Yesterday I published a post called “BS Feminism” that was incredibly polarizing. For some reason, yesterday the critical comments affected me to the point where I had to step away from my desk at work to cry in the bathroom like the flat-chested girl no one asked to prom.

At the time, I didn’t know why. This wasn’t the first post I’ve written that people had a love/hate reaction to, and it probably won’t be the last. This isn’t the first time numerous people commented, voicing their reasons for why they disagree with me–so why this time did I need toilet paper to blot my eyes, promptly take the post down, and seriously consider deleting my blog altogether?

Well, I’ve been having a shitty week, guys. Nothing happened, no one dumped me, and I didn’t get fired from my job for being the creepy girl who wears a lot of peplum and cries about blog comments in the handicapped women’s restroom stall. It’s just been one of those weeks. I’ve felt stressed out, frustrated, and fussy like a baby overdue for a nap. No one on WordPress knew that, and how could they?

I’m guilty of this myself, but I think all too often when we read something a blogger posts, we immediately assume that’s the mood they’re in, because that’s all we know. If someone posts a bitter blog post, we assume they’re feeling bitter. A reflective post, we assume they’re feeling contemplative. A sarcastic post? Well they must be in a feisty mood! For most of us and the bloggers we engage with, WordPress kind of becomes WorldPress in our minds. So when a couple of the dissenting comments came in on that post, I just wasn’t in the right place emotionally to handle it the way I usually do, even though none of them were written with malice. I may be the voice of Sass & Balderdash, but I’m still a human being once or twice a week.

About that post in particular, which I have reposted so take a look at your own risk, let me say this: There were aspects feminism I overgeneralized. There were things that were phrased in a misleading way that made what was said historically inaccurate. At the end of the day, did the informative comments I received make me change my stance? No, if anything, they gave me some more context for everything I was saying.

To speak candidly, if I may, let me take this moment to admit I don’t know everything about everything. …Unless it pertains to cheesecake and getting drunk off of one measly cosmo. Everything you read on this blog might not accurately portray both sides of an issue. What you read here may not be politically correct. Some of the stuff you read here may piss you off, but everything you read here is written from my perspective, and as you might have already found out, that perspective might sometimes be limited, ridiculous, or  even uninformed. …Aren’t all our perspectives that way?

I don’t want to be the author of an unbiased blog. Our bias is what makes our blogs what they are. Flawed, erratic, infuriating, offensive, surprising, eye-opening, outrageous—you have to take the good with the bad. Your bias will sometimes appeal to the majority; sometimes your bias will have people gathering their pitchforks. For the post in question, if anyone felt that something that they’re passionate about was misrepresented, I do sincerely apologize, and I appreciate you correcting it in the comments section. That’s what it’s there for.

Prepare yourself for the Lifetime original movie ending to this post. What I learned from this whole experience is that in the time I’ve been writing this blog, I’ve come a long way as a writer and as an insecure, overly sensitive chick in general. If something like this had happened when I first started writing Sass & Balderdash, I would’ve shut it down immediately and gone back to feeding my prose to a file folder on my desktop.

But people read my writing now, and they have opinions about it. They get mad about things just like I do. They encourage me when I admit I’m having a rough time. They tell me not to stop. I’m so for grateful for all of that, and while I’m not perfect, and I’m sure there will be twenty more posts that put things indelicately and upset people and will require some kind of acknowledgement on my part, the important part of that is: there will be twenty more posts. I’m not going anywhere. 
…So long as no one finds me and burns me at the stake.

I don’t ever want you to blindly agree with me—don’t you dare!— but when you don’t, I can’t promise that I won’t take it a little personally at first. That’s who I am. Insecurity, thirst for approval, sensitivity, a lingering reluctance to put my writing out there for fear of how it will be received—those are very much my wounds, and after 22 years, I’m still dressing them. With time, I hope someday to be able to easily weather any onslaught of feedback—from the informative to the constructive criticism to the trollish musings of a basement-dwelling Internet underlord—but that’s still a work in progress.

How lucky am I that people care enough about something I wrote to spend their time writing a thoughtful, well-written comment when so many blogs go unviewed? To pout about the fact someone poked a hole in my argument is so petty, but knowing that and feeling that are two different things.

I’m a better neighbor than this, I promise.
cheezburger

I apologize for not sticking to my guns initially. I’m sorry for the whiny post that followed. I’m sorry none of you seem to know any bullshit feminists. I’m sorry for writing a post that set women’s lib back 50 years, and I’m sorry for being flippant about it now. …That’s a Gretchen Wieners apology if there ever was one.

Please keep giving me your feedback, agree/disagree, love/hate, fuck/marry/kill. I truly want to discuss all of the things I post. WordPress neighbors, I know I may be the pain in the ass new kid on the block. You’re entitled to call the police on me and leave flaming brown paper bags of dog shit on my front step. You’re even allowed to put complaint notes in my mailbox. …Just remember, when you do, you’re on my property. And I’ve been known to get out the hose.

They say if you can’t take the heat, stay out of the kitchen… Lesson learned.

Today, I learned I can’t take the heat. From here on out, I won’t be putting much (or any) of my personal opinions on Sass & Balderdash. Call that a cop-out. Call that being a baby. Call that being too reactive. In this moment, I don’t care.

I may have claimed a lot of things on this blog over the several months it’s existed, but one thing I’ve never claimed is to have a thick skin. I don’t know everything, and maybe sometimes my opinion is wrong, narrow, or one you can’t agree with. That doesn’t mean I should be babied for it, or worse, that anyone should refrain from correcting me where my logic or information may go wrong. I appreciate everyone’s respectful feedback, even when it differs from my view, but not letting it get under my skin, affect my day, and question myself is a skill I don’t yet have.

So from here on out, I’m staying out of the kitchen until I get to the point where I can better weather constructive criticism.

Until that time, I’m taking the cowardly route.

Whenever I’ve considered the words I’d use to describe the kind of woman I am, feminist has never been one of them. Feminism, in our culture, has become something filled with inconsistencies, ridiculous pissing contests between the sexes, and unrealistic notions about what it is to be an empowered woman in today’s world. What was once a significant movement that served to liberate women has too often devolved into something I call bullshit feminism.

Criticizing bullshit feminism doesn’t mean that I want my right to vote to be taken away—it’s true, I probably do know more about politics than the douchebag in the backwards hat and YOLO tee shirt. It doesn’t mean that if/when I get married I want my husband to become my owner—uh, black widow, anyone? It also doesn’t mean that I think I deserve a lower earning potential and less possibility for success in my chosen career field as the guys—I have more skills and knowledge than most of these bros! I simply think we need to move away from the stereotypical tenets of bullshit feminism, because I’m coming across far too many chicks who have more than earned their BS in feminism.

On Marriage

“OMG! These are my dream colors!!! …If marriage wasn’t an outdated practice.”
weddingbee

Bullshit feminists love to pick on marriage. “Who needs it?!” they opine. “It’s an archaic institution that’s no longer applicable in today’s society! It doesn’t even make sense anymore!” Okay, staunch bullshit feminist, those are all valid points. …But this same women’s lib heroine will then open her Pinterest tab and pin 67 images of pretty bridesmaid dresses, intricate wedding cakes, calligraphy-bearing wedding invitations, lavish centerpieces, and beautifully coiffed wedding-appropriate up-dos. Bullshit feminism.

