Author Archives: Courtney

Maybe, Just Maybe

In the last ten years there have been seven deadly mass shootings across the United States of America.  These horrific days in the past decade included the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, the babies of Newtown, the theater goers in Aurora, as well as victims in  Blacksburg, Virginia, San Bernardino, California, Fort Hood Texas, and Binghamton, N.Y.  In ten years, there were 161 people killed and 186 injured by gun violence at the hands of madmen.  Innocent people, lives cut short, and for what?  As Americans that’s what we wanted to know.  We fought bitterly regarding gun laws and safety and police and more recently, about immigration.  How do we stop this?  What can we do?  This is an outrage.  This is tragic.  We are supposed to be the greatest country in the world and we’re letting homegrown terrorists attack our citizens.

We held vigils. We set up donations and GoFundMe pages.  We marched in parades and had moments of silence on the most public of stages.  We published People magazine articles giving all of these victims a face, showing their story, and deservedly so.   We demanded our politicians give us answers and plans.  We wanted change and needed answers; This must be stopped!!

Meanwhile, in my city, in my beautiful Chicago that I call home, let me tell you what’s happening.  We’re going to the beach.  To the air show.  To a fireworks show on the 4th of July.  To baseball games and picnics in Humboldt Park.  To Puerto Rican fest and pretty much every other festival this city has to offer, and there are many.  To concerts and to Millennium Park.  To the zoo.  We’re having block parties and talking with our neighbors.  This summer especially, if you look at my Facebook, we’re living a beautiful life here in Chicago.  And don’t get me wrong, we are.  We’re taking full advantage of everything this great city has to offer.

But let me tell you what else happens here.  Yesterday, my husband didn’t go fishing because at noon, on a Tuesday, there were 20 shots fired less than a mile from us, near the fishing spot at the park.  A few weeks ago, my roommate lamented that he’d love to get red Nikes, but he can’t wear them in our neighborhood so what’s the point?  It’s not wearing certain football jerseys because of the colors.  It’s me asking the question, with hope every time, “Those were fireworks, not gunshots, right?” and being told I’m wrong, to call 911 again.  It’s staying home and in the backyard on the actual 4th of July instead of going downtown like we wanted to because we didn’t want to be on the street at night.  It’s no one leaves the house alone after dark.  It’s crossing the street when coming home late because of the twenty people standing on the corner throwing gang signs.  It’s having one of them swing a gun in your direction and walking head down and quickly, trying to get the gate open as fast as possible.  It’s calling the police nine times this year because of gunshots and seeing a response twice.   It’s learning gang tags and who lives where.  It’s not walking north on our street.  It’s avoiding the gang member memorial at the end of the block when there are too many people standing there.  It’s finding a 9MM shell casing on North Ave.  Oh, and it’s paying $1300 a month in rent because our neighborhood is one of the most up-and-coming in the country.

On average, every two minutes someone is shot in Chicago.  On average, every eleven hours someone is killed in Chicago.  In 2016 alone, 474 people have been killed by gunshots in Chicago.  In 2016 alone, 2,589 people have been wounded by gunshots in Chicago.  In 2016 alone, 3,063 people have been shot in Chicago.  I want you to go back and reread that.  Then do it again.  Then, for a little perspective, go back to the first paragraph and compare.  Ten years mass shootings across the country, 161 killed. One year in Chicago, 474.  Ten years mass shootings across the country, 186 injured.  One year in Chicago, 2,569 injured.  For a little more perspective, 2,996 people were killed on September 11th, 2001.  Think about it.  More people have been shot in Chicago in a single year than were killed on the deadliest day in US history. 

And what do we do?  Do we hold vigils or parades?  Are all of these murdered ever even recognized by name in our local paper?  Do we demand of our politicans answers and strategies?  No, we do none of that.  We make up names like Chiraq and print it on T-shirts.  We profit off of documentaries detailing what a war zone Chicago is.  We develop disgusting memes that say, “Chicago, come for the entertainment, stay because you got shot.”  We’ve made ourselves a joke, a cartoon.  A revoltingly accurate one at that.  We don’t do anything.  We argue about who’s at fault – is it the BLM movement?  Is it the police?  Surely it has to be one of those things.  We try and argue and pinpoint one specific thing to blame.  Because if we have something to blame, we don’t have to really think about it.

But maybe, just maybe, it’s not just one of those things.  Maybe it’s the systemic racism and wildly corrupt politics that has held this city captive for years.  Maybe, just maybe, it’s the absolute and utter crumbling of the Chicago Public School system, where upper middle class schools have fundraisers and the teachers in the “bad” neighborhoods have to bring their own toilet paper and supplies.  Maybe, just maybe, it’s that the opportunities in these bad neighborhoods are few and far between and the kids that are born and raised there don’t know any different than guns and gangs.  Maybe, just maybe, when little kids aren’t allowed to ride bikes at night for fear of being shot, they learn that they better be able to shoot.  Maybe, just maybe, it’s because it’s pretty clear that no one cares if they live or die.

Likely it’s a combination of all of those things.  The BLM and police issues can’t be discounted.  They’re part of the rhetoric, problem, and solution, all in their own way. But to point the blame directly at either of them is sticking our heads in the sand.

Because the other thing that can’t be discounted?  That can no longer be ignored?  Are the 3,063 people that got shot here in less than ten months.  The 474 of them whose families will never hug them again.  The ones who won’t see their own kids grow up.  The ones whose mothers won’t see them graduate high school.  Because I think the main thing we have lost sight of here is that all of these gunshots? There are actual people on the other side of them, no matter the decisions they’ve made or the paths they’ve taken.  They are PEOPLE, just like the 161 innocents that got the respect and mourning they deserved.  We are all humans.  We are all living in the land of the free, home of the brave.  And yes, we should all matter. 


And Again and Again….

Fifty lives lost.  Fifty more injured.  Countless family members and friends and loved ones breaking in half, never to see their loved ones again.  Hundreds of people who said goodbye, have fun, call me later, see you tomorrow without a thought in their head that was the last time they’d ever hear their person speak.  That they’d never hear their laugh again, or see their smile.  Hundreds of people who walked into a bar Saturday night, happy, laughing, dancing, looking forward to the night, with no way of knowing that walking through that door would irreversibly change their life, if they were lucky enough to make it out.  Plans for Sunday barbecues that turned into horrific planning of funerals.


How is this still happening again?  When the massacre at Sandy Hook happened a few years ago, when those poor babies lost their lives at the hands and mind of a madman, as a country we were up in arms.  We were demanding answers.  How could this happen?  We were resolved in our fight against this monster – This cannot happen again.  We need changes!  We need reform!  These lives cannot be taken for granted!!

So what happened, exactly?  What were those answers?  Because from where I’m sitting, it sure doesn’t look like a hell of a lot has changed.  But this time, the aftermath is even worse.  Because where we stood together before, we have splintered apart now.  We want to blame someone.  It’s left vs. right, Republicans vs. Democrats, liberal vs. conservatives and we’re all so desperate to place blame, so frantically pointing fingers that we’ve lost sight of what’s important.  That fifty people are dead.  Fifty.  That around fifty more are fighting for their lives.

