You don't always get what you give

"Selfishness is not necessarily a bad thing. None of us can really help the way our brain processes the world and selfishness just means that you are at the center of your own."

A friend of mine said this to me when we were discussing why it's hard to get what you need from someone who is too selfish to make time for others, lest they miss something better. I do think he's right that we're wired a certain way, that we are nurtured to become the person our parents accidentally, or intentionally, turn us into. I don't really think it's someone's fault that they have been trained to care most about themselves. But I also believe that if you can't break free of that, if you can't give parts of yourself to others, then you are living a meaningless life.

It's hard to realize things about your friends that you just can't shake. You spend a lot of yourself investing in people that you care deeply for and after time, you're sometimes hanging on to something that isn't there anymore.

I recently had coffee with an old college acquaintance to talk shop about photography and I was pretty much in awe at what he has done with his life since school. He knew what he wanted to do professionally and personally and he did it. He told me that he has been spending the last few years getting rid of things in his life that he doesn't need and only holding on to the things that he truly wants and that fit into his future path. After we parted ways, I thought a lot about my own life and the pieces of it that I was holding on to for fear of letting go. From boxes of shit that I "might need again someday" to friendships that cause me more anxiety and sadness than they do joy.

I want to clean up my life. I want to get rid of the noise to make room for the things I need. I want to read more and play music and have good conversations. I want to write letters and get up earlier and feel satisfied. It's easy to say all the things I want to enrich my life with, but it is so difficult to actually make room for them.

I can throw out boxes of useless stuff and give away clothes I don't wear. I could probably even change my sleep schedule if I felt it was important for my happiness. But I just don't think I can let go those friendships. I want to believe that no matter the path we head down, the people we've chosen are there for a reason. On the other hand, if I am unwilling to say goodbye, I also have to be willing to accept that not every person in my life can—or wants to—give me all the things I expect. We have all grown up to be different people. We see the world in different ways and we each give what we can give. I give a lot to my friends: as kind words or long talks or fun nights out or tubes of lipstick. What I give most easily is my heart and my ear and my advice because I grew up to be a communicator and I have always believed our relationships are better when they're honest.

Not everyone can give that. And I won't be happy unless I accept this or say goodbye to those who cannot. But I've never liked saying goodbye. So I think my new challenge is working on accepting that my relationships may not always be what I expect, but that doesn't make them less important. When I move out of my house in a month I'll be tossing away the trash I don't need. That'll have to do for clean up. I won't be cleaning up my friends... just my expectations.

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Love is a luxury

It's been a long time since I've been in love. So long that I can't even remember what it feels like to love someone. I used to believe that love was all there is. I believed that our lives would only be truly fulfilled when we found someone to share them with. I believed that my life would be incomplete and sad and empty if I was alone.

But I've been alone for many years and what I've learned is that in the absence of the thing you really desire, you have to find other things to make you happy. Your friends and your nights out and your family and yourself. I have done a pretty good job of creating a life I am proud of. I've got great friends and a good job and the complete ability to take care of myself. I am the most independent girl I know and I am proud of that.

So while I'm sitting and waiting for the love of my life to come along—and learning to cope with the possibility that it could still be a very long time—I struggle with one horrible truth that cannot be altered by positive thinking and substitution therapy.

Sex sucks when you're single.

I know this can't be true for everyone but I believe I'm a good test case for the bulk of single female women; I've been practicing. We all know a girlgasm is hard to come by anyway, but without emotion attached, for me it's nearly impossible. Take me home passionate stranger and we'll probably do something crazy and have a great time. But we won't make it past the excitement of the unknown. Take me home boy I've been dating and with whom I already know this is going nowhere. We'll probably be glad we did, but you're not going to make me feel the way I want to feel. Take me home good friend of mine. We'll wake up laughing and then hang out all day as friends do and it'll be so fun and funny, but the satisfaction will be fleeting.

We are collecting names without collecting memories. We are writing lists of meaningless lovers without feeling love. And as the list gets longer and as time goes by, we start to forget what sex is for.  My generation is one that no longer attaches meaning to sex. It is just a thing we do; it is not a thing we feel. We go to porn festivals and we sleep with our friends and we brag about our conquests, but so many of us continue to wake up alone, even when we're next to someone. This is the kind of lonely that you actually feel. It's a physical loneliness that cannot be disguised by hobbies or work or friendship. This loneliness is taking over my body because when it means nothing, sex also feels like nothing.

I started writing this post on the plane on my way to New York. I intended to end it with a promise that I would be more intentional with my sexuality. A promise that I wouldn't waste my time having sex just to have sex. That if I could get back to the feeling behind it, I could get back to the point. But then I went to Manhattan and had my first honest-to-god, never-speak-to/see-you-again one-night-stand and it was fun and exciting and I had no regrets. I'm 28. I'm free from obligation and I'm free from moral guilt. I'm a human and I do not believe that we should limit our sexuality to the confines of being in a relationship. It's hard to tell myself to not be the person that I am and always have been. I'm open and curious and free. I know this part of me won't ever change so why would I ask myself to change it? But sadly I also know that as long as I'm giving in to the carnal desire of man, I'll keep yearning for the experiences that mean more and feel better.

A lot of friends of mine in relationships tell me they are jealous that I've been able to explore sexually and have an adult sex life. They think it's a luxury to be free to do what I want and experience the world as it is and as it evolves. I think they're wrong. Love is the luxury. Anyone can find someone to take them home. Love is what makes them come.

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Go down with the ship

I have a lot of flaws but one thing I am not is a flake. If there is a chance I don't think I'll follow through on something, I won't promise it. I believe in keeping your word and most importantly, I believe in loyalty.

A loyalist. That's what the enneagram told me I am. It's a hippy dippy personality model that my dear hippy dippy friend Taran showed me early in college. I probably scoffed at it back then, but I've recently looked again and the number I was assigned from the test I took, Number 6 - The Loyalist, describes me to a T:

Type Six in Brief:   

The committed, security-oriented type. Sixes are reliable, hard-working, responsible, and trustworthy. Excellent "troubleshooters," they foresee problems and foster cooperation, but can also become defensive, evasive, and anxious—running on stress while complaining about it. They can be cautious and indecisive, but also reactive, defiant and rebellious. They typically have problems with self-doubt and suspicion.  