You don’t get to ride up on your feminist Clydesdale of cuntery, make a bunch of damning remarks about marriage, and then to retreat to your Pinterest account to hoard pictures of your dream wedding. Why is there an assumption that it’s all or nothing? It’s perfectly okay to question the institution of marriage while still daydreaming about your cupcake-inspired bridesmaid dresses. What is not perfectly okay is acting like a bitch who’s so enlightened she simply can’t support marriage on principle, but then spends the evening lying on her bedroom floor, wearing her mother’s old wedding gown, and privately planning her dream wedding to Ryan Gosling. Marriage is a tricky issue, and no woman should worry about being judged for being a marriage skeptic while still experiencing some fairytale wedding longings. Being a feminist doesn’t necessitate being a bitch about nuptials.

On Body Image

Bullshit feminists also love to talk about how their bodies are “sacred temples.” They love to motherfuck all men who stare at their breasts a moment too long, who gaze at their behind a little to intently, or who lick their lips a little too obviously. You’re completely justified, staunch bullshit feminist–sometimes men’s efforts to conceal their ogling are not nearly at the level they should be! …But this same Susan B. Anthony fan will show up to the bar in a low-cut top, tight skinny jeans, and a killer pair of red stilettos and after a few hours complain to her BFFL, “Why don’t guys notice me?! I thought I looked hot tonight…” Bullshit feminism.

Image source: ohhellwhatthehell

You don’t get to bitch at men for looking at you, and then bitch again when they don’t notice you. Ladies, just admit it: when you’ve got your freakum dress on, you want guys to take notice. Can’t we all agree there’s a fine line between wanted attention and unwanted attention? There’s absolutely nothing wrong with wanting a little of that male gaze that has nothing to do with your wit, your great smile, or your stunning personality. We have boobs for crying out loud! Sometimes you do want a semi-creepy guy you’d never ever, ever date to check out your derriere, and nod in simple approval—looking forward to that shallow moment of recognition doesn’t mean you want to reinstate the Cult of Domesticity.

On Sex

Bullshit feminists love to get judgmental about everyone else’s sexual activity. They delight in pointing out the atrocities of pornography; they go on and on about how it’s filling the heads of men with grand delusions of constantly switching positions and filling orifices that were once blissfully vacant. They’ll bemoan how porn has made the expectations for lovemaking unrealistic and degrading, and how no self-respecting women would ever let a man do that! Okay, staunch bullshit feminist, you have your boundaries and that’s totally respectable. …But this same bra burner will have a few too many appletinis during girls’ night one evening and reveal, “Sex with Fred is so boring! He’s just too nice! I don’t know why he never ________.” Bullshit feminism.

Hang on Rosie the Riveter, you don’t get to complain about your sex life when you feel compelled to be everyone’s unsolicited moral compass when it comes to sex. Goodness knows you’ve probably provided poor Fred with your bulleted list of “allowed” and “not allowed,” and the poor guy is probably recycling the same two moves! You shouldn’t mimic porn (that’s the stuff of embarrassing trips to the ER), but there’s no need to feel like a slut whose abandoning her principles because of your bedroom activities. No one’s going to make you wear a scarlet letter for engaging in in this or that between the sheets. You don’t get to be preachy about what others find acceptable in the bedroom, and in the next breath, complain about your humdrum sex life. Pushing the envelope doesn’t mean you’re letting your significant other control or degrade you. This is 2013—not a Jane Austen novel.

Image source: cheezburger

On Equality

Bullshit feminists love to talk about equality, and how everything that a man can do, women can do, too—and sometimes do it better. Women shouldn’t be treated any differently than men! With their significant others, they delight in showing a vague interest in sports, drinking beer after beer like a pro, and having enlightened conversations with their about those of the same sex they find attractive. Kudos, staunch bullshit feminist, you’re a pretty cool chick with an progressive outlook. But this same Sylvia Plath admirer will show up crying on her sister’s doorstep, tearfully inquiring, “Why does Fred treat me like one of the guys!! I’m his girlfriend. And today at work, the man walking ahead of me didn’t hold the door open for me—I mean, I’m a lady!” Bullshit feminism.

You don’t get to dream about a utopia filled with unisex bathrooms and then whine when you don’t get treated like a delicate flower billowing in a spring breeze. Ladies, have you seen how men interact with other men? Is that truly what you want for yourselves? Women shouldn’t be getting into these ridiculous pissing matches with men, because we have no chance of winning–we don’t have the right parts! Newsflash: men and women are different. Blame it on the fact us ladies are walking, talking baby-making factories. Being treated differently from men doesn’t necessitate inferiority. There’s a fine line between erecting marble statues in honor of the fairer sex and giving her high fives at the bar. As a woman, having the reasonable expectation you be treated differently than men in some instances doesn’t mean you’re putting men on a pedestal and dragging womankind into the mud–it means you’re reasonable, and you recognize men and women aren’t the same and shouldn’t be treated as such. Don’t worry, wanting to be treated differently than a man doesn’t mean you’re metaphorically burning the Declaration of Sentiments. ♦

In each of these examples there are some awesome, albeit delusional, ideas about what it is to be a woman in today’s world, but it seems the road to hell is paved with misguided, bullshit feminist notions. Feminism has made significant strides over the years, and in modern times, more-so than any other point in history, women are closer than we’ve ever been before to having all the rights we deserve.

But the enemy has changed—feminism is not limited to taking up arms against simple misogyny anymore. It’s about politics and legislation, and in many cases, women don’t even agree on the issues with the majorities that they once did. As the world we live in and its issues evolve, feminism needs to evolve with it. Feminism isn’t a black and white matter anymore. It’s not as simple as not lacing your corset or burning your bra. It entails a systematic effort to fight for rights that concern your own body. It requires weighing the pros and cons of marriage today in the face of years of tradition. It means coming to terms with the fact that the “otherness” of women does exist but that it may not signify weakness or inferiority.

Getting too hung up on the stereotypical particulars of feminism does more harm than good. We need to leave the guise of bullshit feminism in the past and embrace the complexity that is being a self-sufficient, empowered, self-aware woman in today’s society.

Even though it happened in December, the tragedy of the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting is still very fresh in many of our minds. For those who walk their children to school every day or for those who teach, it will likely be on their minds for much longer still. In case you somehow missed the news over the past five months, this mass murder took the lives of 20 first grade students and six members of the school’s staff. Despite the fact that school shootings have become something that happen frequently enough in our society to have their own set of statistics, what happened at Sandy Hook was different because the lives of so many young children were senselessly taken. The subsequent media coverage of this event or the push for gun control it spurred should never take away from the fact that too many lives were lost too soon that day in December.

This morning when I turned on my computer to read the news, I saw the following headline:

Limited-Edition Nail Polish Shows Support For Newtown School Shooting Victims

Still in the process of waking up and waiting for my cinnamon raisin english muffin to pop up from the toaster, I clicked the link under the impression it was leading me to an article on The Onion, because nail polish for the school shooting victims? Really? …I was instead directed to CBS New York website, and I quickly found out this story wasn’t satirical, it was actually true.

