Considering some of the guys I’ve dated, it might be a better option.

Considering some of the guys I’ve dated, it might be a better option.

I’m going to Utah Pride this weekend. If you’ve never been to a Pride Festival, I highly suggest it.

Today, one of the guys I work with asked me if I had any fun plans for the weekend, so I told him “I’m going to Pride.” It was immediately met with total disgust, and a barrage of questions that made no attempt to hide that contempt. I dated this guy for a while…a long while in my 20s, so instead of telling him he’s number 1 with my middle finger, I laid out the reasons why I’m going to pride.

  • It’s fun
  • I volunteer with one of the largest health organizations in the country, and the LGBTQ community is grossly underrepresented and undereducated in a lot of health related matters.
  • This is a chance for me to network with other health organizations that are in attendance, which is an asset to my position with the health organization I volunteer with.
  • It’s like freaking Halloween in June…when it’s warm and you can enjoy it.
  • The music is amazing. I’m a radio dj. This is self-explanatory. (It’s also tax deductible! Hello market research trips!)
  • Gay people LOVE my green hair! I mean, who doesn’t love compliment’s on their appearance?
  • I need an excuse to wear the flower headband that I bought last weekend. It’s like the flower snapchat filter in real life yo.
  • The vibe inside of Pride is FAR more accepting than the people outside of it.
  • Because my friends and I freaking want to go, that’s why.

Completely unfazed by my responses, he looked at me and said “Well, are you gay?” He thought that was going to be the end of it, but hello…have you even met me? My unwavering, and immediate response was “Well, considering some of the guys I’ve dated, I’d be better off that way.”

And…queue the realization that you can’t beat me at this game.

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I’m probably going to cry today.

I’m probably going to cry today.

As I was checking the weather today, I noticed that there’s a 55% chance of precipitation in my tiny little corner of the world today. The chances of precipitation on my face are much higher than that.

I haven’t cried in 6 months. I don’t think I’m some heartless, soulless, asshole though; I mean, there’s some things that have made me tear up a little bit, but nothing that I’ve actually cried about. I’m talking tears on cheeks crying. It hasn’t happened. No tears have slipped out of their home in my eyeballs in 6 months. I see that coming to an end today.

I’ve had to swear off Facebook and my mail box for the last couple of days (the mailbox for the last couple of weeks) because as my inner mini skirt and ugg boot wearing, unicorn frappuccino drinking, hipster millennial girl would say “I just can’t even.” My Facebook is clear full of posts about graduation, memories of graduation, and last day of school celebrations, and I am beyond happy for them. I’m ridiculously happy for them, and insanely proud of these kids and what they’ve accomplished, but I just can’t even. (Yeah…it’s another graduation post. Deal with it.)

I just can’t even, because today is a day I should be looking forward to. I SHOULD be sitting in bleachers, surrounded by my friends and family, crying happy tears as my kid walks across the field and shakes hands with the administration, receives his diploma, and flips that tassel from the right side of his graduation cap to the left along with the rest of  his class. I should be leaning over to my friend whose daughter is also graduating and making a comment about how much we wish this sweltering hot graduation would end so we can celebrate with a bloody mary. I should be listening to the dreadful Halls Of Uintah song, and I should be smiling through the tears as I watch these kids answer for one final time “Hey Uintah, how do you feel?”

As the last year has passed, I knew I was going to have to deal with this day, but I didn’t expect it to be so freaking hard! I didn’t expect to be upset about this. I mean, it’s not like it’s the end of the world. My kid dropped out of high school. Tons of kids drop out of high school, but I honestly feel like the little brat stole this experience from me. He’s my only child, but not only that, he’s the only child I’ll ever have. He’s my one and only chance to prove I’m not a complete failure as a parent, and THIS is like the ultimate test. Did your kid graduate high school? Yes..yay you! No..Good hell, you suck as a parent. That’s how it feels…I suck as a parent. He was the only chance I had to sit with the other parents and breathe a collective sigh of relief as those caps get tossed in the air and we know we helped our kids get through the easiest part of their lives.

I’ll probably cry at some point today, because I’ve been fighting the tears for a week. I fought them as our softball team played their hearts out yesterday for a second place state finish. I fought them as my neighbor’s daughter, and a friend’s daughter both graduated with nursing degrees before they graduated high school. I fight them every time I open a graduation announcement from yet another friend’s child. I’ll fight them as long as I can today, but I’m guessing in 3 short hours as the commencement ceremonies for the Uintah High School class of 2017 begin, or some time after that, I’m going to lose that fight.

