Technological Bondage

              When I was a kid, I didn’t have a cell phone or an ipad. I didn’t have many friends either but I would play outside or take walks through the neighborhood. When I was indoors I would color or play piano. At night I would have dinner with my family without an interruption and if the landline home phone rang while we ate, we would wait until an answering machine picked it up and return the call later. When my father would travel to a different country, he made a point to call and would tell us how much he loved us, every night.

                Then new games like the Gameboy came out and little by little I would watch kids begin to play their games instead of with each other. After an immense amount of begging, I finally got a game of my  own and I would sit in my room for hours playing these games until my legs would fall asleep and the sides of my thumbs would hurt from pushing the same buttons down so frequently.

                The more technology grew, the more we as people hid behind whatever screen glowed the clearest until we finally got to the point where we are at now. We have replaced the need for internal growth and interaction with real people with the need for the artificial positive reinforcement of “likes” and “shares” on our latest selfie that we hide behind hoping for a sense of approval from complete strangers. Instead of finding comfort through a person face to face, we try to communicate text to text, which often times is misinterpreted and leads to unnecessary drama which can in turn create an emotional wound or increased distance between you and the one that you are speaking to. As this technology expanded, the quality of relationships shrank. We went from having conversations in person to having conversations of constantly new and changing customized emojis that leave the reader to guess what the sender meant to say as if decoding a simpler form of modern hieroglyphics. 

We are group animals that are increasingly becoming slaves to technology. It has become our addiction, much like a drug. We look at the people crying over lost Meth or Crack and laugh at them yet turn around and do the same thing if we lose our phone for even 24 hours. Our addiction is a mental addiction equal to that of a drug just without the physical side effects. Yet technology is the socially acceptable “drug” of choice. How many times have I sat in a restaurant and watched people at the other tables tune out a conversation or fail to be in the minute to check their small illuminated screens for virtual life experiences elsewhere? 

 Now when I try to go out with friends, I am surrounded by people SnapChatting, Instagraming, or Facebooking what they are currently doing instead of just enjoying it in the moment and the people around them. What is happening on their feed is often times more important than the experience of connecting and spending time with the person beside them and it amazes me how we as people would much rather watch a cat playing the piano for the hundredth time than talk with the friend beside them or experience the glory of the sunset in front of them.

We speak of the advancement of man, which I see, but I also see the digression of the one thing that makes us so beautiful, being human, living life to the fullest. Instead of watching someone give to the poor, how about you go out and give to the poor? Instead of seeing beautiful places on the planet, put down your phone and realize that the authentic beauty you see on that screen is right in front of you and guess what? A photo can never truly capture the experience. Set down your phone and experience life. Have a conversation face to face with someone you can touch. You will never truly live if you are in bondage to a small 3x4 inch screen. The world is a bigger more beautiful place that even blows Super HD away. Stop being your phone’s bitch and coming to it when it makes a tiny beep and start enjoying your independence and freedom.

Gangster Butterflies

The other day I went to the botanical garden with high hopes and expectations that I was going to get the best photos that I had ever taken. Before I went, I looked online and found that the botanical garden that I was visiting possessed 120 acres of specialized gardens. I planned my floral safari carefully.  My goal was to hit the Chinese garden through the Japanese garden, then end up at the Rose garden in search of beautiful and peaceful butterflies.

Let me make this very clear, I have the directional sense of a blind pigeon in a tornado.  Further, I abhor maps almost as much as I abhor giant cockroaches. I began my outing as planned, following the signs to the Chinese garden and somehow I ended up in the Shakespeare garden leaning over a fountain to get a close up of a Lilly pad. Realizing that I was in the wrong garden and not one butterfly was to be found, I decided to back track and make my way back through the Chinese garden. I was bound and determined to get my butterfly pictures.

Despite the fact that the sun made me feel like I had stepped into an oven, I trekked on like a good sport with a positive spirit. I am not sure how, but after two hours of searching for the rose garden, I found myself in the middle of nowhere sweating out of areas I didn’t know could sweat.

It was around 1:00 pm in the middle of blazing California heat with hardly any shade in sight. This is when I realized I was on the far end of the desert garden. How I ended up there remains a mystery to this day and I was feeling my positive spirit slowly wither and die with the rest of my body in the sweltering furnace of the afternoon sun.  This was the day that I learned exactly how big 120 acres really is and at one point I found myself dramatically collapsed in the dirt by a palm tree, trying in vain to lower my boiling body temperature by hiding in the tiny scrap of shade that it provided.

