and you'll be redirected to my new space.
Thankssomuch.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Life
I read a fantastic satirical article the other day about writing. Except at first I didn't realize it was satire. Or maybe I just wasn't paying attention to the title "How Not to Write". So as I'm reading along about waiting until you're inspired, sipping your coffee slowly, staring out the window, looking pensive and worldly as other patrons bustle about in your favorite local cafe, and I'm thinking uh yeah, I GOT THIS- I get the joke.
The article goes on to quote Jack London referring to finishing Call of the Wild "with a club", rather than inspiration. I'm realizing that writing, like most other trades, is work. Not that I ever thought writing was simply having a time share in Alaska, sleeping in till noon, and waiting until you've conjured up every detail of a magical land seven books long, but maybe I wasn't aware of how much writing writing requires. Good writing, at least.
Writing isn't about left brain or right brain, innate talent, or divine inspiration (okay, maybe sometimes it's about those things) but it's about pursuing this thing that you want to pursue. And a really risky thing if you hope to make any money at it. And like carpentry, or acting, or any other finely tuned skill, some days you have no desire to clock in but the more you do the better you get. Likely not all of your work will be praise-worthy, criticism will feel personal, and you'll need to get over it and muscle your way through the tough spots. Because life doesn't wait for you to feel like it.
So here I am. Writing about trivial things to be minimally read. Not entirely void of inspiration, but forcing myself to be inspired with what I already have. And what I have is a desire to write, hopefully well some day. My life doesn't need ethereal sunsets and charming bird songs in four part harmonies in order to be inspirational, nor does it require that I ban all distractive media in order to pursue creative integrity. It just requires some self awareness.
We've allowed ourselves to become jaded with life, with it's magnitude, with it's possibility, and we've settled for affirmation by posting pictures of what we ate for lunch online and letting all of our friends tell us how good it must taste. Though we likely spend little time actually tasting it. If we could but step back and taste life, I think we might be surprised at how much inspiration really is available. And if we wanted to tell a story we might have something to say.
The article goes on to quote Jack London referring to finishing Call of the Wild "with a club", rather than inspiration. I'm realizing that writing, like most other trades, is work. Not that I ever thought writing was simply having a time share in Alaska, sleeping in till noon, and waiting until you've conjured up every detail of a magical land seven books long, but maybe I wasn't aware of how much writing writing requires. Good writing, at least.
Writing isn't about left brain or right brain, innate talent, or divine inspiration (okay, maybe sometimes it's about those things) but it's about pursuing this thing that you want to pursue. And a really risky thing if you hope to make any money at it. And like carpentry, or acting, or any other finely tuned skill, some days you have no desire to clock in but the more you do the better you get. Likely not all of your work will be praise-worthy, criticism will feel personal, and you'll need to get over it and muscle your way through the tough spots. Because life doesn't wait for you to feel like it.
So here I am. Writing about trivial things to be minimally read. Not entirely void of inspiration, but forcing myself to be inspired with what I already have. And what I have is a desire to write, hopefully well some day. My life doesn't need ethereal sunsets and charming bird songs in four part harmonies in order to be inspirational, nor does it require that I ban all distractive media in order to pursue creative integrity. It just requires some self awareness.
We've allowed ourselves to become jaded with life, with it's magnitude, with it's possibility, and we've settled for affirmation by posting pictures of what we ate for lunch online and letting all of our friends tell us how good it must taste. Though we likely spend little time actually tasting it. If we could but step back and taste life, I think we might be surprised at how much inspiration really is available. And if we wanted to tell a story we might have something to say.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
College is dumb
I'm twenty five and I don't have a college degree.
This is something I've been struggling with for years. And the older I get, the worse that struggle seems to be. It's not that I haven't wanted to go to college, quite the contrary- I love learning and I'm a respectable student. Originally, it was that I didn't want to enroll until I was sure what I wanted schooling for. Then, it was a question of whether or not it was mature and/or responsible to accrue that kind of debt. And now, the more and more graduates I know with Bachelor's and/or Master's degrees, who themselves aren't sure what college taught them other than how to own a really expensive piece of paper, the more I question what college will do for me. Clearly, it isn't securing a spectacular career. In fact, I'm not sure I know of anyone who even has a job in the field of their major.
And now that I'm trying to navigate the realm of volunteering overseas, you know, the realm where I buy a really expensive plane ticket and then pay an organization to allow me to work for free, I'm coming up against the desire these organizations have for their volunteers to possess a four year degree. In anything.
Have a degree in interior design? Want to cultivate a farm?
Have a degree in marketing? Cool, want to teach English to small children?
Which leads me to wonder what it is exactly that people think a college degree does. Obviously employers aren't looking for a specific skill set (lest your major actually matter) but I'm beginning to think that the mass public believes either:
A) going through four years of college teaches you some skill you cannot acquire any other way (perhaps that skill is work ethic??).
B) someone who hasn't gone to college is just blatantly unintelligent.
or C) our system is flawed and higher education has received a reputation it hasn't actually earned.
I continue to want to go to college, but that desire is consistently being challenged with the high probability that at graduation I might look back on the last four years of my education and not be able to identify what valuable skill college equipped me with that I didn't obtain before hand or couldn't obtain any other way. And if that skill was something I could have obtained otherwise (or doesn't have a monetary value of tens of thousands of dollars), me and my student loan are going to HAVE WORDS.
I have good work ethic. I have intense life and job experience. I like, and understand how to use(!), big words. Unfortunately "do you have a four year degree OR equivalent life experience" isn't usually an option on an application. Reminding myself of the many very successful (and often famous) entrepreneurs before me who have managed to pursue their dreams without being stopped by their lack of college education is helpful, but then also leaves me insecure by comparison. Am I that driven? Am I that talented? And then I begin to wonder if my desire to obtain a college degree isn't born from a lack of belief in myself. I want to write, but am I the Zuckerberg or the Rachel Ray of writing? I know we are never our own best critic, but I'm going to go with no, I'm not on the cusp of inventing the latest writing phenomenon or teaching people how to write anything in 30 minutes or less.
I want to serve, I want to travel, and I want to write. Preferably in that order. I'm not asking anyone to pay me to hold orphaned African babies all day, but I am asking why I would need a college degree for that.
-the Monster Queen
This is something I've been struggling with for years. And the older I get, the worse that struggle seems to be. It's not that I haven't wanted to go to college, quite the contrary- I love learning and I'm a respectable student. Originally, it was that I didn't want to enroll until I was sure what I wanted schooling for. Then, it was a question of whether or not it was mature and/or responsible to accrue that kind of debt. And now, the more and more graduates I know with Bachelor's and/or Master's degrees, who themselves aren't sure what college taught them other than how to own a really expensive piece of paper, the more I question what college will do for me. Clearly, it isn't securing a spectacular career. In fact, I'm not sure I know of anyone who even has a job in the field of their major.