I’ll lose that fight against the tears, because being an adult is hard enough WITH a high school diploma and some direction in life. In addition to feeling like this child of mine stole this graduation experience from me, without it, his life is just going to be even harder. I hate that things will be even harder for him than they have to be, and I hate that I can’t fix it. But mostly, I hate that without a doubt, today will have been a total waste of mascara, and I haven’t had one of those in 6 months.

It’s all fun and games until you find your kid’s teacher on Tinder.

It’s all fun and games until you find your kid’s teacher on Tinder.

So that happened…

I was killing some down time yesterday by swiping away on Tinder when I came across one of those stupid silhouette profile pictures that are so annoying. This one however, came with like 40 common connections so I gave it more than the instant left swipe. As it turns out a quick look at the work connected to this Tinder profile made it all to easy to figure out it was a former teacher of my kid’s. Wait..back up a bit….this is a MARRIED former teacher of my kid. Clarification: This is a reeeeeaaaalllyyy good looking, albeit married, former teacher of my kid.

You might recall from this post that I’m having a bit of an issue with the fact that my kid should be graduating in 3 days, and is instead a lovely statistic: drop out child of a single parent. Awesome. So this Tinder profile had me thinking. Is there something else I could have done to get just one passing grade that may have made some sort of motivational difference to that kid of mine? I mean I was at the point where I would have tried ANYTHING, and I do mean Any-Freaking-Thing to get this kid to pass, before I admitted defeat. If only I would have known just what “anything” could have entailed. (Ok, seriously though, you can stop judging me right now. Honest to God, I’m not serious about where you went with that!)

Back to the Tinder Teacher…I can’t swipe left on this profile and make it go away forever. I can’t swipe right on it, because Facebook makes it appear that he is still happily married, and I have research to do to get to the bottom of this one. Inquiring minds want to know after all. That leaves the only logical option as “close Tinder so he goes away until next time that profile pops up again.” But first, screenshot the profile, because that’s just what one does.

Until next time Tinder Teacher….until next time.

Lazy weekends are NOT for me

Lazy weekends are NOT for me

My Fitbit probably thought I was dead yesterday. I may as well have been. I work anywhere between 60 and 80 hours a week, so on the weekends, I’m really happy not doing much of anything at all. This weekend though, that doing nothing at all went to a bit of an extreme.

Last year, I had a pretty amazing reason to leave town every weekend that I could, so “lazy” weekends were spent catching up on laundry and my Hulu watch list. This year, I have to be a little bit of an adult again, slow down on the weekend trips out of town, and pay some grown up bills. As a result, those out of town weekends aren’t happening anywhere near often enough. That doesn’t mean I’m catching up on any housework either. It just means I’m spending a whole lot more time by myself doing absolutely nothing, and find myself rather relieved when Monday rolls around and I have a chance to see people again.

Yesterday, upon opening Hulu, I noticed the entire 3rd season of The Last Ship had loaded in my watch list. Hallelujah, 13 episodes of Eric Dane! This just so happened to coincide with all of my get out of town for the day plans falling apart and my kid being a GIANT asshole, so I did the only logical thing I could think of. I shut myself in my room and watched all 13 episodes of The Last Ship. That’s 10 freaking hours of TV.

10 hours of TV in bed sounds heavenly. It should be heavenly. It was not. Sure, 10 hours of Eric Dane wasn’t hard on the eyes, but on the mental health, it wasn’t the greatest. It wasn’t the best on my physical health either. I clocked 792 steps for the ENTIRE day. If we were living in the world of “The Circle” (read the book, it’s so much better than the movie), I’m sure paramedics would have been dispatched to my house to see if I was still alive. Had the paramedics been dispatched to my house, I probably would have talked their ears off just because they were humans to interact with.

I learned some valuable lessons this weekend though. Among them:

  1. Binge watching 13 episodes of The Last Ship will give you THE strangest dreams.
  2. 792 steps in a single day will make you feel like a sloth. (Actually, I’m pretty sure even a sloth moves more than that in a day!)
  3. When your teenager is being an asshole, it’s better to leave the house than lock yourself in your room.
  4. Laying in bed for 10 hours in a single day makes it REALLY hard to sleep at night, and gives you WAY too much time to contemplate what a loser you are.
  5. It really wouldn’t have hurt to get out of my own head and do some damn housework instead. (Seriously, lying around when I’m feeling mildly depressed is probably THE single worst thing I could have done.)
  6. Making up those 14208 steps today is going to be a real bitch.

