Clever Girls are Never Wrong (except when they are)

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clever girl

Photo by Dhyamis Kleber on Pexels.com

Today an article giving voice to those will be hurt most buy the Hollywood GA boycott went live. I participated in this piece as an interviewee to share my perspective as a resident of Georgia and a film industry employee. I decided to share the article with a Facebook group comprised of about 12,000 women working in reality television. I didn’t post it for a debate, it was simply an offering of perspective that those who are sitting back cheering the dissolution of the industry in GA are in fact also cheering on the dissolution of my family, along with tens of thousands of others that depend on the work to survive. I pointed out that on an ideological basis we are on the same side and they are completely valid in choosing to support any path of resistance they chose – but in a very literal sense as an actual resident, I am the one physically here in this fight and I’ve got a different strategy based on my first-hand knowledge of the inner workings of the state. The root of my point was that the only means for folks like me to stay and continue to fight is to not smoke us all out and make us leave the state to chase the work. 

But engaging was not an option after a barrage of “it’s what ya signed up for,” or “women aren’t worth boycotting for…so you’d rather have women giving themselves hanger abortions” came popping up in droves. Huh? 

What nobody even bothered to ask (because not one question was posed in any form other than rhetorical) I am a champion of women’s right, I flew to DC to protest and I actually show up when there is a call to action. In addition, I’ve taken the time to research the legal layout of this law and how this will most likely play out in lower federal courts (where it will almost assuredly be overturned and then the state will make an appeal to the Supreme Court), just like Missouri, just like Indiana and so on. I ignored the outrage mafia’s fabricated facts about a visitor working in the the state would “go to jail if they’ve ever had an abortion” or the woeful ignorance that Georgian’s voted for this in some form (no) or that we are  – in fact – a purple state just 80,000 votes shy of turning Blue (gee, seems like it makes more sense to drive in diversity rather than scare it off – but what the hell do I know about math?). 

But no, my little fingers couldn’t type fast enough to calm the fire of the outrage machine that took aim at me. But this group, established under the guise of women supporting women, became a soundboard of dismissive chirps dripping with condescension. And it was in that moment that I recalled Brené Brown’s brilliant Netflix special called The Call to Courage that addresses the power of vulnerability. She talks about how after her Ted talk went public she was met with a litter of negative energy online and what she realized as she navigated through that. To sum it up not nearly as poetic as Ms. Brown, it’s so easy for spectators in the cheap seats to pass judgement on the warriors who put themselves in the middle of the fight, but you shouldn’t give a shit what is happening outside of the ring. 

Toxic behavior of self-importance is rampant in reality television, it’s a big part of the reason why I walked away. You can only take so much dealing with people who are convinced they are the most clever person in the room. I guess I set the bar a little high with my expectations of thoughtfulness and inclusion considering the audience I shared it with. The lesson learned is that you will never win in a battle against impractical arrogance – ever – now back to the ring.

If you would like to support women’s rights please donate to stayandfightgeorgia.com

If you would like to support the anti-corruption movement to fight the kind of corruption GA experienced in the 2018 Governors Election, please join or donate to Represent.US

Link to the article attached. 

https://meaww.com/georgia-heartbeat-bill-effect-film-industry-networks-netflix-disney-hollywood-workers

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From Republican to Repugnican; the death of empathy in the United States

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A friend of mine shared a news article about a 15-year-old girl who is living in one of the Texas based warehouse facilities full of the immigrant children that have been torn from their parents. This girl was one of the oldest of the children detainees and has had to take on tasks such as changing diapers and teaching the other children how to care for one another. This article really sat heavy with me, it’s one thing to think about children being “housed,” as it’s being spun by the White House, and quite another once you realize that there are so many children under the care of so few that little babies are being made to sit in dirty diapers for unbearable periods of time. I wondered if it was the unmistakable stink of human waste wafting into the air or perhaps the relentless crying that compelled this 15-year-old to take on the burden of defacto mother to hundreds of toddlers?