And now that I'm trying to navigate the realm of volunteering overseas, you know, the realm where I buy a really expensive plane ticket and then pay an organization to allow me to work for free, I'm coming up against the desire these organizations have for their volunteers to possess a four year degree. In anything.
Have a degree in interior design? Want to cultivate a farm?
Have a degree in marketing? Cool, want to teach English to small children?
Which leads me to wonder what it is exactly that people think a college degree does. Obviously employers aren't looking for a specific skill set (lest your major actually matter) but I'm beginning to think that the mass public believes either:
A) going through four years of college teaches you some skill you cannot acquire any other way (perhaps that skill is work ethic??).
B) someone who hasn't gone to college is just blatantly unintelligent.
I continue to want to go to college, but that desire is consistently being challenged with the high probability that at graduation I might look back on the last four years of my education and not be able to identify what valuable skill college equipped me with that I didn't obtain before hand or couldn't obtain any other way. And if that skill was something I could have obtained otherwise (or doesn't have a monetary value of tens of thousands of dollars), me and my student loan are going to HAVE WORDS.
I have good work ethic. I have intense life and job experience. I like, and understand how to use(!), big words. Unfortunately "do you have a four year degree OR equivalent life experience" isn't usually an option on an application. Reminding myself of the many very successful (and often famous) entrepreneurs before me who have managed to pursue their dreams without being stopped by their lack of college education is helpful, but then also leaves me insecure by comparison. Am I that driven? Am I that talented? And then I begin to wonder if my desire to obtain a college degree isn't born from a lack of belief in myself. I want to write, but am I the Zuckerberg or the Rachel Ray of writing? I know we are never our own best critic, but I'm going to go with no, I'm not on the cusp of inventing the latest writing phenomenon or teaching people how to write anything in 30 minutes or less.
I want to serve, I want to travel, and I want to write. Preferably in that order. I'm not asking anyone to pay me to hold orphaned African babies all day, but I am asking why I would need a college degree for that.
-the Monster Queen
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
I like curse words and cats
Every time I get on here lately I feel like my post turns into some hodge podge pseudo inspirational self-help lecture, the words leaving the bitter taste of bile soaking into my soft pallet. Which, wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't constantly tasting bile any way. Oh I never told you I have chronic heartburn? Yeah well now I expect you to bring flowers to my hospital room when I get a perforated ulcer NOT TOO MANY MOONS FROM NOW.
Every post starts with "feelings", moves on to "sad", then "really sad", then somewhere in there I usually include "fuck everything" and "I hate men".
The last two were jokes.
Everyone knows I don't use the f word OR hate men.
But really, I've been sad lately. First I admitted it, which was tough, then I started to allow the idea that it's okay to be sad permeate the part of my brain that continues the daily emotional assault of screaming WHY CAN'T I JUST BE OKAY?! And since then, I've been trying to blog about being sad and being okay with it until I realized that blogging about it is just an attempt to BE okay with it, when really I'm not.
I feel pointless. Like. . .why am alive and do I have enough narcotics to casually not wake up in the morning pointless.
And then someone said it.
Maybe you are pointless.
And then that pointlessness I've been wielding like a 2x4 and relentlessly beating myself up with transformed into something else. It became less of a weapon and more of a swift kick in the pants. Or a hand-up if that sounds more motivating. Because that's what my feeling pointless is now- motivating me to find a point. Motivating me to find what makes me happy.
I've realized that I can't expect happiness to just curl up in my lap like a cat I'll never have because all my friends are "allergic" or filled with hatred and evil and WHY CAN'T PEOPLE JUST LIKE SOFT CUDDLY THINGS?! Yeah, I get that some cats are crazy but SO ARE SOME KIDS. You don't hear me talking about how much I hate children just because some of them need to be kenneled.
I'm not getting all power-positive-thinking. That sounds stressful and overwhelming and in case I haven't already mentioned my pending ulcer, I'm gonna go ahead and pass on being more stressed. What I am saying though, is that I'm a believer of dreams. Of dreaming. I am free to pursue happiness. To give all of myself in order to fulfill a purpose. If feeling useful makes me happy, I am free to be of use.
In the same way that YES, it's okay to be sad, it's also okay to be happy.
So that was it. My motivational speech. If you're sad, BE SAD. (Probably best if there isn't too much wine around). And if you want to be happy, FUCKING PURSUE YOUR DREAMS.
Yet I cannot tarry longer.
The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark.
For, to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be
bound in a mould.
Fain would I take with me all that is here. But how shall I?
A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that give it wings. Alone must it seek the
ether.
And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun.
-The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran
Every post starts with "feelings", moves on to "sad", then "really sad", then somewhere in there I usually include "fuck everything" and "I hate men".
The last two were jokes.
Everyone knows I don't use the f word OR hate men.
But really, I've been sad lately. First I admitted it, which was tough, then I started to allow the idea that it's okay to be sad permeate the part of my brain that continues the daily emotional assault of screaming WHY CAN'T I JUST BE OKAY?! And since then, I've been trying to blog about being sad and being okay with it until I realized that blogging about it is just an attempt to BE okay with it, when really I'm not.
I feel pointless. Like. . .why am alive and do I have enough narcotics to casually not wake up in the morning pointless.
And then someone said it.
Maybe you are pointless.
And then that pointlessness I've been wielding like a 2x4 and relentlessly beating myself up with transformed into something else. It became less of a weapon and more of a swift kick in the pants. Or a hand-up if that sounds more motivating. Because that's what my feeling pointless is now- motivating me to find a point. Motivating me to find what makes me happy.
I've realized that I can't expect happiness to just curl up in my lap like a cat I'll never have because all my friends are "allergic" or filled with hatred and evil and WHY CAN'T PEOPLE JUST LIKE SOFT CUDDLY THINGS?! Yeah, I get that some cats are crazy but SO ARE SOME KIDS. You don't hear me talking about how much I hate children just because some of them need to be kenneled.
I'm not getting all power-positive-thinking. That sounds stressful and overwhelming and in case I haven't already mentioned my pending ulcer, I'm gonna go ahead and pass on being more stressed. What I am saying though, is that I'm a believer of dreams. Of dreaming. I am free to pursue happiness. To give all of myself in order to fulfill a purpose. If feeling useful makes me happy, I am free to be of use.
In the same way that YES, it's okay to be sad, it's also okay to be happy.
So that was it. My motivational speech. If you're sad, BE SAD. (Probably best if there isn't too much wine around). And if you want to be happy, FUCKING PURSUE YOUR DREAMS.
Yet I cannot tarry longer.
