Word Barf

I know I’m confusing, I’m a woman.

/ Ashley / 5 Comments

While lying in my bed earlier this evening, I saw a tweet that I nearly retweeted until I saw it had already been retweeted over 400 times. Just to spite it (the tweet, like it has feelings or something), I didn’t partake. Also, because I’d rather help out the little people rather than some woman who gets 400 retweets for a mildly clever and poorly punctuated tweet. Bitch.

I can’t remember the exact phrase of it, and it’s too far back in the day’s tweeting history to check, but it said something like, “I’m a woman. I don’t know what I want, but I can be mad anyway.” And while that probably sounds psychotic to most men, I’m sure it makes a lot of sense to women. It’s a good thing that I don’t write a political or advice blog, because I’m sure feminists would be all over me for going on about this, but whatever. With all of the other personal details I’ve shared on this, I shouldn’t have any problem admitting that I spend a great deal of time not knowing what I want.

This point is moot though, because for right now at least, I think I do know what I want: I want to know that I don’t have to depend on someone else. I started seeing someone a few weeks ago, and I’ve decided to try this new thing where the guy in my life isn’t the single most important thing in my life. Fascinating concept, right? I’m excited to try this new thing out. I’ve spent a decent amount of time on my own. I’ve finally discovered the peace that comes in the absence of other people. The sort of peace that comes when drunk cleaning your apartment and dressing up your piggy bank like Walter White, writing snippets to your 21-year old self, decoupaging Vonnegut quotes, and experiencing the unique horror that arises from OkCupid messages and consequent awkward dates.

I’m not going to claim that I enjoyed every moment of this solitary period, but I know that it made me a stronger person. It forced me to examine myself, reevaluate my priorities, solidify my goals, establish a career, and see myself as an individual.

But this new-found independence comes with its own setbacks. For instance, now that I’m sort of seeing someone, I don’t particularly know how to handle the fact that he’s willing to bring me whatever I need when I’m sick. So instead of telling him I could go for some homestyle chicken dumpling soup, cuddles, and rewatching four episodes of Breaking Bad, I heat up a can of soup, turn on a heating pad, and watch Netflix on my own. Of course, an episode in, I discovered that I did sort of want him there, but it was past the point of a reasonable request, so I didn’t tell him.

How bizarre is that? I’ve spent the better part of six months aching for someone to be there for me, and now that I have someone willing to do that, I’m like, “Nah, I got this.” I’ve gotten used to taking care of myself and I’m not quite ready to give that up. Call it pride or self-preservation, it amounts to the same thing: me, fairly content on my own. I think it’s just me not wanting him to see me vulnerable like this. By vulnerable, I mean sick and terribly whiny. So far, I’ve been able to present myself with semi-styled hair and matching outfits. I don’t want to destroy the illusion that I’m consistently lovely by him seeing me in pajama pants and a ratty college sweatshirt. Since he reads this, I’ll just let him imagine it. With any luck, the image is better than reality.

What I’m trying to get at is that I think I’ve always struggled maintaining my sense of self while dating. Instead of seeing myself as just Ashley, I tend to see myself as Ashley in relation to X. By acknowledging that it’s unreasonable for him to drive a half hour to bring me soup when I could spend 90 seconds heating up a can of Healthy Choice, I’m asserting that I’m not the kind of girl who needs to be taken care of constantly.

I think that’s what Destiny’s Child was talking about in that Independent Women song, right? The shoes on my feet –  I bought them, the soup that I eat – I heat it.

It’s all the same.

My scent memory sucks.

/ Ashley / 4 Comments

Last Friday, I bought some Aveeno Stress relief lotion before going to work. The bottle claims it’s scented with lavender, chamomile, and ylang-ylang oils. It smells slightly medicinal and slightly floral. I rubbed it into my hands several times over the course of the morning, and I kept getting wiffs of it during my work as I flipped papers or reached for the phone, and it tugged at my gut for some reason. I was curious, but not quite sure why.

About an hour into a training session, I allowed my mind to wander a bit. I rested my chin on my hand and breathed in the scent. After a particularly deep inhale, I was filled with this overwhelming scent of nostalgia – like I was aching for some sense of warmth and comfort of a better time. Or maybe it was a a yearning for the sadness of a time before. My mom had bought the same lotion years earlier and I remember stealing pumps from the bottle she kept hidden in the bathroom cabinet.