Image source: CBS 2

The gist of the story is this: There’s a non-profit organization called Sandy Hook Promise whose mission, in its own words, “… is to support the families of the victims, the survivors, first responders and teachers and staff of the school as well as the community of Newtown, (“our community”) by providing financial and service support and assistance whenever possible and for as long as it takes for each individual to heal.” The idea for the nail polish was thought of by two of the mothers whose children survived the attack “after each had their nails painted green at a local salon as a way to cope with their grief.” OPI, which is a pretty major nail polish brand, produced 10,000 bottles of the green polish, named Sandy Hook Green, to donate to Sandy Hook Promise for a fundraiser. The nail polish isn’t going to be sold for any OPI profit.

I think there are some facts about Newtown that people have been tiptoeing around because the nature of the tragedy that happened there. A limited edition nail polish to support victims? Forgive me world, but some of this needs to be said.

What Sandy Hook Promise is doing is admirable. Raising money and/or awareness and providing continued support to the families who lost loved ones in the shooting is a noble cause. However, with regard to the two mothers who came up with this nail polish idea, let’s just rip the band-aid right off: if their own children hadn’t survived, would they be “coping with their grief” by getting their nails painted at the local salon in one of Sandy Hook’s school colors? At what point do we start admitting, even if it is one way of coping with grief, that something like this is kind of ridiculously frivolous? The events of Sandy Hook shouldn’t soon be forgotten, nor should the victims, and the further examination of the gun control issue may have been a long time coming, but a nail polish? 

Let’s step back for a second, because this whole nail polish business is actually rather ironic. Let me share with you some info about Newtown based on figures from 2010. In Newtown, Connecticut, the median household income is about $106,141. That’s 56% greater than the median household income average for the state of Connecticut and 103% greater than the national average.

Tragedy doesn’t respect socioeconomic status, but the media certainly does. Let’s call a spade, a spade: if the Sandy Hook tragedy had happened in a lower-income neighborhood, instead of a call to action about gun control, it would have instead raised questions and criticisms about welfare and other similar government-funded programs. Even worse, it might have gotten a day or two of media exposure before being relegated to the long list of tragedies that happen to poor people, and forgotten shortly thereafter.

As trivial as the limited edition nail polish may seem, I guess it’s not something that’s all that impractical in Newtown. Although it’s a well-intentioned on the behalf of those mothers, it’s interesting to consider whether the same idea would have come from two women who were lower middle class in the same situation–I would say, probably not. It’s also worth questioning whether or not OPI would gladly produce and donate 10,000 bottles of nail polish for just any community after a tragedy.

We’d all like to think the outpour of sympathy and support for Sandy Hook is happening because this was a universally horrifying event, but I can’t help but wonder if the same tragedy affecting a less affluent community would spur a limited edition nail polish for charity, numerous non-profit organizations, and nationwide lobbying for gun control. This limited edition nail polish is another example of the differing lifestyles of the many of the white-collar families in Newtown compared with many of the blue-collar families across the rest of the country.

It’s easy to argue that any effort that raises awareness for this tragedy is worthwhile, but where do we draw the line? Should Ford release a special paint color for their product line called “Sandy Hook Green” so we can show our support on our cars? Can we mine emeralds for Sandy Hook? What about Sandy Hook grass seed?

Would a limited edition honorary nail polish be something that’s on your mind in the wake of a tragedy? The answer for me is no. I think there are better ways to spread a message than with your manicure.

I don’t think I’m what you’d call a “girly girl.” It might have started when the mystique of Barbie not being anatomically correct faded away, and I began making racetracks out of lined up encyclopedias for my Hot Wheels. Don’t get me wrong–I can rock a summer dress, I have some decent make-up skills, and I can make my hair look borderline enviable, but most days I can’t be bothered to do much more than moisturize and tame my afro into a frizzy-laden ponytail. Nevertheless, the appearance and maintenance of my nails has always been a controversial issue for me.

I used to be an avid nail biter, but over the past several years I finally kicked the habit cold turkey and traded my stumpy, disgusting fifth grade boy nails for long ones I can tap on hard surfaces. …Because that’s literally half the fun of having long nails. The other half is being able to paint them pretty colors. So, when I started hearing more and more about a no-chip manicure that promised to provide color that won’t chip the second you zip up a pair of jeans, I was intrigued.

…Including your lingering sense of self respect.
Image source: zazzle

Whenever I consider trying something new, I become a search-engine sleuth; I need to know a ballpark price, any and all possible side-effects, and some general opinions about the matter in question before I commit to taking the plunge. During my no-chip manicure intel-gathering, I read websites raving about how wonderful it is! I also read blogs whose authors claimed this manicure chipped within the first day, caused their boyfriend to break up with them, made them lose their house, ruined their life, etc. …It became clear pretty quickly the no-chip mani was something I’d just have to try for myself.

I really hate trying new things, especially when they deal with being feminine and/or cool–I wallow in mediocrity for both of those endeavors. I tried to go into the nail salon with that fake cool confidence of, “Oh yeah, I totally get no-chip manicures all the time!”

In truth, I’ve been known to get the mani-pedi combo now and then, but asking for any of these services makes me uncomfortable. By going to the nail salon, you’re simultaneously admitting that you’re both lazy and that you’re a failure. Getting pampered? Bullshit. Doing your nails takes time, some of us suck at it (damn you useless left hand!), and roughly 3% of women know how to properly groom their cuticles (there’s nothin’ cute about shoving your nail skin back to where it ought to be).

I bungled through my request for the manicure, picked a color, and found myself sitting through the pain of having my cuticles jammed back toward my knuckles and my uneven nails filed into something attractive again. It was all fairly standard procedure until the UV light came out.

The nail technician (are my hangnails getting a tune up?) set this portable device in front of me, instructing, “Put your hand all the way in to the back.” Cautiously, I placed my hand in there and all of a sudden a blue light flashed on, counting down from sixty seconds. I could feel this lamp warming my fingertips, and I wondered, What is this counting down to? Phalangeal cancer? I repeated this likely-carcinogenic process three more times, and whether my fingertips fell off in twenty years or not, I didn’t care. My nails were shiny, perfect, and allegedly incapable of chipping for 7-14 days.

7-14 days? Pah! Let’s make it three weeks…

As you can see, the no-chip manicure held up pretty well in the prescribed timeframe, but by week three I’d flown too close to the sun. My once-perfect manicure was chipping away slowly, and I was faced with a dilemma.

Just as the process of getting a no-chip manicure is different, the process of removing it is different, too. You’re supposed to go back to the salon where the technician will wrap your fingers in foil so they can soak in acetone and voila–the nail polish and approximately three layers of your nail will be removed! But at what cost?! I’m talking metaphorical and literal costs.

I had enough trouble asking for this manicure in the first place, and now I’m expected to go back in there with my now-chipped, grown-out nails and say what? “Hi… I need this no-chip manicure burned off my nails since I can’t do it myself…” Not to mention, if getting the manicure cost me $35, how much are they ripping me off for removal? Am I expected to get another no-chip manicure afterwards? Is that the deal?