The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark.
For, to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be
bound in a mould.
Fain would I take with me all that is here. But how shall I?
A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that give it wings. Alone must it seek the
ether.
And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun.
-The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran
Friday, February 24, 2012
Milk and honey
Here is a brief story about a place I used to rent.
Looking back now I can say it was a quaint and cozy studio, but recalling the day I signed my lease I can also tell you I cried. I was moving from a spacious river-view tower apartment to some 300 square feet of old, dirty, direct-access-to-the-back-alley space. It was one of those house-turned-apartments that are often described as "full of character" or "charming". Yeah, and from the looks of it plenty of people had been charmed right the heck out. To say it felt "lived-in" would have been polite.
Bums camped in the adjacent empty lot.
That's not a joke.
But the point of this story is that this apartment had a dining nook. And that nook became sacred to me. You see, I had moved into this apartment based on some self-imposed lie that God required me to pay a sort of penance. For what, I really can't recall but more or less I needed to serve time in the wilderness. You know, like Moses. And Israel. And. . .WHATEVER. I reasoned with myself at the time that this is clearly what God needed from me in order for me to be right with Him. In order for me to get to the promised land! So I gave up my reserved parking space and my garbage disposal and I cried and I moved into my wilderness.
But back to the nook. (I don't think I need to tell you that GOD DIDN'T ASK ME TO MOVE TO ANY WILDERNESS. But He did use it. In fact, what I thought would be the most desolate time and place in my life turned out to be where God introduced me to my new family. They lived across the hall.) I don't know if it was due to limited seating, or to the fact that this nook's quaintness was about the only redeeming quality I originally found in the apartment, but I spent a fair amount of time in that nook. I read there, I prayed there, and if friends needed to vent that's where we sat. This nook became my space with God. He talked to me there.
I'm not getting all black-woman-in-a-shack on you, and I'm admitting that God probably spoke to me in other locations as well during this time, but this nook took up residence in my life as a sanctuary. It was where the psalms became real to me for the first time. It was where I felt free to cry out for however long it took my tears to surrender or find peace. It was where I felt known by God. I mean, there was a space in my home. Where God spoke. TO ME.
Well. . .the point of this story is that I left that apartment and that nook a few years ago, and stop me before I exhaust my bible story references, but I've been looking back ever since. I literally took pictures of the nook before I moved out. (Complete with bible and candle props, I kid you not.) But this year week, as I've been struggling with God, or wanting to find the courage to, I've found myself not only questioning His goodness but His existence. I don't always feel His presence like I once did. I don't always feel known.
But tonight, as I was standing with my housemates in the space between the entryway and the living room, next to the stairs, next to our dirty shoes, I realized once again that God hasn't lead me into the wilderness. And that any space where people are trying, haphazardly as we may, to love one another in the completely ordinary and often defeating trials of daily life is a space that should be called sacred. God doesn't need a nook or any other meager temple. He's using His own means to remind me that He speaks. Some times even in my home, to me.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
St. Valentine, you punk. . .
Unless there is a big fat sign reading PUMPKIN SPICE in front of Starbucks, I'm not a frequent customer. But today, this day of all blessed holidays, the tribute to St. Valentine (not) I thought I would go to Starbucks and purchase a less than mediocre drink because surely they will have Valentine's cups. You know, something obsecenely pink and red with hearts and silhouettes of little lovers kissing, and vague ethereal quotes about love. I'm not sure why exactly, I was convinced that Starbucks would have these cups (maybe because they prostitute every other celebration?!) but alas, this was my expectation. And WHY did I seek out this imagined cup? Because I thought it might cheer me right into the Valentine spirit. Yes, I am one of those people whom everyone loves to hate this time of year- I DON'T LIKE VALENTINE'S DAY. And since I know that everyone's rebuttal goes something like "Oh, you hate Valentine's day because it's so commercialized? Well what about every other holiday?!". Guess what. I hate Christmas too. And puppies!
I'm just kidding, I don't hate puppies.
I'm not going to to go into why I don't like Valentines day because no one cares. Heck, I barely care. I'm like oh, it's Valentines day? Cool, I guess I'll eat some chocolate. Wait, SO IT'S JUST ANOTHER DAY.
The point is I went to Starbucks to try and spread some cheer into my little Grinch-like heart and it was a FLOP. I'm not a complete lost cause though, I did wear my pink undies today.
-The Monster Queen
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Dear men. (I wanted to include "angry vaginas" in the title but couldn't come up with anything witty)
I probably think you're an asshole before we've met. Part of me wants to be sorry about that but the rest of me remembers what experience has taught me. Which is that you are probably an asshole and I'll find out soon enough. I've been sorry in the past- sorry that I hold my past experiences over people, sorry that I sabotage relationships before they begin, sorry I'm so hard on men. But then once I discover that the next guy really is an asshole too, I'm ashamed for ever being sorry. So now I'm not.
I never wanted to be the kind of woman who listens to mad-girl music and gets together with her girlfriends, cursing the male specieswhile eating fried foods and vocally contemplating becoming a nun. Honestly it's embarrassing. I don't want to hate men. I know a handful (a small handful, mind you) who are actually really respectable and amazing men, and there was definitely a period of time in which knowing them gave me hope that maybe my encounters with men, though highly unfortunate, were rare, but in fact knowing these decent men has made me all the more aware of how many inconsiderate pricks really are out there. MANY.
My particular brand of dissatisfaction lies namely with Christian men. My qualms with unsaved men are on a much smaller scale because I think it unfair of me to expect much from someone who has no great example to follow. But men who say they love God, yet refuse to love their sisters really unnerve me. How should a man love his sister? He should care to protect her heart by being mindful of his words and actions. He should desire that she know what to expect from men, by being the kind of man she can look to for some semblance of a standard. He should treat her as if she is valuable; as if she were created by God.
I'm not suggesting that Christian men need to be covering puddles with their coats and calling a girl's father before spending any time with her, nor am I side-stepping Christ and saying that men need to replace the standard He has set. What I am suggesting is that men in the church look different than men outside of it. I don't pretend to know what makes men tick. Sure, I could recite hypothesis after hypothesis of how each generation is losing family values due to the way our culture lives, and father-figures are being replaced by mother-figures which in turn leads to some psycho babble analysis of why men shuck responsibility and avoid relational commitment. And yes, I'm sure that's all good and true, but where does that leave women today? Accepting 30 year old boys as a poor substitute for men because daddy didn't teach them how to stand when they pee? Don't consider me completely void of compassion but my childhood was less than ideal too, so you won't see me handing any Get Out of Adulthood Free cards.
