18 years to reach legal adulthood.

6 years in the Army.

2 years working for a boarding school.

3 years to gain my BA.

Which leads me to THIS year. One would think, that after the above I would know how to take care of myself. That I wouldn’t act like an irresponsible child. That I would continue to follow the course of

So there is a picture that I love and am a little of the opinion that it makes me a bit stalkerish. But I love it anyway.

It’s of a couple, a celebrity couple, a few days before their wedding. It looks like a candid. Not something from a magazine, but from an intimate gathering. Now I’m not one who enjoys looking into the personal life of celebrities. I’m rather against it. I avoid gossip magazines and learning anything beyond the publicized image. I figure, most people in show biz have to be in the public eye to some extent. They have a job or life that our society likes to scrutinize, but that doesn’t give me a right to look beyond what they are comfortable in making known.

This is my own bias. I’m a few days younger than Prince William and I remember my Mom telling me how she had remembered being pregnant at the same time as Princess Diana. Beyond that, I knew nothing about the royal family. Then Diana died and they were everywhere in tabloids and my heart nearly broke for that kid. I thought how awful it would be if my Mom had died and my family got covered in the news constantly. So I made a point of ignoring the headlines. It didn’t help the two boys at all. Their privacy was still invaded. But it was my personal stand.

Due to being bored in check out aisles, I have allowed my stand to waver a bit…although I have yet to pick up a magazine while waiting. But I do read the headlines. (And I’m still confused, who and why are the Kardashians? No, don’t tell me. It’s probably best I don’t know.)

What was I talking about? Oh yes, the picture.

Actors, actresses and their lives are something I have no interest in knowing about. I LIKE the illusion of Hollywood. I watch movies for a bit of escapism. I like believing that the people on screen live magical, flawless lives. Just as I like believing that stars are actually windows into the candle lit homes of gods. I know it isn’t true, but I like to believe it.

I enjoy keeping things sprinkled in fairy dust.

Apparently though, there is an exception to this rule.

Damn it.

As I have mentioned before, I have a favorite TV show, and the two lead actors are really good at what they do. I admire and respect their work. So when there is an article about them, I have found myself reading it, and I have yet to find anything printed that is negative about them as people. So I have somehow fallen into the trap of believing that the fairy dust covering their lives is true. Or truer than most. The illusion has yet to be shattered.

Anyway, all that was a really long intro to why I like this picture. It’s the expression on the bride-to-be’s face. She is a grown, beautiful woman. Yet the look on her face is one that reminds me of seeing a little girl being held in her father’s arms. Trusting. Pure. Except there is also nothing little girl about her, but instead all woman in the arms of a man who is definitely not her father. But the purity of her trust and happiness is absolute. In that single, captured moment, her face is the face of a little girl who grew into a woman who found that all those dreams DID come true.

Now I’m a really big fan of her husband’s work. A really big fan. But whenever I remember this picture, after my initial “awwwwwww” comes one single thought.

“Buddy, you had better not f*** this up.”

 

Wearing high heels, or heels of any sort, is a rather ridiculous proposition. At least for me.
Nearing the end of my 12th year, I’d reached 6ft. In high school, I was the tallest student. Boys included. Granted, it was a small school, but still. So I hunched and hung my head and happily, eventually, outgrew my self-consciousness about being a tall woman. After those awkward teen years, I put on a bit more height and I generally hover between 6ft 1 and 6 ft 2 inches.

I’m cool with it.

Because of my excessive height as a young woman, heels weren’t exactly common in my closet. Plus, shoe makers aren’t fond of making shoes in my size. Plus, no matter how cute a shoe looks, it loses a bit of cuteness when in a size 13. Then it looks rather sad. Point is, my feet weren’t subjected to the torture of getting used to being in pain in uncomfortable shoes. Then came the Army where my clothes were decided for me 90% of the time. Combat boots, tennis shoes, flip flops, hiking boots, sturdy sandals…all these various types of unattractive footwear made up the majority of my closet. They still do actually.

Sure, I owned a few pair of dressy shoes, some even with heels. And I could probably count on one hand the number of times I wore them. Despite all of this, I love shoes. Especially the cute, glorious, impossible to walk in ones. Probably because they are a bit like forbidden fruit to me.

Impractical. Uncomfortable. Unnecessary.

Sigh.

While I have long been comfortable in my height, it’s only been recently, in the past year, that I’ve realized what an advantage this has given me over the years. And I mean a REAL advantage.

Like it or not, despite all of the awesome progress that has been made, I still live in a world dominated by men. Sure, there were times I was discriminated against, but for the most part, I never really felt effected. And now I think I know why. It’s harder to ignore me. When I stand across from a man, they aren’t looking down. They are often looking up. I am rather hard to overlook.

