I Judge You Based On Your Appearance

Lately, I've started watching Mad Men on Netflix. Through all of the racism, sexism, and alcoholism, there are fabulous clothes.

This week's Why Wednesday post was inspired partly by Mad Men, and partly by the blog of a man I knew briefly in college, Todd. Todd has become a very snappy dresser of late, and shares his style on his Tumblr.

The combination of these two leave me wondering, why don't people dress well anymore? At my job, I see people all day long. Lots of people.

And I wonder, how did we get from this:
To this:
I'm tired of men looking like douchbags, or wearing clothes they should only exercise in, or wearing their pants down by their knees. And I'm tired of the women looking like sluts or hobos or frumpy.

I long to see women wearing dresses with sparkling jewelry, fabulous shoes and amazing handbags. And I long to see men wearing well-tailored suits, ties, watches and cuff links. I long to see men dressing, well frankly, more like these fine gentlemen:

I'm not really that into fashion, and I'll confess that much of my wardrobe still looks like I'm a college student. But I'm trying to remedy that. And maybe if I saw better dressed men, I'd actually think some of them were worth my time. Like it or not, appearances matter. And I judge you based on your clothing. Sorry.

My New Obsession:

Clouds.
Lately, I am OBSESSED with clouds.

I constantly find myself looking up at the sky.
I bought a new digital camera a few weeks ago,
and practically every single picture is of the sky.

To me the sky just seems like one huge painting,
like God is using a huge paintbrush and constantly
changing and creating new beauty just for us.

The sky just always looks too perfect. I love it.

Trust Me, You'll Thank Me Later

As you could probably tell,
I've gradually been increasing my online presence.
I can't believe I just used that term.
"Online presence."
I sound like such a tool.
Whatever. You know what I mean.
Lately I've gradually been blogging/facebooking/tweeting more.
I just couldn't stay away.
I missed you too much, internet friends.

Anyhow, the real point of this post is the Grand Return of. . . .

WHY WEDNESDAY!

...day
...day
...day
...day!

In my head, that was all deep-voiced and echo-y.

I am REALLY sick of seeing bad parenting everywhere.
Granted, I am not a parent. I have no plans of becoming one anytime soon.
But I know what bad parenting looks like.

I suppose the more specific things I'm speaking of are parents who let their children treat them like crap.

At my job, I have the privilege of observing all manner people. I have the benefit of seeing lots of people interact with each other. This includes parents and children.

The real point is, it never ceases to amaze me the number of parents who let their children backtalk to them. I mean, the things children are allowed to say to their parents! If I said some of those things to my parents when I was young, (or perhaps even now) I would have gotten in SERIOUS trouble.

So my real question is to parents. Why? Why do you tolerate such disrespect from your own offspring, from the life you brought forth into this world? You gave birth to them, you provide for them, the least they can do is learn to not talk back to you.

I mean, think about it. If they learn it's okay to speak to you that way, they'll start speaking to EVERYONE that way. And then as adults, they'll be those bitches no one wants to be around because they're stupid and selfish and snotty.

Do you want adult children who are stupid
and selfish
and snotty?
I didn't think so.

So do your children, and the rest of society a favor, and discipline your children. Believe me, they'll thank you for it later when they become healthy, friendly, likeable, productive members of society.

Practically Perfect In Every Way

Just like Mary Poppins.

No, not me.
Something that happened at work tonight.

It was just like out of the movies.
Here, let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time, I was doing dishes.
We were closed, and it was only myself
and my shift supervisor, Megan left.

I was attempting to disassemble
the pump we use for the mocha sauce.
But my hands were wet, and I was having difficulties.

So I took it to Megan, and asked for help.

Now, the next part is really important.
When she disassembled the mocha pump,
the mocha inside of it splattered.
ALL. OVER. MY FACE.

Now, with a little help from Paint,
I tried to recreate the magic for you.



Doesn't really do it justice.
But I for serious made that face.

It was the type of thing that only happens in movies,
and it happened to me.

It was perfect.
There was the brilliant clumsy physical comedy,
the pause to register what just happened,
and then then Megan's laughter
followed by my very deadpan
"I would like a towel, please."

I was actually a little disappointed that
no one else was there to see it.

If I could film a reenactment for all of you,
I would.
But it's the type of thing that
I'm fairly certain I couldn't make happen again.