 

It’s almost mermaid hair

It’s almost mermaid hair

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I don’t have a therapist. I probably should. Lord knows I’ve got enough issues to keep one in the green for years, but I like to audition my therapists to see if they’re qualified to handle my level of weird, and I have yet to find one that is. What I do have though, is something far better than a therapist. I have a Hairapist, and she’s amazing.

I call her my hair boss, because she’s literally the boss of my hair. One time I told her I thought I might want bangs and she said “Mmm….I don’t think so.” That was all there was to it. She was right anyway. I’d have liked the bangs for about a week tops. I’m happy to turn over decisions like this to my hair boss. Really, I am. I have to make every other decision in my life by myself, so this sort of professional help is really where it’s at. She’s really so much more than my hair boss though.

Good hair is cheaper and far more effective and enjoyable than therapy. My hair boss is so much more than just the girl who does my hair; she truly is my therapist. She knows when my kid is being an ass. She knows when he’s done something outstanding. She’s my cheerleader when I’m doing something cool. She’s my front porch sitting, late night talking, let’s hang out on a bad day friend. When her kids see me on tv, they make sure to pause the live feed so they can take a picture of their “famous friend” and that’s how I find out that pictures from a Making Strides Against Breast Cancer event I attended are still being used in a PSA. She knows how insane my naturally curly hair is when it’s left to its own devices, and she definitely doesn’t judge me when she knows how long it’s been since I washed it last. Simply put, she’s amazing.

My hair boss is also one of the most generous people I know. She started a charity 5k on Thanksgiving day because she was going to go for a run anyway, so it may as well be a charity event to help someone out. She’s grown that in to the best way to spend a Thanksgiving morning ever. I mean, who needs shopping or sleeping in when you can get together with friends and help someone out. By the way, it’s not a freaking turkey trot either; it’s The Gobbler Thanksgiving 5k, and if you’re local, you should join us.

My hair boss and I decided a few years back that life was too short for boring hair. Since then, we’ve dyed it completely fire engine red with purple streaks, there was a purple, blue, and green phase, multiple rounds of either purple or blue, and now we’ve stuck with blackberry and a gorgeous teal color courtesy of  Pravana and Joico professional hair products. It’s a good thing we love it, because my hair loves it so much that bleaching it out doesn’t do much anymore anyway. It’s mermaid hair, and I love it. We’ve also somehow, without even trying, managed to grow it longer than it’s been in 20 years. Really, my hair is mermaid colored, almost mermaid length, my thighs touch, and I’m a Pisces; it’s almost as mermaid as it gets, and mermaids are cool.

Today I had an appointment with my Hairapist. We got to laugh, chat, and make my mermaid hair nice and fresh again without those horrible grey pieces that we affectionately call tinsel. In the middle of a rather exhausting rough patch, Hairapy was indeed exactly what I needed. Therapy is effective, but a good hairapist can help you be beautiful inside AND on the outside where it matters first. Life isn’t perfect, but with the right person in charge of it, your hair can be, and that makes life so much better.

I am NOT chewed gum, and neither are you.

I am NOT chewed gum, and neither are you.

I grew up in a predominantly LDS town in a predominantly LDS state. I was raised LDS, went to church every week, graduated from seminary, went to all of the girls camps and youth conferences. I did everything I was supposed to do, and my life still isn’t the “married in the temple with a perfect spouse, Pinterest perfect house, home cooked meals and 4 perfect kids” life. Go figure.

When I was 11 years old, in my primary class, it was time for that lesson on morality. This isn’t just an LDS thing though. I’ve been to other churches. My dad’s family is Catholic. I’ve attended several other church services with other friends in my years. Teaching your children to value their morality and their virginity is sacred to every single one of those religions. This isn’t the issue. The problem lies in the way so many people choose to illustrate this when speaking to children about this sensitive matter. When we speak to people about anything important, we like to illustrate our subject with an object lesson. It’s common in all forms of speaking, not just church. For better or worse, it sticks with people. If you’re any good at it, it’s something they will always remember.

As I sat in that class, our teachers offered each one of us a stick of gum. Of course we wanted it; we were 11 years old. I’m 37 and I’ll still take a stick of gum if someone offers it to me. We each got our brand new piece of gum and then proceeded to listen to a conversation that, in a nutshell, went a little something like this. As you get older, you will date and eventually marry. When you get married, you will give your spouse the gift of yourself, much like this gum I just gave you. Would you rather have a brand new stick of gum that you unwrap from the package, or one that someone pulled off the bottom of a table and gave to you?