My standards are high, yes. And clearly my tolerance is low (and decreasing at a rapid rate). And okay, I should probably stop calling men "assholes". But I feel entirely lost, and rather hopeless in navigating how to be a friend, a sister, and a single woman to anyone of the opposite sex. Either I have to be that girl (who unabashedly orders bridal magazines and looooves babies and just can't wait to buy a house and sew some shit) or I have to pretend to be naive ("why yes, I'd love to hang out with you ambiguously until I'm forced to bring up the DTR at which point you'll probably tell me that you thought you might like me but now you realize we'd make better friends"). These options SUCK.
I'm not suppose to openly voice that YES, I'D LIKE TO GET MARRIED. Because everyone knows that will scare men away! But really because I don't want my desire to get married to be confused with I'll marry any man who'll have me. I am not hunting for a husband. But because, by God's grace, I recognize that men and women do operate differently I realize that boundaries are important. Lest some friend desire to spend curious amounts of time with me, I know that eventually my brain will start producing chemicals that, in the voice of giggly little school girls, will sound like DOES HE LIKE ME? DOES HE LIKE ME??? And since men so often either don't recognize or refuse to acknowledge these fundamental differences because they selfishly like the attention they know they get by being cryptic about their intentions, I'm forced to set boundaries. Awkward, borderline-childlike boundaries. And it's exhausting being the only functional adult in a relationship. Which brings me to the point of bashing men on the internet.
It's okay if you think I'm a bitch, or crazy, or just so damn typical. It kind of proves my point. And if you don't, well that's great, because in case you can't tell by now, I'd really love for someone to prove me wrong.
I never wanted to be the kind of woman who listens to mad-girl music and gets together with her girlfriends, cursing the male species
My particular brand of dissatisfaction lies namely with Christian men. My qualms with unsaved men are on a much smaller scale because I think it unfair of me to expect much from someone who has no great example to follow. But men who say they love God, yet refuse to love their sisters really unnerve me. How should a man love his sister? He should care to protect her heart by being mindful of his words and actions. He should desire that she know what to expect from men, by being the kind of man she can look to for some semblance of a standard. He should treat her as if she is valuable; as if she were created by God.
I'm not suggesting that Christian men need to be covering puddles with their coats and calling a girl's father before spending any time with her, nor am I side-stepping Christ and saying that men need to replace the standard He has set. What I am suggesting is that men in the church look different than men outside of it. I don't pretend to know what makes men tick. Sure, I could recite hypothesis after hypothesis of how each generation is losing family values due to the way our culture lives, and father-figures are being replaced by mother-figures which in turn leads to some psycho babble analysis of why men shuck responsibility and avoid relational commitment. And yes, I'm sure that's all good and true, but where does that leave women today? Accepting 30 year old boys as a poor substitute for men because daddy didn't teach them how to stand when they pee? Don't consider me completely void of compassion but my childhood was less than ideal too, so you won't see me handing any Get Out of Adulthood Free cards.
My standards are high, yes. And clearly my tolerance is low (and decreasing at a rapid rate). And okay, I should probably stop calling men "assholes". But I feel entirely lost, and rather hopeless in navigating how to be a friend, a sister, and a single woman to anyone of the opposite sex. Either I have to be that girl (who unabashedly orders bridal magazines and looooves babies and just can't wait to buy a house and sew some shit) or I have to pretend to be naive ("why yes, I'd love to hang out with you ambiguously until I'm forced to bring up the DTR at which point you'll probably tell me that you thought you might like me but now you realize we'd make better friends"). These options SUCK.
I'm not suppose to openly voice that YES, I'D LIKE TO GET MARRIED. Because everyone knows that will scare men away! But really because I don't want my desire to get married to be confused with I'll marry any man who'll have me. I am not hunting for a husband. But because, by God's grace, I recognize that men and women do operate differently I realize that boundaries are important. Lest some friend desire to spend curious amounts of time with me, I know that eventually my brain will start producing chemicals that, in the voice of giggly little school girls, will sound like DOES HE LIKE ME? DOES HE LIKE ME??? And since men so often either don't recognize or refuse to acknowledge these fundamental differences because they selfishly like the attention they know they get by being cryptic about their intentions, I'm forced to set boundaries. Awkward, borderline-childlike boundaries. And it's exhausting being the only functional adult in a relationship. Which brings me to the point of bashing men on the internet.
It's okay if you think I'm a bitch, or crazy, or just so damn typical. It kind of proves my point. And if you don't, well that's great, because in case you can't tell by now, I'd really love for someone to prove me wrong.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Online dating: a snapshot
So yes, I've taken the plunge into online dating. Why? Because it's just scary enough to give you an adrenaline rush and it's cheaper than sky diving. And some times you get a free dinner out of it.
I skirted the venture before, but couldn't quite get momentum and ended up bailing before ever really starting a conversation. Something about dozens and dozens of men spelling out exactly what they want their future wife and children to look, act, and smell like is enough to send me back to real life where I just result to shamelessly flirting with men in line at the grocery store. But this time I decided it was okay if I said "no" to nine out of ten guys- it is, in fact my right to turn down any man who is looking for a young, hot, no-drama woman who takes care of her body and wants to be a working mother of eight.
But saying "no" isn't really the issue anymore. It's stopping myself from saying "You're joking, right? No, seriously. Have the countless hours you've spent playing World of Warcraft destroyed all of your brain cells or have you just NEVER MET A WOMAN IN YOUR LIFE?". I did ask one man if he had ever spoken to a woman before. He stopped talking to me.
Basically this is how my filter works though: if the majority of your photos are of your truck or your dog, you at a club, or you shirtless in front of a mirror, if you've listed "texting" and/or "drinking" as one of your hobbies, you send me a message with the word "hottie" in it, or you spell "college" as "collage"- stop right there. Just stop.
Maybe take a couple of minutes to scan my profile. Not just my photos, but the rest of my profile. Notice all of my pretty words that I took the time to spell correctly. Notice my punctuation (ellipses where periods should be DON'T COUNT). Notice my persistent mention of Jesus. Notice that I'm 5'8". Then ask yourself if we have ANYTHING in common. Like age, or religious preference, or the motivation to shower regularly. Because if we don't, it's really difficult for me to just say "no". I feel like your collage education should have taught you some rules of deduction. Or at least how to greet someone respectfully. I don't feel the need to let you down easily. I do however, feel the need to crush the fantasies you've masturbated to since you were 14 and let you know that you aren't going to find the Victoria's Secret model who wants to be the mother of your children online. Or anywhere else. So thanks for the "compliment" but I'd rather grease my ankles than go out with you.
