know what, just stay seated and we'll scan the chair, no one has time for all this." 

What the...WHAT?!!? You just said you can't send wheelchairs through the body scanner! You just told her she had no choice but to get up! You just told her, basically, too damn bad your leg is hurt and you can't walk; you better find a way to walk now! 

The woman settles back into her chair, says nothing, and hangs her head as they take her through the body scanner in the wheelchair and send her on her way. She says nothing to express her frustration, embarrassment, anger, nothing. She just goes on her way. And I can't believe it. My blood is boiling. 

Mind you, I am the first person in line behind these three wheelchairs, and I am the perfect airport traveler. I have no shoes on, no metal anywhere. My flip flops and jean jacket have gone through the metal detector already, along with my purse and my quart-size bag of 3 ounce liquids. I am only wearing leggings and a tank top, because I hate being fondled in security, so I try to just start out as naked as I can. But I am also not an animal, so I am still waiting quite patiently in line as I watch this lunacy unfold in front of me. 

The TSA agent with the active bitch face now motions for the elderly man to come through. She shouts at him (he has in no way indicated that he can't hear normal volumes, by the way) to inquire if he has any metal in him. No she did not ask if he had metal on him, but rather asked if he had metal in him. He replied politely that no, he had remembered to empty his pockets. 

"Are you sure you don't have any metal, no false hips, no replacements, no pace makers??" 

WHAT!??! 

The elderly man replied again, "no, no metal ma'am." And proceeded to wheel through the body scanner without saying anything further, as she literally rolled her eyes at him. 

I couldn't take it. I looked right at the TSA agent and said, "well that was super inappropriate." 

She then took me out of the body scanner line and sent me through the metal detector instead. Which of course didn't beep because I was almost totally naked and am smart enough to remove my earrings when I get in line. I was the ONLY person she "let" cut through the scanner line into the metal detector line instead. When a young guy my age in line behind me, followed in the direction I was going, she stopped him and said "just her, not you."

What was your end game here? To get me out of line as fast as possible so I couldn't continue to call you out for being in violation of all sorts of things? Or so you could get me to set off the metal detector and succumb me to some other violating body cavity search? 

As I gathered my belongings, I looked back and watched the young men who'd been in line behind me stand silently as she bullied the elderly man's even more elderly wife through the scanner, asking her to "try" to stand because scanning the chair is a challenge (no it isn't). I watched them stand there, looking away, trying to not notice the blatant abuse taking place 3 feet in front of them. I shook my head and walked away, feeling angry, defeated, and somehow a little violated myself. This should not be happening, this is not okay! 

I looked at my watch and had time, so I stopped in my tracks, turned around and went back to the TSA desk I'd just passed. I very politely asked the agent - who was very busy sitting on his ass playing Angry Birds - if he had a moment. I then explained what I'd just seen and asked how it was possible that at only 5 yards away, he hadn't noticed the commotion or felt a need to look up from his cell phone. He mumbled to me about how he hadn't seen or heard anything, asked me to point out the agent I'd dealt with, and said something about taking care of it. He then looked back down at his phone, apparently dismissing me from the conversation we were having. 

And so as I collected myself, I put my hand on his desk and leaned over. I said, "I want you to remember this conversation, in case the blog I write about it tonight happens to go viral. This is not okay." 

To the TSA agent with the active-resting bitch face: Shame on you. Seriously, shame on you. This is your job. Your job is to get people onto their planes safely, and to get people home or to their destinations safely. Your job is not to violate people. Your job is not to shame people or bully them. And on a side note, you should try plastering a smile on that ugly mug of yours; it might help with that suuuuuper gnarly case of resting bitch face. 

To the young men little boys in line behind me: Shame on you a little too. The next time you see someone who could be your own grandmother being abused in line in the airport, I hope you find your balls and stand up for what's right. You were born into a generation of selfish little brats, and I get that, but I hope you know how wrong it was of you to look at your cell phones and up at the ceiling to avoid seeing what was unfolding ahead of you. Also, I bet if you weren't wearing such tight skinny jeans, your balls would be easier to find. Man up next time. You're 21, not 12. 

To anyone who reads this post: Please share it. And not because I wrote it and am shamelessly asking for page views, but because this behavior on the part of the TSA agents in Phoenix was unacceptable at best. Three people were bullied, harassed, and shamed in front of my face on Tuesday afternoon, and there will be no consequence, because TSA does whatever the fuck they want. And that is unacceptable. I encourage you to think about how you were treated the last time you were in line in security at an airport. Was someone rude to you? Was someone inappropriate with you? Think about it, really. The last time I flew home from Vegas, I had a couple bobby pins in my hungover-girl messy bun, and the TSA agent had to take me to the side. She asked me if it was okay for her to touch my hair before she did it; she smiled and we laughed about her messing up my messy bun. When I flew out of Portland this week, same thing. The TSA agent in Portland didn't ask me, just reached up and grabbed my pony tail. Think about the difference there. Why is that okay? Why is it okay for someone to touch me without asking, just because they're wearing a badge that allows them to determine whether or not I get on my flight? It's okay because we all just put our heads down, look the other way, and pretend we don't see it.

I bet you'd feel differently if you saw someone being raped or robbed in front of you. Would you walk away? Stand there and pretend to be texting? Or would you do something? It's not okay for TSA to act like they own people. I hate bullies. I hate people who try to control other people. And I hate that people stand like sheep, watching it happen, and say absolutely nothing.