“This really breaks my heart” my friend commented on the link. Even though her heartfelt sympathy attracted over a dozen “likes,” those who chose to reply to her comments berated her feelings. When not trying to pivot the conversation to make a point that suited them, many of the replies amounted to “Why should you feel empathy, they did this to themselves” and “this is what happens when you break the law.” As if responsibility can somehow be laid at the feet of the youngsters themselves. It’s highly offensive when internet windbags pretend to be scholars of the law but either chose to ignore or fail to realize that coming to the United States to seek asylum is not illegal. And this kind of repugnant assholery overwhelmed the thread like vultures to a carcass.

I worry about how easy it is for some to insulate themselves into their own personal bubble but loudly express their personal disdain for the tribulations of those less fortunate. This “too bad, so sad – glad it’s not me” attitude is reminiscent of the French rule of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI who ignored the woes of the poor and starving, which ignited the French Revolution. Do we really want to psychologically tramatize thousands of children who will grow into adults that have a deep hatred towards this country? How is that a smart plan of action when we currenlty credit nearly all of our mass tragity’s to mental health issues or terrorism? Are we really this ignorant?

And let’s not forget the grisley fate that met not only Marie and Louis, but their sympathizers as well.

Louis XVI.jpeg

If we do not learn from our history, we are doomed to repeat it. #PracticeEmpathy

Dear Grace, You Are Wrong

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Aziz-Ansari

This may not be a popular opinion, but let me say as someone who has:

  1. Been sexually assaulted
  2. Went on dates with guys who ended up wanting nothing more than sex
  3. Own a vagina and a brain

I don’t really care. So let’s begin….

———-

By now I am sure just about everyone has heard about the accusations being leveled against Aziz Ansari. “Whistleblower” Grace shared a detailed account of a date gone bad via a babe.com article that shaped her as a hapless victim with — apparently — the communication abilities of a young Helen Keller. She repeatedly leaned into something called a “non-verbal cue” to prove her point, which left just about anyone outside the mime community scratching their heads.

I was watching a clip from The View in which Whoopi Goldberg and Meghan McCain openly discuss their concerns about the way this story has been framed, and the damage it could do to women who have actually been victimized. They really wanted to know what consent means.

To me, it’s not difficult to define.

If you go one a date with someone, it means you are open to the idea of developing a romantic relationship (in either the near or distant future – up to you). It may only take you a few seconds into the first or a few dates to realize that you are no longer open to a romantic relationship, if this is the case, at that moment – you should end the date. If you choose to continue the date(s), you are implying you are still open to a romantic relationship (still in the near or distant future – your choice). Excellent, now assuming you are still on this date, you are now actively dating this person.

When two people are actively dating, they are bound to progress their relationship sexually (in the near or distant future – 100% in your hands)

When this moment happens, here are the steps to consent.  You MUST select A or B for each number, but at any point you can change your answer from A to B.

A. You are comfortable with this, go for it.     
B. You are not comfortable with this, move away and tell him NO!
  1. Date leans in for a kiss
  2. Date moves his hands toward you to touch your body
  3. Date moves his hands towards your bare skin
  4. Date begins to take off his/your clothing
  5. Date begins to engage in sexual acts

If at ANY POINT you answer or change your answer to B and your date ignores you – FIGHT, RUN, AND CALL THE POLICE you have just been assaulted.

The fact is, non-verbal cues don’t stand up legally or among species that are able to understand basic commands. I have three well-behaved rescue dogs and spent a lot of time training them – they want nothing more in life than to make me happy and do good so they can earn treats. But, they still like to jump all over me when I come home. I can “non-verbally” push their little paws off of my legs, sigh heavy and tell them they are being annoying but this does not stop them. All it takes is for one loud “NO” and they all three move away and sit still. I can’t even ask that the dogs I’ve spent years with to learn to read my mind, but you expect some random guy you don’t know to understand you’re non-verbal cues?

Grow up.

Accessory Of Ego: The Resurgence of Darla

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puppet-strings

Having been raised in an Authoritarian household, I came into adulthood like a magnet that was constantly attracting domineering personalities into my personal atmosphere. When I was younger, I had no idea that being in a friendship with someone who would constantly bowl over others with their fierce stubbornness, embrace judgement on all who would pass, and claim they had the answers to everyone’s problems was not normal.

[Enter Darla.]