Cute isn’t it? Yeah, it drives the point home. Of course you want that new stick of gum, and at 11 years old, you can’t imagine anything different. But holy crap, how life changes! Good luck ever getting that thought out of your head though.

Do you want a new stick of gum, or one that has already been chewed? That seemingly innocent question has never left the back of my mind. NEVER. I’m 37 years old. This horrible thought is 26 years old. I’ve never been married, and I have a kid, so do the math. Apparently I’m chewed gum and nobody would want that. I’m fine with that though. I made the decisions that led to my “chewed gum” status all on my own. But what about the person who was raped? What about the person who did things the way they were supposed to, got married, had the perfect life, and then lost their spouse either to divorce or death? Are they chewed gum now too? Because once you’ve been “chewed” it’s not like you can go back to new, whether it was your fault or not.

We put enough pressure on ourselves and our children to be perfect, and never do anything we shouldn’t. This isn’t just a religious thing. It’s something we deal with in EVERY aspect of our lives. I’m not saying we shouldn’t teach our children about valuing themselves, their morality, and their virginity. In an ideal world, of course they would wait for marriage, but even that doesn’t mean everything is always going to be sunshine, rainbows, and happily ever after. Things happen. Sometimes we are in complete control of them, and sometimes those decisions are made for us, whether we want it or not. There has got to be a way to teach our children about the value of their morals without teaching them that their morals ARE their value. We are not chewed gum.

 

Oops, I tindered again…

Oops, I tindered again…

I’m on a weekend tinder roll lately, and now that I’m back in Utah, the creeps are coming out of the woodwork. Seriously though, it took me hours of swiping to find enough of them to even warrant a blog post while in Minnesota. In Utah though, it was a matter of minutes and it was game over, I’m tired of swiping, and I swear I’m deleting this stupid app. Except I’m not, because it simply can’t be beat for entertainment purposes. In addition to the usual swingers and “when the wife’s away, I do what/who I want” guys that are in abundance in Utah, this weekend’s notable tinder finds:

  • At this point, I’d try dating a chick 21-45 that’s emotionally abusive or looks like a dude. (I completely empathize with this guy. I mean…my standards at this point haven’t raised above “single, employed, non-smoker,” and please for the love of God, make the first move!)
  • Somewhat immature, but in a good way. Love most animals more than some humans. (This guy isn’t a creep…this is just plain honest sentiment, and I totally get it.)
  • Looking for some good clean tasty fun..(I’ll spare you the rest of that bio…and the profile pic that went along with it, but suffice to say, it was definitely a swipe left. There’s someone out there for everyone, but this guy could probably give you an STD just by standing near you.)
  • I don’t like how the conversation dies so quickly here. Try texting me (insert phone number here…he really posted it), and send a pic if you have one. (Well…who the hell doesn’t have one?! Sending it is an entirely different matter.) Oh, and he also had my number 1 tinder annoyance….pictures of tiny humans, and only tiny humans…not a single picture of himself. (STOP putting your children on dating apps people!)

Then there’s the piece de resistance…the one that I looked at and immediately thought “Yep, this one’s worth sharing.”

  • Pianist, organist, trumpeter, vocalist, author, graphic artist, trilingual, champion of yelling “Gooooooooool” for an insane amount of time, circular breather, decent masseur, can roll my tongue and trill my Rs…in short, my fingers, tongue, and breath control factor into my professional life everyday. Why does all this matter? Um, hello…Tinder! 😉 All I’m saying is I possess a set of skills that I like to use in other applications other than business. (All I’m saying is there should be an “a” or 2 in that Goooooooool….unless you scream gool instead of goal at soccer games for an insane amount of time. Also, you’re really creepy looking, and I’m concerned for the girls who swipe right just for your breath control and trumpeting skills.)

Here’s something else I noticed about Tinder over the past few weekends. If you’re swiping to find someone who you really want to spend time with, and you’re not just wanting to screenshot some creeps to send them to your friends, or sounds like he’ll murder you in your sleep, or leave with your car and your easy friend, or hates puppies and tacos, you should probably start with an Eric. It doesn’t really matter how it’s spelled, but of all of the profiles I’ve swiped through, there has not been a single Eric who threw out the creeper vibe, and there were lots of Erics.  Swipe right on the Erics.