I skirted the venture before, but couldn't quite get momentum and ended up bailing before ever really starting a conversation. Something about dozens and dozens of men spelling out exactly what they want their future wife and children to look, act, and smell like is enough to send me back to real life where I just result to shamelessly flirting with men in line at the grocery store. But this time I decided it was okay if I said "no" to nine out of ten guys- it is, in fact my right to turn down any man who is looking for a young, hot, no-drama woman who takes care of her body and wants to be a working mother of eight.
But saying "no" isn't really the issue anymore. It's stopping myself from saying "You're joking, right? No, seriously. Have the countless hours you've spent playing World of Warcraft destroyed all of your brain cells or have you just NEVER MET A WOMAN IN YOUR LIFE?". I did ask one man if he had ever spoken to a woman before. He stopped talking to me.
Basically this is how my filter works though: if the majority of your photos are of your truck or your dog, you at a club, or you shirtless in front of a mirror, if you've listed "texting" and/or "drinking" as one of your hobbies, you send me a message with the word "hottie" in it, or you spell "college" as "collage"- stop right there. Just stop.
Maybe take a couple of minutes to scan my profile. Not just my photos, but the rest of my profile. Notice all of my pretty words that I took the time to spell correctly. Notice my punctuation (ellipses where periods should be DON'T COUNT). Notice my persistent mention of Jesus. Notice that I'm 5'8". Then ask yourself if we have ANYTHING in common. Like age, or religious preference, or the motivation to shower regularly. Because if we don't, it's really difficult for me to just say "no". I feel like your collage education should have taught you some rules of deduction. Or at least how to greet someone respectfully. I don't feel the need to let you down easily. I do however, feel the need to crush the fantasies you've masturbated to since you were 14 and let you know that you aren't going to find the Victoria's Secret model who wants to be the mother of your children online. Or anywhere else. So thanks for the "compliment" but I'd rather grease my ankles than go out with you.
Monday, December 12, 2011
A word hug
I am in love with the power of words. Because it only takes one sentence to make me want to cry.
"So I offer up my humanness if, instead of a place to stay for the night, you need to hear that even with everything in its right place it's okay if you still don't know why it doesn't feel that way".
Credit: Dooce
"So I offer up my humanness if, instead of a place to stay for the night, you need to hear that even with everything in its right place it's okay if you still don't know why it doesn't feel that way".
Credit: Dooce
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Skinny
I don't know why I'm still explaining my blog- "I don't think it's a fashion blog", "I don't want it to be my public journal", "I don't want it to be too serious"- as if anyone reading this needs me to explain that I'm pretty much going to write whatever I want sans filter. So I'm NOT going to preface this post with "I really don't want to rant about this" dot. dot. dot.
When CLEARLY I DO.
Because I am so sick of the drive to be thin.
As if there is no nobler goal for women alive today but than to be a single digit size. Below the number six. I know I know, how many times and by how many people have we heard this argument? We're just one more pseudo-lesbian group away from being a generation of surly old maids, right? Except we're not. We're still shopping at Victoria's Secret and wanting Gisele's ass.
I'm not a feminist. Or shit, maybe I am- because I don't even know what it means to be a feminist. Does it mean that I think every woman is more than a firm set of tits and a waist small enough to fit a dog collar around? Well pardon me while I burn my bra and braid my armpit hair. What I do know is that I never again want to envy a supermodels body. I never want to see another set of protruding hips, or another face photo shopped to the point of being WITHOUT PORES. What has brought me to this state of outrage is the labeling of inanimate objects as "skinny". It's a dangerous game- calling things "skinny". Skinny lattes, skinny jeans. Placing the word "skinny" in front of something does not in fact lead to thinness. All it leads to is a continued assurance that our society is obsessed with weight. Please recognize that wearing skinny jeans changes nothing about your legs and ordering "skinny milk" makes me cringe because it is nothing of the sort. It's non-fat milk and you know what else is non-fat? Candy. Tons and tons of candy. Which also, WILL NOT MAKE YOU SKINNY. A food that is void of fat does not mean that it won't turn to fat in your body. So it's dangerous to wave this word out in front of us as if it offers some sort of protection to ward off fat. As if fat is the worst thing we could be.
I'm not suggesting that we disregard out health- quite the contrary. And I'm not proposing an agenda in which Rosie the Riveter is our mascot into the world of female-dominant leadership. All I mean to say is that thinness, being skinny and the pursuit of it, is wasting my time. Of all the things I love, enjoy, am passionate about- I couldn't ever say that the pursuit of thinness is one of them. In fact it makes me miserable. Is making me miserable. And let's be real, I'm not alone.
I'm not giving up my femininity or my health. I'm not giving up my self-respect or my desire to be attractive. But I am giving up on skinny. Because I believe that my value is not measured by the circumference of my waist of the length of my legs in inches. And if my value could have a numerical form, it would always be higher than my number on the scale.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Early morning mastery
Remember that one time I went to bed at a normal time and it sucked?
Yeah, deja vu.
But that's cool 'cause at 4am no one is around tojudge interrupt my weekly fill of old Law and Order:SVU episodes or every single movie trailer that exists right now. Thanks, Hulu, for reminding me that I need to spend all of my income watching movies.
Also, how attractive is Michael Fassbender?
Again, I blame Hulu for that information.
Yeah, deja vu.
But that's cool 'cause at 4am no one is around to
Also, how attractive is Michael Fassbender?
Again, I blame Hulu for that information.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Ramblings of a grown up
Are you there Blog? It's me, Sarah.
I hope you got that Judy Blume reference because if you didn't, you missed out on so much solid literature as a child. A girl waiting patiently for her period to make it's first appearance could have no better friend than Judy Blume.
ANYHOW. I miss my blog. Which is to say I just can't get enough of myself. Oh, you can't get enough of me either? I'M SO GLAD WE'RE FRIENDS.
I work at a coffee shop. (No, I'm not judging you based on your drink order. Unless you order a 20 ounce breve, in which case it's less judgement and more wondering if you know what a breve is. I feel a deep compulsion to make a spectacle of the fact that it's HALF AND HALF. And then I wonder where the fuck you put all the fat because Lord knows I'd be the star of the next TLC show about bed-ridden obese people if I were drinking 20 ounce breves everyday). And I hang out with my house mates. Who are just about my most favorite people in the world tobe awkward around hang out with. We do things like watch a cappella competitions, talk about our feelings, and drink herbal teas.
I can't believe how true that last sentence is.
Thank you, Judy Blume, for preparing me for adulthood. It is everything I could have hope for.
(Side note: I just googled "half and half". Why? Because I can. If I didn't miss the Waltons so much, the 21st century would probably get my vote.)
I have no idea what this post was about.
I hope you got that Judy Blume reference because if you didn't, you missed out on so much solid literature as a child. A girl waiting patiently for her period to make it's first appearance could have no better friend than Judy Blume.