At their Best: internally stable and self-reliant, courageously championing themselves and others.

• Basic Fear: Of being without support and guidance 

• Basic Desire: To have security and support

• Key Motivations: Want to have security, to feel supported by others, to have certitude and reassurance, to test the attitudes of others toward them, to fight against anxiety and insecurity.

As I read back on this, I am amazed at how easily I fit into this personality mold. And frankly, I'm proud of it. Of course these all come with their flaws, mine being insecurity, contradictions and the inability to make choices (libra much? That's what they tell me).

They are both strong and weak, fearful and courageous, trusting and distrusting, defenders and provokers, sweet and sour, aggressive and passive, bullies and weaklings, on the defensive and on the offensive, thinkers and doers, group people and soloists, believers and doubters, cooperative and obstructionistic, tender and mean, generous and petty—and on and on. It is the contradictory picture that is the characteristic “fingerprint” of Sixes, the fact that they are a bundle of opposites.

It's interesting to see myself as a stereotypical anything but I guess I hold no surprises. Back to the point of this post: Because I value it most in my relationships, I take pride in being a trustworthy friend. I strive to be honorable, reliable and worthy of my friends' trust and so far in my life, I believe I am actively living this goal. I am The Loyalist. And those who know me well know this. I see this quality lacking in a lot of people who surround me and despite my wish for this to be different, I realize that we just don't all value the same traits. Just like we don't all speak in the same "languages of love" or express our needs in the same way or place importance on the same actions and behaviors. But this loyalty is something I need from my friends and so loyal is something I am proud to be.

Typically, I'm not one for tests that try to tell you who you are, but I find the enneagram to be incredibly interesting because not only does it describe how you tend to behave and feel, it also goes into how you would behave or feel if you were completely healthy and secure with yourself — or if you were totally dysfunctional and unhealthy. All of my friends who have taken the test seem to line up exactly where it tells them and the descriptions pretty much sum them all up perfectly.

So, to the 6-8 readers of my blog, you should take the test. I'd be curious to see where you land and if you too think it's pretty dead on.

For me, identifying with a personality type has helped me recognize that some parts of my personality (good and bad) that I have always been aware of and sometimes questioned are pretty typical for people like me; it has also given me some pride. If this is how the masters of the enneagram see me, then I'm pretty happy with my reflection:

Sixes are the most loyal to their friends and to their beliefs. They will “go down with the ship” and hang on to relationships of all kinds far longer than most other types. Sixes are also loyal to ideas, systems, and beliefs... In any case, they will typically fight for their beliefs more fiercely than they will fight for themselves, and they will defend their community or family more tenaciously than they will defend themselves. 

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It's lonely out in space

I've been back from Burning Man for a little over a week and I've been thinking and searching for ways to express what the experience meant to me but in the end, all I can do is lament about its disappearance. It's coming in many forms, sometimes sad messages between me and my lost loves, other times laughter at the memories and photos. Tonight's rendition was a teary eyed dinner prep for one, accompanied by a Bon Iver soundtrack.

My week in the desert was the best week of my life. It's the only thing I can really say when people ask me how I liked it. It's hard to explain; sure, the constant partying and never ending dance parties are hard to beat anywhere else in the world; the endless laughs and endless free drinks are hard to come by in real life; the fun dressing up, the spirit of exploration, the willingness to accept and try what you don't know, the sexy air that floats above the playa and simultaneously the complete satisfaction of not needing sex or intimacy are remembered with complete longing. But the despair I feel is from losing the best part of the playa: my people.

Some of them were old friends and some completely new, but each night (and day) I couldn't get myself to go to bed because the thought of leaving their sides for mere hours was unthinkable. We did together what can be done no where else in the world. And you'd be hard pressed to find anyone who can do it better than us.

It had nothing to do with the drugs or the dancing, it had to do with the love. I could dance next to a stranger at the same amazing show at Robot Heart and I wouldn't move like that. I could electrocute myself holding conductors with someone else, but it wouldn't feel like that.

With anybody else I could paint my face neon and put lipstick on boys and wear crop tops and sequins and animal prints and explore pirate ships and explore DJs and climb structures and lie beneath streamers of wind and rain and watch lightening storms and watch buildings burn and have 90s music sing-a-longs and give hugs and kisses and drink one hundo mutombo bottles of champagne and whiskey and wear necklaces/drink from flasks of painted gold and nap during lunch on the dusty pillows and take five million delicious photos and stop in my tracks to tear it up at a mobile dance party and slowly each morning, as the light pokes out from the horizon, I could make my way by foot or by bike or by art car, to find BowRain standing true, a beacon for us all, to come together and pop bottle after bottle of bubbly, as the night turns to day and the hats and coats are shed, as the sunglasses are donned and the beats melt away; I could do this with anyone.

But I only want to do it with you.

And now that I am home and I examine my life, despite my good job and my loving circle of friends, I  don't really feel whole. Coming home alone is a lonely place. I imagine the transition is a bit easier if you are in a relationship because right now I feel like there is a part of me that I discovered in Black Rock City that no one in my "real world" knows. I guess that's what we Burners do; once a year we let ourselves out and then for 51 weeks we play make believe. Perceptions of Burning Man are kind of backward — people tend to think of it as a fantasy when really, after coming back, it's this world that feels fake. I guess that's why we greet each other "Welcome Home" when we set foot again on the playa.

I know these feelings of loss will fade and soon I will be back to my slave-to-the-man, technology-obsessed, priorities-off self, but I hope I can hang on to this feeling a little longer. The loneliness is tough but it makes me yearn for more; it makes me believe that there is more to life than what I've got, which is what I was hoping to discover when I left. I don't yet know what it is I want to change or seek but what I do know is that in the long search for love I've been on, true friendship is a pretty fucking great alternative.

