Spotted at: SFO

Happy Monday!

You know when you throw on your fuzziest purple socks and sparkly sneaks, it’s gonna be a great day.

xo

Just because I have a vagina: Part I

During my last quarter as a undergrad I was enrolled in independent study with a favorite (and well-known) professor.  It was an easy way to get credit–we met every two weeks while I was doing research and writing an academic paper about my findings.

Our meetings usually lasted between 30 and 45-minutes, during which time we’d talk about the paper, but also about what my post-graduation plans were.  Having earned his PhD in Sociology, and taking a particular interest in news media, he delighted in knowing that I wanted to be a writer some day.

For our last meeting he decided we should go on a field trip.  To be honest, I felt a little anxious about it.  It’s one thing to know your professor in an academic setting, and an entirely different thing to spend time with them off campus.  (I’m not suggesting it isn’t normal to do so, because I think at certain universities and for certain kinds of teachers, it’s very normal to interact with students like that.)  When the time came to go on our excursion, we got into his (very nice) BMW and set off to our destination.

Truth me told it ended up being rather uneventful because when we showed up we were told we had needed to make an appointment to speak with an official of the location.  Discouraged, my professor tried to finagle our way into the office, but alas it was a wash.  Not totally defeated he suggested we go out to lunch and turn the afternoon around; I agreed.

We ended up getting Vietnamese food to-go and ate it as we drove back to school.  Probing me for a little more information about my career goals, I mentioned that while I did love writing, I was also considering working in higher education as a counselor, and that I wanted to work on a college campus while I earned my masters.

Like I said, he’s a well-known professor, so I wasn’t surprised when he told me he knew someone at Stanford University (in the Bay Area, where I’m from).

“You know I know someone in the Sociology Department at Stanford.  I could pass along your information to him, and see if he knows of any job openings.”

Me: “Wow, thank you, I’d really appreciate that.  Stanford is a great school.”

“Yeah, and if nothing else I think he has a few kids, maybe you could be his babysitter.”

Stunned is the best word to describe what I felt when he said that.  Really?  A babysitter?  Babysitting is what I did when I was 16-years-old.  Before I worked my ass off and earned a degree from a top-flight institution.  All I could think at that moment was, Would he ever say such a thing to a male student in my position?  And of course I know the answer to that: no.

Embarrassment, table for one

Like every woman I have my good days and my bad days.  If the jeans feel a little loose around the waist, it’s a good day.  If the bangs look like the brim of cycling cap, it’s a bad day.  If the makeup is flawless AND the booty is poppin’, ladies and gentlewomen, that’s what we call Christmas in July.

And it’s not always just about how I look.  I get a fuzzy feeling when I let Husbot have the last piece of pizza, I nurse a baby squirrel back to health, or I drop a fiver into the coffee cup of a violin-playing hobo.  Then again, I feel like a total asshat when I realize the car I just flipped off is a Meals on Wheels van being driven by a little old lady.

But for the sake of entertainment, let’s say I’m having a good day all around: clean black pants, shiny locks, and the cure for the common cold in my back pocket.

At 5:15 pm I get home from work.  Naturally, I have to take my dog out for a walk.  Let me tell you here and now, nothing brings my big inflated head back down to Earth faster than that furry, four-legged Napoleon.

Firstly, he barks.  At everything.  A wheelchair, a baby stroller, a fern blowing in the wind.  An errant piece of trash in the street, the smell of gasoline, and of course, other dogs.  I swear to sweet bobble-headed baby Jesus that I’ve tried everything.  A firm, “No!”  An introduction to his perceived enemy (ALWAYS ENDS BADLY).  Profusely apologizing to everyone we pass.  A treat reward or disincentive.  He still barks.  So I usually just cross the street, dragging Cujo Jr. behind me.