ANYHOW. I miss my blog. Which is to say I just can't get enough of myself. Oh, you can't get enough of me either? I'M SO GLAD WE'RE FRIENDS.
I work at a coffee shop. (No, I'm not judging you based on your drink order. Unless you order a 20 ounce breve, in which case it's less judgement and more wondering if you know what a breve is. I feel a deep compulsion to make a spectacle of the fact that it's HALF AND HALF. And then I wonder where the fuck you put all the fat because Lord knows I'd be the star of the next TLC show about bed-ridden obese people if I were drinking 20 ounce breves everyday). And I hang out with my house mates. Who are just about my most favorite people in the world to
I can't believe how true that last sentence is.
Thank you, Judy Blume, for preparing me for adulthood. It is everything I could have hope for.
(Side note: I just googled "half and half". Why? Because I can. If I didn't miss the Waltons so much, the 21st century would probably get my vote.)
I have no idea what this post was about.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Next, I'll be starting a drum circle
I know I've expressed before that I never imagined my blog becoming my interactive journal, and my innate introversion is still desperately hoping that it won't be, but it seems that my sarcasm to life ratio is a little unbalanced these days. And that's probably due to the fact that I'm getting extra doses of life these days. Or maybe I'm just finally paying attention.
A couple of weeks ago I drafted a lengthy post on what it feels like to be a stranger living in your boss' house, being accused of using poor judgement, getting yelled at, and then being expected to sit down for an amiable dinner (with your boss and their extended family). It was emotional and melodramatic, and then it mysteriously disappeared. Which I took as a sign that as much as I want all the wounded of the world (who read my blog) to know YOUR FEELINGS ARE VALID AND I CAN TOTALLY RELATE TO THAT REALLY CRAPPY THING YOU HAD TO GO THROUGH AND YES, IT SUCKED! some times I guess, I just can't wrap the entire world in an imaginary hug. No matter how hyperbolic and heartfelt it might be. Also, maybe I don't need to dwell on the sad things so much.
So lately I've been trying to do just that- not dwell on the sad things. Now, my immediate instinct is to list ALL OF THE SAD THINGS I'M TOTALLY NOT DWELLING ON. Which is to say, it takes effort. It takes effort to let go of my anxiety and appreciate that I have been BLESSED to spend time with my family, laugh my head off with them, see unexpected and beautiful places in America, help my little sister with her math, enjoy so much good food, share moments and treasures and LIVES.
I can't decipher the last three months of my life. I can't determine why I am where I am now- so far off from where I ever imagined myself being. But honestly, I'm tired of trying to. I love where I am, as transient and out of my control as this place in my life is. I'm sharing my life with people. And I'm so blessed by the lives being shared with me.
Now let's everyone hug it out.
-The Monster Queen
A couple of weeks ago I drafted a lengthy post on what it feels like to be a stranger living in your boss' house, being accused of using poor judgement, getting yelled at, and then being expected to sit down for an amiable dinner (with your boss and their extended family). It was emotional and melodramatic, and then it mysteriously disappeared. Which I took as a sign that as much as I want all the wounded of the world (who read my blog) to know YOUR FEELINGS ARE VALID AND I CAN TOTALLY RELATE TO THAT REALLY CRAPPY THING YOU HAD TO GO THROUGH AND YES, IT SUCKED! some times I guess, I just can't wrap the entire world in an imaginary hug. No matter how hyperbolic and heartfelt it might be. Also, maybe I don't need to dwell on the sad things so much.
So lately I've been trying to do just that- not dwell on the sad things. Now, my immediate instinct is to list ALL OF THE SAD THINGS I'M TOTALLY NOT DWELLING ON. Which is to say, it takes effort. It takes effort to let go of my anxiety and appreciate that I have been BLESSED to spend time with my family, laugh my head off with them, see unexpected and beautiful places in America, help my little sister with her math, enjoy so much good food, share moments and treasures and LIVES.
I can't decipher the last three months of my life. I can't determine why I am where I am now- so far off from where I ever imagined myself being. But honestly, I'm tired of trying to. I love where I am, as transient and out of my control as this place in my life is. I'm sharing my life with people. And I'm so blessed by the lives being shared with me.
Now let's everyone hug it out.
-The Monster Queen
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Secrets make your clothes smell better
Who knew that my Mount Rushmore shirt would make such an impact on my wardrobe? I guess I should take back all the mean things I said about South Dakota. NOT.
In case you don't see me every week (you don't, I'm in a house with children one billion hours a week. Oh, a week doesn't have a billion hours? EXACTLY.) it makes an appearance each wash cycle. And by that I mean when it's clean, I wear it. And it would probably be clean more often if I was allowed to do laundry while on shift. But I'm not. I'm also not allowed to read books on shift. Or microwave any food for the children. Which, I would totally support if that didn't mean I was heating up an entire jar of store bought spaghetti sauce on the stove, just to use two tablespoons of it. And the rest that I'm putting in Tupperware to go back in the fridge? Yeah, I can't microwave that tomorrow either.
Other things I'm not allowed to do "on shift":
Be farther than 3 feet from the children at any given time
Let the children play unmediated games with their friends
Fold laundry on my lap (it needs to be folded on the bed)
Wash the cousin's swim things with our swim things
Deny the children their third daily Popsicle
Eat my meals w/o the children
Expect to get paid on time
All this to say, I'M DOING MY LAUNDRY IN SECRET. Yeah, that's right. When I say I'm going to the bathroom I'm actually folding my clothes. I never imagined that my rebellious nature would lead to secret laundry. I feel like such a fraud. When my bathroom breaks get taken away, I have no idea what I'll be forced to do.
-The Monster Queen
In case you don't see me every week (you don't, I'm in a house with children one billion hours a week. Oh, a week doesn't have a billion hours? EXACTLY.) it makes an appearance each wash cycle. And by that I mean when it's clean, I wear it. And it would probably be clean more often if I was allowed to do laundry while on shift. But I'm not. I'm also not allowed to read books on shift. Or microwave any food for the children. Which, I would totally support if that didn't mean I was heating up an entire jar of store bought spaghetti sauce on the stove, just to use two tablespoons of it. And the rest that I'm putting in Tupperware to go back in the fridge? Yeah, I can't microwave that tomorrow either.
Other things I'm not allowed to do "on shift":
Be farther than 3 feet from the children at any given time
Let the children play unmediated games with their friends
Fold laundry on my lap (it needs to be folded on the bed)
Wash the cousin's swim things with our swim things
Deny the children their third daily Popsicle
Eat my meals w/o the children
Expect to get paid on time
All this to say, I'M DOING MY LAUNDRY IN SECRET. Yeah, that's right. When I say I'm going to the bathroom I'm actually folding my clothes. I never imagined that my rebellious nature would lead to secret laundry. I feel like such a fraud. When my bathroom breaks get taken away, I have no idea what I'll be forced to do.
