Role Models?

Three years ago on the eve of the Grammys, Chris Brown beat his now ex-, pop star, Rihanna. Even though Brown is currently serving five years' probation for this assault, they are back together again but this time making music. As soon as this was announced, it became a popular topic on almost every social network.
It was perfect timing for Brown to reveal, via twitter, about his new songs since he just performed and won at this year's Grammys. He may have done this as a way to defend his involvement at the event because there was tension that night over the performance. One of the main anti-Brown protestors, Miranda Lambert, commented via Twitter about Brown tweeting, "Chris Brown twice? I don't get it. He beat on a girl... Not cool that we act like that didn't happen." While it does seem that because Brown is such a popular artist right now society is overlooking his act of violence, it is important to remember that the domestic abuse was an event in his personal life. Furthermore, only recently has Brown been involved in public events. Executive producer Ken Ehrlich for the Grammy’s commented on his performance and stated, "We're glad to have him back. I think people deserve a second chance, you know. If you'll note, he has not been on the Grammys for the past few years and it may have taken us a while to kind of get over the fact that we were the victim of what happened."
Brown should not forever be ostracized for his mistake but he should make more of an effort to apologize for it. Since he is a public figure his actions need to reflect the responsibility he is taking. Obviously Rihanna has forgiven Brown for brutally beating her, but how can the public do the same when he continues to have Twitter rants such as this one: "Our society is full or rappers (which I listen to) who have sold drugs (poisoning)"... "but yet we glorify them and imitate everything they do. Then right before the worlds eyes a man shows how he can make a Big mistake and Learn from it, but still has to deal with the day to day hatred." If Brown showed more self control the public would be able to forgive him sooner.
In Rihanna's case, fans only show more disappointment with the way she is handling her abuser. In her interview in Rolling Stones she said, "I just didn't want to make it more difficult for him professionally. What he did was a personal thing-- it had nothing to do with his career. Saying he has to be a hundred feet away from me, he can't perform at awards shows--that definitely made it difficult for him."
While Rihanna is showing her support for other artists and maturity for the act Brown committed against her, she is no longer being a strong advocator against domestic violence. While the public may think it is too soon for her to start having contact with Brown, she is demonstrating that she is able to forgive and move on with her life. Hopefully another romance will not resume and instead they will address their efforts against domestic abuse.

Quotes from LA Times article, “Chris Brown, Rihanna collaborations spark controversy.” http://articles.latimes.com/2012/feb/22/entertainment/la-et-brown-rihanna-story-20120222

The Life-Transcending Love of the Toad and the Phoenix

I will never remember the first time I met Zoe Benjamin the way most people do when they meet their best friends. I have no idea where we were or what interaction took place between us, or even the first time we recognized the depth of our closeness. I cannot remember the first time we held hands, when her frail, worn digits first folded into the protection of my grip. The first time she scratched my head and smelled my hair because she loved the scent of natural oils will forever remain a mystery to me. To most people, it is important to celebrate the moments when they find the souls they truly connect with, beginning the process of intertwining lives, enriching them. These first encounters, however, never felt as momentous with Zoe. The celebration of our paths crossing seemed more a reunion than a fresh discovery, a serendipitous reminder that we had known each other before this life. When we met again, in a valley in Montana in a small boarding school named Chrysalis, it was as though we had never left each other’s side at all.

All I can remember is the strength of our bond from the very beginning of our knowing each other. The closeness we felt was palpable, certain. It was stronger than the feeling that we had known each other all of our lives, for we both understood that our bond was stronger than more mere lifetime. We awoke in each other faith so deep that to ignore it, to rationalize or analyze or criticize it would be the equivalent of renouncing our very spirits, our very existences.

Zoe’s skin is dark, a Russian Jewish olive just shades lighter than her short, wild hair. I think now of her tattoos acquired after Chrysalis. An artichoke on her wrist. A cockroach on her neck. An elaborate and luscious jellyfish down her slim shoulder and arm. Life’s way of never being kind to Zoe had one of the most interesting affects on a human being I have ever seen. A nagging heroine addiction has gripped much of her life, springing from the introduction from her first babysitter at the age of 12. As well, her body is riddled with burn marks and scars, self-inflicted. But the pain she hides is tucked beneath her bursting personality. She is full of love and joy and want for good and peace. A dirty hippie, most people hug lightly the frail body that carries piercings and clothing and hair that you never really knew from where they came or where they have been. And yet, she hugged with all her heart. “You are so beautiful,” she would say with total conviction.