I’ve seen some powerhouse women walk in a room and have trouble getting attention, not because the guys were purposefully ignoring them, but often because the woman’s height was below their eye line. It nearly breaks my heart.

I’m tall. And no lightweight either. I’m a big boned girl of Viking decent. Not overweight, but certainly not skinny. It’s an advantage. I receive a certain amount of respect from men for the simple reason that they have to acknowledge my presence.

Which brings me back to the heels.

Most of the time, I try to go unnoticed. And I’m pretty good at becoming invisible when I want to. I’ve been the photographer at several weddings and have been told that I did a good job of staying indiscernible…even if up on stage during the ceremony. It probably heralds back to my years as a self conscious, shy, clumsy, tall girl. Wearing flats I can easily slip into my invisible mode. I’ve known people to look shocked when they stand right next to me for the first time. “I didn’t know you were so tall!” is a common phrase. Cool.

Two summers ago I bought a pair of heeled boots. Only about an inch, but heels all the same. And when I wear them…..hoo boy. Things change. I move differently. People respond to me differently. I feel more confident. Empowered. I walk into a room and demand attention. And I get it. Boy do I get it.

It’s one of the weirdest, craziest things. Men respond to me in their body language as if I were a man. They shift to face me, their shoulders go square, their heads lift a little…I’m no anthropologist, but the signs are unmistakable. Guys respond to me as if I have the power of threat. As an equal. Then comes the unsurity of...”wait, that’s a woman” and suddenly they are unsure of how to deal with me. And while I’m not a beautiful woman, I’m not hideous either. Add the heeled height to a semi attractive woman and the guys don’t know what to do.

Like I said, advantage.

And I’ve no idea what to do about it.

I know this can be useful. But I’m more of a behind the scenes sort of person. I like being wall paper. So I don’t wear heels to work. Or school. Or my internship. It’s a very rare occasion that I slip the boots on. Tonight was one of those nights.

I was going out with some friends and all of my winter clothes need to go through the wash. So I popped on a t-shirt which suddenly and somehow made my warm, comfortable, and rather unattractive, winter daily wear boots undesirable. So on went the heeled boots and it was like putting on another person. I’m not sure what I think about this other heeled person, or how I feel about her. But other people really seem to like and respond well to her.

It’s weird.

 

It’s February 14th. A holiday. Valentine’s Day.

I always forget about this one until I start getting those LOOKS and my internal urge to laugh nearly overcomes my external ability to keep a straight face.

I don’t ‘get’ Valentine’s Day. I’m not one of those who dislikes it, I just have never understood the hoopla. Probably because of my happily single status. Anyway, this status isn’t considered ‘normal’ in society and so on this day I often get the LOOK. The LOOK that drops into the middle of a conversation when Luv Day plans are being discussed. The LOOK that says the person is either feeling sorry for me or patiently waiting to offer a sympathetic ear to my Luv Day single woes.

It usually takes me a minute to recognize what the other person is doing and so I spend a few moments worrying if I’ve got leftovers on my face or a bat in the cave. I’m still uncertain how to handle the LOOK. Explaining that I’m perfectly ok usually makes the LOOKS of sympathy deepen and a knowing LOOK of “she’s totally faking it” emerge. So I either ignore it all, unless purposefully addressed, or turn the conversation in other directions.

It’s almost like my birthday. Everyone expects me to celebrate it and I frankly don’t give a rats ass that I was born ____ years ago. “What are you doing for your birthday?” “Nothing.” From which cries of disappointment, pity and denial follow. It’s almost confusing how much other people become concerned that I’m not living my life how they want me to live it. Or not feeling the things they want me to feel. What the hell does it matter? I’m not saying this in anger or frustration, but straight up bewilderment.

And I’ve totally gotten off track. Today is a memorable day for me. There are days on the calendar that are notable to me and only me. When they come around, I recall where and what I was doing ____years ago. Such as the day AFTER my birthday, because that is the day I found out I had been truly accepted as ‘one of the guys’ in my Troop and they wrestled me to the ground and tried to tie me up. Good times. Also the day, in another year, that my heart was broken. July 13 has a lot of significance because, weirdly, big things seems to happen on that day.

Today is notable on my personal calendar because it was the day, 11 years ago, that I flew into South Korea and my first duty station. It was a LONG day. A VERY LONG DAY. It started in Virginia, took one flight to California and another flight to South Korea. If I remember correctly, the day actually lasted longer than 24 hours. And I don’t sleep on planes.