-The Monster Queen
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Black market
Did you hire someone to watch your children? Congratulations, Wise Investor. Now, call up your brother and let him know that your nanny will watch his kids too. Then call up your neighbor and tell her that your nanny will watch her kids too! Then, if you realize there is someone you forgot to offer your nanny's services to, tell your nanny YOU NEED HER TO MAKE A PHONE CALL.
-The Monster Queen
-The Monster Queen
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Big bear comfort
I have no idea what's going on with my life, but what I do know is that my panda dress makes me feel right with the world. Or at least right with myself. Because one day I walked into a gas station that had an entire wall full of majestic tees, and that was a good day.
Cool fact about NY: you can wear the exact same outfit three nights in a row and no one will notice. Probably because you won't see any of the same people. Even in your house. Did I mention that I live with six other people? Yeah. . .life.
Also, welcome to my new self timer wall.
-The Monster Queen
Cool fact about NY: you can wear the exact same outfit three nights in a row and no one will notice. Probably because you won't see any of the same people. Even in your house. Did I mention that I live with six other people? Yeah. . .life.
Also, welcome to my new self timer wall.
-The Monster Queen
Saturday, August 6, 2011
The setting
New York is hard.
In so many ways. I wanted to be an exception (what's new?) and fall madly in love with New York the moment I set foot in it. I wanted to feel home and not ever want to leave. But New York is hard. I could list all of the things and ways in which New York is such a difficult place but I'm not going to. Instead I'm going to focus on the things I love.
I love the train ride. Not the subway- it's busy, and loud, and exactly as it should be- but the train. The forty minute ride from my town to NYC. The forty minutes in which I am allowed to sit still. In which I am given time to observe people- admire their clothes, determine if they are visiting or residential, listen to them comfort their tired children late at night. I love waiting to hear the inevitable can of beer being opened in the train car, and I love the smile that comes across my face when I do. I especially love when that person is sitting across from me and I get to watch them enjoy that small part of their day. And the train conductor. The train conductor is my favorite. Who, nine times out of ten has an accent so thick that you know he's spent his entire life in this state; a permanent native. In an instant you find yourself painting a picture of his life; he grew up in the ghetto, with half a dozen siblings and a working single mother. He graduated high school with integrity and good grades but too much responsibility to do anything after high school other than find a good paying job. Maybe he's been working the train system ever since. Maybe he's divorced. Maybe he has his own kids now. He's a man whose story you'd love to hear over a cup of coffee at 5 a.m.
You see, these forty minutes are the forty minutes in which I still get to romanticize about New York. I get to forget my own current circumstances and I get to dream about the place in which so many stories are set. I get to write my own stories here.
-The Monster Queen
In so many ways. I wanted to be an exception (what's new?) and fall madly in love with New York the moment I set foot in it. I wanted to feel home and not ever want to leave. But New York is hard. I could list all of the things and ways in which New York is such a difficult place but I'm not going to. Instead I'm going to focus on the things I love.
I love the train ride. Not the subway- it's busy, and loud, and exactly as it should be- but the train. The forty minute ride from my town to NYC. The forty minutes in which I am allowed to sit still. In which I am given time to observe people- admire their clothes, determine if they are visiting or residential, listen to them comfort their tired children late at night. I love waiting to hear the inevitable can of beer being opened in the train car, and I love the smile that comes across my face when I do. I especially love when that person is sitting across from me and I get to watch them enjoy that small part of their day. And the train conductor. The train conductor is my favorite. Who, nine times out of ten has an accent so thick that you know he's spent his entire life in this state; a permanent native. In an instant you find yourself painting a picture of his life; he grew up in the ghetto, with half a dozen siblings and a working single mother. He graduated high school with integrity and good grades but too much responsibility to do anything after high school other than find a good paying job. Maybe he's been working the train system ever since. Maybe he's divorced. Maybe he has his own kids now. He's a man whose story you'd love to hear over a cup of coffee at 5 a.m.
You see, these forty minutes are the forty minutes in which I still get to romanticize about New York. I get to forget my own current circumstances and I get to dream about the place in which so many stories are set. I get to write my own stories here.
-The Monster Queen
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
SoDak
Are you thinking about taking a trip through South Dakota? Please allow me to walk you through how that trip will go. . .
The anticipation about seeing Mount Rushmore will get you to Mount Rushmore without too much thought. I mean, dead Presidents carved into a mountain- nothing else quite says "this is America bitches!". You will note that from the initial angle Abe Lincoln and Ted Roosevelt look like they're about to embrace each other in a kiss. But from the designated angle they're much more heterosexual. You're favorite part will be Roosevelt's mustache, and the smirk on Jefferson's face will likely cause you to try and determine what he is thinking. One of the things you come up with will be "I just farted".
After about seven minutes of photos with all of the pose and angle combinations you can come up with you'll begin to wonder what you're suppose to do now. Leaving seems a little anticlimactic. You'll probably buy a t-shirt and a magnet so that you can often and fondly remember the time you spent with America's stone fathers. As you leave you should probably thank them for their contributions.
By this time you'll have likely seen brochures for Crazy Horse, another stone monument that is a mere twenty miles away. And if you've spent ANY time in Wyoming you know that our Native history is just as (if not more) important than our American history. Now I mean no disrespect to our Native ancestors but I'm going to give you a heads up right now- the monument is not finished, costs $10 per person to view, and will make you wish you could have those twenty miles back. Take a good look at that brochure because I promise you that photo is more satisfying. And it's free.
Next on your itinerary is The Badlands National Park. The fifty mile drive and $15 fee is worth it. At just about any time of day I would imagine this incredible creation reminiscent of The Land Before Time is always as breath taking. Take your kids.
Since South Dakota happens to be deceivingly wide, by this time you will likely be looking for a place to sleep. Now believe it or not, motels WILL be booked, so you will need to reserve a room online ahead of time and if you happen to stay in Kadoka, please stay at the Dakota Inn. If for no other reason but that the old man at the front desk will know who you are not because he asked for your name or ID (he will do neither) but because you will be the only person who has reserved a room online- possibly ever. The carpet is alarmingly red but I'm sure they clean after every time someone is killed. There may or may not be dead crickets in your room.
In the morning you'll be glad that there is a cafe, called CAFE, right across the gravel patch from the Inn. Don't get too excited though, they only take cash. Just continue onward until you see the next stop for a restaurant. This will bring you to a town that displays more signs reading "An 1880 town!" than signs displaying the town's actual name. Upon entering this restaurant you might be fooled into thinking you're about to have an amazing, home-cooked, diner-style meal. And you might be- as long as you don't confuse them by ordering ANYTHING that differs from the six items on their menu- this includes asking for any item without the meat, expecting cheese, asking for your breakfast sandwich on an English muffin, or drinking the coffee. DON'T DRINK THE COFFEE. And don't worry, their neighbor doesn't take as long as you think to deliver the cheese. The American Kraft Singles cheese.