In principle, I have a problem with paying for people to take things away from me. I don’t mind spending a little money to get something I want, but giving someone my money to take something of mine away from me? That’s bogus. …So yes, waxes, car towing, and organ removal should all be free services in my world. Since I didn’t get the impression the nail salon has the same enlightened view on this matter, I decided to take things into my own hands and spend a solid 45 minutes prying the no-chip formula nail polish off my innocent nails and onto the floor.

Hard work pays off…

While I loved the no-chip manicure, the entire process is just too stressful and awkward. I dutifully went back to the thrifty, comfort-zone approved alternative of doing my nails myself with my own nail polish, and by the second day, this is what they looked like:

Oh.

The moral of the story is this: no-chip manicures are amazing even if they’re a little humiliating and insulting to your inner tomboy. They’re worth all the finger cancer and uncomfortable salon requests money can buy. You can’t put a price on nails that don’t look like shit.

Also, you can truly do anything you set your mind to—especially if it involves weakening your nails by the improper removal of a no-chip manicure.

Holla.

It’s hard to believe an entire year has flown by since I walked across that stage in a static-y black gown and a cap that threatened to teeter off my head with every last step I took as part of the graduating Class of 2012. After everything that’s happened since then, I look back on that nerve-wracking day in May with the clarity of hindsight that I had no idea what was in store for me once my days of attending classes, writing papers, and dwelling in the library were over.

You live a lot life in your first year post-graduation. The “future” becomes your present, no longer the abstraction it once was, and you’re expected to effortlessly join the fray. The time for Facebook posts about procrastination ends, and before you know it, you’re looking for a real job. It’s during this first year that it hits you: your adult life is really beginning, and the decisions you make carry a magnitude much greater than deciding whether you’re going out on Thursday night or staying in to study.

It’s from these harsh realizations and eye-opening experiences that I offer some unsolicited advice to all of my successors, the Class of 2013.

Dearest graduates,

First and foremost, congratulations. You’ve successfully made it through four years of attending 8 a.m. classes hungover, writing countless papers from sun down to sun up, and reading more than some people will read over the span of their entire lives.  Now that you’ve endured four hours of pomp and circumstance, you’ve earned that multi-thousand dollar piece of paper, known as a degree, which will look great framed on your wall. The path that lies ahead of you is not easy—take it from someone who’s been hobbling along its beaten trail for a year now…

You’ve probably heard the rumors about the job market, and sadly, most of them are true. It’s probably easier finding Waldo to help you search for a needle in a haystack than it is to secure a job within the first 10, 20, or even 50 applications you send out. Maybe you’ll be on of the lucky ones who applies at the right place at the right time. Maybe you had some kickass internship that gives you an edge over the competition. Maybe you’ll spend six heartbreaking months filling out applications, going on interviews, and receiving rejection email after rejection email. Whatever lies in store for you, you need to keep a few job-related things in mind:

Your first job probably won’t be your dream career. Your first job is probably going to be a stepping-stone—a way to get your feet wet. Even if you have some idea of what you want to do with this vague degree of yours, when you actually get out there and start living it, you might change your mind, and that’s okay.

Image source: Bro Bible

In your desperation to secure full time employment, don’t throw all your job wish list items out the window just so you have a job. Some sacrifices may be necessary, but if you accept the first mediocre job that’s interested in you, you’re selling yourself short. Three years from now when you’re still working there, miserable, you’ll resent yourself for not holding out for something worth the four years of work you put in at college. You deserve a decent salary. You deserve some kind of benefits. You deserve to work at a company where you have an opportunity to grow.

If you do end up taking a job in a field that you may not be all that interested in, find ways to do things there that you are interested in doing long-term. At these kinds of jobs, you need take ownership over your own experience there. If you take a secretary job and only order pens all day long, you’re only making your resume suffer. More importantly, you’re only prolonging the time it’ll take to find a position doing something you’re actually interested in, because despite holding a full-time job, the experience you’re getting isn’t relevant to anything else, unlike your career goals are to follow in the path of Pam Beesly from The Office. At any position you hold, maximize the potential you have to gain the skills you need by involving yourself wherever you can.

When you’re at this first job of yours, people may not take you seriously because you’re young. They may resent you for even being there. They might even be jealous. Fuck all of them. Don’t surrender to any kind of age apologetics. Your point of view is valuable, and you have an outlook that is significant. You bring new ideas and a fresh perspective to the table. You may not have the experience that they do, and Kermit the Frog said it best, it’s not easy being green, but know this: it’s important. Harness your youth as a strength; don’t explain it away as a weakness.

If you’re one of the less lucky ones (like me!) who spent several months looking for a job, keep two things in mind: don’t lose hope and be honest with yourself. Make time to search for jobs every single day. Don’t limit your search—use every website. Check the newspaper. Use your college’s career center. Exhaust your connections, if you have them. When you go on interviews, ask yourself, are you doing your best, or are you being a dipshit? Appraise yourself honestly. When an interviewer asks if you have any questions, always ask one or two. …If you don’t know what to ask, consult Google—your fairy godmother. Don’t let the numerous rejections wound your pride. Some HR people are assholes who don’t care about you or your humanity—when you get rejections from those types, ask yourself, “is that really the kind of place I want to work for?”

Carrie definitely has the dream closet.
Image source: Jenny by Design

While you’re pursuing employment, you might start thinking about some of your lofty post-college loft dreams you’d like to make a reality. Maybe you’ve already finalized the interior design of your Carrie Bradshaw-esque apartment or your neon beer sign-laden bachelor pad. Before you run out and sign a lease, let me suggest an alterative to seriously consider: living at home for few years. If your folks are amenable and your family isn’t Jerry Spring material, stay home and save up some money. I know it means sharing a bathroom and it may cramp your style, but it’s worth it in the long run.

Having your own apartment with your BFF as a roommate is a fun situation, sure. But you know what else is fun? Being able to plunk down a solid down payment on a house if/when you’re ready so your monthly mortgage payment isn’t astronomical. Paying rent means throwing money away on a monthly basis, because you’re not building up any equity living in your two-bedroom apartment. Don’t try to defend it by saying it gives you good credit–that’s what credit cards are for. Living at home may not be as “fun” or “ideal,” but ten years from now when your finances aren’t tighter than a size small skirt over Kim Kardashian’s ass, you’ll be thankful. Building up your nest egg doesn’t have to mean sacrificing all your fun and your freedom—but you need to remember fun and freedom don’t come cheap.

Image source: someecards

As you’re living your somewhat lackluster post-graduate life you may become more reliant on social media to keep up with your friends. Courtesy of Instagram, you may notice one of your college buds scored some awesome job at a great company that affords them rose gold Michael Kors watches. One of them might have leased an awesome Dodge Charger they can barely afford. Facebook may inform you that bitch from your biology class sophomore year got engaged to an engineer who bestowed upon her the most disgustingly sparkly princess cut Tiffany’s ring you’ve ever seen. In the midst of all their accomplishments, it’ll be hard, but remember this: don’t live on anyone’s timeline but your own.