I met Darla at the age of 19. Despite being well past her college years, we ended up at the same apartment party. We bonded while chain-smoking menthol cigarettes (yuck) on a night that would become notorious among the partygoers, as Darla’s hefty frame broke the toilet when she decided to have sex with some guy on it. However, well before the honey badger, it was Darla who didn’t give a shit. I think it was Darla’s unbreakable confidence that really drew me in. She was charismatic and smart, she worked in the media industry and gave me a ton of advice as I began my entertainment career. I liked Darla, she always had interesting stories to tell because she had a lot of “crazy” people around her (red flag) and somehow the most hapless things would always be happening to her (reddiest red flag in all flaggitude). We never officially resided in the same state, but shortly after our acquaintance, her father fell ill, and since she had a very complicated relationship with her many siblings, she often opted to stay with me. At that time, it was a mutually beneficial relationship full of good times. We would gossip daily about boys, work or school, and when she came to visit she would always sneak me drinks in the club.

About the time I was heading out west, Darla had a child with her ex. She had to leave her media job and return to her home town to make ends-meat. She spiraled through ups and downs, typically relative to what her current leading man was or wasn’t doing for her. Conversations with her became feast or famine, if there was drama happening in her life, I got the play-by-play, other times, even if I was in need I’d leave a dozen unanswered calls over several months. Not yet realizing that I was a mere accessory to her ego, and despite working 80-hour weeks, I always picked up when she called.

She was in her 30’s and wanted nothing more than to be married. She would cling onto questionable relationships with whatever hotdog stand, or married bouncer guy that would pay attention to her, and she would call and tell me the same cyclical stories about them breaking her heart. Despite frequently contributing her own unsolicited advice, Darla wasn’t the type to want other’s opinions. Taking a contrary stance from her would typically end with rapid-fire condescension and her early exit from the conversation. But, at this point, we had been friends for years, and I assumed that she was merely failing to see that I had grown into official woman-hood, now steadily in a successful career and a with few solid relationships under my belt. There was a lot of not right happening, but I just didn’t think that it was worth throwing the relationship away.

At one point, she took on a project in my town and I set her up with a room at the home of one of my closest friends. Darla unilaterally decided my friend needed some attitude and life coaching, so she would spend a lot of time and effort sharing her personal philosophies on life and then would complain to me about how draining it was to stay there.

[Cut to: first big fight]

Darla told me I was a toxic friend, and that I had a darkness growing inside of me. I called her a bully, but I was still the only one to apologize a few weeks later.  Darla assumed herself an expert in the field of mental health care and stood by her claims. She had taken some college courses to become a counselor, but was asked to leave for being disruptive to the other students as she would use the group training sessions to discuss her own trauma in such a way that the bulk of the time would be devoted to her alone. Basically, they told her she needed to resolve issues within herself before she would be welcomed back. Even well after being ejected from the program, she still made sure to proudly claim her attendance on her Facebook page.

[The beginning of the end]

When another close friend and love interest died in a car accident on christmas, I didn’t get near the same amount of support I had given when her father had passed years earlier. The imbalance of our relationship was becoming more apparent, I saw how she would project her own struggles as issues that I needed to work out on myself. I made an active choice to stop initiating phone calls to see how often we spoke. And we pretty much didn’t for well over a year. Right around the time of silence began, Darla began dating a guy, and one day she included me on a group text with a photo of her engagement ring. Not really being in the loop on this guy, due to our estrangement, I shot her back a congratulatory response.

[The end of the end]

By happenstance, I was working on a project and with Darla’s blessing, I offered an opportunity to let one of her sisters present a bid to be one of our local coordinating vendors. Darla and her sister had a difficult relationship, but she vouched for her sister’s ability to do the job well. The sister claimed she had a house and could work locally at the project site. On the day I called the sister to solidify the deal and draft the paperwork, she suddenly needed airfare and a daily food stipend. This made her bid no longer affordable and the company ended up working with another team. My phone blew up with nasty calls and texts from Darla’s sister. She claimed to had spent two days working on the bid and demanded pay at an absurdly high and, never before mentioned, daily rate. I explained to her that is not how contract bids work, but when she started getting aggressive with my team, we opted to pay her to make her go away. I looped Darla into this, and she chalked it up to a “yep, told ya she was crazy” sort of comment.