Make no mistake – this was a crime of hate.  Religion didn’t do this.  Gun control didn’t do this.  Obama didn’t do this.  Hillary didn’t do this.  Even Trump didn’t do this, although I’m sure plenty of people assume I would lay the blame at his feet.   Hate did this.  Hate, and fear, and confusion, and a crazy person did this.  And instead of banding together, instead of Congress standing on the steps of Capitol Hill in solidarity, pledging to work together to start implementing some real changes, ones that might actually make a difference, our country’s leaders are getting into fucking TWITTER wars, slinging mud at each other and the other side.  Using this tragedy to further their own agenda and boast that their platform is the correct one to be standing on  – election year, after all – and it’s revolting, and childish, and downright embarrassing for this country.

Here’s what we should have seen on social media today.  Picture after picture of the victims; stories about their lives.  Links to the stories of the hundreds of people who waited in line to donate blood.  Articles about the doctors and first responders and medical personnel and police who did their jobs under horrific circumstances, likely saving hundreds more lives.  Interviews with friends and family, remembering these people, these innocent people who are now dead because of who they were, who were in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Instead it was full of memes – fucking MEMES – from both sides of the spectrum, boasting and explaining why they’re correct and why the blame lies on the other party.  Articles depicting tweets from ignorant people who still believe that because this happened at a gay bar, the victims got what they deserved.  (Do yourself a favor and don’t look that up if you haven’t seen it yet.  It about turned my stomach inside out.)  There’s no hand holding or unity or pledge to fight this, just a nasty stampede to prove that someone else’s agenda is or isn’t to blame.

I don’t know a lot about guns.  I’ve never been a fan, one, because they scare the hell out of me and two, because I’m way too uncoordinated and like vodka too much to responsible enough to have one.  But I do believe that law-abiding citizens should have the right to have them.  However, I do not understand the reason that any civilian should ever have access to an assault rifle.  Actually,  I was corrected several times today that the weapon used wasn’t an assault rifle; that the media made that term up.  I didn’t know that.  To me, a non-gun owner, a weapon that is made and used for the sole purpose of mass destruction and loss of life, is an assault weapon.  But terminology aside,  what I do know is that 100 people were shot in a very short amount of time Saturday night.  I also know that another 42 were shot right here in my city over the weekend, and that wasn’t even a blip on the news because it happens every weekend here.  So in just two cities, in the United States of America, which should be the best country in the world, in the span of less than 72 hours, nearly 150 people were shot with guns, and three quarters of those people were shot with the same gun.  That’s not right.  You can call it whatever you want, but I’m calling it a problem.  A very big, complex, and scary problem that NEEDS to be dealt with.  For real – what else needs to happen?  How many more people have to die before we address this giant elephant in the room, so to speak?  How many more lives have to be shattered before we wake up?

We are in a very scary time in this country.  A tragedy like this, the worst attack on our soil in fifteen years, should unite us, not splinter us further into more hate and fear.  Our leaders need to get the fuck off of Twitter and start talking to each other, because one party – either party – on its own cannot fix this.  This is America; home of the free, land of the brave.  And we have to be better.  From where I’m sitting, we’re just spiraling further and further out of control and it needs to stop.  This has to be the catalyst to make. this. stop.  Before it happens yet again.

Stay strong, Orlando.  My heart and thoughts are with the victims of this senseless violence.  May you all rest in peace.


You Don’t Have to Understand

I don’t understand transgender people.  There, I said it.  I am a straight, white, privileged female, and I cannot understand how someone is born a female but identifies as a male, or vice versa.  I can’t wrap my brain around it.  Never, in my life, have I questioned myself in that regard.  I had my first crush in kindergarten, (Bobby Rossi, thank you very much,) and my first real crush in the fifth grade.  (Oh, Danny Andreeff, how you broke my permed hair with an overbite awkward heart.) It was always boys.  There wasn’t a question, never a real curiosity.  I didn’t have to think about it.  I was a girl, girls like boys, that was pretty much it.

But bear with me here.  Because there are a lot of things I don’t understand.  They include, but are not limited to, the following:

* Being a cat.
* Having a penis.
* Being African-American.
* How gravity really works.
* Being really rich.
* Being truly poor.
* Not having family that loves me.
* Why Kim Kardashian is famous.
* Tumblr.
* Why my cats are assholes.
* How a man walked on the moon.
* Why children get cancer.
* How ten minutes when I’m in a spin class can feel like eternity, but ten minutes before my alarm goes off is a nanosecond.
* Why McDonald’s diet coke is far superior to any other diet coke.
* That people actually believe Donald Trump could lead a country. (Sorry.  Had to throw it in there.)
* How a parent can harm their own child.
* Where the extra socks go to live after they’re put into the washer, never to be seen again.
* How the internet works.
* How the telephone works.
* Really, how anything electronic works.
* Being disabled.

The list could go on and on and on and on.  But here’s the thing.  All of those things?  Happen.  They are real.  They are true.  Some people understand them.  Some people make them their life’s work.  They EXIST.  They are reality.  Just because we don’t understand something doesn’t make it untrue.  It doesn’t make things not happen.

We used to think the world was flat.  We used to think women weren’t capable of voting.  We used to think it was okay to enslave an entire race based on skin color.  We used to believe that we were untouchable, that no one could ever use our own planes and training against us.  We used to think only gay people got AIDS.  Guess what?  We were very, very, wrong. 

To denounce something because we don’t understand it – is that not the absolute height of all arrogance?  “Well, that doesn’t make sense to me, therefore, it’s impossible.  Case closed.”  That’s like insisting two plus two equals five, or that Mars isn’t a planet.

So no, I don’t understand being transgender, any more than I understand standing up to pee.  And I’m not going to lie, I’m glad for it.  I’ve never had to defend being who I am, defend who I love and have to explain why.  I can’t imagine having to do so. 


But that doesn’t mean that population doesn’t exist.  It doesn’t make them less real, or less than anyone else.  People are people.  And most people?  Are good.  Even the ones you don’t understand.

And they all deserve to go to the damn bathroom in peace. 

Well, This Could Be Fun

In the back of my head, I had a whole post planned about the GOP and the orange man with the small hands for today.  But then today was super irritating and then Kasich dropped out and the orange man is likely going to be an actual Presidential candidate and I’m too scared and angry and plus, I just saw a GIF of Cruz’s face morphing into Grandpa Munster and I’m still too disturbed by the whole thing to write anything productive.  (Seriously, look it up.  It will haunt you.)