Don’t be ashamed of your respectably-salaried job. Don’t feel embarrassed when you’re cruising around in the same car you’ve had for several years. …Still hate the bitch from biology class who got engaged to the engineer, but don’t feel pressure to get engaged tomorrow and do not force your temporarily-skewed expectations onto anyone else. You need to live your own life, and honestly, there’s always going to be someone who’s life makes your own look banal, or worse: ordinary. The more you evaluate your life in terms of everyone else’s, the more likely you are to miss out on appreciating all the wonderful things you have going on for yourself. Don’t miss out on your own milestones—big or small, Facebook-worthy or not—by focusing on everyone else’s accomplishments.

Image source: nerd scholar

Finally, don’t let your inner critic get to you. In this first year post-college you’re going to learn a lot about the real world and about yourself, and there are going to be countless moments where you doubt yourself. There will be times when you’re going to make a choice and later wonder if it was the right one. You’re going to feel overwhelmed. You’re going to feel lost. You’re going to feel like adulthood is too hard. You’re going to miss “the way things used to be.”

As hard as it is, don’t let “the past” hog up too much of your nostalgic sensibilities. You’re going on to do great things, but getting to those great things will sometimes require weathering some shitty things first. You will make some wrong choices. You will be overwhelmed. You will be lost. Adulthood is hard. Just remember every moment before, especially in college, when you futilely thought, “I can’t do this.” You got through it then, and whatever’s posing a similar problem now, you’ll get through that, too. It may not be easy. It may cause fear or tears, but you’ll kick its ass in the end.

So, dear graduates, as you make this foray into the real world, remember there’s no right way to live this life, but at the end of the day, there are always these three constants:

Don’t be afraid to take what you deserve.
Don’t take shit from anyone.
Don’t give up.

From one former graduate to another, I wish you the best of luck in this important year in your lives.

…And I’m glad I found a job by now so I don’t have to compete with you.

Every May there comes a Sunday that has forgetful children and husbands running out to Hallmark at the 11th hour to sift through picked-over cards in search of the greeting card equivalent of their innermost thoughts and feelings about the matriarchs in their lives: Mother’s Day.

I don’t have any spawn of my own yet, but I am the only child of a wonderful mother. Over the 22 years I’ve been raised, spoiled, nurtured, encouraged, frustrated, and sometimes driven crazy by her, I’ve noticed a few things about her that I think are true of many of the world’s mothers…

An Extra Everything

I’m pretty sure once you become a mom you have to get a storage locker somewhere with an extra of everything that you own “just in case.” I can’t tell you how many times my dear ma has advised, “Bring an extra and keep it with you, just in case.” …If I “brought an extra” for everything she advised, I wouldn’t have room left for any of the original items.

The Questions

Whenever you have a child, I think you spend most of your waking hours answering your munchkin’s inane questions. …I also think mothers spend the rest of their lives exacting their revenge on their offspring for every last exasperated answer they provided. How many mom stories begin with, “Do you know what happened today?” “You know what you should do?” “Guess who I ran into?” Alright, alright. I’ll bite…

Be Careful

It doesn’t matter what you’re going to do, mothers insist that you “be careful” in such a way that make you temporarily feel like some tattooed, dirt bike riding badass. “I’m going to run outside and get the mail…” “BE CAREFUL.” “I’m going to read for a while…” “BE CAREFUL.” “I’m going to take a nap…” “BE CAREFUL.” You can never be too careful.

Perhaps someday my own children will experience the fun and joy of Pussy!
…I think I’ll rename her Boots, or something.

The Stock Stories

There are certain situations that without fail bring to mind specific stock stories that mothers recycle over and over. To give an example, whenever the matter of naming something comes up, my mom reminds me, “Do you remember that cat stuffed animal with the question mark shaped tail? Remember what you named it?” Sigh. Yes, mom. I was a child and I named it Pussy. I couldn’t possibly make that mistake ever again since you won’t let me forget…

Forever Cold

I think there’s some temperature-related deficiency that comes along with motherhood, because menopause aside, moms are always cold. It’ll be the middle of summer, 85 degrees, an egg sizzling on the sidewalk, sweat beading on your brow, and here’s mommy dearest tugging a sweater around her body like a life-preserver. “It’s a bit chilly!” That’s alright, being comfortable is overrated, anyway…

Can You Fix the (Insert Technology Here)

This one is typically common of the Baby Boomer generation. My dear mother is still acclimating to iPhone usage and Internet browser tabs. My mom commonly brings her iPhone problems to me: “Take a look at this, it says I need a software update? What does that mean? Did I do something wrong?” I am proud to say she’s now texting with some proficiency–she can even send picture messages now. Prior to showing my mom how to use Internet tabs, whenever I’d go to use our desktop computer there would be no less than 15 minimized Internet windows. …Now there are 15 tabs, instead.

Despite the fact the Pussy-naming will haunt me for the rest of my days, and I may become hoarder with all the extra things I own (just in case!) I will not be clamoring among the forgetful or neglectful children and husbands at Hallmark on Mother’s Day morning.

Image source: someecards

Another thing I suspect many mothers share in common with my own ma, is the habit of making every single day of the year about their child(ren), holiday or no. So when that sneaky Sunday in May rolls around, I make a conscious effort to pay homage to the one day dedicated to all the mothers out there–with all their quirks, thankless hard work, and selfless efforts to raise decent human beings.

In all seriousness, I’d do anything for my mom (including answering repeat technology-related questions…), because over the years, I know I’ve probably been the donor of many a gray hair and a worry line. She even puts up with my full-fledged pain-in-the-assery and the multiple nicknames I give her. Bottom line: she’s pretty awesome.

Since you still have a couple of days, go out and get your forever-cold mother a card. Call her up and steer the conversation right into one of the stock stories she loves to tell over and over and over again. Remind your wife that she’s awesome for not drowning your kids in the bathtub. It’s the least you can do.

…And when you’re out getting that greeting card, remember to be careful. A mother will thank you for that.

I know there are a lot of lucky people out there in the world who have been the fortunate recipients of a little cherubic bundle or three from the stork. Whether the little munchkin in question was a planned guest or an unexpected drop-in after a boozy night at your favorite Mexican restaurant, people are procreating all over the place. I love kids. Really, I do. …Usually from afar. (Oh, who am I kidding, I’ll probably be the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe someday.) But the one time I universally hate, abhor, and loathe your little rugrats and you, as parents, is when you drag your entire brood to a decent, casual dining restaurant.

It’s a start.
loldamn

I define “casual dining restaurant” as a moderately-priced establishment with cloth napkins and a table-wait time that averages 60-90 minutes. It’s not fancy enough to have French words, especially the word “chez,” in the title, but it’s also not Maw and Paw’s Eatin’ Shack. It’s a place that could be an acceptable second or third date venue. On the outside of all of such restaurants, amidst the “No Solicitors” sign or the kitchen hours, there should be a sign that reads, “No Children Under the Age of 12.”

Yes, that’s right, parents. Your spawn doesn’t stop being an asshole or start being restaurant appropriate until twelve years have passed. I cannot comprehend why any parent would subject themselves, their child, or the droves of innocent, hungry civilians to eating in the midst of your beloved treasure. I know, I know. Your child has manners. Your child is well-behaved. Your child would never cause a scene. Well, that’s all entirely true—UNTIL IT’S NOT. Sorry I’m not sorry, parents; it’s not just your offspring I’m worried about. It’s the way most parents act with their young kids at a decent restaurant.