“How many lives have we known each other do you think, Zoe?” I texted her from my bed one night a couple months ago, guessing 40 or 50 lifetimes myself. Realizing the time difference between us, I anticipated an answer to reach my phone the next morning. A few minutes later, my phone vibrated.

“37,” she replied simply, a number I agreed felt right.

“Good night, Sitting Toad,” I sent back with a smiley, using a name I gave her for her slow, wise ways.

“Sleep well, Phoenix of the Sun,” she responded, using an epithet I acquired from living a life of resilience, rising from the ashes of a turbulent past.

There is no evidence that the phenomenon of consciousness transcends the boundary of the physicality of existence. When we die, it is assumed by some that all of the wisdom and emotional capacities and memories die with us. But I know better than to believe in that. Western culture especially denies us of the chance to consider our experiences as cyclical, the idea that the energy we find in love is just as transferable as any other energy exerted in humans.

Springtime in Montana carries many traditions in wet wind that gives life to the dead browns and reds of leaves, pine needles, and other casualties of winter months. Burn piles are erected on plots of clear land around the various patches of Chrysalis property. Girls are assigned areas to rake and haul all of the fallen debris that coats the dense forest around us. The must of the damp, hibernating wood fills our lungs as we make dutiful trips to and from the piles, which grow into collections spanning at least a dozen yards in diameter. One is formed right outside of the house Zoe and I live in.

I match Zoe’s affinity towards nature, but her love oozes with the energy that seeps out of people who always seem close to bursting with gratitude.

We both fall in love with this rare display of perfect flame, and through us it becomes alive, celebrated as a sort of pet.

“What should we call it?” I ask her the first night we stand in front of it, our hands extended towards the warmth.

“Element,” she says, eyes and smile wide on her face.

We keep the fire going for almost a week, secretly making farther and farther trips every time we fetch wood to “feed” Element. One of the dogs finds a dead squirrel suffering badly from rigor mortis. We feed the animal to Element, deciding that cremation is both the most respectful form of burial and the coolest to watch.

Eventually, Kenny catches on to the abnormal life span of the creation, and disbands it with a rake to the horror of Zoe, who mourns our pet’s loss on my shoulder.

Faith is not blind, as some would have you believe. It does not exist in place of evidence, or work to disprove what feels true in practice. Faith, I believe, is risking the assumptions of the safe, the proven, and the ordinary in exchange for rooting for the miraculous, no matter how mundane the world may seem. When you hear hoofbeats behind you, the world tells us, expect horses, not zebras.

Zoe and I will always hear zebras.

Your weekend warrior,

Rica

Tell the Truth Day

Instead of complaining about some earth-shattering issue I think society should be blamed for, this week I decided to go back to the very core of this blog and write about truth. As a little experiment, I thought it would be to fun to challenge myself to tell the truth for an entire 24 hours, and write about what I learned from the experience. Well, I learned that I tend to lie a lot, even when I don’t know I’m doing it. I lied during conversations, I lied in texts, hell I even lied on facebook. Sorry Jared Clark, I will not be going to your 22^nd birthday bash even though I clicked the dreaded “going” button so I wouldn’t have to explain that I was skipping it to watch Glee in my pajamas. Telling the truth ALL the time is a lot harder than one might assume. Think about the very first thing you say to someone, “hey (insert generic name here), how are you?” How many times do you answer that honestly and say, “Pretty shit actually, my stomach has been hurting all day. I think it might be gas.” I’m guessing not so often. Most of the time you would just smile and give a pleasant, “good thanks, and how are you?” We have to edit and conceal what we think so that what we say follows proper social protocol. We try not to hurt people’s feelings because it would be harder on us than it would be on them. We cut conversations short so that we don’t have to feel guilty about how fake we are being.