I was recently talking to some co-workers about online dating and it got me thinking about how much more difficult dating has to be now than it was back in the days when I was single and there was (thank you baby Jesus) no internet or Facebook or Twitter or Snapchat.  I wouldn’t have been a good internet dater.  For one, I am an anxious person.  If you don’t immediately respond to my text, please know that my brain has decided you have finally remembered some minor transgression from two years ago that in reality, wasn’t a transgression at all but just something I’ve obsessed over for twenty four months like an offhand comment about a dress.  For two, I would have been a stalker.  There’s no sugar-coating it.  Oh, you wanted to stay home and watch your favorite movie, “The Godfather,” did you?  I would have been the asshole combing through your social media, trying to find any reference to said movie, looking for any proof that you had ever referenced said movie.  I would have been “that girl.”  I’m not proud of this, mind you, just telling it like it is.  (Also, the fact that the first movie that came to mind was Godfather should tell you that I’m also old and have only been to a movie theater five times in the past ten years.)

Anyhow, I did some Googling – I love that this has become a verb in our lexicon – and came up with a list of questions that might be on dating sites, a getting to know you type quiz, if you will.  Which brought me back to my favorite MySpace pastime, (I told you I was old) which was answering a bunch of questions about myself.  Let’s have some fun and forget about the fact that a sexist megalomaniac is about to be a formidable nomination for the PRESIDENT, shall we?

Do you have any pets?
Yes.  I have two cats.  Ramon recently scratched a hole out of my face and Potato peed on my shoulder while I was on the phone.  They’re super cute, if you’re a masochist.
Name three things that are physically close to you?
My phone, because it is physically attached to my right hand, a vodka seltzer because I saw a meme that said it has less calories than a banana and I’m nothing if not health conscious, and a solid bronze statue of a monkey holding a bucket that I put a votive candle in.
What’s the weather like right now ?
Well, it’s Chicago and it’s May, so it’s forty degrees and stupid.
Do you drive ? If so, have you crashed?
No.  The last couple of years we had a car, I turned into everyone’s great aunt Sylvia whenever it snowed, there was traffic, it was wet, or it was too sunny.  It’s better for everyone that I’m no longer in charge of anything on wheels other than my bike.  Which, incidentally, I almost got killed on yesterday when an aggressive John Hancock Shuttle Bus driver broke many laws on Wacker Dr.
What time did you wake up this morning ?
Well, I woke up perfectly rested at 7:30.  But because I am bad at being an adult, I forced myself back to sleep until my alarm went off at 8:30 so I could rush around like a crazy person and have to run to the bus.
When was the last time you showered ?
8:42 – 8:44 AM.
What was the last movie that you saw ?
I think we rented the Minions a couple of months ago after many drinks.  It took us WAY too long to be sure that they weren’t actually speaking English.
What does you last text message say?
“A pop if it’s not too late!  My RC is nothing but ice water…”  From Tony, in response to me asking if he needed anything from the store.  He had left a two liter of RC in the freezer overnight because he is also awesome at adulting.
What is your ringtone ?
I have no idea.  My Fitbit vibrates when I get a call and I am incapable of not answering immediately.
Have you ever been to a different country?
I went to Canada once on a choir trip?  My friend Steve fell in Niagara Falls and lost his bandanna.  (Yes, that’s my main memory of Canada.  Other than that they have black squirrels.)
Do you like sushi?
I wouldn’t know.  I hate fish cooked and the idea of it raw makes me want to never stop vomiting.
Where do you buy your groceries?
Well, I finally discovered Aldi and was enthralled, but – as things tend to go in my life – it immediately closed for renovations for eight months.  So I’m back at good old Cermak produce, where I have to frantically count in Spanish while at the deli counter trying to figure out my number because no one speaks English there.  As I can only count to ten and the numbers are usually in the seventies, I spend a lot of time smiling and holding my ticket up.
Have you ever taken any medication to help you fall asleep faster?
Does whiskey count?  If so, then yes.  If I have a cold, whiskey and Theraflu is my jam.
How many siblings do you have ?
One younger sister who did me the massive favor of being awesome and having a gorgeous child so I don’t have to.
Do you have a desktop computer or a laptop?
A tablet.  (See?  This wouldn’t have even BEEN a question in the nineties.)
How old will you be turning on your next birthday?
38.  Apparently my 20 year high school reunion is this year, but that’s impossible because only old people have 20 year high school reunions.
Do you wear contacts or glasses ?
I have both.  But I’m lazy and like to tempt fate, so I wear my contacts 24/7 until I get an eye infection.
Do you colour your hair ?
Oh yes.  I’m pretty sure the phrase, “Dirty/dishwater blond,” was invented to describe my natural color.
Tell me something you are planning to do today:
Well, I’m going to finish this vodka seltzer and eat an entire head of cauliflower for dinner.  Because I like to party.
When was the last time you cried?
A couple of weeks ago when I saw a picture of a German shepard puppy on his first day on the job as a police dog with the caption, “It’s my first day!  I hope I do great!”  Seriously – he looked so excited and proud!  (Side note, I may have been pre-menstrual.) (Side side note, apparently that doesn’t matter because I just teared up again thinking about it.  If this were a dating site, I would for sure be gone by now.)
What is your perfect pizza topping?
Doesn’t really matter.  Pizza is just a vehicle to get bread into my mouth hole.
Which do you prefer, hamburger or cheeseburger ?
Cheeseburger.  Because there’s when there is an option for cheese, you should always take it.
Have you ever had an all-nighter ?
This is where one would assume that I’d have some crazy college story – or not, because I probably come off as pretty fucking boring, but I did have some all-nighters in college, being a professional procrastinator and all – but my most recent all-nighter was at my niece’s second birthday party.  Because that’s what one does at a toddler party.
What is your eye colour ?
Green?  Hazel?  I never really thought about it.  That’s something I should know, right?
Can you taste the difference between Pepsi and Coke?
What kind of terrorist can’t tell the difference between Coke and Pepsi?  That’s madness.


So yeah, I think we can all safely assume it’s a good thing I stopped dating in 1999, because otherwise it would for sure be just me and these stupid cats until one of them killed me.

Yet One More Reason I Would Make a Poor Soldier

I haven’t written a post about working out or being healthy in quite a while, largely because I had a bit of a slip down the rabbit hole during which I remembered how much I like eating potato soup and forgot how much I enjoy being able to button my pants and only having one chin.  While there are other things I’d like to write about as there’s a lot going on right now, I’m still too angry at what I’m calling Bathroomgate, too sad about Prince, and too disgusted by Trump and his merry band of idiots to write about them.  Plus, if the internet has taught me anything in the past few months, it’s that no matter how many opinons I put up, or memes I use as a comment, or facts I present, or how RIGHT I AM  – chances are no one is going to read my diabtribe and decide, “You know what? Everything I believe is wrong.  Thanks, Courtney!”