If I could avoid the whole walking situation entirely, believe me, I would.  But we need to accomplish two things on Joey’s walks: exercise and bladder/intestinal elimination.  Cause listen, if there’s one thing I feel badly about in our dog’s life, it’s is the fact that the dude can’t go to the bathroom on his own accord.  That sucks; no one else in our household has the same restriction.  Furthermore, the place we rent has no doggie door, and even if it did, I’m generally convinced those only lead to other stray animals entering your home unannounced, usually while you’re asleep.  Seriously, I don’t need any more mouths to feed.

One of the joys of dog ownership is cleaning up after your pooch.  If we go on a mile long walk, I can guarantee that for 9/10ths of the distance we won’t run into anyone else.  But as soon as he senses there is another human in his vicinity, his butt starts percolating somethin’ awful.  And no sooner have I spotted someone in my line of vision, he’s squatting down with that pitiful look in his eyes, and I’m reaching for a lavender-scented baggie. Humiliation: complete.  (Bonus points if he can squeeze a second one out while a group of male models run by.)

I love him, I really do.  He’s worth all the work it takes to keep him alive and happy.  But no other living thing does such a good job of reminding me that no matter what I think, my shit does stink, and his does too.

WIFEBOT

Sorry, I Fell Off the Planet

Well, not exactly. I’ve been busy. I’ve been on vacay in Costa Rica (where I didn’t see a single monkey), I’ve been training and participating in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer (during which I learned that I am capable of walking 30 miles a day but incapable of following the directions on Icy Hot) and attending bridal showers.

 I will now recount for you, internet, my most recent bridal shower experience. I’ll preface this by saying that it was a lovely affair, I honestly enjoy the company of both the bride and the groom and I think they’ll be a great couple. The food was great and the people were very nice. Could not have had a better time.

 Now that the pleasantries are out of the way.  Of the twelve twentysomething women who attended this shower, I was the only one without an engagement ring. ALL eleven of the other women had been proposed to within the last 14 months and were between posting engagement photos on facebook and saying “I do”. When I relayed this to my friends and family they asked if I felt left out or pressured, two reactions I hadn’t even considered. Rather than inspire me to initiate a formal union with my significant other, the games and favors and pastels made me thankful that I wasn’t there, I wasn’t in the center of that hurricane, I wasn’t wearing a toilet paper veil in someone’s living room.  Someday that will be me and it will be wonderful but until then, remember that we’re not all dieting for our weddings, and that parties should have cake.

XOXO
Smash

PS Wondering what to Google next? Try Toilet Paper Wedding Dress. Astonishing how some people spend their free time.

And then there was one

I’m interrupting this blog to pay homage to a very special lady.  Born Eddi-Rue McClanahan in Healdton, Oklahoma, on February 21, 1934, McClanahan stole our hearts with her roles in Maude, Mama’s Family, and the Golden Girls.

Golden Girls is, was, and always will be in my top three favorite television shows.  I own every season on DVD (despite the constant reruns on Hallmark and Lifetime), and I could tell you two minutes into each show what the plot is about. (A nudist hotel! A game show! Stan and his crazy toupee!)  St. Olaf, Sicily, and Big Daddy are all worthy idioms that warrant their own tattoo.  On my body.  Who’s got a hot needle and a Bic pen?

We lost a wonderful woman today, though I’m certain she’s arriving at the Pearly Gates on a glorious palanquin carried by ten shirtless hunks, ready to  greet Dorothy(Bea) and Sophia(Estelle) with a delicious cheesecake and a tawdry story.

So here’s to you, Dame McClanahan.  Thank you for being a friend.