It’s all very memorable. The weekend before I left Virginia, I and some friends went out on the town and somehow ended up watching over a fellow soldier who had gone insane. (Literally) So that happened, and then for some idiotic reason, I decided it would be a good idea to dress up for this endless flight in front of me. I was celebrating the ability to wear civilian clothes again and took it a bit far. Since then, I only wear comfortable clothes when flying. Anyway, it was a heavier than normal snow year in Korea. When we landed, there was an alert going on so all the Airmen on the ground were wearing their gas masks. We unloaded from the plane, unloaded our gear and then packed onto an incredibly cramped and uncomfortable bus for a four hour ride (with no bathroom breaks) to our Camp. It wasn’t usually 4 hours, but the heavy snow upped the driving time.

So when February 14th rolls around, this experience is what pops to mind. I just don’t associate it with romance.

 

So last Friday, I get a call from the University Business office saying that my account isn’t paid up and come Monday (today) they would be dropping me from the rolls. That was the first I’d heard of it‼ Needless to say, I felt a leetle bit of anxiety. The details are boring, but basically, the business office let me know that my GI Bill was not covering certain fees. Fees that they have always covered before. But there wasn’t really anything I could do that day.

The amount owed came to more than what I currently have to my name. So I looked into payment plans and thought about the rotten timing of finding this out when my parents have gone off to Mexico. Though even if they were still around, I doubt I could bring myself to ask for a loan. They would have given it gladly, but I’ve never borrowed money from them. Ever. I hate being in debt. I hate borrowing. I hate asking people (even those I love and trust) to help me make my bed in life.

Well this morning I spent a good bit of time on the phone with a nice guy in the VA office on campus and then on the phone with a nice lady in the business office, and long story short, there was a snafu that can’t be straightened out until next week, but the account is going to show up as paid anyway since they are predicting a bright future.

People are awesome.

It felt lovely, it feels lovely, to have that unexpected stress roll off. I’d honestly believed that I would have to pay out of pocket. But I don’t! WHOO HOOOOO‼‼!

This has brought up what is coming. This is the last semester that good old Uncle Sam will pay my tuition bill. Starting fall semester, it’ll be on me to find a way to pay for my education. Not that I’m complaining! Five years of college completely paid for? I’m blessed, lucky and grateful! When I hear my peers talking about the debt they will face, my stomach drops in horror. It’s unholy!

But I still have that knot in my stomach that translates into “fear of the unknown”. I’ve never taken out a loan before. I’ve never asked someone, or an institution, to give me money on the trust that I will repay them in the future. And even though it is a common practice in our society, I can’t help but feel a little dirty and unclean.

I REALLY hate being in debt. OWING someone. A stranger. I don’t even have a credit card! This whole idea just sounds like another version of indentured servitude. And I am a fan of my own independence and freedom.

I know, I know, it’s mostly all semantics in the end. But it’s all new to me.

 

So instead of working on the papers coming due and the couple hundred pages of reading and the evaluation that needs to be finished for my internship (even though my client’s PO is apparently REFUSING to call me back) I thought now would be a good time to write a meaningless blog entry.

I procrastinate. Badly.

When I made the move to attend the University, I roomed with a few cousins of mine who were also moving to town to go to school. It was a good arrangement, we all got along and one happened to be a complete techo nerd who owned a huge flat screen TV. We didn’t have cable, but it was awesome for movies and the few short weeks we somehow had an X-box Connect left at the house. (Getting sore from playing a video game? Are you kidding! AWESOME!)

Anyway, the first summer of our living together was spent working and simply enjoying the new house. K (my cousin’s wife) was /is a fan of Twilight and had all of the books. I’d heard plenty about them since I’d worked in the boarding school, but had never really dipped a toe in that pool. Well, K told me I should read them and I did. All of them. In about 1 week.

I hate those books. I even hate the movies more. While I was reading them, I kept thinking about how terrible they were, yet could not put them down. The main character pisses me off, the story line is gross, creepy and straight up absurd. But I could not stop reading. What is that? Crack for the brain, that’s what it is.

A good friend of mine also is a semi fan and we went to the third movie together. I have never felt so uncomfortable in a movie theater before. I felt embarrassed for myself. Embarrassed for every other person in that room and seriously embarrassed for the actor playing the werewolf dude since he was shirtless for about 99% of the movie. Awkward! Plus the acting was horrendous. After that misery, I refused to watch the 4th one with my friend. ( Or at all.) I feel a need to try to recover some of my dignity.

The ridiculous thing is that I get a little emotional about the whole thing. I have a strong, aversive reaction to the whole Twilight thing. When it comes up in conversation (which is depressingly often in our society) I find words dripping with vitriol disgorging from my mouth. My lip curls in disgust and the nasty part of my personality has a heyday. It’s just so friggin terrible. But it pulled me in. Embarrassing! It pulls a lot of reasonable, sane, intelligent, awesome people in. Which leads me to the conclusion, that despite everything, the books are well written. Somehow.