But what if everyone said exactly what they thought. What if we didn’t filter, or exaggerate, or deceive? What if when my roommate asked me whether or not I minded if she borrowed my Tupperware, I screamed, “YES. Yes I mind very much in fact. Because somehow you’re washing makes things more dirty and sends my OCD induced anxiety through the roof!” instead of a polite, “of course not, use anything you like.” What if when my mom asked how the job search was going, I said, “it’s not really going at all,” instead of, “Good, I think there are a couple of options that look promising.” What if instead of commenting on the weather, the middle-aged woman next door who hides her beautiful figure by wearing those horrid mom jeans, asks me what she really wants. “Why on earth do you young people put holes in your face? Rings are for fingers not for noses.” I know she wonders because when we speak her eyes keep glued to the shiny silver protrusion jutting out from my nose, and she never looks directly into my eyes. I suppose looking into someone’s eyes is a form of honesty in itself. Rarely can I ever do so if I am fully telling the truth; deception like that is for people who get pleasure out of it, not for people who are driven by fear. What if we said to hell with social etiquette and we told the truth with our words, our faces, our tears, and most of all, with our hearts. Would it really be so bad? Before I sound like I am going to give some profound, insightful answer on how to live openly and free, I am going to stop and be honest; I have no clue. Maybe our lies are good, maybe we need them to survive. All I know is it is something worth thinking about. So my challenge to everyone who is reading this is to be utterly, painfully honest for a whole 24 long hours, and see what you learn about yourself as well as what others learn about you. If you succeed, I suggest you take yourself out for a celebratory drink because not only have you accomplished the almost impossible, but you will have probably pissed off all your friends who would have come with you. Happy truth-telling!

Feeling a little bit risqué

I straighten my legs slowly, counting in my head a full eight, my nose ending an inch from my knee. My heels are raised, the pointy ends hovering in the air as the slippery thin soul grips the edge of the plastic chair. I’m going to fall and break my face. I am white-knuckling the back of the chair. Keep your arms calm. I swear that half my effort goes towards looking effortless. During the period of maybe two minutes a million thoughts run through my mind as I execute each step. Only after the fact do I take a moment and reflect on what would my mother think?

This nagging feeling taps me on the shoulder and gives me a proverbial scolding of “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Which makes me think what am I doing and why do I care? I break it down logically: Am I embarrassed that I’m taking a burlesque class? No. Am I embarrassed because of residual guilt I have from my mother’s judgment? Of Course! My parent’s judgment, despite her being in the dark, still sneaks into the small places I don’t think exist in my mind. Those spaces that cause uncontrollable reactions like my cheeks getting a little flushed when she talks about how a Laker Girl would not be a suitable job, or when my head begins pounding because she voices her opinion on how the backup dancers are looking more and more like strippers. No matter how much I try, these comments she makes stay with me whether or not she’s even around me.

As I start thinking about why her opinion affects me so much, my mind wanders back to when I turned eight and my jazz class did a dance to the Bee gee’s “Stayin’ Alive” The dance echoed the style of disco and so did the costume, which caused a huge uproar from the parents. We glittered like little disco balls in our black and white halter-jump suits. I thought we looked fab. All the mothers saw the neckline as a travesty. Questions arose, raised voices ensued, strap adjustments were made, and the costume passed inspection. From that year on little battles were won and lost on the parts of the parents, teachers, and me. By high school I finally got my mom to realize booty shorts were the norm so at least I won that one.

Maybe there’s still a part of her that sees me as that little girl in costume cut too low. Maybe there’s a part of me that sees her side of some of the arguments we have over taste. But, for now, as I slink around the plastic chairs in the studio, I’d rather let my mind focus on the fun I’m having versus the guilt I may incur later.

Her Sacred Expanse

In a dim college apartment she’s still aloof. Christmas lights give enough glow. She prefers natural light but this is the best she can do. It’s perfect. Her little white socks leave a bit of her ankles exposed. My eyes crawl upward. The belt that hugs her hips sits just right and her shirt grazes the top of it. Her long brown hair hits the middle of her ribcage. Most of it is pushed to one side, her right, and snakes around her curves.

Before my eyes can continue their pursuit she moves to change the music. She apologizes for how it was. It was on shuffle, or a random mix. Whatever it was it had only heightened the haze of my hungry gaze. Now that gaze was broken, for which I was bitterly grateful. I had forgotten time didn’t pause.