“I wonder if anyone has died out here?” I thought to myself as I fantasized about drinking water and sorely regretting that I hadn’t brought any.  I imagined how my funeral would be as people cried over my mummified body (still clutching my camera for effect). I knew that I was foolish not to look at a map in the first place.  Now that I was baking in the heat like a thanksgiving turkey with the very real temptation to baste myself with butter and sage, I saw exactly how deep my madness went.

Finally I found the strength to push myself off of the ground and keep walking until I ended up at the Japanese garden. After asking several people the same question, I finally stumbled upon the Rose garden and once again begin my search for the elusive butterfly. Although I didn’t find any there, I did find a nearby section in the herb garden seemed to swarm with the fluttering of their delicate wings. I pulled out my camera, ready to take photos of these beautiful creatures but quickly realized exactly how fast they can fly.  I had never really thought about it before but butterflies can move very quickly when you want them to remain still and elegantly posed. I don’t know if I just happened to stumble upon ADHD butterflies on crack but those suckers would not stay still. I found myself running from one end of the garden to the other, chasing them like a mad woman with my camera held high in the air.

In a moment when a few of them decided to stay still for a split second, probably to laugh at my sweating and swearing, I realized something very interesting.  Aside from being sadistic pranksters to photographers, butterflies are like vicious gangsters when it comes to their flowers. Every time one butterfly would land, another butterfly would swoop down and attack the butterfly trying to eat, and it wasn’t just butterflies assaulting each other, it was yellow jackets too.  I felt like I was walking into a mall full of women on Black Friday; you never know who will strike next. 

When I finally got in a few shots and gave up on my chase, I went home and began to do a little research trying to figure out if the apocalypse came early or if butterflies attacking each other was natural. As I was reading the studies done on butterfly behavior, I not only discovered that certain breeds of butterflies are territorial but that my favorite butterfly, the monarch, can become cannibalistic when there is a lack of food. HOLY GOD! I feel like a child who just found out that Santa isn’t real, yet I find it ironic that true butterfly reality is more akin to The Hills Have Eyes or Hannibal but we view them as peaceful symbols of hope and renewal. Oh reality! Why must you be so cruel?  

 

My Dog the Mutant

The other day I came home to a very itchy dog covered in bumps. As you may know, my dog has been struggling with a skin infection for a few weeks, and  no matter what I did whether is was vet visits or home remedies, nothing seemed to clear it up. When I felt the bumps under my dog’s fur, I  impulsively shaved my poor puppy to see what is going on. Looking down at my dog’s skin, I observed that not only had the infection now spread all over his body, but his skin is now dry and patchy, reminding me of a bad dandruff commercial. As soon as I realized how bad the skin infection became, I immediately called my veterinarian and made an appointment.

I admit it. I have a problem that I have had since I was a kid. My mother diagnosed me with diarrhea of the mouth. I will say the first thing that comes into my head to a fault. It’s like Tourette ’s syndrome without as many swear words.  While I was on the phone, the receptionist asked me what was wrong with my dog. Without even thinking, I quickly responded with, “It looks like he has an STD all over his body.” I could tell that she didn’t find this statement amusing at all and after a moment of awkward silence I managed to blurt out the words, “skin infection.”

Two days later I found myself wrestling my dog to try to get his face leash on. My dog HATES this face mask much as a child hates shots. As soon as he saw me pull it out of his dog box, he had a reaction of excitement mixed with the unspoken subtext of, “I will now make your life more difficult. Much, much more difficult.” Trying to get a face leash on a thrashing English Mastiff is like trying to hug a beached great white shark, only less fun.

After ten minutes I was covered in sweat and my hair was slicked back with dog drool but we were finally ready to go to the vet. I put my dog in my station wagon and opened up the windows to allow him to stick his head out and enjoy the breeze. Bear-Bear always finds an immense amount of enjoyment in biting at the air and I like the fact that he is distracted enough to avoid attempting to sit in my lap while I drive.  I still don’t think he realizes that he weighs more than I do. Or that I need to see where we’re going while I’m driving.