Arrival

The parents literally come in with a caravan: they’ve always got the Hummer of strollers (that will invariably roll over and break all of your toes or bump you in the ass), a carrier, four bags of paraphernalia, and fourteen blankets (it doesn’t matter if it’s cold or not—there will be blankets). They come in and request a table and are told the wait is about two hours. Little Timmy is innocently munching on his boogers while his Brutus-idolater parents thoughtlessly resign him to the fate of waiting in a crowded, loud vestibule for approximately four years in kid time.

During this horrible timeframe, Little Timmy will grow increasingly fussy. He’ll do that thing where he walks up to strangers and touches their leg with his tiny, sticky hands. He’ll start playing in and around any indoor potted plant he can find. He’ll bump into strangers in the middle of playing some game with dear old mom or dad—only they aren’t paying any attention to Little Timmy whatsoever since this is their first night out on the town since his conception. In short, Little Timmy will be an epic pain in the ass. We childless soon-to-be diners will forgive him though—he’s hungry just like the rest of us, the poor dear!

Being Seated & Dinosaur-Shaped Chicken Nuggets

We childless diners will finally get seated and find ourselves with a blessed mouthful of chicken quesadillas, when all of a sudden, here comes the family from the lobby with that semi-assholic child, and they’re being seated among us. No matter how big the tot is, the host or hostess will ask if they need a special seat, and the first argument of the evening will ensue. Little Timmy will insist he’s a big boy and doesn’t need the seat! The mother, desperate to keep her son a little boy until he’s 30 years old, unmarried, and creepy, will insist he get the special seat because he’s simply too short. Little Timmy’s dad doesn’t get involved—he’s already opened the menu and is deciding if the wants a strip steak or the rib eye. Eventually, Little Timmy admits defeat and sits pouting in his “baby seat.”

The quesadillas will disappear all too quickly, and by now, you’re probably hungry enough that you don’t even want to talk to your dinner companion(s). You want to look around the restaurant, and wait for your food which, even though it’s only been ten minutes, is taking forever to get to the table. Little Timmy and his family will be deciding on what to order, but of course, Little Timmy and his nourishment needs are the most important consideration in the entire universe. The parents will have already secured the kids’ menu, and Little Timmy will be engaging his motor skills with some inane activity that usually involves crayons and a way-too-easy maze. The mother always leads the decision-making process of a child’s dinner…

“Little Timmy, what do you want for dinner? They have grilled cheese! Your favorite!”

For the pain in the ass at your dinner table.
Image source: Tyson

“NO I WANT CHICKEN NUGGETS SHAPED LIKE DINOSAURS,” he’ll bellow, getting purple crayon all over the once spotless table.

The mother will put on a show of scanning the menu for, “Chicken à la Stegosaurus” and come up empty.

“Well, Little Timmy… It doesn’t look like they have chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs…”

“I WANT CHICKEN NUGGETS SHAPED LIKE DINOSAURS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

By now, we childless diners are each contemplating getting our tubes tied or getting a vasectomy on the way home from dinner, and it’s at this moment Little Timmy’s waitress reappears, and Little Timmy’s parents do something unforgivable…

“Were you all ready to order?” she’ll ask, completely unaware of the unfortunate response that awaits her.

“We’re still looking… But um, I just wanted to ask. Is there any way the chef could make chicken nuggets in the shapes of dinosaurs?”

The waitress will look at the parents with a wry, understanding smile, and reply, “Why yes! Of course! The chef keeps dinosaur cookie-cutters on hand just in case some indulgent parents insist on ordering some chicken in the shape of extinct mammals for their spoiled child! Let me go to the kitchen and put that right in for you!”

Oh wait, NO. THAT NEVER HAPPENS. Parents, I know you want to give your child the best of everything, but if there are no dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets on the menu, there are no dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets to be had! Let it go! Do NOT ask the waitress about any ridiculous special food requests that they have no hope of satisfying. That goes for allergies, too. No restaurant is about to delouse the entire kitchen of all peanuts, wheat, or poultry just for your little Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.

And you know, when parents make these ridiculous demands, and the waitress replies, in the kindest way possible, “Are you out of your mind? Where do you think you are?!” the parents still get pissed! “Did you see the way she said that? It’s not our fault we have a child…” Yes, as a matter of fact, it is your fault, and your spawn doesn’t belong in here if you’re going to act this way. I suspect Little Timmy would have been just as happy with his freezer chicken nugget dinosaurs that are free of all the ingredients that give him hives. Sadly, the out-of-hand demands are just the beginning of the ordering process gone awry…

Playing Grown-Up

Sometimes the parents will see an evening out to dinner with their spawn as an opportunity to let them pretend to be grown-ups for an hour. Unfortunately, this little life lesson always happens at the expense of the hardworking waiter or waitress. The parents will decide to let Little Timmy order for himself, and you know what? He’s not going to take it seriously. And why is that? Because he’s a child, and he has no concept that he’s not clever enough to be funny yet or that he’s being an insufferable pain in the ass.

“Were you guys ready to order?”

“Go ahead Little Timmy…” the mom will say, smiling all proud like a dog that kicks up some grass after it takes a shit.

Little Timmy will do that infectious, adorable, shy thing kids do where he hesitates and laughs, and if you’re a woman, your ovaries will do a cartwheel. He’ll finally work up the courage to place his dinner order and he’ll say, “BUTTCRACK!”

Now the once-proud mom will put on her oh-silly-Little-Timmy face and she’ll shrug helplessly at the patient waitress. In response, the waitress will laugh off this minor offense. Kids say the darndest things, don’t they?

“Now, now, Little Timmy, mind your manners. Tell the nice lady what you want to eat.”

“SHOES!” He’ll burst into a fit of laughter.

Your kid can learn to order his or her own food at age 20.
Image source: quickmeme

The pen that the waitress is holding just above her notepad will be lowered once again, and an inaudible, frustrated sigh will escape her lips. Little Timmy’s mother’s eyes will narrow, and she’ll put her hands on her hips, “Now Little Timmy. I mean it, tell the lady what you want, otherwise you’ll only get to pick two desserts and not four, and I may even frown at you.”

Little Timmy will nod quietly in understanding, chastened by his mother’s harsh words, “I want… A BASKETBALL!!!! FOOLED YOU! HAHAHAHA!”

By now, we childless diners are organizing a petition for the sainthood of Little Timmy’s waitress. This back and forth could easily go on for 30 minutes before Little Timmy’s mother steps in and orders her child’s damn food. It could always be worse though…

A Bit of Culture & The Tantrum

Sometimes the parents see the dining-out experience as a way to expose their kids to some new, sophisticated foods they haven’t eaten yet. In their deluded, parenting-addled mind, they think they’ll be exposing their child to fine cuisine at a young age, and they’ll be on the right track to raising a cultured little brat! …What they seem to forget is that no child gives half a shit about trying new things nor is any child willing to even be in the same room with spaghetti squash. The parents will take the initiative of ordering Little Timmy’s dinner behind his back while he matches pictures of animals to their names, and when the pile of brains on a plate arrives, we move on to the next chapter in the horror story that is children in a restaurant: the temper tantrum.