Romance is hard. Sex and jealousy and obligation make dating stressful and painful. I've always been a people person and thus, the value I place on my life is measured by my relationships. Right now, friendships are the notches on my belt. My Portland friends are incredible and I don't mean to discredit my love for them or what they mean to me. Any of them could join me at the burn and I would feel for them just what I feel for these others. The difference now is that my Mutombos have seen me at my very best — and I'm pretty sure they all loved me. I loved me on the playa. And for 353 days, I will count down with the rest of ya'll the days until I'm that person again.

So I leave you with a lyric, from the dopest of bands (which I will defend to the death to all you naysayers), who made their appearance on the playa in the form of our very own 90s mashup sing-a-long- "doo doo doo, doo da doo doo." This is how I feel today and yesterday and probably forever more after every burn.

        I've never been so alone and I've never been so alive. 

                    - Third Eye Blind

Cheers to my Mutombos! I'll see you at home.
Iggy

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Boat life

I've wanted to learn to sail for a long time. There's something so romantic about sailing culture. Boat people speak their own special language and have such respectable priorities. The thought of buying a boat, setting sail and spending months at sea is nothing short of a dream.

But it's not just sailboats. It's all boats. I didn't grow up in a ski-boating family, but I had plenty of friends who did. For them, every day of summer was all about waterskiing and tubing and then later wakeboarding; spending their summers at the lake was their greatest joy. I always loved joining in, but we didn't have a boat so I couldn't quite relate to this particular boat culture.

We did, however, have a driftboat. And while it's a totally different kind of boat life, it is one of a kind nonetheless. River floating trips where the boys would fish with my dad and mom and I would play cards on the shore. Setting up camp, praying like hell you didn't sleep near the rattlesnakes. Pretending I was strong enough to row the boat. Pretending I was responsible enough to help dad clean up after the long drive home from the Deschutes. These memories are a big part of my upbringing and they are unique to a certain kind of boater: a fisherman, a river man, a quiet man. My dad was these things and he shared them with us.

Now we have a crabbing boat at the beach and it's the same exact story. The joy we feel when we're on the boat is incomparable. White water rafters. Kayakers. Yachters. They feel it too. There's just something about being on the water that can't be beat and we all know it.

I spent last weekend on my friend's family's boat (sans the family and plus all our friends) and it was one of the best weekends of my life. Vodka lemonades, endless smokes, dives in the water, wind in your hair when the gas is on heavy, sun frying you when the anchor is down. Watching the sunset from the bow. Watching the wake from the stern. Dreading the drive back to shore. Dreading the goodbye to the sun and to your loves. Waking up lonely with sea legs when the weekend is gone, staring at your computer as it rocks back and forth with memories of the river.

Boat life is a magnificent one. I'm currently taking sailing lessons with the plan that one day I'm going to fall in love with somebody who wants to buy a boat, take off for months at a time and be sailors to our core.

My life, my love, my lady... is the sea.

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Long time coming

I'm going to Burning Man this year. I've never been before and though my college friends went every year, I was honestly just never interested in it. Tonight I was talking to my cousin about this and how, while I'm pretty bummed I waited this long to go, I always knew it wasn't the right time in my life. I told him that "believe it or not, I used to be way more uptight." He laughed cause I still am but honestly I've changed a lot in the last few years and the main improvement has been my ability to go with the flow. I won't say I'm an expert at this, but I'm so much better at accepting things and adapting. I've changed in a lot of other ways; I think I'm way more fun and open minded and I now love listening to DJs where I used to wonder "why does anyone like techno?" I'm definitely open to more drugs and most importantly, I have a new love for my friends and the world around me that I didn't understand before.

Fuck, I know. What a hippie. The thing about Burning Man is that I have a LOT of people in my life who go and almost none of them are hippies. I've never really understood it and I won't really until I go, but what I do understand already, without even leaving yet, is the feeling of community. Being a part of something. I am already out of my mind excited and the anticipation is killing me. It's all I think about and it's all I want to talk about. Lucky for me, I have about a million people I love who are going so I get to talk about it.

The thing I love most about the fact that I am going is that I finally want to go. I like who I have become. And who I am becoming. I know that I can still be hard to deal with. I've got an attitude and I don't always like when things don't go as planned but I am finally to a point in my life where I don't expect the world to be the way I'm expecting. Every day I discover a new kind of music or that someone I'd judged is actually amazing or that there are parts of me that are really amazing or that people are mostly kind and that life is mostly a fun joke and that I have the world in front of me if I can just figure out what I want to do with it.

So that's my plan at Burning Man. A lot of people say that they use the time there to help find clarity, make decisions, figure out the things in their life they can't figure out at home. I want to spend some time thinking about my future and who I really want to become and then what I might do to become it. Things are good here. I love my friends and I have a decent job at a good company. I don't want for much but I know there's something more to it all and I'm so very excited to find it. I want to take the good parts of me —loyalty and compassion and problem solving and listening and laughter and sincerity and good old fashioned silliness — and use those to overcome the worse parts of me  — cynicism and judgment and insensitivity and jealousy and fear of the unknown — so I can choose a path toward love and contentment and satisfaction. A place where I do something meaningful.

I'm heading toward the dirty thirty and it's coming on fast. When I come back on September 3rd and my heart is full and my body is destroyed, I want to make some choices about what happens next. It's my life. I can do with it whatever I want.

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OkKillMe

Internet dating. Sigh...

I haven't written much about it because frankly, it really sucks. The pressure of knowing that everyone is out there to find love and that you may or may not make the cut, the stigma that hovers around internet dating even if everyone is doing it these days, the anxiety over meeting someone and then being judged harshly, the lonely search through hundreds of other lonesome souls. I've been on and off OkCupid for the last two and a half years and I haven't dated a ton of guys, but there have been enough to have some stories and some experiences. Like the guy who took me to shoot guns for the first time and paid for me to shoot a machine gun AND a Barrett 50cal...
 