When she smoked she leaned back into the cushions behind her. The smoke streamed straight, directed with effortless attention like a beam. I inhaled, my ribcage expanded. I looked down at the burning orange then lifted my chin. The smoke billowed out of me as if emerging from my aura. As I looked at her, she talked with a slight smile. The smoke framed her face. She blinked to look down; she blinked to look up at me.

My phone chimed. I stepped over the cushions on the floor. I picked up the phone, it’s light was an intruder. I set it down, looking back to where I was before. The silhouette of the flowers I had given her that afternoon caught my eye. Tiny roses, pink and orange, bundled freely in a clear vodka bottle. She had blushed when I had given them to her. Now they sucked in the last bit of light coming through the window.

Lying stomach down on the futon at the foot of the couch, I can see the back of her body. I obey my urge to take a quick look, then return. Her hair is still to one side. I continue my previous journey of the eyes. Up. Her face…her skin…her subtle freckles. They are faint and adorn her body, but the dimness of the room and the closeness of our bodies somehow make them possible to see. Your skin is milk and your freckles are sprinkles of cinnamon, or yoghurt…or honey. I think this but instead I simply say: I like your freckles. She blushes and looks down.

Her phone lights up. It’s her brother. We then talk about family. Her mother. She paints me a picture of her—her words, her habits. We laugh at first; then we stop. She talks about her mother slower now. I reach my hand to move a piece of her hair. Gently coiling it and pushing it back, I expose a piercing at the top of her ear. She is more still. My skin is throbbing. To make her laugh I say: We can’t even imagine the ways we will one day fuck up our children like our parents fucked us up.

I flirt with an urge to expose my fears, my stories, my past. It’s not until she moves a piece of hair out of my face and my chin lifts up that I notice I had been looking down. One blink and she sees me. We just do the best we can, she says, beaming her eyes into mine and answering every question.

Time stops in this capsule. She holds eternity in the blink of her eye.

Facebook Parenting: For the troubled teen.

Last week I heard about a new YouTube video in which a man shoots his
daughter's laptop over her Facebook status, and my immediate first
thought was, what a waste of a laptop. I did not care about why her
father resorted to such an extreme punishment or what her status was.
I just prayed it was not a Mac. Although I quickly forgot about the
video as soon as I heard about it, the radio stations this morning
were all discussing it. And when I heard about what the fifteen year
old girl posted about her parents, I could not help but agree with her
Dad's response.
"I can't wait for the day when you get too old to wipe your ass, don't
call me asking for help. I won't be there." Her hatred for chores
caused her to write this. It was such a powerful statement over
an insignificant issue. She complained about putting the dishes away, doing her laundry, as well as
cleaning the floor and counter tops. At that age, life is not
hard.
According to her father, when he was her age he had moved out, lived on his own,worked two jobs, attended college, and volunteered as a fire fighter
all at the same time. And all he asked of his daughter was to keep
the house tidy. While I cannot relate to the father’s impressive
resume as a teen, I know what it is like to dread chores. However, now
that I am in college and three months away from graduating, I have
become extremely grateful for how my parents raised me.
At fifteen I did not have a laptop or a cell phone and was forced to do
chores to earn them both. Even though I went to a private all girls
Catholic school where some girls had two cell phones, in addition to
their Mac books, I did not receive these luxuries until my parents
felt that I deserved them. I had to get straight A’s and play two
sports to finally have my Razr and PC. But I do not resent my parents
for being so harsh with me, instead I appreciate it.
Because they taught me that I had to work for the materialistic items
that I desired, they helped me transition into the independent person
I am today. When I was a teen, I felt the same anger towards my chores but I
would never publically post it on the web. Teens are getting too
comfortable posting personal details about their lives that they do
not care who they hurt with such actions. While I would love to use
the blocking feature on Facebook, I am mature enough to not post
anything where I would need to use it.
Due to the technological advancements of this modern age, teenagers
are becoming more ungrateful instead of hard-working. Not all parents
need to shoot their children's prized possessions, but they need to
teach them that they have to do more than just want something, they
have to earn it.