It occurred to me that I wasn’t aching for the comfortable happiness of an earlier time, but it was right on the edge of my consciousness. I couldn’t describe the moment I was trying to recall – not even the general period. When had I first used this lotion? High school? Early college? The smell reminded me of tears – curling beneath a blanket, my arms wrapped in a thick sweater, my bare toes cold, and me both adoring and hating my grief. Maybe I was in a drugged haze – a thick cloud of painkillers after getting my wisdom teeth removed – a gauzy cloud of painkillers, craving coffee and the buttery side of toast but lacking the motivation to get it.

I’m still unable to place the memory. The scent is almost strangulating at this point, but I don’t know where to place it. It’s really bothering me. I even asked my mom when she first bought the lotion.

“I don’t know. Years ago?” she replied, not really understanding what I was asking.

After considering my own bathroom, I realize this is a fairly ridiculous thing to ask a woman. I’m currently in possession of about 20-30 different hair, skin, and makeup products, none of which I’ll remember in five years. Sure, the L’oreal shampoo I bought last week smells amazing and the Mary Kay mascara works pretty well, but I’m probably not going to be able to recall when I first bought either of the products.

Anyway, I’m not really sure of the point of the post, other than to invite speculation. I keep the bottle of lotion at my desk, so I’m hoping that one of these days I’ll remember why the scent makes my heart feel like it’s being tugged at. Isn’t that a strange sensation? Feeling your heart being pulled? If I focus enough, I can induce that sense of melancholia. It’s the all energy in my chest being thrown in a single direction and knocking into something. It’s not exactly a bad feeling, it’s just something I can’t place my finger on.

Till I figure it out, I’ll keep stressing out over my anti-stress lotion.

H8rs gon h8.

/ Ashley / 4 Comments

Today something great happened.

I got my first hater.

I was sitting at my desk when the green notification light on my phone started blinking. I finished up a small project before I checked it. Two new emails, 5 texts, and new interactions on Twitter. The emails were from WordPress, informing me of new subscriptions. The texts were from Twitter and a couple friends. Twitter told me of retweets (“Hey bed: I’m gonna sleep on you so hard tonight.”) and one mention.

The mention was simple. Thirty-six characters meant to express a single thought:

My words are stupid.

I was excited. I’ve had a lot of nice feedback about my blog (“It’s so funny!” “I love reading it!” “It’s on my quick links on my browser!”), but nobody has dissed it. While I’d love to think that everyone who reads this thinks I’m the next voice of America, I’m also aware of reality. In reality, I probably appeal to a small segment of the population: those people who are interested in the mildly entertaining thoughts of a twenty-something girl who lives in Wisconsin. I’m not writing to please everyone. To be honest, I write to entertain myself. If other people like it, that’s a bonus. I don’t say this to be a jerk. I say it because if I tried to please everyone (or even just one other person), I’d never be able to share anything.

I don’t write a political blog. I don’t write reviews. I don’t share recipes or crafts. I don’t give beauty advice. I write about growing up – and I don’t even give advice on that. I express expertise in nothing other than displaying my lack of perfection. I write a personal blog and I don’t claim to be anything more.

But this is beside the point, because he didn’t insult my blog. He insulted my Twitter feed. Which is sort of hilarious. It’s Twitter. I have 140 characters to express thoughts. I’m aware that Twitter can be an amazing social tool. It has the capability of connecting people from all over the world like a gigantic cocktail party with 8 million conversations – all of which are begging to be interrupted. Some of these conversations are highbrow and topical. You know like the ones that begin: “Hey bed: I’m gonna sleep on you so hard tonight.”

I’ve never understood why a person would insult someone on the internet. Maybe they just want to take advantage of the internet’s convenient veil of anonymity.

I’m at an interesting point with  my presence on the internet. It’s small – mostly friends and family on Facebook, a few hundred readers on WordPress, and less than 200 followers on Twitter. But I’m owning up to it. A year ago, I was a bit bashful and almost embarrassed to say I have a blog. Now, it’s one of those things I do. I’m not in the business of changing minds. If someone thinks blogging is weird or dorky, I’ll let them continue thinking that. I just know that I’ve found it to be a very rewarding and exciting experience.

The beauty of social networking is that you can make it whatever you like. I suppose I could use my Facebook, Twitter, and blog to educate, but I don’t. I use them to make jokes.

Also, to share the creepy picture I set for my desktop at work.

Anyway, I appreciate the hater. It gives me the chance to be self righteous about my self-indulgence. I don’t get a chance to do that very often.