As I walked into the veterinarian’s office I faced typical reaction of people taking several steps back and looking at my dog as if I just walked in with a rabies infected lion. I approached the receptionist and she immediately recognized my dog and said, “I think we have a room open.” I have observed that every time I come, they always put me and Bear-Bear in a different room to wait for the vet almost immediately because as soon as I walk to the building, everyone in the waiting room begins to clutch onto their animals as if my dog is a ferocious killer and they tend to back up to the walls. My dog on the other hand, is unaware of everyone else’s fear and feels the need to say hi to everyone. So I struggle to keep him at a comfortable distance while he struggles to give everyone a big, ultra-friendly, slobbery drool-covered kiss. He’s like that hairy great aunt that only visits at Thanksgiving. He just can’t wait to plant a big sloppy one on a new friend.

After the appointment, I found myself waiting to pay in a packed full waiting room. To my left a woman and her young daughter who couldn’t have been older than five sat in chairs several feet away from me. The woman asked me how old is my dog and if he will get any bigger. I let her know that he is two and the mastiff breed stops growing at age three. The little girl with curly hair and large soulful and innocent brown eyes looks over at Bear-Bear and says to her mother with a voice full of enthusiasm, “Wow! That’s a big dog!” Her mother responded, “Well yes honey it is. And he will grow even bigger!” The little girl suddenly became solemn and in the creepiest voice I have ever heard responded with, “And then he will die.”

As soon as those words came out of the child’s mouth, I burst out laughing so hard that I was curled over gasping for a breath of air. The mother was completely and utterly mortified, apologizing profusely and told her daughter not to say those things. I told the mother that it was okay and admitted the daughter was only speaking the truth and eventually he will grow old and jump over the rainbow bridge. I found it a refreshing taste of my own medicine; to see what I was probably like when I was her age, humiliating my mother with my own very uncomfortable and very public observations of life and death. I have been smiling to myself ever since.  There is hope for the future.

 

 

Just Not My Thing

                Yesterday I went to see a Journey tribute band playing live. I met up with a beautiful couple that had been together for close to 20 years and had some amazing conversations while listening to the music on the green grass. What I found to be the most amusing was while “people watching” I was able to observe such a togetherness in the community.  It was as though music bound together the souls of complete strangers into a beautiful tapestry of humanity. I saw a rare unity on that field and watched as individuals of all ages held their hands up, danced and swayed in unison to the melodies floating in the air.

I was in a complete state of relaxation as a cool breeze brushed my skin and the sun set behind me creating a cascade of vibrant colors streaking across the sky. After about twenty minutes, the couple that I was chatting with broke out a bottle of white wine and offered me a glass in a small plastic cup. I politely declined, which of course brought about a questioning look which lead to a small conversation about how I don’t really drink. The kind woman with the short black hair commended me for hardly drinking which caused me to think back on my own personal history.

I never liked the taste of alcohol and the only time that I found myself drinking in any regular fashion was for a very few months when my depression became so severe that the only way I could think about handling my despair was by drowning it in a liquid poison, so that I might escape my own reality for a few hours. I admit that it was an unhealthy way of dealing with things and I wouldn’t suggest it for anyone. The heavy drinking for me only lasted about 7 months before I stopped. I decided that I wanted more out of my life. I realized that I was a wreck and I was becoming the person I swore I would never become. I stopped drinking completely for a while and even though I was never addicted to booze, the thought of allowing alcohol back into my body was only an unpleasant reminder of the pit that I had emerged from and I never wanted to return to that darkness.

During the time immediately after I stopped drinking, my eyes were open to the ugly truth about today’s society. I would go out with my friends to a dance club or a concert and order myself a pineapple juice or a water with a splash of cranberry. I didn’t want to get drunk. I loved dancing, so I knew that I would have just as much fun, if not more, just being sober and getting a thrill from life. When I would have someone attractive hit on me, they would offer to buy me a drink and I would say “I would love a water.” I cannot tell you how many times I would get an eye roll or have the person hitting on me refuse to get me a water and when I wouldn’t get an alcoholic beverage, they would make a rude remark and storm off as if I had just rejected them. At first this upset me. I began to question if maybe I was being too stiff by not wanting to drink the toxic cocktails that everyone around me was drinking. After a while I began to realize how silly all of this was and I realized that if I was trying to hit on someone and they said water, I would get them the biggest glass of water I could find.