Ink

“Did it hurt?” I watch eyes trace the ins and outs of the ink my skin now celebrates. A month has gone by since the work was done. Without fail, this is the first question that comes out of slack-jawed mouths as I reveal the dyed skin below my collarbones, the maze of shapes and colors glowing with intricacy. Hands rub naked chests soothing sympathy pains as furrowed brows digest the scene. This question is genuine, but not really a question begging an answer.
Of course it hurt.
At first I did not understand this universal response to the art on my skin. For the five hours it took to construct the piece and few weeks it took to heal it, the rest of my life seemed plenty of time to make the pain worth it. But people have a way of acting when something uncomfortable has just brushed their senses. How else can you react when a girl has just revealed 9 interwoven triangles on one of the most sensitive parts of her body? They look to identify, relate to this choice I made in the first week of what is supposed to be the last year of our lives. Most people, it seems, relate only to the pain of the operation.
The placement is purposeful, personal, vulnerable. It is a commitment to myself; a reminder to stay humble. The night the idea came to me was cold, even for January in Chicago. I was sitting cross-legged against a wall of a building with nothing but a t-shirt, but inside I had felt overheated; I invited the awakeness that came with the wind. Vibrations moved through the brick wall from the blaring music of the party. I had just come from a basement hot and wet and packed with people whose faces looked lost and whose hands were quick exchanging substances and touches with strangers they felt close to. The gathering overwhelmed me for some reason. I found peace meditating outside, facing a garage and looking up. The sky looked crystallized as though the stars themselves were frozen in place, augmented by telephone wires streaming across. More aware than ever of my creator, I thanked the power that tipped us into existence. You realize sometimes that these moments could have never happened. Existence is perfection. I felt indebted to this connection, to this relationship between creator and created.
Two weeks later, I called a friend who tattoos and email him the designs. The ‘wings’ of the piece are inspired by a Brasilian graffiti artist named Zezao who uses bright layered colors as his palette for his art. The middle is a Sri Yantra, a Hindu symbol of nine triangles. It is the embodiment of abundance and beauty. The intersections of the nine triangles represent the nine stages of growth of the human child in the womb. It is the yantra of sacred knowledge. It unifies the masculine divine and the feminine divine. Once drawn, I called the piece, “Creation.” All creation is (or should be) an ode to the ultimate creator.
Unintentionally, it has become a Rorschach test for eyes that search for meaning among the abstract twists of nonsense shapes. People try to make sense of the strokes of strong color. My mom’s side is on my right. The fiery red burns for her intense soul. The calm, blue hues of reason, collection, agency are for my dad.
“I see pieces of life,” a friend points to the dark blue squiggles. “It’s beautiful… like watercolors.”
“I see fireworks” says another friend.
“You’re never going to get a job,” my mom said as she shook her head, searching her bag in a panic for the pack of Virginia Slims holding her next dose of calm.
This is partly true. My career at IBM was forced to a halt before it even started. Then again… I never want to work for companies that discriminate anyway, so I guess that isn’t much of a problem. Still, my mom takes little comfort in this. I promise not to show her again.
Sitting in my living room, I look into the eyes of someone beautiful. Heart pounding, I fear what she will think of it, this new piece of me. Will it will make or break the way she looks at me now? Like revealing a deep secret, I unbutton my shirt to expose this part of me to her. “I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.” Her eyes stay fixed on it, as mine do on her, reading her face, digging for her thoughts. Her touch is cool against it; the lotion on it makes her fingers cling to the damp skin.
In researching the Sri Yantra, something I now do often, I always find beautiful new ways of describing it. This was in a blog about worship through the Yantra; I love it.
One should approach the Divine Mother without any reservations. One need not express one’s want, difficulties, complaints, problems to her for she knows your needs better and will give you what you need and at the same time she will also protect you.
To imagine this, I let go of all temporary flesh and know that these bodies are beautiful but hopelessly finite. Most art, I find, lasts longer than us anyway.