Or that other guy who took me bow and arrow shooting and I discovered I was kind of amazing at it and put him to shame. Or the narcoleptic guy I dated who taught me what a truly horrible but hilarious disease it is (no, he didn't fall asleep during sex, but he did have to keep his leg locked during orgasm so he wouldn't collapse). Or the one I actually really liked, but who slept in a hammock, filled his watch with moss when it stopped working and refused to believe in having a job. I've had some deeper feelings for these internet guys and I've had no feelings for these guys and I've had strictly sexy feelings for some of these guys, but I've definitely, definitely never fallen in love.

I guess it makes sense. If I strike out on the love front in real life, then why wouldn't I strike out on the internet? I will say that the good thing that's come out of this all is that I've learned a lot about how to date and be a good date and what I want in a guy. Some lessons for a curious soul:

1) Don't message with someone for too long before meeting.
I learned this one with the first internet boy I met. We had an amazing rapport, always making each other laugh and sending flirty texts. It took at least a month before I met him and in that time we talked throughout the day, every day. Everything felt so good with him until we met. He was a great guy, but I just didn't feel romantic feelings for him at all. I tried really hard to like him because I wanted so bad for what we had in words to exist face to face. It didn't. Now if I'm going to meet someone, it's after just a couple of message. Let's just get this part over with and see if there's something there.

2) No food dates on a first date.
What if it's horrible? How do I know if this is going to be a total mess? If it is, I want to be able to escape. Can't do that if I have a meal in front of me. Let's start with a beer on a weeknight and then we can decide if we want more. If we're lucky, we'll stay out way too late having too much fun and regret picking a weeknight when we're hungover at work in the morning.

3) Get out while the getting out is good.
Trust your instincts. If something feels off, it probably is. If I am not really attracted to you, I shouldn't bother with a date. Enough of that high and mighty "I'm going to step outside of my norm and see if the guy I've been waiting for comes in a different package than what I usually go for." Yep, that's definitely a possibility. But that's gotta come naturally, not in a forced situation like this. It's awkward enough going on what is essentially a blind date. At least start with what you think is physical attraction and hope for the best in the other places. There is always going to be the real world for accidentally and unexpectedly falling in love with the guy you never thought you'd be attracted to but who was just... so... perfect.

4) Don't do all the listening.
From what I hear, typical girls do most of the talking on early dates. I'm the opposite. I'm so terrified of awkward silence that I usually just keep firing questions. The good dates find a way to equal out the conversation so that we aren't just talking about him, but the bad ones are just as nervous and let me do all the asking. By the end of the date I realize that he hasn't learned a thing about me because I didn't let him and I can't be sure he even has an opinion of whether or not he likes me because we really just talked about him. The really narcissistic guys usually do like me after these dates because what they are really looking for is a girl who will worship them, which I'm sure I appear to be doing. I learned this lesson with some of the first guys I went out with and have made a very strong point of not doing this anymore. Let there be silence sometimes and see how he fills it. If he can't, he's a dud.

5) Just because you match on paper does not mean you will match in life.
Internet dating sites are designed to match you up with someone who already shares your interests. You think the same kinds of jokes are funny and share similar political and social values and you both hate bad grammar and think people should brush their teeth twice a day and prefer a trimmed pubic region and think that magicians are weird and that dinosaurs are awesome and blah blah blah. This is all well and good but it sure as hell doesn't mean you are going to be attracted to each other. It doesn't say anything about whether or not you can make each other laugh or if he's going to touch your leg in a way that drives you insane. Or maybe he will. But then you find out that he's actually a total stoner that has no ambition or who is really rude to strangers or that he doesn't want to have kids or maybe that he does. The algorithms of these dating sites are pretty good at telling you what you want to hear. But they're probably wrong. You're gonna go through a lot of shitty guys before you get one that's actually good.

I guess this is what all dating is like when you get to know someone. But the surprise element that comes with blind dates, or being set up by a friend, or even going on a date with a person you met briefly at a bar — that surprise is what makes dating both interesting and horrifying.

I dream of falling in love with a friend of a friend who's been going to the same parties as me. Or maybe someone I've known a long time. Or perhaps I meet him organically at a laundromat or a dance party and we hit it off immediately and end up talking for hours. These things don't happen to me (they must happen to somebody right?) so I'm settling for the internet because if I didn't, I might never go on a date at all. I wish I had the courage to go out in public and talk to strangers but as it turns out, adult life is just a big clique. I go out with my friends because I like my friends and then I stay with my friends because I like being with my friends.

I've dated a couple handfuls of guys from the internet and I haven't found a single one to be worthy of a future. I go back and forth wondering "would I rather date more loser guys and have them not work out or date no one at all?" This I have not answered. But I'm leaning toward the latter, which means I might be saying goodbye to the men of OkStupid as the Boyfriends like to call it.

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Dance Yourself Clean

Disclaimer: I wrote this at 5am, drunk, after a night out dancing. It's not at all good. But I wanted to post it because these drunken words are sober thoughts and I'm not feeling like writing anything else.

So, the thing about dancing...

I have been known to say "if I had to choose between sex and dancing, I'd pick dancing every time." Someone's going to argue that I've never really had the kind of sex that blows your mind (of course I have). But I think the real problem is that they've never had the kind of dancing that sets you free. I wish for all of my friends — for all people — that they could let go of all their self consciousness and just  dance.

I don't know when it happened for me. I might have always been this way. I don't remember a time in my life where I was afraid to dance, but I imagine in my teenage years I was. This I have learned: Dancing is the only thing I know that truly frees me. As I am getting older, I'm witnessing my friends, even my brother, cross their own dance-thresholds. It's happening for many of them, each in their own time, but I'm watching with joy as it does. This moment in their life when they suddenly don't care what they look like on the dance floor and they instead prefer to be a part of the joy — a part of the party. Somewhere along the way they've realized that whatever held them back before is no longer worth missing out.