So I’m trying to focus on the positive.  When I finally decided it was time to get off of my expanding ass and get back to feeling good, it took awhile for my stomach to catch up with my brain.  Sure, I was still going to the gym, but it was halfhearted, and while last year no matter what was happening – rain, snow, sleet, apocalypse – it wasn’t stopping me from getting my workout in, since about November it’s been more, “Well, it’s sort of dark and the Voice is on, so I should probably just go home.”  As for food, I had great intentions nearly every day.  But despite solid, tried and true evidence in the form of losing over fifty pounds, I kept just trying new ways of eating that would allow me to incorporate spaghetti on a daily basis.  (Spoiler alert?  There isn’t one.)  I decided about a month and a half ago to get back to basics, to what I had the most success with originally, which was an accountability group, a new challenge program, and the shakes that always made me feel great.  (Yes, it’s Beachbody.  No, I don’t sell it.  No, I’m not trying to get you to buy it.  Just throwing that out there, because some of the coaches give the company a really bad name.  Mine in particular is great, and the programs have worked for me.  That’s all.)

Because I am a masochist with no sense of my own capabilities, I picked what appeared to be the most difficult program for me, a boot-camp style military workout.  Sure, even at my most fit I couldn’t do own pushup, a pullup bar basically just laughs at me, and I kind of hate to sweat, but the fact that it boasts only 22 minutes a day was a huge seller for me.  Like everything else I’ve ever tried, I was immediately sold and convinced this would be the best thing ever.  (Previous examples include buying a car because it was blue and in my price range, leggings, and researching triathlons  exhaustively despite not having access to a pool and not really being able to swim.)  But hey, 22 minutes a day?  Anyone can do that, right?!

I started yesterday.  Here’s how it went.

Okay!  This is going to be tough, and we’re going to work hard, but I promise, you just need to keep up.  22 Minutes, that’s all I’m asking you.  Let’s go!

Let’s go, indeed, Tony!  I am ready!!!

Wait, remember when you started running, and thirty seconds basically felt like seventeen hours?  22 minutes might not be that easy….

We’re going to start with T-Jacks.  Watch along, and Go!!

(After nearly knocking out a tooth)  Well, this apparently required a new sports bra.  Let’s just close these blinds, shall we?

And, bear crawl!

Well, this is hardly attactive.  It’s kind of like a crab walk on all fours while trying to pee.  Also, where is that handy modifier person?

That’s not a modifier!  He’s just going slower.  If I went any slower I’d be standing (squatting) still.



What number are we on, Todd?  “Twenty sir!”

Three.  Asshole.  And that’s only because modifier guy showed up.

Round One is over!  Take a break!

Yay!  I love breaks!

Break’s over – Round Two!

The fuck?  I didn’t even get my water bottle open yet!

******Basically, this happens three times over the course of the next fifteen minutes, during which I learned exactly how much stamina I have lost and remember exactly why I never took a bootcamp class in public.  I clamber along, keeping up as best I can, huffing, puffing, and swearing the entire time.***

Day Two!  You’ll need a pullup bar, a resistance band, and a sandbag.

I have none of these things.  I have three pound dumbbells and a couple of cats I wouldn’t mind tossing around the room.

But yay!  I like weights.  I like strength training.  This will be better.

Let’s start the warmup with jumping jacks.

I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to do cardio two days in a row.  Step it out, I will, because I still didn’t get that sports bra and if I lose a tooth I’m quitting for real.

Pushups!  Let’s start with thirty. 

Are you sick?????  If you told me, right now, that you would give me ten million dollars in cash if I did ten true pushups, I would still be broke.  And even more angry with you.

Core Work!  On the floor!  If you can’t sit all the way up, only go halfway, but don’t let your shoulders hit the ground.

I got my shoulders OFF the ground, and I would like my reward now, please, in the form of rock hard abs and some size six jeans. 

***This one I actually am able to keep up better at, save the pushups, and I actually do okay with it.***

And – DONE!


But there’s three minutes left, so BONUS MOVES!!!

Fuck you, my man.  Mean it.

Running-burpee-pushups!!!  Let’s go! 

I know you’re kidding.

“What number are you on, soldier?”  “Ten sir!”  “And how many are you going to do?!”  “Thirty sir!”

None, sir! 

I decided to hang out in downward dog because I can’t even hold a pushup position at this point, but am trying to “keep up.”

Seriously, why does every new workout I attempt end with my face in my own chest, contemplating breast reduction and the possibility of just living in yoga pants and Cubs t-shirts, happily drinking beer and feeding Burger King to my cats? 

And, done!

You better mean it, SIR. 

Yay, he meant it!  Stretch time is my favorite time!

I don’t need to be told all of the standbys – I know I will get better, it will get easier, etc., I just need to keep at it.  I really do know all of these things and when I finally get that ever-elusive fucking pushup done, believe you me, I will be shouting it out loud and from every form of social media at my disposal. 

I always said I’d be a terrible military person for a variety of reasons; I can’t go more than five hours without talking to my mom, I panic on a very real level if I can’t get a hold of anyone in a reasonable amount of time – which, with texting, is really no more than 90 seconds, if I’m hungry for more than half an hour I get homicidal, I immediately burst into tears if anyone yells at me, and I don’t like to be uncomfortable or hot for any reason. 

I’m just adding, “Cannot do pushups in any capacity,” to this ever growing list.

I salute you, real soldiers.  And anyone else that can do a thirty pullups.


Um, Ready for Duty??

How to Host Easter Like an Actual Adult. (Sort of.)

In my family, holidays are a big deal.  I’ve written about this before, detailing the extraordinary lengths my grandparents and later my parents, sister, aunt, and cousins go to to set a beautiful table filled with delicious food.  As we have always lived in an apartment, we haven’t really been in a position to host any holidays, and I always kind of wished we could. (I suspect no one in my family has been too heartbroken about this, as I’m not really known for my organizational or homemaking skills, plus, my cats keep sending them to the hospital.)  But while we do still live in an apartment, it’s now a very nice one with space and a pretty kitchen and lots of countertops and places to lock cats and their sharp, angry teeth away and room to sit down.

So I thought this year, Hey, you know what?  You should offer to host Easter!  You have room!  People don’t hate coming over anymore, especially if the cats aren’t allowed in the room.  Even you can’t fuck up a ham!  (I started drinking wine in the past few months.  Thus far, all of my brilliant ideas have come after a couple glasses of Walgreen’s finest Pinot Grigio.) So when my mom brought it up, I tentatively said, “Well, I thought maybe I could do it?  Since we have space?”  I suspect she was surprised, but gamely said, “Sure!  If you want to do it, that’s fine!”

Yay!  I’m hosting!  Look at me, all grown up style!  Wahoo!  I shall make baby girl Violet a beautiful Easter basket and we’ll have an Easter egg hunt and she will love it and everyone will talk for years about how fun Easter was that year and she’ll always remember how Auntie Coco hid eggs with candy in them for her.I told Tony and Tony, and was met with just a bit of resistance in the form of, “WHAT?  Where the hell are we going to put everyone?”  Whatever.  They’re pessimists.  I got this.  I told my sister, who responded with a “Heh.  Okay!  Have fun!” Again, whatever. I’ll be FINE.  I emailed my friend Autumn the next day at work to tell her, and she responded with, “OMG!  Can I please come and bring popcorn to see how this goes?!” 