Your weekend warrior,
Rica

Wanderlust

“Babies,” she says “Are fascinating. Did you know that by the time they are four years old they are able to understand the concept of inheritance?”
“No,” I admit, “I did not know that.” She nods, turning back to her book.
I’ve known Wendy since my freshman year of college, when she was roommates with one of my best friend at UC Santa Cruz. I remember waking up one morning in their cramped dorm room to a slightly illegal smell and turning over to find a girl with long brown hair in a tank top and cargo pants sitting cross-legged a few inches away from me, a small bong resting on her knee.
“Hi, I’m Wendy. Want a hit?” I peered behind her at the glowing computer screen that informed me that it was 8:20 in the morning. The sounds of Cat Stevens danced out from the tiny speakers on either side of the monitor.
“I think I’m good for right now.” She nodded and went back to her morning routine.
Fast forward three years and I’m sitting in the parlor of her house in Santa Cruz, sipping an apricot ale, surveying the lay of the land that is her front yard. The fence surrounding the garden boxes is painted rainbow. There are two tubs at the edge of the lawn, one containing copies of an anti-propaganda film and the other containing informational DVDs on sustainable living. Just in case a passerby feels inclined to educate themselves. Flyers for “Occupy Oakland” line the driveway. A former tenant painted the image of Frida Kahlo on a bedroom window with the words “Grow Peace” floating above her head.
I’ve never met anyone quite like Wendy. There’s a lot of people, places, and topics of discussion that I encounter on these trips that would have never penetrated my Southern California bubble, a fact that I’m greeted with almost immediately whenever I return to this place. I always find myself pondering how different my life would have turned out had I chosen the path that my friends did in moving to Santa Cruz. How would my interactions be altered? Who would the important people in my life be?
It’s the same song and dance every year, every time I make the long windy trek down Highway 17 and finally emerge from the forest into the tiny coastal town. There’s something about this place that always disarms me, always forces me to remain stationary for a little longer than I’m comfortable with. As a self-proclaimed “city girl” I often find it deeply hypocritical that every three months or so I begin to whine about needing a weekend away, if only to catch my breath.
Like an overworked hamster being flung from its wheel, I arrive at my destination and immediately brace myself for more stimulation. What I find here is anything but; everything seems to move much more slowly. It’s excruciating at first, but it’s a characteristic that I learn to match quite quickly.
Upon returning to LA it’s hard not to look back on time spent in Santa Cruz as anything more than novelty. It’s hard to remember anything as clearly as that which is in front of you, and once the San Fernando Valley disappears behind me it’s back to the never-ending stimuli I was cursing just hours before.

Chip fanatic

My name is Hannah and I am a carbohydrate addict. Specifically potatoes. There’s something about those stupid lumpy starches that make me unable to stop eating them. I wish I could say that my addiction lay only with the healthy preparations of potatoes like baked or roasted, but no mine is a much fattier and processed kind of love: Chips, fries, and mashed with gravy (I only really indulge in mashed at holiday time or at a restaurant, but if there are fresh mashed potatoes anywhere in my vicinity, they will be consumed at a rapid and inhuman rate.). If I could break down my addiction the levels would be something like this:
Can’t live without my….
1. Salt and Pepper Crinkle cut, kettle cooked chips (Trader Joes brand Duh)
2. Potato wedge seasoned fries (By seasoned I mean that orange hued set of spices that make them the best tasting fries out there)
3. Seasoned Curly fries
4. Regular thin salted fries (I hate plane fries)
5. Regular lays potato chips
6. Salt and vinegar potato chips (preferably kettle cooked, but I’m not too picky in terms of these)
7. Mashed potatoes (garlic or with gravy, but never both at the same time)
8. Steak cut fries
9. Tater tots