Three days later came a series of texts, a literary assault on my character. Darla had determined I was masterminding a plan to poison her relationship with her sister and caused this situation.  She was apparently appalled that I didn’t do enough in response to her engagement and I was a terrible friend. She made sure to let me know that she was blocking me, so I shouldn’t even bother to respond. How very like her. 

[The resurgence]

Perhaps it’s the five years of time that had passed, or the fact that we are now both married, and in seemingly much different places, but I really should have known better when she sent me that Facebook friend request. The things she said in her final act were bridge-burn worthy, but having spent a small amount of time training and working in the field of behavioral health myself, I had a glint of hope that she may have finally taken up that professional suggestion of therapeutic healing. Between running my business, developing a podcast, my writing and general love for myself, I’ve got zero tolerance for needless drama.

I can only assume Darla caught wind of my last post, American Narcissist: A Cure For What Ails You, in which I praise an article that led to a differing of opinions on my private Facebook page, something I mentioned in the public blog post. Apparently, all Darla really wanted to do was scroll down past 10 days worth of content to rouse the referenced material up and share her thoughts. In her go-to style of condescension, she explained (sometimes in caps and with the help of the teary eyed laugh emoji aimed at my comments) that she universally disagrees with me, the author of the article and to no surprise, has THE solution.

Nope, sorry, na-huh, I am not a 19-year-old any longer and this honey badger don’t have time for that shit. I am so thankful I’ve had enough personal development to know that healthy relationship’s require mutual respect and support. Not just when it’s convenient for one party, but unconditionally. I am lucky to say I’ve got that in my life, so anyone else can step off.

If you have a Darla in your life, let her go. Trust me, you will be totally fine. May you all find love and peace, even the Darla’s of the world.

American Narcissist: A Cure For What Ails You

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In my 33 years on earth I can’t recall entering into a new year feeling more downhearted about my fellow-man. I wonder if the sizable consumption of happy ending theater and sappy entertainment I was raised on was the reason I had clung onto the “man is inherently good” mantra for most of my life. Maybe it was that we as a whole were much better people in decades past. Or perhaps it’s simply that I’ve caught the plague, in the form of the common flu, that has me particularly contentious at the end of this holiday season. There seems to be no shortage of examples of rampant negativity, dirty fighting and ignorant interactions happening online everyday. But it’s the disgusting conduct of youtube “star” Logan Paul that has me particularly irked.

Paul, a popular vlogger, and millennial tool turned multi-millionaire decided to take a jaunt into a notorious Japanese suicide forest. Upon stumbling on a man’s lifeless body, Paul filming himself and moronic cohorts, documented the encounter all while gawking, teasing and making light of the morbid encounter. The entire video goes seemingly without a single moment of anyone taking into consideration the depths of human despair and endless pain that this man must have experienced to think that the only way out, the only way to feel relief, was by way of death. Paul and his posse were only thinking of themselves, their views, their millions and what this moment meant to them and only them. The worst part of this all is that it doesn’t surprise me. As a whole, we are so self-focused, and not in an animal-instinct/survival of the fittest way. Our overall inability to empathize and show compassion in itself is leading to a mass narcissistic sickness.

When I began to look online about how to battle casual narcissism, the most referenced tool was to learn compassion. Along with opposable thumbs and some other traits, a human’s ability to show deep compassion separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom. I would be willing to bet that most people reading this would be unable to properly define compassion or truly understand the differences between it and empathy. Most people probably consider themselves empathetic, and that should not a difficult hurdle to clear, considering that empathy refers to a general ability to take the perspective and feel the emotions of another person. However the cure to all rests with compassion, and that is when we take that sense of empathy and pair it with the DRIVE TO HELP.

The other day, I posted an article on my Facebook page titled I Don’t Know How To Explain To You That You Should Care About Other People which delved into a much deeper divide into our society and pointed out many of the issues I am bringing up today. When I shared this post, I specifically pulled this quote from the story:

Personally, I’m happy to pay an extra 4.3 percent for my fast food burger if it means the person making it for me can afford to feed their own family. If you aren’t willing to fork over an extra 17 cents for a Big Mac, you’re a fundamentally different person than I am.

