Category Archives: Introspective
I fear that most of you who are reading this don’t know what you’ve gotten into.
You see, most of you – I’m speaking to my dear subscribers – joined me this week in response to the post “What Every Music Teacher Wants You To Know.” And you see, that’s not a great representation of what this blog is. The featured post was tagged under “Education” and I’m sure you all expect this to be a teacher blog. It’s not.
“Well then, what is it?” you ask. Shhh. *strokes your hair* I will make it all clear in time, dear reader.
For some yet to be discovered reason, the WordPress gods smiled upon me on Monday and bestowed my very first blogging honor: Freshly Pressed. Of course, that’s what brought most of you here. Let me tell you what life on this blog was like before this week. It was lonely. Sometimes I would have conversations with my echoes. Even they didn’t care enough to read it. I abandoned the blog for many months, after accepting that no one besides my close friends would ever read it. When I came crawling back last month, there were cobwebs on my Stats page. I was down to about 12 hits per day.
I was feeling inspired and ready to write again. I had an idea about ranting about the sorry stereotypes of music teachers, so I clicked “New Post.” The website coughed up a tumbleweed and asked me if I was sure.
Me: Yes, I’m sure. Now give me the damn text box so I can write it.
WordPress: Ooh. Looks like someone’s feeling spunky today. Like anyone is going to actually read this drivel? It went really well for you the last 15 times.
Me: Ok, so it’s not going to become an international phenomenon. I get it. But my 25 or so music teacher friends will probably read it, and maybe even Like it on Facebook.
WordPress: Whatever. It’s not like you have anything else exciting going on here. Give it a shot. Your perseverance is adorable.
And so I published the post. I woke up Monday morning and opened my laptop. My email indicated 160 new emails. Wtf? I usually have about 6. They were all from WordPress. What the hell? I was even more baffled when I logged on here and saw about 43 new comments – more than I had received in all of my previous posts combined. I started to read them and responded to every one. About 10 comments down, I got my answer.
They were congratulating me on being Freshly Pressed.
For a second, I was convinced they were playing a cruel joke on me. My blog is a needle in the haystack of the blogging world. How could anyone think to find mine? After heading to wordpress.com, I realized it was true. There I was, front and center.
Naturally, this has been a glorious week (and for my stats) and I’ve been blown away by all of the kind comments and generous reblogs. I can’t thank everyone enough for reading and taking the time to click “follow.”
But, I feel that I have to come clean.
I’ve deceived you on our blind date. I’m not who I pretended to be. I write about potty humor. After all, my most recent post had the word “poop” in the title. I make fun of people – usually, myself. I tell stories about my family that no one should have to experience, but I do, so I feel that the least I can do is share them with you.
I hope that you all stick around and read anyway. Judging from my stats page, that’s not going to be the case.
Yeah, I know the number on top looks nice, but check out the views on all the other posts. I’m such a one-hit-wonder, I make “MmmBop” look good.
So, whaddya say? Can I have a second date?
Men, I know you just don’t understand. Women, you wish men understood so they would stop harassing you.
What takes women so long to get ready?
I’m going to attempt to answer this question for my readers of the male persuasion. For the ladies, you get it. Laugh along. Up top, girlfriend. (Too much?)
First of all, there is a certain amount of maintenance that goes into hiding what we really look like, as women. If you saw what we really look like with no makeup and unstyled hair, you may not recognize us.
For example, Cameron Diaz is a beautiful woman, as shown here:
As any other woman does, Cameron looks quite different without makeup (especially the expensive makeup applied by professional artists):
I am not posting these photos to poke fun at her in any way. Any woman without makeup is going to look completely different. It’s just truth. Unfortunately, there is a certain standard of appearance that women feel they have to abide by. Before I go to work, or to a party, or any event where I care about my appearance, it takes time to go through the process of getting ready to leave my house. So men, listen up, because I’m going to explain to you exactly why we take so long to get ready.
Yes, it takes me 20 minutes to shower. Most of us have medium length to long hair. It takes time to wash it and rinse out all of that shampoo. You think the hair is done? Oh, no. Then you re-do the process with conditioner. Meanwhile, because women are taught from a young age that body hair is an evil force that will cause us to become lonely spinsters, we have to take 5-10 minutes to remove all of that hair through the barbaric process of our choice.
I seriously hate showering. It’s a long repetitive process and it seems like as soon as I finish one shower, it’s time for the next. For you inventor-type people, please invent some product that will allow me to wake up and instantly be clean, a la The Jetsons.
Then, there is the aftermath of showering – drying and styling my hair. My hair takes somewhere around 10 minutes to dry. If I let it dry naturally, it forms into this flat, frizzy, Medusa-like wavy, hot mess. After I blow dry it, my hair still has this awkward wavy pattern that needs to be tamed. Enter the straightener. It takes another 10 minutes to run the glorious invention called a straightener through all of my hair so I can show my face in public.
Notice that we are now at the 40 minute mark and I’m not even dressed. At this point, I have to choose what to wear. Do I wear the sweater that’s cut so awkwardly that it makes me look more flat-chested than a ten year old? How about this one? No, the tank top that I always wear under it is dirty. How about these jeans? No, I just found a hole in the crotch. Great. Add another 10 minutes to the total.