You know that saying "dance as if no one is watching"? One of my dearest friends told me recently, as both a metaphor for me as a person and as a literal reference to the way I danced, that I did just this. It's the cheesiest saying, but it is, without a doubt, the truth for me. I'm not trying to toot my own horn because I'm not exactly a good dancer. I'm just a carefree dancer. And in my opinion, that is the best kind. Sometimes others call people like me "good dancers" because we have no inhibitions and we can bring nearly anyone into the party and because nobody has more fun. In a world full of cynical, terrified people, of people who don't know who they are, if my contribution is to stand in front of them, dance my heart out and give them inspiration or dancing-desire or even just the joy of watching someone else's true happiness, then I feel I have accomplished something real.

Dancing is the only way I know to completely let go of fear and be free of shame and loneliness and insecurity. I have spent my lifetime looking for ways to love myself and I've realized in my adult life that the way I love me best is on the dance floor. Dancing makes me sweat (an embarrassing amount, but it never stops me) and it makes me smile and it makes me love. Dancing makes me instantly forget what I left behind or what's hiding around the corner. I don't care what I look like or if a boy thinks I'm cute. I don't care if I smell bad or if I'm awkward or unladylike. All I care about is that I'm moving and grooving and feeling alive. This feeling I want for everyone.

I still know a lot of people who "don't like to dance." The way I see it, they just don't know yet that they do because they are too scared to truly do it. I wish more than anything that I could give a simple gift to everyone I know and love. The gift is that for one night — even just for one song — they can forget about the rest of the world. That they can close their eyes and feel the music and feel the beat. And then they will know what they are missing and they will never look back.

There is nothing that I love more than dancing. Not sex nor food nor laughing nor love. Dancing is the only way I know to be who I am. Now I want to find a way to spread this crazy love affair. How do I convince everyone who's still left standing to shut themselves down for five minutes and find out what it means to love yourself, your moves and the DJ?

I will dance until I die. And when I die, everyone I love has orders to dance on my grave. One. More. Time.

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Nothing like a scolding to make you feel like a child

Lately I've been feeling like a grown up. I'm finally making good money, my clients like and respect me, I'm good at what I do and I know that I'm valued by my superiors. I have a grown up job and I guess in most ways I'm a "professional" (despite the fact that I work at a place where I can wear leggings as pants, my boss offers to pay for a team outing to see Reggie Watts and I can roll in late with no questions asked). There's no looking back for Kelsey.

Last week I was put in my place. Any notion of being an adult at work was stripped away from me; first by my own actions and then immediately after by my supervisor's shaming of me.

We have an office mom. Against her will, our office manager buys the coffee, keeps the kitchen clean and washes the dish rags; you know the deal. When I was hired a couple years ago, I became her number 2. Sure, I don't do the dishes nearly as often as her, but I am definitely the only other person who does. And I am the only person who cleans out the fridge. I try to do much more than my share because she shouldn't have to do it all and because I was raised in a family where we all helped out. I was raised with a kitchen conscience. Unlike all of my colleagues apparently.

So we had a staff lunch meeting and after the meeting ended, we all rushed back to our desks to catch up on our email. The kitchen is on the way so everyone took their dishes in and then what do you know? The dishwasher was clean so every single one of them dropped their dishes in the sink and walked away. I looked at that pile for a few seconds and thought "I'd love to go back to my desk too. In fact, I'm the busiest one of us today... but no, if I do that then Jill will walk in and she'll have to do these fucking dishes." So I did them. I was pissed and I slammed the dishes around just to prove it. But I did them. And as I did, I thought to myself "I'm going to say something bitchy when I walk back there because I'm sick of this." I've made jokes before about how "nobody else does dishes" and my coworkers always laugh uncomfortably or shy away, but nothing ever changes. So as I walk back to my desk, I'm planning my sarcastic statement. It's something along the lines of "thanks for leaving all your dishes for me to do." Sarcastic, simple, straightforward.

But I guess I was more pissed than I realized because my short and sweet jab ended up coming out like this: "Thanks for making me do your dishes again, ASSHOLES" followed by me throwing my notebook on my desk. I regretted it instantly. When it came out, it was supposed to be a typical, sarcastic Kelsey: "thanks assholes" like I'd say to my brother when he's irking me. But you don't talk to your coworkers the way you talk to your loved ones. I felt bad, but it was done and I let it go.

Thirty minutes later, my supervisor asks to see me. We go over some business and before I leave she says "we need to talk about the incident that just happened." To make this long story short, one of my coworkers told on me. Yep, she tattled. Instead of talking to me (even by email or chatting me, which would have been fine with me), she told our boss, making me look like a dick and an uncontrollable child. Ultimately, my supervisor was worried about me — why did I snap like that? Do I need to take a break? Am I too stressed out? It was hard for me to explain that I can just come off bitchy and that I really didn't mean anything by it.

But I was pissed when I said it. And also I did feel bad about calling them assholes. But they were. And they shouldn't get to treat everyone else like their mom. Maybe it wasn't very grown up of me to act that way but it is equally not grown up of them to expect others to take care of them. The least grown up part about this whole ordeal was that I was basically told I needed to apologize when my boss said "I'll let you decide if you need to apologize." Thanks mom. I felt like my sister told on me and I was being punished. "No TV unless you say you're sorry."

So ask me what was the result of me being totally childish and inappropriate at work?
Kitchen schedule.
We had an impromptu staff meeting (where I was essentially forced to apologize to said coworkers in front of everyone because I hadn't yet had the opportunity to say sorry in my own time) and it was decided that it was time for a kitchen clean up schedule. By god, it worked! Success!

Now ask me what I learned from this experience, other than that my coworker is a huge fucking baby?
Apparently it pays to act on your emotions.
I could just be passive aggressive like the rest of them 'til the end of my days, but I hate passive aggression. I believe in saying what you mean — though I typically choose to say it with more tact. So fuck office politics. Be a bitch. Say whatever you want when you want to and you will get results. You don't think those rich execs got rich by being nice right?