I faltered a bit here.  Autumn is my champion. She’s my cheerleader.  If she was questioning my abilities, I may just have bitten off more than I can chew.  Oh well, too late now – I have lists to make and hams to buy!  Except, hmm, I have no idea what kind of ham to buy or, now that I think about it, whether my Puerto Rican grocery store even carries ham.  Moving on.

T Minus Two Weeks:
Phone calls with my mother.  “Okay, you need to plan a menu, and we’ll bring a table and chairs, and you need a tablecloth, and do you have enough plates and cups and silverware?”  “Um.well, I thought ham?  And yeah, I for sure have enough plates and stuff.”  (SHIT!  Mental note, go buy all new plates, silverware, and glassware.)  Mom, “Okay, I have little dessert plates and pastel napkins.  I’ll bring you a roasting pan, table, chairs, plates, napkins, and I’ll bring a vegetable and appetizer.  And I’ll send you a recipe for a glaze.”  Me, “Sounds good!  Did I tell you I’m going to do Easter eggs for baby girl?!”  Do you see a theme here?  I am awesome at ideas, poor at execution.

T Minus One Week:
Tables, chairs, roasting pan, Easter baskets, dessert plates, and napkins have been delivered. Me, Oh, well, this is great!  Realistically, all I need to do is buy the ham – SHIT find out if Cermak has ham – and get the Easter eggs for the fun hunt!
Tony, “Hey, my parents are coming too!”  Okay!  More the merrier!  What a fun party we will host!
Phone call with mother, “Okay, well, you’re going to need more food.  I’ll get some fried chicken too.  Did you get a tablecloth?  Did you get a ham?  Did you tell your sister what to bring?   You’re going to lock the cats up, right?  What about dessert?  Do you have brown sugar and whiskey for the glaze?”  Me.  No, no, yes, I don’t know, no, and I’m drinking the whiskey.  “I got rolls?”  “Okay.  You realize Easter is over a week away, right?  Bread won’t keep that long.”  Me.  “Duh.  I put them in the freezer.  I’m not stupid.”  (This is where I suspect my mother began drinking.)

T Minus Six Days:
My mother in law, Sharon, sends my brother in law with a new kitchen table and chairs that seats five.  (Because ours only sat two.  Hey, when you move four times in four years, shit breaks.)  My sister in law also sent him with sturdy plastic plates, silverware, and servingware.  Score! Sharon also comes with two Easter tablecloths, a myriad of Easter napkins and an Easter bunny placemat for Violet.  So really, all I need are the Easter eggs for the hunt.  Dammit!  And the ham.

T Minus Five Days:
“Hey, mom?  So I’m at the store and I know you said get the biggest ham, but I just realized I have no point of reference here.  What’s a big ham?  Three pounds?  Twenty two pounds?  Should the bone be in?” 
Hmm.  I wonder if my grandma ever had to carry a ten pound ham home in her purse? 

T Minus Four Days:
“Okay, Court, so I’m bringing the chicken, a vegetable, a cheese platter, stuff for mimosas – do you have champagne glasses? – and another appetizer.  What else do you need?”  Me, “Oh, I’m all good!  I think we’re ready!  Didn’t you see, I posted the picture of the ham on Facebook??”  Still have no glaze, glasses, Easter eggs, candy, or ingredients for potatoes.  But that’s nothing!

T Minus Three Days:
Tony, “Can we have corn?  So I can eat something?”  Sure!  Let me just put that on my list that I haven’t written out because it’s all up in my head.  “Okay, well you have to work tomorrow, so me and Tony Marzilli will clean and go grocery shopping and we’ll be all ready by the time you get home, and then all we’ll have to do is make the potatoes and set up the tables on Sunday.  We’re good!”

T Minus Two Days:
I should probably get on this shopping list.  I still need to get Easter eggs for the big hunt!  Oh, and glasses.  I know!  I’ll head to the busiest Target on Earth at State St. at four pm on Good Friday.  It’ll probably be empty.  Spend the next two hours growling at tourists, aggressively pushing my cart through the Easter aisle, buying two bottles of wine, an Easter bunny because seriously I am not spending fifteen dollars on a basket, twelve fillable Easter eggs, candy, and rationalize that small plastic glasses are totally acceptable for Easter dinner.  Go home and drink one of the bottles of wine, because really?  There’s nothing left to do.

T Minus One Day:

Two hours, a hundred dollars, and a very grumpy Tony Marzilli later, we’re ready to begin cleaning.  Approximately thirty minutes later, Tony Drobick walks in the door after a full eight hour day, quite dismayed to find me scrubbing the vents with a toothbrush on the floor and Tony Marzilli covered in bleach, yelling, “I swear to God, if I see an Easter bunny I’m punching it square in the mouth.”  I throw paper towels and windex at him, saying, “Here.  You don’t have to do anything.  Just dust the entertainment center, wipe off all of the books and everything in it, sweep the floor, and take out the garbage.”  He complies – seriously, once I hit this level of crazy there’s no reasoning – muttering, “Have Easter, they said.  It will be fun, they said,” whilst rolling his eyes.  Finish all the cleaning, and my beaming, “Hey, look, we’re all ready!” exclamation is met with hostile stares. 

Okay!  All we have to do is set up the tables and stuff the Easter eggs, and then it’s time to cook! 

Hmm.  This tablecloth is really big for this table.  Let me just tape it up with the flourescent green duct tape.  That’ll work, right?

WHO THE FUCK SEALS PLASTIC, FILLABLE EASTER EGGS WITH TAPE?!  Terrorists, that’s who.  The next forty minutes are spent stabbing at them with scissors, swearing at each other and sneaking far too many M & M’s. 

Okay, let’s hide these eggs!  (Brief yet extraordinarily heated argument questioning the timing of cleaning out the fish tank.)

Another, increasingly hostile argument regarding my festive idea of putting colorful napkins on the bathroom sink for guests to wipe their hands on.  Physical struggle ensues as Tony Marzilli wants to fold up actual hand towels instead.  Culminates in me yelling, “I DON’T LIKE THE TOWELS THEY DON’T LOOK PRETTY PUT THE FUCKING NAPKINS IN THE GODDAMN EASTER BASKET!!”

I should probably have a glass of wine.

No, Courtney, no one wants to stick their hands in salt cellars, I don’t care if they were your grandma’s.  I passive-aggressively leave them on the duct taped covered table anyhow.


My family shows up, complete with carrots, crackers and cheese, an antipasto platter, a seven layer salad, champagne glasses, two bottles of champagne and a bottle of wine because they know I get my wine from the drugstore, orange juice, an Easter basket for the baby full of chalk,  a gift for my new nephew, and a bag full of toys. 

My glaze is not thickening as the Pioneer Woman had promised.

Violet is pointedly disinterested in her Easter egg hunt and is much more interested in the fish.

My oven grates are upside down, apparently.

An hour later, my in laws show up with Tony straight from work, also carrying another chair, a leaf for the table, two pies, and a gift for Violet.