A BumpIt for your Bottom

So there I am at Walgreens, getting photos developed (pictures of me and J$ to give to my Gramma for her birthday, natch) and I look up to be assaulted with this:

Goodness gracious As Seen on TV, really? REALLY?  “The Panties that make your booty POP!”?  There is so much wrong with this. Let’s begin a list:

1. The use of the word “panties” in the brand messaging. I have always had a severe reaction to the word, it makes me think of Hannibal Lector and Molly Ringwald and my first gynecological exam. If a woman is old enough to be purchasing an ass enhancer at Walgreens, I certainly hope she isn’t still referring to her undergarments as panties.  However:
2. The packaging. No doubt the marketers were appealing to the sensibilities of 13 year old girls, with the design being so similar to that of every sugary snack one would normally find in the impulse buy section of the store. Is the intention for the young, impressionable child to reach for one? Ask her guardian to purchase one for her so her booty can “pop” while she’s writing notes to her other middle school friends?
3. Most importantly: This is an ass enhancer! An ASS ENHANCER! A pair of underwear meant to make one’s booty “pop”. You can’t check Perez or watch Project Runway or get a slurpee without hearing about the economy being in the crapper and people losing their jobs and women are supposed to spend $19.99 so they can sit uncomfortably and, once your enhancement is spotted, be the butt (pun intended) of ridicule and torment? (Ok, maybe not everyone is as critical as I but still, people will notice and make fun, not unlike the giggles I release when I spot someone wearing a BumpIt.)

There is no shame in wanting your ass to look good. Might I suggest putting down the Snickers, and lunging your way a gym?

SMASH

Fashion Foe, pause

I’m not what you’d call a fashion plate.  I don’t have a stylistic vision or drive, I just wear whatever is clean and least offensive in my closet, bonus points if it’s black or makes me look thin.  Someday when I have the kind of money that makes Bill Gates weep I’m sure I’ll pay someone to make me look good.

So what’s weird is that I have a lot of opinions on what people wear, even though I, myself, don’t try very hard to be stylish.  Which brings us to yesterday when I was in Macy’s shopping for a bra. The intimate apparel section just happened to be adjacent to the Juniors’ department, and while I’m definitely not shopping in anything with the name Juniors attached to it, I couldn’t help myself from taking a look around.

As I crossed the threshold of the forbidden land, the clouds parted and the sky began pouring shit upon my head. I was bombarded with truly awful looking duds.  It was all  neon-this and rayon/polyester-blend that, nary a natural fabric in sight, my eyeballs started dancing around like Tila Tequilla on speed, crying out for a focal point.

Then I found it, like a beacon in the fog, calling to me.  Ladies and ladies, see for yourself:

Strike 1: Poor material.  Some might argue that a garment is only as good as the fabric from which is it cut; and those people have made a lot of money in the fashion industry by selling quality clothes.  Yet others have decided to buck this sage advice and opt for the cheapest,  most visually abrasive material they can find…then give it a whirl in a pool of acid.  Because, really, what’s classier than the look of thin denim-that-isn’t-really-denim?  Lucite heels, that’s what.

Strike 2, Awful cut:  Rompers, rompers, everywhere!  I see rompers with straps, I see rompers without; both make me want to blow my brains out.  Rompers are the hidden-in-the-basement cousin of the classic dress: they may be related, but no one’s admitting it. Business from the waist up, party down below, this mullet of the fashion world makes.me.die.  Elastic band in the middle?  Why not, you can’t possibly fuck it up any more.  Throw some tassels on it, too.

Strike 3, Mass production: The biggest problem here is its abundance.  Do you see all those offenders lined up on that clothing rack? Fine with me if some waify Austin/Brooklyn/San Francisco hipster wants to wear a romper, but sweet baby bobble-headed Jesus, PLEASE don’t let this trend be “the new leggings.”  I can’t stand to look at this fashion castaway for the next 36 months.

I don’t want to be all crotchety about “kids” and the “crap” they wear, because we’ve all been there and done that.  Hell, I owned more than one pair of men’s JNCO jeans.