 Not wanting to drink when everyone else is drinking doesn’t make someone stiff.  It means that they are strong enough to know what they like and what they don’t like and will not bend to peer pressure even when it means rejection. I recently was invited to a dinner party where I was continuously pressured to drink by women who were older than me. Even though now I occasionally have one drink over dinner, my stomach was very upset and drinking was not on the menu for me. I tried to be as polite as possible by saying that I was not wanting to drink but also trying to be a lady about why I didn’t want to drink. The people in that house didn’t want to take “no” for an answer and even though the owners of the house respected me after asking me multiple times, the fellow guests didn’t. Finally a woman with a baby strapped to her chest snapped at me, “You know it’s really rude not to take a drink when it’s offered to you.” I looked down at her baby, over to her wine glass, then back up to her, and just walked away. There were so many things that I wanted to say but I chose to keep my mouth shut.

                You should never be made to feel like you have to drink alcohol when others are drinking around you. Think of it like this, if everyone else at the table orders a soda and you order a water, does everyone look down at you? Do they laugh at you and make rude remarks about the fact that you are not wanting to have fun? No.

There is nothing wrong with wanting to have a drink, but putting the person beside you down for not drinking is wrong. Pressuring someone into doing what you are doing is belittling the decision that they have made for themselves. Their decision should be respected and just because they are not drinking doesn’t mean they won’t have fun. I have always found it silly that the most common pick-up line in today’s society is offering to buy someone an overpriced beverage that addles the mind so that you aren’t living in the moment and can lead to heart disease, liver damage and kidney failure. Smooth move America.  

This Is Why I Have Trust Issues

I came across a Facebook post that caused my stomach to clench and twist with absolute disgust.  The other day I was scrolling through the feed and I came across an image of a beautiful girl who had acne. She posted a “before” and “after” image of herself which in and of itself takes strength considering that we live in a society that oppresses women and holds them to the unattainable expectation of physical perfection. Her image was shared by two men. The first man posted her image with the caption, “This is why I have trust issues.” The second share had the caption, “Can you imagine going to sleep with the woman on your right (the image of her wearing makeup) and waking up to that thing on the left? (The woman without makeup.) It took everything in my power to be the bigger person and not go off on these two men who obviously thought they were being funny by putting down another human being.

This isn’t the first time that I have come across these kind of vicious posts. The “before” and “after” images that women post are not meant to be an invitation to be cruel. They are an act of strength to show other women out there that are ashamed of their skin or their body that they are not alone. I keep seeing these images with comments under them like, “gross,” “haven’t you ever heard of soap,” and “she looks like she has an S.T.D. on her face,” in addition to making comments about the woman no longer being beautiful without her makeup on. The one that makes me the angriest is the most common comment that I have seen, “This is why I have trust issues.”

This comment makes me want to scream right back at them, “this is why we as women have trust issues!” Women are held up to expectations of physical perfection; the standard given to us by the media.  Woe to the woman that fails match up to that air-brushed and photo-shopped expectation. To fall short is to be seen as less than human and degraded and shamed into self-loathing and hating parts of our bodies. The concept of “flaws” is purely created by the media and held by society. We as women are expected to have a face without visible pores and not a pimple in sight. If we break out we feel the need to cover our face with a skin colored cream to create almost a “doll-like” appearance. If we do not do that then we are subjected to public ridicule.  

So here is a little bit of information to counter act the ignorant comments made about acne. Acne does not usually have to do with not using soap. Often times it can be a hormone problem, the result of humidity and environmental pollutants, genetics, medication, oil based cosmetics, stress, or a result of hard/tap water.  

The comments that I see on social media feeds about acne isn’t funny, it’s bullying and it is cruel. How would you feel if you were in her shoes? If you had a daughter that struggled with her skin, would you tell her what you just said about that woman? How would you feel if someone else said that about your daughter? How would you feel if she came home crying because of the cruel remarks that were made about her skin? How would you feel if you watched your own daughter feel the need to cover her own face with a coat of paint in order to even remotely feel beautiful and when she takes off this mask, she hates the beautiful woman she sees in the mirror? If you wouldn’t want someone to say that to your daughter, don’t say it to someone else’s daughter. If you don’t care, then you should really reevaluate who you are as a human being. Just because you are broken doesn’t give you the right to break someone else. Why would you pick on a girl’s acne? How is that clever, incisive wit? Does it really make you feel better about yourself?  After all, we don’t mention your thinning hair, beer belly or E.D., because we knew you might not feel so good about your own self-image.