You know what? We had a great time.  I didn’t drop the ham, the cats didn’t escape and attack anyone, the baby had way too much candy and enjoyed bossing the boys around, and everyone liked my potatoes.  My mom took a picture of my napkins in the bathroom to send to my aunt Sheila, who is basically Martha Stewart, so it was pretty much the highest of praise.  My cousin showed up around dessert, and we finished the night watching old home movies – during which I was mercilessly mocked, I might add – happy for a great end to a fun day.  Everyone ate, we laughed, we drank, we enjoyed our company and I looked around and felt very grateful for this family of mine.

Everyone praised me for doing a great job hosting my first holiday.  This is my thank you to all of the people that basically did it for me.


Martha's got nothing on me and my Easter basket napkins

Telling It Like It Is

Part of me doesn’t even want to write this. We’re all so inundated lately with politics; it’s at the forefront of every form Read the rest of this entry

An (Accidental) Advanced Yoga Class, As Told By a Beginner

I should have trusted my gut.  I knew, even while I was waiting outside the yoga studio for the earlier class to let out, that this was going to be bad.  I can’t explain it.  Maybe it was because there were only four of us waiting.  Maybe it’s because two were men.  Maybe it’s because of the earlier epic battle I’d had with my new sports bra.  I’m not sure, but something was telling me, Hey, you should probably just go lift some weights or jump on the elliptical or, better yet, just head on home, take off this medieval constrictor suffocating your boobs, and have a glass of wine.  Anything but go into that room and be stuck there for the next hour and a half.

Yeah, because that’s some other shit people don’t tell you when you begin taking yoga.  The classes are a full ninety minutes long.  Now, I don’t know about you, but there’s very few things I like to do for ninety straight minutes.  Sweating and being ouchy does not fall on that short list.  That being said, I have been enjoying the classes, and I can touch my feet again, so I’m making some semblance of progress.

Anyhow, against my better judgment, I went in, dutifully grabbed my mat and blocks and laid down in the back of the room, away from the mirrors.  When I glanced up as the instructor walked in, I noticed with alarm that not only were the other five people in the room incredibly fit and toned, but were right up front as though they actually wanted to see themselves in the mirror.  By now the alarm bells were dinging a little louder, but it was too late.  The door was closed, and to get up and walk out was to admit defeat before I started.  I closed my eyes again, trying to focus on my breathing like everyone keeps telling me to.

The following is an edited transcript of the class, with the instructor’s voice in bold and my terrified thoughts in italics.


Wait, no!!!  Where’s Katie?  I love Katie.  She lets us lie flat on our backs for the first ten minutes, getting used to the room and breathing in and out.  It’s my favorite part.

So we’re just going to hold here for several breaths, and okay, now ease slowly down and right up into down dog.  Go!

And up and vinyasa and now lift your right leg as high as you can!

I don’t think yoga instructors are supposed to yell go, Jerome.  In fact, I don’t think you’re supposed to yell at all.  Katie doesn’t yell.  She lets us lie here and breathe and says soothing things in a nice, quiet, yoga-ey voice.

Also, who starts with planks? Planks are horrible.  I can hardly find my breath while trying not collapse and it’s only been five minutes!

Shit, everyone is standing up.  What’d I miss? 

I clumsily got to my feet and tried to copy the pose of the person in front of me, catching an unfortunate glimpse of myself in the mirror. 

How did everyone get back on the floor so fast?  The fuck, Jerome?  Slow down, for God’s sake.  This isn’t a contest, right?

Okay, now if you want to challenge yourself more, straighten your front leg completely while you touch your forehead to your knee and raising your arm towards the ceiling, raising your gaze to look at your fingers.

Oh, apparently it is a contest, as everyone just managed to fold themselves completely in half and raise their arm up.

Just don’t fall over.  Don’t.  Fucking.  Fall. Over.  You don’t have to look up.  You don’t need to prove anything to anyone here.  Just breathe.

What did I just fucking say?  Don’t look up.  YOU CAN’T LOOK UP.  You don’t have that kind of balance.  At least no one noticed, right?

Of course they noticed. 

If you find that looking up is too challenging for you, feel free to keep your gaze low.

You know he’s talking about you, right, newbie?  I told you not to look up.

Twenty minutes go by, during which I alternate flopping to my mat and attempting to stand up gracefully, consistently five to ten seconds behind everyone else.  I spend a good majority of the time in the downward dog position, face firmly planted in my double D’s,  contemplating a breast reduction.  Also, no one seems impressed that I can touch my feet.

Now we’re going to go into the (insert actual, yoga name for squatting uncomfortably with your knees spread apart, or the pose I like to call, “If anyone is going to fart, it’s going to be now,) pose.

Yay!  I can do this one!

But wait, I know what comes next.  It’s where everyone else manages to do the crow pose (balancing on your forearms in what my preteen self would call the teapot) while you sit in the squat and question why the hell you ever took up yoga.

That’s okay though.  This is sort of motivating.  One day I’ll be able to do it.  Today is just not that day.

So, even if you don’t feel comfortable trying crow, you can put a block in front of you and rest your head on it while you try and lift just one leg off of the ground at a time!

Not going to happen, Jerome.  I learned my lesson with the whole looking up thing.

(Jerome stares directly at me as he repeats his modification.) 

(I stare back, smiling as I sit spread eagled in a squat, hands firmly in front of me like I’m praying.)

(Jerome looks very discomfited.)

Leave me alone, Jerome.  Go help the yoga masters who are somehow balancing on one arm wrapped between their legs.  I’m just going to hope I can make it to a standing position from here without toppling backwards.

You are so not relaxing.  I miss Katie.  She tells me it’s okay and to take it at my own pace.  Plus, she isn’t a contortionist like you all seem to be.

Now would be a good time to mention that every other person in the class?  Is having a blast, balancing on their fingertips, legs shooting straight in the air, twirling around on one hand like circus people while I sit, smiling and squatting.

Now, if you REALLY want to challenge yourself, you can bind your arms and only use the left one for balance.  Use the strength in your arm and core!

Is my foot asleep? 

And….now I have to pee.

If this goes on much longer, you are going to fall onto your back like a turtle and piss yourself.  Get up.  Get up now.

So now to dolphin pose for some inversions.  Dolphin pose is a great way to build that shoulder strength.  Just walk your feet right up as close as you can to your elbows, and if you want to take the inversion, kick up…..(blah, blah, blah, because none of this is happening for you, blondie in the back.)

You know what?  Fuck off, Jerome.  If I ever see you again in front of this class, I’m going to run as fast as my fat ass will let me in the other direction.

Hmm.  I don’t think I’m getting the whole “restorative, cleansing properties,” out of this practice as advertised. 

Okay.  Just do the damn dolphin pose.  We’re almost done and then we get to lay down and breathe quietly.  You excel at that part.

(I spend another five minutes, face firmly planted between my own breasts, desperate for 7:30 to arrive already.)

Mercifully, the class begins to wind down. We lie on our backs, we stretch, we roll from one side to the other.  All things I’m very good at and – btw – Katie says are just as important.

Oh, thank you, sweet dancing Moses I don’t think I could be here much longer.

I don’t even know how to begin to process what just happened. 