But shit straight-up has three strikes against it, which means it’s out.  I can’t support this and I won’t pretend it’s not happening.  Lock your kids up, throw away the keys, and if you love them never ever let them near an acid-washed romper.***

WIFEBOT

***Unless they are under the age of six.  Then *squee!* go for it.

Adventures in Airsickness

I get motion sickness. I have to sit in the front seat during long car rides. I have to take a Dramamine every day on cruises AND wear the goofy pressure-point bracelets. Luckily, because I fly for work all the time, the vom-inducing waves of nausea don’t ordinarily come a-knockin’ when I’m flying. Ordinarily.

Last week I flew to Boston via Virgin America (an airline I want so badly to love, but they make it so hard…). I was in the window seat, happy as a clam googling and watching TV and charging my laptop, minding my own business. Over the loudspeaker the captain said “Folks, we’re about to begin our descent into Boston, I’m turning on the seatbelt sign and it won’t go off again until we’ve landed”.

Just then the Luna Bar I’d called breakfast at SFO said “Wait, were you talking to me?” and starting doing a very suspicious dance in my stomach.  I turned to the gentleman next to me, who’d proven himself an ally when my headphones were too loud and I was going to miss the Diet Coke lady, and announced that the landing had better be smooth, that my stomach was unhappy. He tried his best to distract me, he asked questions about my job and what I was doing in Boston and if I’d ever flown Virgin then OH SHIT.

I must have turned green, or my eyeballs rolled back, because dude knew it was coming. He handed me a red paper bag, I turned over my left shoulder, could see the tarmac out of the window and BARFED.

Right there. In the window seat.  I barfed. How. Embarrassing.

As I was frantically sealing my barf bag and wiping the tears out of my eyes I kept repeating “Oh my god this is the most embarrassing moment of my whole life.”

Then I felt the man next to me gently rub my back while saying “it’s ok. I have kids and I fly all the time, I’ve seen this before”.  I felt better instantly, sealed my barf bag, grabbed my carry on, and ran off the plane.  I hid out in the ladies room until all of my fellow passengers had retrieved their bags from the carousel. 

 SMASH

 14E: if you’re reading: thanks. I wish I’d caught your name. I’d send you a Luna Bar as thanks for your kindness.

A mountain out of a mole(hill)

Last week I suffered the embarrassment of having mole removed.  The mole in question lost the battle when I could no longer tolerate its insolence.  Smack-dab in the middle of my back, ripe for rubbing against my bra.  And once surging pains began to shoot down my back when I’d lean against anything, I called in to the professionals.

I had to call five different dermatologists before I finally overshared with a receptionist, who after telling me the next available appointment with the doctor I’d called for was in two months, offered up that another derma in the building had an opening in two days.  I told her to book it, I couldn’t wait anymore, and I didn’t need to know why he was the only one without a wait list.  (I briefly considered canceling when it dawned on me that they might want to weigh me since all medical professionals love to do that…then I realized ditching the mole would technically make me lose weight. WIN.)

I showed up for my appointment and I was taken back to the examination room.  A small, eastern European nurse asked me questions and entered my answers into the computer.

Nurse: “Does zee mole have any bleeding?”

Me: “Uhhh…I dunno.  I don’t think so.  I haven’t noticed any blood.”

Nurse: “Does zee mole appear to have changed in shape, size, or color?”

Me: “I can’t really say.  I don’t get a chance to look at my back very often.”

Nurse: “Does zee mole work for an enemy nation and intend to sell secrets for a profit?”

Me: Silence.

Nurse: “Just a leeetle dermalogical humor.”

And so went the questions.  Once we finished she instructed me to take off my top and put on the paper shirt she was fetching.  When she opened the drawer where the gowns were stored, she kept digging toward the bottom.  My insecurities set in like a flash: could she have really sized up my boobs and been searching for the largest paper sheath they stocked?

The nurse pulled the curtain around the table to give me privacy (hah!), and told me the doctor would be in shortly.  I changed and waited awkwardly in the not-quite-opaque blouse I’d been given.