No but seriously, what I really learned is that no matter how well you were raised, there will always be people surrounding you who didn't grow up with the same values. There will always be someone who takes advantage of you. And there will always be people who prove to you that you are better than them. So thanks for showing me that, assholes.

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Being a boyfriend

Being one of the boys can be great. I feel funny and special and well-liked. But I also feel like a boy. I was invited into an obscene, hilarious, elite boys club. It exists in secret on the internet. In it, I don't often instigate, but mostly react. I observe and respond to the silly things they say, delighting in the absurdity while simultaneously passing judgement at the insanity of the way a boy's mind works. This group is crude and inappropriate and most certainly every single one of us is going to hell.

But sometimes hell is worth an invite. The first girl; what an honor. There has since been another lady inducted, but she's a foreigner so she hardly counts. I'm sure there was immediate behind-the-scenes backlash from the group when a "fucking girl" got invited into the boyfriends club. But I'm in and as silly as it seems, being in makes me feel like a cool kid. I grew up with brothers and a very strong mother so I've always been tough and outgoing. I'm vulgar and crass and much of my humor makes at least somebody in the room uncomfortable. I can make anything into innuendo and I can usually make anyone (save for the total prudes) laugh, if not with actual hilarity than at least out of sheer discomfort at hearing a woman talk like that.

It's fun being funny. I've even been told I'm "not just funny for a girl, but actually funny," which is possibly the biggest compliment of my life. Luckily, I'm the worst feminist in the world because I knew what it meant, I agreed with it and I felt honored to be better than a girl.

But I am a girl. I don't actually try — or even want — to be one of the boys. I'm not a tomboy, I don't like sports and damn it, I still cry when my feelings are hurt. I want to be loved by a man and I want to be taken care of and I want to wear makeup and go out dancing. Being a girl like me can be hard. I'm told I'm intimidating, which cracks me up because I don't think I'm hot shit at all. Usually I hate most of the things I do. The story goes that men are afraid of strong women, of being put in their place and probably of funny girls because they think they should be the funny one in the relationship. I do believe that gender roles are changing and that what's traditional is no longer typical. But I also know from experience that men, even the very progressive ones, usually end up with a lady, while girls like me make awesome friends. I'm on a search for a man who won't be threatened by my wit or my obscenities or the fact that I'm friends with a lot of guys. I'm looking for the guy who is not only comfortable with, but enthusiastic about dating a boyfriend.

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Lessons in impermanence

When you become an adult, you think your friendships are safe. You've finally reached the point where you are who you are and the people around you accept that and they choose you because they want you, not because you are a part of the path they are taking to become who they will become. This is it. These are them. These are my people. Never again will I have to painfully watch a friendship die. Not like when I was young.

Childhood friendship can be rough. When you are young, you are friends with whomever your parents place you next to. I lucked out that the girl I was next to as a nine-month-old in a backpack turned out to be my best friend. The rest of them — the ones from school and from day care and who lived on my street — they were just convenient. And in middle school, they were just placeholders. They sat next to me in class and cruelly made fun of the same lonely introverts and passed flirty notes with the boys and agreed that learning to smoke cigarettes was necessary and that piercing our ears with needles would define us and that we knew everything. But high school came and our interests changed; the boys we liked didn't look the same, the music we listened to was wretched in completely different ways, the parties were too insincere and the tears we shed, we shed alone. And then we moved away to college or just to explore and we made new friends. It was with them that we discovered things about ourselves and about the way life actually is. The ones that helped shape us — they stuck. They stuck even once we left our college towns and joined the world. They're the ones who still call and check in. They are the ones who can't wait to meet all the new adult friends who have joined our tribes. And together, they are all the ones who will be at our weddings and our dinner parties. And they are the ones we will never lose. Because finally, we are who we are and they have chosen us because they love us, not just because we are there.

But what about your closest friend who you lose because she married your brother and then she left him? What about the friendships that die, not because of you, but because of life? Losing a friend when you are young is tough because your self esteem is engulfed in it. You blame yourself and you obsess about what you did wrong or who you should have been instead. Losing a friend as a grown up because of what life throws at you is a whole different kind of pain.

I lost a lot when I lost her, not just her friendship. Until then, I believed that I was safe. That my life was heading in a direction that I had complete control of. I was learning to trust in others and the world. And then it blew up in my face. I had this part of my life planned out and in an instant it disappeared. I guess life was getting too comfortable and so for many months after it fell apart, I was angry and terrified of the world that I thought I had control of.

It's probably a good thing for me. I struggle to depend on myself for happiness and not on others. This lesson was good even though it tore me up. I cannot expect the people or the events in my life to go as planned. It's naive and it's detrimental to my heart. Frankly, it is foolish. I will continue to put love and faith in my friends. But my guard was so completely down, I didn't know how bad it would hurt. I have been lucky to have had very little loss in my life. I learned this year that when it hits you, it hits you hard. But despite every instinct, you can't let it swallow you. The hole she left in my heart now has so much more capacity to be filled; in the seven years I knew her, I was learning so much about myself and about my desires. I will fill it with the love of all my other friends and with the joy I find around me. But I know myself. My steadfast nostalgia will always keep a part of it empty for her.

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Tell your daughter she's pretty

My mom was a babe. A serious babe. When she was 13, she looked like a supermodel. In 8th grade she was voted "best looking" and in high school she was on the homecoming court in spite of being a total hippy that just wanted to smoke "spleefs" and spin pottery. She was beautiful. She still is. But being pretty affected her. It made her wary and distrusting. It made her self conscious and insecure. People don't want to be known for their looks. They want to be smart and have integrity and be looked up to. My mom is all of these things. But I have deduced that when she was younger, people couldn't see them as easily behind her beautiful face. She wanted her daughter to know them.