Well, thank you all for coming out today.  Katie will be back next week but if you want to see me, I teach at (other Chicago Athletic Clubs) on Sunday, Wednesday, and Friday.

From one of the circus contortionists in the front row, “Oh, but can’t you come back and teach all the time??!!!  This was awesome!!”


Okay, time to go home.  You almost said that out loud.

With a smile for me, Jerome says, “Don’t worry.  It gets easier.”

I grind out a “Thank you,” through clenched teeth and start to wipe down my mat, concluding my ninety minutes of torture by knocking over my water bottle and stepping on my phone. 

Get. Out. Of. This. Room.

I don’t tell you all of this to scare you away from yoga, because for the most part, I love it.  I tell you so that if you should take a class that you feel is above your level, you can think back and realize, “Hey, this could definitely be going worse!”

(I saw Jerome in a different area of the gym yesterday on the way to my class and immediately broke out in a cold sweat.  Thankfully, I spotted the lovely Katie in the studio and almost hugged her, I was so happy.)

Namaste, bitches.


How I Spent My Evening. BTW - I didn't look nearly this good doing it. But you could probably figure that out on your own.

Maybe This Is Why We Don’t Have Any Friends?

It had finally happened.  After a solid month of waking up every single morning exactly twenty minutes before my alarm went off to the sound of chainsaws, jackhammers, large equipment being broken, and heavy appliances being dragged by loudly irritated construction workers, the apartment above us was finally complete.  (Seriously.  I don’t know what the fuck was happening up there, but I can’t wait to see it.  By the sounds of it, they built an entire bowling alley/theme park/festival grounds.  I had thought Mr’s Stomps-A-Lot, our previous neighbors, were loud.  They had nothing on these workers.  Nothing.  Plus, I’m a night person, so their bowling tournaments/boot stomping competitions at midnight didn’t bother me.  This was happening in the morning.  Not cool.)  For an entire month, the first words out of my mouth were “Oh my God why??!!!  Just shut up!!!”  So on Saturday, when we walked out to see two guys moving actual furniture in, I was elated. 

We met Preston, and he told us his girlfriend Courtney was moving in with him.  How fun!  The last female neighbor I had was awesome, maybe I’d make a new friend – and she’d have my name!!  How exciting.

Saturday was awful, weather-wise, and all previous plans went out the window in the face of cold pouring rain.  (Seriously, Spring, get your shit together.)  Anyhow, we planned on grilling and watching the Hawks game, but even we weren’t willing to stand in the downpour just for grilled sausages, so we elected to tailgate on our inside back porch instead.  That porch is shared with the other tenants, but it seemed as though they were done moving, so we didn’t think we’d be in their way.  We found an eighties playlist on TuneIn, got some beers, and hung out most of the afternoon.  We were having a lovely time. 

The day prior, I received a frantic call from my landlord, stating there was a leak in the first floor apartment, which is unoccupied, that seemed to be coming from our place.  Now, I’m no plumber, but I do know two plus two equals four, and I quickly deduced it was likely from the plumbing work that was being done upstairs the day prior.  But  no, he was pretty sure it was coming from our place, despite no water being on and never having a leak before.  Also, he didn’t have a key to our apartment because of course.  “I don’t know what to do, Mrs. Drobick!!  This is really bad!”  (Did I mention my landlord is 27
years old?  And bought up half of the damn city last year?  Ugh.)  He said they were going to have to break our deadbolt, but assured me that they would fix it right away and make sure the cats didn’t get out.  Based on the fact that he had also called the exterminator due to the complaints of giant rats in the basement and then texted to say they’d be right out with the ant spray, I didn’t have a whole lot of faith in this, but what was I going to say, no?  The kid was freaking out.

***Side note?  They drilled two giant holes in my pantry which shares a wall with our bathroom to be clear the leak wasn’t coming from us.  It wasn’t.  But that led to me being woken up that Monday by a gentleman pounding on my door, yelling in broken English, “Miss!!!  I’ve come to fix your holes!!!”  I have dropped so many f-bombs before nine in the morning the past month, I can’t even tell you.***

In the course of having to drill said holes in the pantry, they had to pull out all of our pots and pans because for some stupid reason we have no cabinets.  So all of my pots, pans, cutlery, baking dishes, etc. were piled on the kitchen table when Tony got home.  They had, of course, put the stuff they pulled out first – i.e., the stuff we actually use – on the bottom, meaning the top of the pile was oddly shaped tupperware, the blender, and three stupidly small saucepans that I cannot even fathom why I have.

Oh, and a cake mold shaped like a penis.  That was right on top. 

To be clear, it’s not like I use said cake mold.  For one, I don’t bake.  It has been used exactly once, almost thirteen years ago, for my friend Kelly’s bachelorette party.  Kelly got married when we were still really young, and that type of stuff was super funny.  But for whatever reason, it has traveled with me through five moves since then.  Sure, I’ve lost an entire set of tools, a box of ticket stubs, a set of flatware, and approximately seven pairs of shoes in those moves, but the cake pan?  Of course that made it.  (Other ridiculous items include the box full of marbles and dice, every stuffed animal any of us has ever won at a carnival, a jar of flour, a crystal rooster with its claw broken off, and a fake bronze monkey statue we use to hold a hackey sack.  Because we’re good at adulting.)

When I got home, I started putting pots and pans back, despite the holes.  I didn’t know when they would ever be back to fix them and didn’t want everything sitting on my kitchen table all weekend.  Tony and Tony, of course, thought the cake pan was hilarious, and decided that instead of putting it back, they would use it as an ashtray.  Which, okay, even I thought was kind of funny.  (Again, see “Adulting: Things we’re bad at.) 

Back to Saturday.  The three of us are hanging on the porch, singing along to a little “Buffalo Stance,” looking forward to hockey, and having some beers.  It was a good day.  Around 5PM, we heard someone walking down the stairs.

“Hi!  Do you guys always listen to such fun music?  And I’m being serious, this has been awesome!  I’m Courtney, I just moved in upstairs!  Thought I’d bring a beer down and introduce myself.”

It goes without saying that Courtney is super cute, about 24, and appears to be a yoga instructor, right? And that I’m wearing a hockey jersey, zero makeup, and my whole socks with sandals deal because I’m old and have bad feet?

She really is super nice.  We talk for a little bit, they met at Iowa State and just moved here.  She works downtown too and is asking about riding her bike to work, saying maybe we could go together the first time.  They’re sports fans, they love to play cards, and she says once they’re settled in they’d love to have us up to have some drinks and play.  Yay!  How fun would it be to have friends as neighbors again?

And then.  And THEN.  She lights a cigarette. 

Well, shit. 

I’m guessing she’s going to want to put that out at some point.  Which is worse, acting like we’re dirtbags who put out cigarettes on the floor, or handing her a penis-shaped cake mold?  Has anyone ever had to make this decision???

I do, apparently.  She seems pretty cool, hopefully she’ll think it’s funny? I reach under the chair next to me and say, “So, they’re using this, but there is a reason…”

“I did notice that, I have to say.  That’s hilarious!”  she replies.