I have already settled it for myself so flattery and criticism go down the same drain and I am quite free. – Georgia O’Keeffe

My Voting History

/ Ashley / 1 Comment

It’s election night. I’m on my couch in my flannel (it’s awesome, you guys) watching the election coverage and getting nervous about Florida.

I just switched from Fox to ABC and everything I thought I knew just changed. WTF. Fox said Baldwin won Wisconsin. But now ABC said it’s not finalized? Whatever, I’ll go to NBC.

I think I just remembered why I’ve never bothered to watch election coverage: I”m left hoping my guy won but feeling completely helpless while all of these overly made-up buffoons pretend to know what they’re talking about.

So instead of liveblogging my experience with election coverage, I thought I’d give you a look at my voting history.

Just a minute…I’ve got to make a patriotic hat in paint.

1996: I’m eight years old. I sometimes hear things about Clinton. And sometimes about Dole. When my second grade teacher takes a break from history to tell us we’re going to vote for the president, I try to remember who I’m supposed to vote for. I vaguely remember my parents saying more good things about Dole, so that’s who I vote for.

1998: I’m ten years old. I’m in the car with my mom after having just dropped Katie off after school. We’re passing Clinton Park, a tiny thing with three swings and a slide. I would never bother playing there. My mom tells me that Clinton should be impeached for cheating on his wife – that it’s unacceptable behavior for a president. I agree, then remember that James and the Giant Peach was a weird movie.

2000: I’m twelve years old. Sitting in the bandroom with the orchestra and band students, we’re told we’re going to vote for the president. It occurs to me that they might be using our responses as indications of our parents’ voting styles. Just to spite the system, I tell them I’m voting for Gore.

2004: I’m sixteen years old. Most of my friends wear Chuck Taylors and own a minimum of five band t-shirts. George Bush is a terrible human being who doesn’t know how to say “nuclear.” Joining the wave of my friends, I tell my civics teacher that in our hypothetical vote, I’m voting for Kerry. I then put my headphones back on to confirm that Matchbook Romance is the best band ever.

2006: I’m eighteen and it’s my freshman year of college. There’s a vote on a gay marriage ban. Campus sidewalks are covered with “VOTE NO” and “FREE LOVE”.  During the weeks leading up to the gay marriage ban, I have a few conversations with my aunt and I finally hear a decent summation of what I have been trying to articulate: “If God exists and he doesn’t like gay marriage, it’s not our place to place judgement or dictate what people can’t do.” He gave us free will, didn’t he? We can go ahead and be “beacons” of resplendent behavior, but our scope of power doesn’t go further. Basically, I don’t think morality can or should be dictated. People just need to not be assholes to each other. Anyway, I vote no.

2008: I’m twenty. I take the 15 bus from the UW-Milwaukee Campus to the Shorewood library to cast my vote. It feels exciting to be a part of the election of the first black president. I feel like a part of history! I realize it’s a completely nonsense thought, but I go with it anyway. My boyfriend at the time tells me he voted for McCain. I tell him he’s kidding. He says no. I keep pushing, and eventually he says he was just kidding: he voted for Obama. A few years later, I realize that he actually did vote for McCain. This solidifies my assertion that he shouldn’t be my boyfriend.

2012: I’m twenty-four. Wisconsin has a recall election. I’m not very informed. I’m annoyed by democrats on campus. I think that it’s a good idea to get the state out of debt and I no longer see the purpose of unions. I vote for Scott Walker. SHUT UP, DEM FRIENDS. (Also, please don’t ostracize me. I love you guys.)

2012: Still twenty-four. My mom buys a Romney-Ryan sign and sticks it in her front  yard. We get in an argument about abortion and I end up leaving her house late on a Friday night. I decide to not talk politics with her. A few weeks later, I’m in a meeting at work and my supervisors start talking about the election. The whole team starts in on a big conversation, leaning very heavily to the right. An upper-level manager looks me in the eye and says (in a tongue in cheek sort of way), “Ashley, you better hope you’re a republican, or I don’t know…” I swallow to calm my nerves before I respond. “I was always told there were four things not appropriate for polite conversation: sex, religion, politics, and Brett Favre,” I say. The room erupts into congenial laughter as we exit the conference room. After work, I black out an oval next to a funny name.

Nov 12, 2012, 10:30ish: I make a hoot, much like the one my dad makes when the Packers score.