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.

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

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 species while 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.

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.

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

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. 

It is dangerous to be so vulnerable as to think that we are only bodies.

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.

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 to judge 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.