Right.  Can’t you just hear how that conversation went when she went back upstairs?  “How’re the new neighbors, honey?”  “Well, they’re a little older, were listening to Rump Shaker, and use a dick mold as an ashtray, but other than that, they were great!”

I can imagine she was met with a slow blink.

Surprisingly, they did not take us up on our offer to watch the Hawks game at our place as their TV wasn’t hooked up yet. 

What the hell, universe?  It’s not like we ALWAYS  use a penis-shaped cake mold as an ashtray.  Why today?  Why??

In other news, Tony just told me that she came down earlier and knocked on the back door – which was open – to inquire whether the laundry in the washing machine was ours while he was lying on the couch in only his boxers.  Thank you, baby Jesus and all that is holy, for the fact that he had pants in there to put on and didn’t answer the door all Cousin Eddie style, beer in hand, like he did that one time to my cousin Sherri.

So yeah, this is why we don’t get out much.


I was going to take a picture of the penis-mold ashtray, but then realized that might not be the picture I want showing up next to my name. See? Sometimes I think ahead.

I’ve Been Shamed!!!

I love the internet.  All of it.  I love Facebook, I love blogs, I love Huffington Post, I love Twitter wars even though I still haven’t quite grasped the concept.  I love the memes and the emoticons and all of that shit.  I’m a part of a couple of separate groups on the book face and love the sense of community.  I spend a lot of time perusing online and interacting with people I haven’t met in real life.  (Yet.)  That being said, with this significant amount of screen time, there’s a lot of things that drive me crazy about the online community.  Some of the words/phrases/taglines which are now a normal part of our lexicon that started out on the internet make me nuts, and sometimes I’ve found myself literally sitting on my hands trying not to comment on a Facebook post about politics that I know no good will come of.

Most of it, I’ve learned to just ignore.  For instance, I now know better than to read the comments on any story that could be considered remotely polarizing.  If it has to do with race, religion, politics, or how to raise a child, I steer clear of the comment section.  Mostly for my own sanity, because if anything makes you question your faith in the human race, it’s the comments section on an article about at what age it’s safe to leave your child at home alone (never is the correct answer, according to most.)  On a side note to this, I don’t know how you parents do it.  If I had kids I think I would have to turn off the internet forever.  According to the internet, you are ALWAYS doing something wrong.  I’m already steeling for the next election, as I’ve learned that politics bring out the stupid in everyone on both sides and really, there’s no point in engaging.  No one wins these arguments; the chances of someone changing their entire belief system based on my Facebook comment are pretty low.  And yet the temptation is still high.

But nothing – NOTHING – gets me more crazy than the “shaming.”  You know what I’m talking about.  Fat shaming, slut shaming, clothes shaming, blond shaming, etc., everyone and everything can be shamed on the internet.  Hell, we do it to our cats and dogs.  Any action or reaction can be considered shaming.  Got laughed at on the beach?  Fat shamed.  Got smirked at wearing a short skirt?  Slut shamed.  Didn’t have a date to a wedding and someone remarked upon it?  Single shamed.

I don’t believe anyone should be shamed for being themselves.  Hey, you want to wear a bikini but don’t have the “perfect” body for it?  Fucking go for it.  Love short skirts?  Wear ’em.  Everywhere.  Big fan of 40’s style dresses in the middle of winter?  Do you, man, and don’t let anyone tell you not to.  But understand me – if someone side-eyes your out of this world outfit, or raises an eyebrow at your miniskirt, or points at your bathing suit – you’re not being shamed.  You’re probably being laughed at.  It’s not nice, and sure, in my world, none of this would happen.  But not everything is being shamed.  Sometimes? People are just making fun of you.  And that’s okay.  It happens to me all the time. 

Look, no one in the world wants a society where everyone is accepting of each other and happy with themselves more than me.  Ask anyone I know – I will defend anyone and everyone’s right to be themselves and be happy with it.  And certainly, the terms above exist and happen.  I’m not making light of that.  What I have a problem with is every time I turn on my tablet, I see another article about how someone was “shamed,” in some way or another, and it’s getting out of control.  I brought examples and everything.  See below.

Teacher Lunch Shames Mom for Sending Kid to School with Oreos.
Lunch shamed??  Are you even kidding me right now?  You were LUNCH SHAMED??  No.  This is not a real thing.  Your kid’s teacher sent home a note questioning your choices.  While I personally disagree with said teacher and would certainly be sending my child to school the rest of the week with nothing but Snickers and Doritos covered in fudge sauce in their lunch box, this is not shaming. Lunch shamed.  Seriously.  Look at that.  Look at it again.  Lunch shamed.  Does that actually sound like a thing to you?

I Was Gluten Shamed in the Liquor Store
Yeah, read that one again.  Look, I get the whole gluten-free movement, and anyone suffering from Celiac disease has my sympathy because it’s a giant pain in the ass to try and eat gluten free, and yeah, I’m sure you get a lot of shit from people who are tired of dealing with people like myself who stay away from gluten because it’s the trendy thing to do.  I get that.  But no.  You weren’t “gluten shamed.”  BECAUSE THAT ISN’T A THING.  Someone was a dick when you asked for gluten-free beer.  Does it suck?  Sure.  Were you gluten shamed?  Again, no, because that’s fucking ridiculous. Gluten shamed?  Are you fucking kidding me?

I have more.  There’s a blog post I read recently about a girl going without a bra for a year.  Apparently people at her work and social circles pointed it out, and this was deemed slut shaming.  I’m sorry, but it’s not.  I respect and agree with the fact that any woman should be able to wear whatever she wants if she’s happy with it.  But if you decide to conduct an experiment with the sole intention of gauging people’s reactions, please don’t be surprised when they react exactly as you would expect.  If you’re swinging around double D’s without a bra – and seriously, how physically uncomfortable was this girl for an entire year? I have to put on a bra to walk into the living room- it’s not a shock that those around you notice it.  That’s not slut shaming.  That’s  “wow, wouldn’t you be more comfortable with a bra??”

If all of the above were real things, I’ve been shamed many times this week.  I was beer shamed when I asked where the Miller Lite was at the super hipster organic, IPA-filled store next to my gym.  Speaking of the gym, I was gym shamed when I tripped getting on the elliptical and the guy next to me laughed.  I was cat shamed when my mom told me – again – that my cat should be set free because he’s a dick.  I was bus shamed when I asked someone to move their bag so I could sit down. 

We need to stop whining.  Seriously.  People get made fun of, people point and laugh at the out of the ordinary.  And yes, in a perfect world, that wouldn’t happen.  We’d all be happy and singing songs holding hands around a campfire, and sure, I’d love that.  But it isn’t going to happen.  So instead of crying, “FOR SHAME,” at everything we don’t like, let’s concentrate on being okay with our own decisions and outfits and Lunchables, all right?  Like I said before – do you.  Be happy.  Stop making mountains out of molehills. We’re all going to be okay. 


Gluten Shamed. I Just Can't.