Even my story is lacking.
But I had to try and tell it.
It was so magical,
I just had to share it with all of you.

Who Knows Where

She had never worried about tomorrow. She spent money like it grew on trees, and somehow she never ran out of it. She smoked like a chimney, tanned excessively, never bothering to consider things like cancer. She drove a little too fast, partied a little too hard.

And he loved that about her. She had stayed with him longer, perhaps than she had stayed with anyone, ever. She'd even stayed put for him, given up her lifelong nomadic existence which had begun with her insecure, flake of a mother.

He took her to the place they went on their first date. A picnic in the park, it had been her idea, blanket spread underneath the flowering dogwood. He took her there with a longing to make her his forever, he never wanted to be without her.

He asked her, his voice trembling, offering up his gift, a subtle, yet beautiful ring he knew she'd love. But as soon as he said it, he knew by her face what her answer would be. The color drained from her cheeks, her mouth dropped open, eyes wide with fear.

All she could do was shake her head and whisper, “I'm so sorry.”

But he never heard a word. All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears, the sound of his own heartbeat. He looked up, and she was gone. He knew her things would be gone when he went home, the whole place feeling like the aftermath of a bomb.

He knew she would get in her car and leave. Who knows where this time, but what did it matter? She would stop long enough to make a little money, then move on, leaving more broken hearts in her wake.

But he also realized suddenly how easy it was. Her way, you didn't get hurt, didn't get attached. Little to no risk for the heart. Maybe it would be better that way.

He got in his car, leaving behind the blanket, their picnic, even the ring. He put the gas pedal to the floor, heading to who knows where, but what did it matter anyway?

Jaded

I'm not sure why I do this anymore. Facebook statuses, twitter updates, weekly blogs.

Is it because I think I have something genuinely interesting to contribute to the blogosphere?

I'm not sure. I don't think so.

I think I really just want people to like me. I have a tendency to care entirely too much about what people think of me, to desire others' good opinions too much.

I think my motive in all this is that I want people to like me.

I'm starting to realize how pointless this all is.

I'm taking a break from all this for a while. I'm staying off the internet for a while, and that includes this blog. If you're disappointed, I'm sorry. I'm just out of things to say. I'll still check my email, so you can reach me there, if you care.

Hidden Away

Days later, she could still feel traces he'd left behind. His hands on her hips, his arms around her waist, the way he cradled her head when he embraced her goodbye. She could still remember what it felt like, and she longed to be back there, back to those late nighttime hours before she left, before they both had to go back to real life. With his arms around her, it had taken everything she had to keep from kissing him. She knew, even then, once she kissed him, that was it; the last line of defense around her heart would be broken, and then she would be left to his mercy.

Later, they'd said it was because they were both lonely and broken that they'd let it happen; they were starving for a little bit of comfort. And that was probably true. They really were both lonely and broken, and starving for comfort. The thought had even occurred to her, that everything that night had been a mistake, even believed it for a while. She had to tell herself something to keep from falling apart. She had to tell herself she didn't want him, that it was all wrong, the words they said, her kiss on his forehead. She knew she was getting in too deep, and that this time it could wreck her for good. Especially after the complicated history they shared.

He'd said it would never work, it would only end badly. It would be good for a while, but then it wouldn't. He'd been too afraid of hurting her, certain he would break her heart. But the truth hit her like a freight train one night. She didn't believe any of it, not a word. It wasn't a mistake. She didn't regret it at all. She longed for him, his hands on her waist, her hands running through his hair. The thing she really regretted was not kissing him when she had the chance. It struck her full in the chest, knocking the wind out of her. She loved him, and perhaps always would.

This wasn't something she wanted to realize. This was something she'd rather had stayed buried deep down in a corner of her heart. Because in the end, the knowledge served no good purpose. It only emphasized just how far away from her he was, just how fully unattainable. So she did what she always did to cope. She tucked it away again, forgot she ever realized something so momentous, pretended it was just another pointless piece of trivia to file away in the back of her mind. She pretended her heart didn't fill with longing every time her phone showed a missed call from him, every time she saw a picture of him, every time he crept back into her mind. She'd spent a lifetime trying to perfect the art of controlling her emotions, of keeping them hidden away. How hard could it be to forget that she loved him?