The doctor came in and got right down to business.  He looked at the mole, told me it appeared to be normal, and asked me the same exact questions the nurse had. Literally, I was giving the old, “I can’t see my back!” answer all over again. I don’t know if the nurse had just pretended to enter my responses or if they just wanted to see if I could keep my story straight.  Then he took a picture of the mole on a digital camera and proceeded to show it to me.

Doctor: “You see the top? (Zooming in) Do you see how there are scales?  It’s scaly.”

Me: “What?!”

Doctor: “Yeah, it’s perfectly normal.  Don’t worry.”

Sure.  You just described something that grew out of my body as “scaly.”  I won’t give it a second thought.  I won’t silently freak out and compare myself reptile getting ready to shed its winter skin.  Me, worried? Nah.

In an effort to calm his nerves told him I’d had moles removed before. I didn’t want him thinking I couldn’t handle a little snip on the ‘ole back. He said there were two ways to do it:  lancing it off the surface of the skin or cutting it out and stitching me up.

Me: “Why would you need to cut it out?”

Doctor: “Because it could have roots.  Like a tree.  If we don’t cut it out and it does have roots, we risk that it could grow back.”

Once I was done throwing up in my mouth, I responded that whatever he thought was necessary would be fine with me. Who am I to argue with a professional? In one minute flat I was signing a liability waiver for the surgical procedure and preparing for the worst.

He pinched my skin in order to” distract me from the pain” of the sting of the local anesthetic.  This is a favorite move among doctors when doing painful things to patients who are awake.  Why they think trading one kind of pain for another will decrease the level of discomfort is totally beyond me.  Thankfully it was over really quickly.

He stitched me up and we went over the aftercare instructions.  He repeatedly kept telling me that I couldn’t do pilates for the next two weeks or I might risk tearing the wound open.  Not once did I mention that I do pilates, because I don’t—so I can’t help but wonder if it was a subtle hint or a weird compliment.  I agreed there’d be no pilates, canoeing, or weight-lifting in my near future.

He let me go with a handshake, a reminder to wear sunscreen, and a pretty hefty payout from my insurance company.  I left wishing I could bleach my brain clean of the memory my scaly, rooted mole had left behind.

WIFEBOT

my mole sprouted legs and lept off the table

Hello Anonymous!

I’m contributing to this blog because I have ideas, opinions, questions, and concerns that I want to share with you, the faceless, anonymous, internet.

My name is Ashley, and my biggest fear is that I’m not living up to my potential.  How do we know if we are accomplishing everything we’re capable of? There are so many options today for women: we can be professionals, we can be scholars, we can be philanthropists, we can be bohemian, we can be athletes. Along with all of these great options comes the pressure to be all of those things. I look at friends, colleagues, strangers on the internet and think “Damn, she’s thin, fashionable, smart, ambitious, how does she do that?” 

I want to eat good food, and I want to be thin. I want to be content with what I have, but I want to be current and fashionable. I want to be taken seriously in a professional environment, but home in enough time to prepare a meal for my boyfriend complete with a cold beer and ice cream sundaes. I want to surround myself with rich things and go on exotic vacations, and I want to live humbly within my means.  I want to be active and healthy, and I want to sit on my couch and watch reality TV for hours.

 I’m 26 and love this age…young enough to be occasionally reckless but old enough to be taken seriously. I work full time in an industry that I love for a company full of smart, dynamic people I enjoy.   My job encourages me to travel all over the country meeting new people and experiencing new places, which I love. I live with my boyfriend J$ (who is very charming) and Ryoji The Cat (who does not pay rent, make the bed, or vacuum ever), and Ryoji’s girlfriend, Girlfriend Pillow. (I wish I could promise that would be the last cat pic…)

 I’ll be blogging about who I am, what I’m accomplishing and what I hope to accomplish. Also, because I’ll go crazy if I take myself too seriously, expect me to be commenting on pop culture and the cult of celebrity, lusting over clothes that are out of my price range, and ranting about humanity and the state of affairs. Thanks for reading!

 SMASH