By now, we childless diners have thankfully abandoned our bread-basket gluttony and we’re knifing and forking away at our entrées. Little Timmy makes eye contact with the plate of something that is not the cheese pizza he had envisioned.

“I wanted pizza!” he’ll pout.

“Try it honey,” his mother says consolingly, “It’s yummy! You have to try it.”

“I…wanted…pizza…” his little lips will quiver ever so slightly.

We childless diners all have our alcoholic beverages in hand, now. We know it’s coming. We heard the slight hiccup in Little Timmy’s voice when he pronounced, “pizza.” We can practically hear the tears flooding his eyes like a toilet that won’t stop running. He’s fixin’ to throw a fit, and it’s not going to be pretty.

Where’s the nearest body of water?
Image source: kompany24

Pretty soon the tears are flowing down his pinch-able cheeks, and the poor waitress makes the mistake of coming back to the table to see if everything’s okay at the worst possible time. Little Timmy is flailing is arms and legs, throwing his cloth napkin on the ground, shoving silverware around the table, and knocking over his child cup. The neglected spaghetti squash is pathetically getting cold, its inappropriate owner refusing to settle for anything less than pizza.

We childless diners are now scowling. The time for polite ignoring has expired. The temper tantrum scenario always ends one of two ways 1.) The parents will get Little Timmy the pizza they should have gotten in the first place or 2.) The parents will reveal some serious inadequacies in their parenting skills that will either make us childless diners uncomfortable, nervous, or straight up pissed… before getting Little Timmy the pizza they should have gotten him in the first place.

A Note About Public Tantrums

I imagine it’s an embarrassing affair to be the parents of a misbehaving child at a restaurant. It must be said, though, that too harshly reprimanding your spawn in public will always make you look like a bully, an asshole, and a bad parent. Sorry, that’s what we’re all thinking as we look down our childless noses at your upset bundle of joy. The poor dear just wanted some pizza, after all! Yet, if you don’t put your foot down at all, we’ll all think that you’re a pushover and that your child takes advantage of you. He should eat whatever he’s given–don’t be a wuss!

…Basically, what I’m saying is, if your child acts out in the restaurant, no matter how you handle it, your public approval rating with us childless diners will plummet. You know how all of this could have been avoided? Go to Chuck E. Cheese next time. It’s a pretty sure bet that anywhere where there’s a ball pit nearby, there will be parents doing a worse job of weathering a temper tantrum than you.

Eventually, Little Timmy’s hard-fought cheese pizza will arrive, and he’ll turn back into a tolerable little turnip again. Eventually, the parents and Little Timmy will finish up, and before you know it, they’ve gathered their caravan and they’re on their way to the little boy’s room (because Little Timmy has to go, of course).

Peace at Last

We childless diners will relax in our booths—the quiet restored. We’re waiting for our dessert orders now while the bus boys clean off the table that once sat Little Timmy the Terrible. Our 40,000 calorie desserts will arrive, and just as we’re about to indulge in that decadent first bite… Here comes Little Jessica, her brother Baby Noah, and the parents with their two-seater stroller and diaper bags piled as high as the eye can see…

We childless diners will get a stomachache choking down our desserts in order to pay the check, forget about the change, and get the hell out of there as quickly as possible.

We can all get a little too dedicated to miscellaneous things. We wouldn’t dream of brushing our teeth with anything but our trusty Colgate gel—Crest? Don’t make me laugh. You don’t serve Coke products here? Bring me your foulest tap water, because I’d sooner drink that than Pepsi. Shop at CVS Pharmacy instead of Walgreen’s? Not on your life. Another one of these weird, obsessive loyalties I’ve noticed is the relationship between an Internet user and their web browser of choice.

Some of us are Internet Explorers. Some of us are on a Safari. Some of us go to the Opera (by some, I mean virtually none). Some of us are Firefoxy, while others pledge allegiance to Google Chrome. People take this shit very seriously. When you casually mention to someone you use a different browser than they do, before you can even finish your sentence they’re butting in with, “I hate Internet Explorer.” “How do you use Safari? It’s just awful.” “Firefox?! Who uses that anymore!” What’s most fascinating about this is that they’re all basically the same fucking thing with some minor layout changes here and there. Maybe one is a little more minimal than the next. Maybe one has an elemental name. You’re still going be the same Internet troll living under your imaginary bridge no matter which platform you use. …Nevertheless, I’m one of these browser-combatant people.

So much truth.
Image source: Web Developers Notes

No, I don’t get into arguments with people over the merits of their chosen Internet browser, but I do silently judge people who use Firefox or Chrome. Before all you enraged alternative Internet browser hippies start spewing quinoa-flavored venom into a comment, let me explain the ridiculously arbitrary reason why I don’t like Firefox or Chrome: what happened to the sense of adventure?!

I respect Internet Explorer and Safari because they kept to the theme—even though we’re sitting three inches from our computer screen in a dimly lit room with an open bag of Ruffles on stand-by, we’re going on adventure! We’re exploring! We’re in our Internet Jeep on a safari! Hell, even Opera has us dressed up in our formal wear for an evening on the town that won’t be over ’til the fat lady sings! Firefox and Chrome—what? What the hell is a Firefox? Chrome? The element? GIVE ME SOMETHING I CAN USE HERE!

I’m sorry but to all you Firefox and Chrome users, don’t you feel like kind of an asshole when you call tech support and they ask for your browser, and you have to say Firefox? They may as well have named it Waterwolf. Aircanine. And Chrome? Yes, Google, Chrome is shiny. All the geniuses they’ve got swimming around their think tank, and that’s what they came up with? I’m a little disappointed.

All nonsense aside, the Internet browser you use does say something about you as a person. Here are my findings…

Internet Explorer: You’re probably 30+ and you’re one of those people who think Apple is awful for no legitimate reason other than the fact it’s not Windows. You can probably recall using Windows 95 in between memories of riding your Brontosaurus around town. Otherwise, you have a Windows computer and don’t give enough of a shit about the different web browsers to switch to anything different. If ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Safari: You probably have a Macbook, which means on some level, you’re an asshole with expensive taste. You know that when you’re on Safari, people are seeing that little Apple logo lit up on the back of your laptop scree and seething with envy that you can drop $2000 on one of Steve Jobs’ babies.

Firefox: For some reason, you’re an Internet Explorer, Safari, and Chrome malcontent. You’re incredibly loyal to Firefox, but when people ask, you have absolutely no idea why. You may not quite fit in as well as other people. (…And part of that reason, is because you use Firefox.)

Chrome: You’re probably a hipster. Not probably; you are. You heard about Google developing a web browser and you probably spilled your ginseng tea with joy that you could convert to something beyond IE, Safari, and Firefox! You’ll show those mainstream Internet losers—just as soon as you finish cleaning your ironic non-prescription glasses.

Opera: You’re probably someone who’s easily confused. You probably thought the download for this browser was a CD of all your favorite Luciano Pavarotti, but instead, it turned out to a be a shitty web browser no one uses (or admits to using).

As for me? At home you can find me in an ill-fitting khaki dress, binoculars in hand, embarking on a Safari in the wild jungle of the Internet. Look! There! The wild meme in it’s natural habitat! At work, you’ll see me drumming my fingers, getting a glass of water, and contemplating my existence while I wait for IE9 to load.