So she told me I was smart. And she encouraged me to sing. And she let me know she was proud of my grades and my accomplishments. But she never told me I was pretty. My best friend's aunt tells me I'm beautiful every time she sees me. It makes me uncomfortable. It's hard to hear when anyone says it, but especially coming from Aunt Jeri. Last time she told me how pretty I was, she could sense my sheer discomfort and said "didn't your mom tell you all the time growing up that you were gorgeous?" And I'm thinking to myself, "of course not." Maybe I am or maybe I'm not, but the truth is, I'd never know it if I was. When Aunt Jeri said this to me, I had to think about it. Had my mom ever told me I was pretty? One of the most basic things a woman wants to hear — needs to hear really — is that she's beautiful. And I couldn't think of a time in my life when my mom, the most influential woman I know, had ever said it. And it hurt. And it started to make sense.

I've always had low self esteem, even though I've been surrounded in people that love me. And while I'm outgoing and seemingly confident, it's usually countered with layers of self-deprecation. I have always been insanely envious of others and never satisfied with my own successes. I will not blame this on my mother. She did so many things right with me: she taught me humility and loyalty and responsibility and to accept consequences and to be fair and loving. She taught me to be analytical and strong and she taught me to be brave and to find peace despite my pain. But she never told me I was pretty. And I never believed I was. I hated the way I looked. I always felt fat, even when I wasn't. I didn't believe boys would ever like me, so I became defensive and jealous of anyone I thought was prettier than me. My own losing battle started with me hating the way I looked, and then acting tough because I had low self-esteem and then not being very fun to be around. It took me many years, many lost friendships and some later attention from boys and kind words from others, to begin to climb out of my self-loathing hole and start becoming a truly confident woman. But even now, though it can make me uncomfortable, the physical compliments put a spring in my step. That my outfit is great, or that I have a beautiful hair color or that I just look pretty that day.

I know a woman in Portland who has one of the cutest little girls that's ever graced the planet. Everyone tells her how adorable she is. And each time someone tells her this, her mom, being an amazing and smart woman, makes sure to also say: "You know what else you are? You are smart and you are you." It's a wonderful thing to see. But after a few very strong gin and tonics and a couple cigarettes, I finally had to tell Betsy that even though her parenting technique was inspiring, she better make sure she tells her that she's pretty sometimes too. It matters coming from your mom.

I finally asked my mom about it a few months ago. I didn't want to hurt her feelings or make her think I thought she raised me wrong, but I needed to bring it up because I believe it helped shape me. And that is when she told me that she never wanted me to feel like she did when she was young: that people only cared about her looks. That they didn't see her real value.

Aren't we women funny? Nothing anyone can do will make us feel whole. I want to be pretty. But isn't it better that I'm funny and loyal and smart? I know that raising your children is tough, that every word I say to them, especially when they are transforming, will matter.

So I'll tell my daughter she's beautiful. And that she has a wonderful singing voice. And that she is intelligent and a good person. But I'll try to only tell her just enough to keep her humble. And I can't wait to one day show her pictures of her beautiful grandmother in her youth. And maybe someday she'll tell her kids how beautiful I was too.

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Ya'll don't know what it's like

Being male, middle class and white. Sham on.

I had a really good childhood. I have an amazing, loving nuclear family. My parents are still married, and they still like each other. My brothers are great friends of mine and look out for me. I didn't have any abuse or turmoil in my life. We didn't have much money, but we didn't need it. I had clothes and food and friends and love.

My life has been good.

So how am I ever going to become a writer? I've never really seen myself as a creative writer. I'm an essayist, a humorist, a truth sayer. The problem is, I feel that I don't have a place deep within from which I can pull stories of bravery or dispair. I always imagine that any artist has that. A drunk dad who stole her confidence. A tragically dead sister whose loss changed his life. A military upbringing that meant a nomadic life across the globe, with new friends and new experiences and new names and faces. I never believed a writer came from small town America, where her nights were safe and her heart was full.

So what am I going to write about? From where do I pull the stories?

I recently met a man. An intelligent man, who is kind though often conceited. He's shy but knows how to make people laugh. He's quirky and odd, yet knows every meme on the internet. He is spiritual and in touch with his inner self, but normal enough that we can make dick jokes to each other. He's a writer and though I've never read his work, I imagine he's worked hard to make it decent. He left my life nearly as fast as he came, but before he ran away to play ranch hand in Nevada, he inspired me to put my "pen against paper" any way I can. He told me that I should start by writing my biography. I scoffed. What the fuck am I going to put in my biography? I'm a happy girl with lots of friends, a great job, and nary a sad story to tell.

But then I thought about it late into the night. A story doesn't have to be tragic if it has a point. My whole life has been filled with lessons. About how to love and be a friend and have integrity and how to be alone and be brave and be independent. And how to stand up to your brothers and be smart without being crude and be crude without being offensive and to be a woman without being a lady and to be yourself even if it isn't always who others want you to be. These lessons are all the same, they just get learned in different ways. So, I'll give it a shot. I'll tell my stories. The ones that are hard (even if they are just white girl pain) and the ones that are funny (even if I'm not as funny as I think). And maybe, just maybe, I'll write something good.

I. Am rockin' the suburbs.

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You've got the reverse issue with men

I'm describing a dream boat to my friend Erin. I won't say who he is, but I will say that I describe him as someone who is passionate about everything he likes, wants to share his personal success with his coworkers and who treats his wife amazingly.

Erin looks to me and says "You've got the reverse issue with men. You want a man that's too good." I laugh and return with "The problem is that my dad is such an awesome guy." So many girls go after guys like their asshole fathers. They seek out bad boys. They like men who treat them like shit and who make them cry and beg for love and affection. Daddy issues? My daddy issue is that I am truly and fully attracted to men who treat people well and have a lot of kindness in them.

So, the impossible search continues. Show me a guy who is passionate but sensitive. Show me a guy who's great in the kitchen and as great in the sack. Show me a guy who's fucking hilarious but also wants to talk about things.  Show me a guy who's ambitious but realistic.

Actually, scratch that. Show me a guy who loves me. That's it. The rest is just a bonus.