Now, it’s time for makeup. Let’s just skip the whole “natural beauty” discussion and get down to it. We’re not kidding anyone. It would be wonderful if women were appreciated for how they look naturally, but it’s simply not the case. My skin is a blotchy combination of pink areas, dry flaky spots, and blemishes. I have baggy dark circles under my eyes. Enter foundation. After a coat of moisturizer and foundation, I can fool the world into believing that my skin is healthy, smooth, and evenly complected. Then come blush, eye shadow, eye liner, and mascara. My husband knows first hand that I look like a completely different person when I’m done.
He actually walked past me when I began this post and saw the pictures of Cameron Diaz. He was shocked when he saw her face without makeup. (He also began drooling over the other sexy pictures of her from my Google Images search and I had to kick him out of the room.) I commented that he knows how different I look before and after makeup. He started to reply, “Yeah, you look like…” but trailed off because my eyes said, “You probably don’t want to finish that sentence.”
Total time to get ready: one hour. I spend one entire hour of my day doing the same monotonous routines. So guys, please don’t harass us when we’re working hard to get ready. It’s because of you that we do this, after all. We could be ready in 20 minutes like you are, but we sure wouldn’t appear to your standards.
What do you have to say about this? I’m interested in comments from both genders.
What I should be doing:
- Laundry (Students tend to notice when you’ve worn the same shirt three Mondays in a row)
- Dishes (I had to use a mixing bowl and serving spoon for my breakfast last week)
- Working out
- Cooking a nice [healthy] domestic dinner
- Stopping for groceries on the way home
- Organizing my closet
- Repainting my nails (Husband has a thing about bare nails. Don’t ask.)
- Researching grad school…and actually taking classes
What I’m actually doing:
- Making a frozen pizza for dinner
- Checking facebook
- Reading about how many Justin Biebers I could take in a fight on The Oatmeal
- Drinking strawberry “lemonade”
- Wearing sweatpants
- Listening to Weezer
I really should get on that laundry soon, though. I dropped a vanilla wafer covered in pumpkin dip onto my pants today and it looked like I had baby crap smeared on my thigh. It probably gave the high schoolers something to talk about.
Shiny, metallic pants must have been all the rage when I was in eighth grade. At least, I thought that was the case because I had three pairs of them in a variety of colors as my complete wardrobe that year.
Have you ever gone through old journals or pictures of yourself and thought, “Who allowed Richard Simmons to be my stylist?” or, “What would compel me to chronicle the details of eating at Frisch’s with my family as a quality diary entry?”
Going through boxes of childhood memorabilia can be a very humbling experience. Everyone tells you while you’re a teenager that you’re young and dumb, and of course that’s the last thing any kid wants to hear or believe. I went through a box of old stuff the other day and was appalled at how inane my writing was. The evidence that I encountered in that box argued that this is probably true. I decided that I must have been the most annoying thing on Earth in 1998 aside from Beanie Babies.
Exhibit A: Me at the pool with a friend, my grandma, and my sister. I’m probably about 10 or 11 here and if you could see Grandma’s “WTF” expression, you would know even she thought I was a lunatic.
Another poor life decision. Someone needed to have a unibrow intervention with me. (Just imagine brows like Bert and Ernie.) Also, sneakers should never have been worn with that outfit.
You see, the root of the problem is that my only example of fashion at this point in life was my mother. Mom dressed me until I was in fifth grade. There are pictures of me as a fourth grader sporting sweatsuits with cats, hearts and glitter on them. Even in 1995, this wasn’t acceptable. That was the day of bowl cuts, Michael Jordan jerseys, and flannel shirts. Wearing purple cotton from head to 4-inches-above-toe was how Mom thought I should roll. With that being said, we move to another disturbing image that I foreshadowed earlier.
There are almost no words for this. As I mentioned before, I had three pairs of these metallic pants in silver, pink, and gold. I owned no other pants besides these, as those who haven’t blocked middle school memories from their minds can attest. We won’t even go into the wig and hat.
We now move to the high school years. It came time for my freshman homecoming dance and my mom volunteered to do my hair. This ended up being the one and only time that my mom did my hair. You would think that the fact that she, to this day, has a mullet as her choice of hair style would be a gigantic red flag. However, it happened, and for hours that night, my friends had a multitude of laughs at this:
I was teased almost as much as my hair was that night.
Unfortunately, that was far from the end of my poor choices. This last gem falls into the “awkward prom photo” category. The best part about this one is that I coerced my now-husband into growing out his hair for my prom. Thus, I created a tragic image for both of us to treasure for life.
There are so many places to go with this one. Starting with the obvious, you have the awkward prom pose. Next, you have my horrid dress color choice, which blends into my pasty albino skin. Then, the decision to wear gloves which are too big for my spindly arms and a tiara, which no one should ever wear unless their mother is the queen. Finally, you can see I forced him into growing a circa 1999 Justin Timberlake white boy ‘fro, which speaks for itself.
Luckily, I attended Miami University (aka J. Crew U) after high school, where I learned that you never match your eyeshadow to your shirt and wearing screen printed tees with clever sayings is not as attractive as you might think.
I would call the subject of this post my awkward phase, but it’s not exactly a phase when it lasts for 20 years, is it?
It makes me feel better to know that everyone can relate with feelings of shame about your younger years. I mean, we’ve all been there, right?
Awkward pat on the shoulder, at least?