I wanted to say no to Rohan of Rohan 7 Things when he offered to write a guest post for my blog, but I can just hear that accent even through typed text, and so I couldn’t turn him down. Despite the enlightened, informative, positive writing he usually supplies, it might interest you to know that he was once going down the dark path of pawn shop thievery. Read more below to see a different side of Rohan and don’t forget to follow his blog!

It might shock those who know me from my writing to learn that I wasn’t always the do gooder I am today. Before I learned the life saving value of honesty, authenticity, patience, good communication and virtue, I was a right little liar, and even a petty thief! Worry not, this admission won’t incriminate me, ­­I was 14 and 15 at the time and thankfully I didn’t take my pilfering pastime into my adult years. In fact most of my naughtiness stopped at 16 when I started playing music full time. Or more accurately, it was replaced with a different type of naughtiness altogether. I wish I could say I fell in with a bad crowd, perhaps partially so, but not really. In fact the story I am about to relate was all my idea. It was to be the greatest con ever perpetrated! There was only one problem, it was a terrible, stupid idea.

A couple of days earlier I rounded up my three best mates during lunch and told them my flawless scheme.

“Okay guys, I’ve thought of a plan that will make us all rich…”

Anticipatory silence.

Lismore Square

“You know those cheap wooden Chinese lion statues they sell at the square?” The Square being the local mall.

“Um, yeah,” the others replied, confused.

“We steal one, then we bring it to the pawn shop, tell the guy it’s rare and worth a fortune and get the money!”

I blame the heat for my stupidity, summers days in Lismore, New South Wales hit brain cell melting temperatures in the 40s (over 100 Fahrenheit). Or maybe I’ll blame my age, 14. Either way my three droogs didn’t raise a fuss, and all seemed to think it was pretty smashing caper all round. So at least we were all a few fries short of a happy meal. I take solace in our collective silliness. We planned it all out like wannabe crooks, everything was in place. We were just like Ocean’s Eleven except there were only four of us and none of us were Brad Pitt.

The big day finally rolled around. We arrived at school and as everyone else rushed to class we rushed to the toilets, changed out of our uniforms, and snuck off the school grounds during the confusion of first bell. First thing’s first, gotta call in sick. The Square was only a fifteen minute walk from the school. We hurried inside the mall and made a beeline for the public pay phones (I’m old, not every kid had a cell phone back then!). I picked up the receiver and deposited my money.

“Hi, I’m just calling to let you know that Rohan Healy won’t be coming into school today, he has the flu,” I said as deeply and confidently as I could, “this is his father speaking.”

“Thank you, just make sure he brings in a signed note tomorrow,” was the reply.

Forging my poor mother’s signature for tomorrow’s note was the easy part, the hard part was nabbing that statue. I’d reconned the novelty and nick nack store before, it wasn’t exactly Fort Knox. One drowsy lady manned the register and the dime a dozen Chinese lions were all the way on the other side of the shop, there was no way she had a line of sight. The only worry were the other customers, but they were few and far between.

“Okay H (code names), you ask the lady about a product, keep her busy. You two fan out and call if anyone is coming,” I ordered.

We all nodded in agreement and made our way coolly and casually (probably not) into the store. H kept the clueless lady occupied while I swooped on the precious item. I flipped my backpack around to my front and made it look like I was searching for something inside as I edged my way ever closer to the burgundy wooden lions. I picked one up in my sweaty right hand and my heart pounded in my ears as my eyes darted left, then right.

‘What am I doing?! I can’t do it! I should just put it down and walk away right now!!’

One of my accomplices started giving me the eye from the end of the isle. He silently mouthed the words “DO IT” as he absentmindedly fondled a Catch Ball Velcro Game Set. I could hear H trying desperately to continue to engage the shop keeper in conversation, it was starting to get weird, suspicious even!

‘Crap, it’s now or never!’ I took one last look to my left and right, gulped like Shaggy from Scooby Doo and hastily stashed the lion into my backpack, zipped it up and slung it over my shoulder. We left the store one by one, as not to arouse suspicion. I exited first, then H. The other two browsed a minute longer before meeting us in the food court.

“I bloody got it!” I exclaimed excitedly, my body shaking slightly from the adrenaline that was coursing through my veins. We were on top of the world! After a quick slurpy we were back on the street, pounding our way across town to the pawn broker under the unrelenting midsummer sun. We laughed and wondered how much we’d get for our “ancient” Chinese artefact.

“What are you going to get with your share Rohan?”

“I dunno man, probably buy some CDs, maybe an N64 game!”

We’d never felt so alive. What a rush!! This was to be but the beginning of a long and illustrious career as master thieves and conmen.

After just under an hour we had made our way to the centre of town. To the Pawnbroker.

“Let me do the talking alright, I’ve got this,” I told them seriously and confidently. This was it, the moment of truth. We may have been walking in with a five dollar novelty, but we would be walking out with who knows how much cash! I took a deep breath and stepped into the cramped, air conditioned pawn shop. The walls were covered with broken dreams; beautiful guitars sold to pay for drug habits, video game consoles traded to afford an unplanned pregnancy, big screen TVs liquidated to finance crippling debt. And there amid it all stood I, the young master. I greeted the jaded looking pawn broker.

“I have something I’d like you to take a look at,” I purred. He looked utterly uninterested. ‘Not for long,’ I thought.

I unzipped my bag and, ever so carefully, produced an object wrapped in a protective towel covering. I slowly removed the towel, exposing the treasure within. The man behind the counter’s expression did not change. He let out a barely audible sigh. Or was it a gasp?! I placed the priceless object on his glass countertop and turned it to face him, the lion’s fierce scowl stared him down.

A moment of silence passed, and then I spoke.

“My dealer in Sydney,” I started, just as I had rehearsed, “says it’s worth at least a few hundred.” I was nonchalant, anyone could tell I did this sort of thing all the time. The 14 year old who dealt in fine antiques, with crappy local pawn brokers. It was too stupid not to be true!

Another sigh escaped from his chapped lips. He brought his eyes up to look at the four of us. Was that admiration? Or pity.

“Sorry mate.”

Silence again. Sorry mate what?!

“I can’t give you anything for it.”

My heart sunk. I thought about contesting his assertion that this was a cheap and tacky piece of junk. But it was a cheap and tacky piece of junk so I hurriedly shoved it back into my pack and got the hell out of there. We put a little distance between ourselves and the pawn shop, then took a seat under some shade.

“Well that sucks…” I lamented.

“What do we do with it?” asked one of the boys, dejected.

“I can’t take it, my parents will ask where I got it, and why I have it!” I said.

“Yeah mine too.”

“I’ll take it, and I’ll keep it hidden,” said H.

And he did. I don’t know if he still has it but he kept it in his room for all the years I knew him. A funny reminder of the silly things we got up to back then. Of our short lived shot at master thievery. When I look back now I think it’s just as well that out little foray into criminality fizzled out so anticlimactically. Crime didn’t pay that day, and though I haven’t gotten super rich with a life on the straight and narrow, I at least have a clear conscious. I’m not looking over my shoulder all the time. And unlike the crappy red lion, that – my friends – is priceless.

Thanks for reading.

All the best!

Rohan.