To all of the women out there that have acne, I want to be very clear to you right now. You are just as beautiful without make up on. Don’t let the small minds of others bring you down or cause you to think any less of yourself. The concept of physical perfection is a lie that media has brainwashed us to believe. Media dictates what is considered a flaw and what considered beauty so I am standing up and saying to all of you that you are beautiful and you don’t need makeup. If you want to wear makeup, wear it because you enjoy it, but don’t feel ashamed to go without it. You are beautiful no matter what. 

To the Person that Paid for My Starbucks

To the Person that Paid for My Starbucks,

You didn’t know me and you will probably not remember me, but I will always remember you. A while back, I was going through a difficult time in my life. I just gone through a very hard break up and financially I was having difficulties. Due to a car accident, I was in a lot of pain and seeing doctors repeatedly to attempt to alleviate or control it. One week I made a little bit of extra money so I decided to treat myself to a refreshing drink before making my way to another frustrating doctor’s appointment. I went into the drive-through and ordered my favorite drink. When I drove up to the window to pay for my beverage, the barista informed me that the driver in front of me paid for my drink and that I was good to go. You don’t know how much that seemingly trifling act of kindness meant to me. You have no idea the impact that you made in my life because of a small kind deed that you decided to do for a complete stranger.

I want you to know that a few weeks later, I paid it forward by covering a meal for a woman who didn’t have enough money to pay for her subway sandwich. When I did this, she looked at me in shock and thanked me. I hope I made her day as much as you made mind with your anonymous benevolence. I wish I could have thanked you in person, so instead I will write to you in this blog. I want you to know that your kind gesture, even though it was several months ago, still means the world to me and that you helped inspire a ripple effect that spread your generosity to others.

To the readers that are reading my blog right now, don’t ever hesitate to do something kind for a stranger. You never know the great impact that a small gesture can make. One pebble can disturb the surface of an entire pond. If you want to be remembered by strangers, showing random acts of kindness can make life long impressions.  

Signed,

A Fan

The sauce for the goose is the sauce for the gander

I watched a Youtube video today about a girl who snaps at her boyfriend at a grocery store over whether or not they had cheese. Although they were clearly acting and it was intended to be funny playing on the theme that, “The woman is always right, even when she is not,” it honestly made me realize how normalized mistreating men is in today’s society. As I sit here and think about the video, I realized that women abusing men is considered perfectly normal, if not humorous, even when it crosses over the border of abuse. If the roles were reversed, the general public would be outraged, not amused. The male is supposed to just “take it” because he is a man and not stand up for himself and say “Don’t treat me like this.” The man is supposed to assume that the treatment is justified because she is either A.) Hormonal, B.) In a bitchy mood, or the best excuse that we give that tops it all, C.) A woman. This doesn’t exactly make men look intelligent or sensitive, and at the same time it belittles women as well.

I remember once while working at my old job hearing a girl insult her boyfriend over the phone. The girls around her encouraged her as she made demeaning comments about his intellect and size of his genitals. Of course the man on the phone “took it” and just said “Why are you so f***ing mean?” Her response? “Because your dumb ass pisses me off.” 

That is one of many examples of “societally justified” mistreatment. The Webster’s Dictionary definition of “verbal abuse” according to Prevention Violence is, “The excessive use of language to undermine someone's dignity and security through insults or humiliation, in a sudden or repeated manner.”

We as women want to be treated equally, so maybe we should start by treating the opposite sex the way that we want to be treated. It is not okay to insult anyone, male or female, angry or not. “PMSing” is not a valid excuse to mistreat anyone.  Neither is throwing your gender in someone’s face for justification of any form of abuse. You cannot expect gender equality and then hide behind a gender stereotype when it is convenient to do so. 

Just because you are a woman doesn’t mean that you have any right to control anyone that you are dating or married like a puppet. You should treat the man that you are with the way that you would want him to treat you. Do you want a man that tries to understand you? Then you should show equal effort to try to understand him. Be the person that you would want to be with. Ask yourself, if you were a man, would you date you?

Just because society gives us women a, “Get out of jail free card,” doesn’t mean we have the right to use it anytime we feel like it. Men are not objects to control, neither are woman. We are all humans just trying to make it by in life. Relationships are supposed to be two people that love and support each other. Not one woman making excuses to use her partner as a punching bag. Abuse is abuse, no matter what gender you were born.