Now South Dakota gets exciting.
Psych!
South Dakota doesn't ever get exciting. They have a lot of Amish people (Driving cars. Yes, it seemed weird to me too.) and people who reenact old saloon robbery scenes JUST FOR FUN in fake old towns, and you might think they have a lot of corn BUT THEY DON'T. So now, NOW, you get to drive. Miles and miles and miles. With nothing to look at except for fields. FIELDS OF NOTHING. Seriously, if South Dakota is growing something I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS. And if you're lucky like me, the rain in south Dakota will tear the paint off your car and then you will have car trouble in Sioux Falls, the only place in that state that even resembles a city. And you might think "I bet they have a lot of mechanics here because they probably have to fix their own cars a lot", but you'd be wrong. In fact, the repair shop that everyone recommends to you (which also doubles as a home and garden store) will strangely misplace their mechanic from time to time. The next mechanic you find won't have time for you. But don't worry, three hours, $300, and conversations with strangely friendly local ladies in the auto repair lounge and you'll be good to go.
And go you will. Miles and miles and miles. There is one last site to see in South Dakota. The Corn Palace. And if you have more sanity than I did by the time you get there, by all means, stop! I hear it's a gymnasium on the inside. Which is cool. You know, if you have nothing better to do but shoot hoops in a gymnasium in South Dakota. Possibly with Amish people.
So I get why South Dakota is called the Mount Rushmore state. Their other options were The Amish State, The State That Pretends to Have Corn, or The So-Boring-You-Might-Stab-Yourself-For-Fun State.
Enjoy your travels and God bless America.
-The Monster Queen
The anticipation about seeing Mount Rushmore will get you to Mount Rushmore without too much thought. I mean, dead Presidents carved into a mountain- nothing else quite says "this is America bitches!". You will note that from the initial angle Abe Lincoln and Ted Roosevelt look like they're about to embrace each other in a kiss. But from the designated angle they're much more heterosexual. You're favorite part will be Roosevelt's mustache, and the smirk on Jefferson's face will likely cause you to try and determine what he is thinking. One of the things you come up with will be "I just farted".
After about seven minutes of photos with all of the pose and angle combinations you can come up with you'll begin to wonder what you're suppose to do now. Leaving seems a little anticlimactic. You'll probably buy a t-shirt and a magnet so that you can often and fondly remember the time you spent with America's stone fathers. As you leave you should probably thank them for their contributions.
By this time you'll have likely seen brochures for Crazy Horse, another stone monument that is a mere twenty miles away. And if you've spent ANY time in Wyoming you know that our Native history is just as (if not more) important than our American history. Now I mean no disrespect to our Native ancestors but I'm going to give you a heads up right now- the monument is not finished, costs $10 per person to view, and will make you wish you could have those twenty miles back. Take a good look at that brochure because I promise you that photo is more satisfying. And it's free.
Next on your itinerary is The Badlands National Park. The fifty mile drive and $15 fee is worth it. At just about any time of day I would imagine this incredible creation reminiscent of The Land Before Time is always as breath taking. Take your kids.
Since South Dakota happens to be deceivingly wide, by this time you will likely be looking for a place to sleep. Now believe it or not, motels WILL be booked, so you will need to reserve a room online ahead of time and if you happen to stay in Kadoka, please stay at the Dakota Inn. If for no other reason but that the old man at the front desk will know who you are not because he asked for your name or ID (he will do neither) but because you will be the only person who has reserved a room online- possibly ever. The carpet is alarmingly red but I'm sure they clean after every time someone is killed. There may or may not be dead crickets in your room.
In the morning you'll be glad that there is a cafe, called CAFE, right across the gravel patch from the Inn. Don't get too excited though, they only take cash. Just continue onward until you see the next stop for a restaurant. This will bring you to a town that displays more signs reading "An 1880 town!" than signs displaying the town's actual name. Upon entering this restaurant you might be fooled into thinking you're about to have an amazing, home-cooked, diner-style meal. And you might be- as long as you don't confuse them by ordering ANYTHING that differs from the six items on their menu- this includes asking for any item without the meat, expecting cheese, asking for your breakfast sandwich on an English muffin, or drinking the coffee. DON'T DRINK THE COFFEE. And don't worry, their neighbor doesn't take as long as you think to deliver the cheese. The American Kraft Singles cheese.
Now South Dakota gets exciting.
Psych!
South Dakota doesn't ever get exciting. They have a lot of Amish people (Driving cars. Yes, it seemed weird to me too.) and people who reenact old saloon robbery scenes JUST FOR FUN in fake old towns, and you might think they have a lot of corn BUT THEY DON'T. So now, NOW, you get to drive. Miles and miles and miles. With nothing to look at except for fields. FIELDS OF NOTHING. Seriously, if South Dakota is growing something I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS. And if you're lucky like me, the rain in south Dakota will tear the paint off your car and then you will have car trouble in Sioux Falls, the only place in that state that even resembles a city. And you might think "I bet they have a lot of mechanics here because they probably have to fix their own cars a lot", but you'd be wrong. In fact, the repair shop that everyone recommends to you (which also doubles as a home and garden store) will strangely misplace their mechanic from time to time. The next mechanic you find won't have time for you. But don't worry, three hours, $300, and conversations with strangely friendly local ladies in the auto repair lounge and you'll be good to go.
And go you will. Miles and miles and miles. There is one last site to see in South Dakota. The Corn Palace. And if you have more sanity than I did by the time you get there, by all means, stop! I hear it's a gymnasium on the inside. Which is cool. You know, if you have nothing better to do but shoot hoops in a gymnasium in South Dakota. Possibly with Amish people.
So I get why South Dakota is called the Mount Rushmore state. Their other options were The Amish State, The State That Pretends to Have Corn, or The So-Boring-You-Might-Stab-Yourself-For-Fun State.
Enjoy your travels and God bless America.
-The Monster Queen
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Mon-tan-ya
Did you think that Montana was just mountains, and horses, and an extra tall sky? Well shame on you, because it also has sheep. Also, IT'S GORGEOUS. I kid you not, I seldom get romantic about landscape but apparently the settlers forgot to go through Montana because it looks virtually untouched after God painted it beautiful. And my favorite part of my first day in Montana might very well have been hearing this question:
"So, are you a shepherd?"
-The Monster Queen
"So, are you a shepherd?"
-The Monster Queen
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