All that talent, wasted on something so execrable.

I can hardly wait for a new generation to crop up and hear the words “What’s Twilight?” coming from their mouths.

Mini rant done.

 

A couple years ago, my folks took a vacation to Mexico. Cool. I was happy for them and they deserved it. At the time, I was living about an hour and a half away, so I knew they were leaving, but was not involved in all the prep. I did expect a ‘see ya later’ call. Well I got one.

I found a voice mail on my phone that said hello and that “…you’re in charge of everything in case we die. Love you!” Click. No, I am not exaggerating or putting words in her mouth. That is what she said!

So I called my Grandmother and asked for information. There was no information. They did not leave their flight info, the hotel they would be staying at or even what day they were expecting to return. Nothing. I was not happy.

When I was in the Army, I was a GOOD daughter. Whenever I could, I would call or send word. I would give my parents as much information as was legally and safely allowed about my whereabouts and expected leaving and returning dates. And THAT was how I was repaid?! Not cool. Oh yes, they heard about it when they got back. Mom especially got a dressing down. I mean COME ON!

Well, they learned their lesson. They are again planning on a vacation to Mexico. I’m not quite as easy with it this time since things are getting violent down there, but they are adults and going to a tourist spot. So I’m doing my best to keep that worry button un-pushed.

Anyway, I’ve been a bit busy lately. Busy enough that I lost track of time and blended a few weeks together so that I thought I’d given the weekly call home when I hadn’t. Due to me turning my phone down/off because I don’t want to be bugged right now by any freaking phone calls thank you very much, this blending of days resulted in worry on my parents end and…they called the University.

I finally pick up my phone to hear the voice of the Administrator of my School Department on the other end telling me that my mother had called.
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I am almost 30 years old.

30.

Sigh. I love my Mom.

Well, she was calling to again tell me that they would be leaving soon and I would be in charge in case anything happened. BUT, she left info on where all the important documents and such were. I even got a return date! And a phone number! Progress. Some things don’t change though.

“Now this is the most important part. You have to go down to the Court House before May and file the death certificates.” (Actually, that’s what she pretty much opened with.)
Me: “Because that, of course, will be the first thing on my mind if you die.”
Mom: “It’s important! The insurance runs out in May, so you have to get down there.”


My head hurts.

Present tense language. Really? Seriously?

 

So when I moved into my new place last fall, I determined not to get a tv, internet or any other black holes of distraction. This semester, this plan smashed into a road block since my professors are assigning a lot of on-line work and even streaming movies. Bugger. I was dealing! On campus there is good wi-fi and I’d walk over and set myself up and get things done. But then it got icy, and cold and it was a raging bummer to hang out so much at the college where I had to pack up my computer every time I needed a bathroom break.

Enter my next door neighbor who kindly offered to let me pirate his wi-fi from home. SCORE‼‼ Except that now the black hole of distraction is at my finger tips and I am indulging way too much. My clever little plan to keep me focused is on shaky legs. Obviously, since I’m here at the site instead of doing the mountain of homework I have coming due.

What is the saying? “No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy” or something like that.

This semester, the program is designed to have us, the students, take a very long and hard look at the injustices that are generally overlooked in history and present day. This is a bit emotional at times. I have long been aware of the surface cruelties involved in the making of the US, but genocide, cannibalism and designed racism weren’t exactly in my knowledge base.

Love my country, but my perspective is taking a hit in knowing how we got to where we are. Every country has its dark spots, but why have we been so insistent in not really acknowledging ours?

But I didn’t hop on here to write about history, or at least not long ago history.

Ever since entering the University, I’ve realized that what I know about the First American’s is extremely limited. This is sad considering the fact that I live in a State with numerous Tribes and Reservations. More importantly, I was incredibly unaware of the level of oppression these People are facing now. Today. It is shaming. So I wanted to vent my feelings a little.

Here’s some fun. As recently as 10 years ago it was found that non-consent sterilizations were happening to American Indians on the reservations. They probably still are happening. In (what was it? 1918?) women received the right to vote. In 1968, Native Americans received the right to vote. If a man rapes a woman on a reservation and is not native, then leaves the reservation, he cannot be prosecuted.

I could go on, but I won’t. Needless to say, this is not a good or decent state of affairs.

The racism that Natives often feel toward non-Natives is completely understandable, justifiable and, frankly, sane. It does put up a huge barrier on what to DO. The last thing these people need is another “White Savior” coming in with some solution to “fix” them. The movement needs to come from within, but how foster that after they have faced so many generations of hopelessness, hate and oppression?