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Stuck in the middle

Okay, the binge is done. It's February now. I had my month of college nostalgia. My partner in red-lipped dancing crime has left me for Colombia so it's been a lot easier to settle down. For the most part I'm back to my regular, mediocre life.

But the next question, now that party stage 2012 is on its way out (save for the crazy bender I'm going on this weekend in Seattle), is "what's next?"

On Sunday I went for a hike in the NW Portland hills and I passed by these beautiful homes with spectacular gardens. This little piece of me yearned to be a homeowner and to go shopping for furniture and fancy kitchen appliances and to plant a garden and host parties and sit by my fire with a book and a love. But in a moment it was gone and I found myself suddenly jealous of my friends who were living large. Going out every night, doing blow like it's going out of style (wait, didn't it already?), banging different chicks every night and waking up to breakfast at Denny's. What is this? Some fucking movie about frat boys? But seriously, most of the people I'm jealous of are my guy friends who are not in relationships. They're the ones getting instant gratification. Honestly, I'm not actually very jealous of the friends that are in relationships, which completely contradicts my seemingly most important goal: boyfriend.

Suddenly I wonder, do I even want to fall in love? I spend so much of my time analyzing why I can't find it, why nobody wants to be with me. But when I really think about it, I wonder if I am just so terrified of losing my independence that in actuality, against my will, I'm trying not to fall in love... I think of all the things that change in relationships: the sharing of space, the constant communication, the answering to someone about your decisions and whereabouts, the need to please someone else. That doesn't sound fun at all. But then, I think about the companionship and validation. The sharing of life's important achievements. Having someone to count on. The ability to have sex whenever you want it. But then, the sex drive goes away and you don't want it. But then, you replace it with other things that make you happy like traveling and kids and growing old together. But then, the sex...

Take me back in time when I was 20 and it was all pretty clear: I'm in college. I'm going to class (sometimes) and I do homework (sometimes) and then I drink a lot and eat burritos a lot and do drugs and laugh and laugh and laugh. If a boy comes along, I might love him, or I might sleep with him, but I always know that it won't last because, well, it's college. I have the future to look forward to, but the great thing is that it's so far away I don't even think about it. I'm surrounded by friends, I get three months off for summer, my loans pay my bills and I sleep til 11 nearly every day. I'm a child pretending to be a grown up and damn it's easy.

Now I'm an adult pretending to be a grown up and it's hard because I just don't want to be.

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Party like it's 2005

Okay, I'll admit it. I was being a bit dramatic. Day one of that cleanse was horrible. It was all about self control and questioning my intentions. By the end of the day I wasn't even hungry. I was just picturing what three weeks of denying myself everything was going to feel like and I wondered why I was even considering it.

In the end, I was never really clear about my intentions and I decided that doing the cleanse was depriving me of social opportunities. Right now, socializing is what I need for my happiness and so I decided it was much more important to see my friends and participate in life than it was to detox things that I wasn't even that worried about. I did it for six and a half days and only cheated slightly (a couple slices of cheese and some decaf coffee). I lost a couple pounds, ate a bunch of produce and didn't poop for days. All in all, I'm ecstatic that I'm back to my regular life.

After having the most amazing weekend with my old college friends over New Years Eve, I realized that I'm getting in a rut here. A rut overflowing with wonderful friends who all happen to be coupled up and who mostly prefer to "stay in and make dinner" or go out "for a drink." I want to go out for 7 drinks. I want to dance so hard I'm sore the next day. I want to make out with strangers at bars. I want to wake up in the morning and look at my bank statement and say to myself "how the fuck did I spend so much money?" I know I'm not in college anymore but damn it, I'm single and in my 20s and I want to have fun. I've decided to spend more of my time surrounding myself in other people who want that too. I love all my friends and would never want to lose any of them, but I need some more action.

So I'm going out more. I'm sleeping less. I'm spending more money. I'm eating worse. I'm drinking too much. I'm neglecting the gym. I'm obsessing over boys. I'm not reading. I'm not learning. I'm not saving money for the things I want to buy. I'm dancing all the time. I'm laughing all the time. I'm excited for the weekends. I'm starting 2012 off like I'm 21 and you know what? I like it.

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Cleanses are for fucking assholes

So more than one friend (two to be exact) both came to me separately about a month ago talking about cleansing. I'd never really thought about doing one and for some reason I decided that it sounded like a good idea. So I binged like hell over the holidays knowing that I'd be ridding myself of whatever whatever blah blah blah.

I'm not really sure why I agreed to this. Is it truly about my health? Is it because normally I don't even care about the toxins I put into my body always? Is it about wanting to be a regular pooper for once in my life? Is it the discipline of it all? Or is it truly just because I heard you lose a few pounds? I don't know the answer. I think right now, after one single day of this stupid, stupid idea, the discipline is the only attractive part about it left. 

And guess what? I have none. I made it through today and by the end of the day was so calorie-depleted that I didn't go to the gym. That doesn't sound so productive? The cleanse was supposed to be 21 days. I started a day late and said "I'll do 20 because that event I want to go to is on the 22nd day so I can't really start a day late..." Then today, after drinking my first disgusting smoothie, I said to my coworkers "It's supposed to be 3 weeks but I'll be happy if I just do 2." By the end of the night, I was texting my friend Lindsey who's also cleansing saying "I don't really want to do this." 

I don't. I don't feel that unhappy or unhealthy in my life. I don't think that depriving myself of food is going to help me. I certainly don't think not having a social life because I can't fucking eat anything is going to help either. 

I guess it's that discipline thing. We're challenged every day by stupid tests of discipline. When we tell ourselves we won't fuck around on our cell phones while we are hanging out with friends but do it anyway. When I tell myself I'll actually work the whole day long and instead really work only half. Every night when I try to go to sleep at a decent hour but end up staying up doing the lousiest, worthless stuff. When I promise myself I'll cook more but always find an excuse to eat out. 

We are a culture of kids who know exactly what we should be doing but just can't be bothered to do it. 

Will cleansing my fucking colon cleanse me of my terrible habits? I doubt it. I want a corn dog. 

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