Yes on the road to becoming an addict, somewhere on the way I also became a connoisseur of sorts. I can give you recommendations on what chain has the best fries considering what type of fry you want, I know what brands of potato chips have the best texture, and I can always tell when mashed potatoes are real or the fake little flakes. Yes somewhere between addiction and passion I now find myself lost, for I chose at the beginning of this new year a new years resolution for the ages. No chips. Ok so that’s not that crazy, especially seeing the list that offers six other types of potatoes I could potentially eat, but the chips were honestly the ones that I ate the most and were the most accessible. For instance, at the beginning of the year I went through a family sized bags of potato chips in one to two days…by myself… almost every week. It didn’t help that my friends constantly bought chips so that they could watch the process of inhalation occur (they bought be one hundred bags of chips and a Costco size family bag of crinkle cut salt and pepper on my birthday, plus six packages of spaghetti, and a cheesy bread, and a two pound cake) but either way something had to change. If I let this go on who knows where I’d be now? Waking up passed out with empty fry containers around me. Hording chips in my pillowcases? I couldn’t risk these heinous possibilities. I quit cold turkey one Monday night.
I had been going strong for four weeks when suddenly it happened, Super Bowl Sunday. The very day that beckons even the healthiest of eaters to the tables that hold the most deliciously bad food anyone could have cooked up. Just my luck that when I get to the party that I see no potato chips except the remnants of some Lays Crinkle Cut chips in the bottom of a bowl. Easy, I pass by without so much of a glance. With the game almost at an end I feel proud that the chips didn’t even faze me, I think to myself Yeah good job you’ll never want chips again. Suddenly my friend brings out an un-opened bag of potato chips. I die. The next few moments are a blur. A Bag is passed, the dip brought out, and before I know what I’m doing I’m eating the chips.
Although I wanted to be upset, I really didn’t care. In the end I realized that despite my total lack of will power, I can exercise my newfound moderation skills that some how developed over my short period of deprivation. So as short lived as my resolve had been on my ban against ships, I gained a healthier perspective of all things being fine in smaller quantities. I guess anything is smaller than a Costco Family Sized product so that gives a good deal of leeway for improvement

Men, Women, and Everything In Between

Jersey Shore. Just the name brings about universal images of hot tub sexcapades and naked, drunken debauchery. I remember when I first saw an episode of the beloved reality show. I had wondered how much of it could actually be real. After all, I had never met people that were so utterly shameless. Luckily enough, a girl’s night out on the hipster filled street of Abbott Kinney cured me of my curiosity. A man at the bar struck up a conversation with my friend and I, and when we asked him what he did for a living, he said he was one of the producers on Jersey Shore. My emotions were a mix of excitement and disgust. I politely asked him what he thought of the show, and whether the cast was really as promiscuous (which was putting it lightly) as they seemed. He assured me that they were, and said he actually thought it was quite refreshing. Of course, my constant need to speak my views led our conversation to become an hour-long debate on whether or not people should be completely free spirits. His argument was that we are taught to feel guilty about certain actions and behaviors, but that as human beings, we aren’t supposed to. Perhaps I haven’t lived here for long enough, but it seems to me that most of the youth in Los Angeles have much of the same view as my new friend, the producer of Jersey Shore.
Men talk about women like they are bodies molded in different shapes and sizes for their personal preference. Sex is not about attraction or love anymore, it is about convenience. Women aren’t much better. They seem to have lost their ability, or maybe even their desire, to be respected. Just the fact that Jersey Shore has become such a big hit, for whatever reason, shows how society has deemed it acceptable. My complaints are not against sex itself, on the contrary, I believe we should enjoy life what it lasts. I have just always thought that what happens before sex, is as important as what happens during. Getting to know someone, learning what you have in common, flirting over drinks or dinner, those are things we used to want, even need, before we decided to let someone get to know us in the most intimate way possible. All it takes now is an ass grab on the dance floor, a couple of comments on how hot someone looks, and a lot of cheap alcohol.
It is impossible not to see how sexualized women have become, and how publically accepted that idea has become. Yes, most women want to be sexy, and yes, men have the right to be attracted to sexy women. But being sexy is just as much about the way a person presents themselves through what they say and how they act, as the way they look and dress. One of the most attractive things to me is when a man asks how my day is going. Not how hot my legs look in a dress, not how beautiful my smile is or how kissable my lips are, just simply asking, “so, how is your day going?” Such a simple question shows two extremely important things. 1) They are interested in our lives, and 2) They see us equals. My view of sex may be a tad romanticized, but it’s not as if I am saying we need to live in a Disney movie. In fact, it is much more simple than I think people realize. We want to teach our kids to enjoy someone’s company with their clothes on, so we should too. Respect should be something men and women alike demand, not a bonus we get if we’re lucky enough to run in to someone who still gives it.