It was just one blurb from the well-written article but I thought it really hammered the point, one which I entirely agree with. I was raised in a Republican household, both of my parents and half of my siblings are still Republicans (some on the fiscal conservative side and other’s on the Sara Palin lovin’ Fox News addict side). And I considered myself a Republican until I stepped away from the politics I was “taught” in my home and began to explore my own desires for my society. My opinions don’t always align in any one direction, but when deciding between the lesser of evils, I do find one side of the aisle to be far more compassionate than the other. This said, I’ve got a wide and diverse social network and it didn’t take long to illicit a comment from a fellow facebooker who told a tale of their parents coming from Cuba and pulling themselves up by their bootstraps because there is endless opportnity, etc.

The comment was a complete miss of the mark, the article, which the commenter clearly didn’t bother to read was about compassion. What was I suppose to pull from this comment? That this second generation Cuban was unwilling to fork over the extra 17 cents for a big mac because their parent’s managed to, during a completely different era and economy (one not yet completely clinched by oligarchs) get rich? Umm, okay. Clearly this is someone who didn’t even bother to invest the energy to   comprehend what it was I was trying to express in my post before unleashing their own their ink stained opinions and unrelated malarkey on me. I’m fairly certain this is the electronic equivalent of just waiting for your turn to speak. Heavy sigh.

If you are busy thinking about what the world owes you, you sir are a narcissist, seek help.

The fact is that most of us are, at the very least from time to time. I know I am, and it’s something that I am actively trying to get better at. If compassion is the only cure for the particular brand of madness that most of us possess, then I suggest we all get 300 cc’s of compassion into our daily diet…. STAT.

It’s Miss Swift if You’re Nasty

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In light of the sexual harassment verdict in the Taylor Swift case, and the hordes of negative comments, I feel nearly obligated to shout a little truth to the clueless men who have been gulping down some bitter hater-aid. I feel pretty confident that these men simply don’t understand the frequent objectification that women face their entire lives.

As a woman working her way up the ladder into a position of authority in the entertainment industry, I understood early on that it finding entry-level positions in a male-dominated industry wasn’t that hard. I was cute and do the scarcity of females, I would often garner a little bit more attention than I deserved. Back then, I didn’t mind the casual flirtations that would engulf my workplace like a hurricane swallowing a tugboat. It’s an industry that is known as a little loose in terms of morality and regulation; a hotbed of behind-the-scenes showmances and a bounty of behaviors that would get you sacked in the rest of the corporate world.  As a single woman who prefered a more relaxed work environment, this was perfectly fine for me. But just because it was acceptable to me, doesn’t me it is FOR EVERYONE.

I feel like it is important to share that because, while I have opted to pivot my life to a place outside the hijinks of set life, the male I am about to mention and will refer to as Alan, is still fully immersed. A few days ago, Ashley Judd did a live post on Facebook, she was at the airport and frazzled by an incident she had just experienced with a TSA officer. This “officer” initially made a comment about how nice she looked in her dress in a way that sent her creep-o-meter straight into high alert. She observed this man overseeing several passengers pass through the security checkpoint, and noticed them march through without incident or any physical contact. When it was Ashley’s turn, the man called her “sweetheart” and touched her without warning. When she got to the other side, she asked for a supervisor to report the incident and then decided to share this incident on her FB feed. “So what, get over yourself” someone posted as a mix of red face and heart reactions battled the across the screen. Trolling not being uncommon, I was about to move on, when that very moment Facebook let me know one of my “friends,” Alan had posted a comment. “Shut up, Sweetheart.” it read.

Ugh. Really? I thought to myself. I worked with Alan for over a year, and I held this great dude in high regard for coming to my rescue when I cut the tip of my finger off on a shoot in Barcelona. Why was this SoCal surfer dude hating on Ashley Judd? I chalked it up it to a mix of all the negative online-rhetoric overwhelming social media that stirs up this “bandwagon mentality” and the fact that this dude probably has no idea what it’s like to have someone “help themselves to your body.”

From a light touch on my hips to get me to “slide over,” to “helping me get something off my hair/face/clothing,” men were frequently helping themselves to me. In most cases, there was a level of comfort where these acts were indeed no big deal, but there were also times when that was certainly not the case.

The first time I can remember being assaulted was when I was 20 years old. I had met up with a few friends in NYC and we decided to go to a club. I spent most of my time dancing the night away with a male friend, J.K., whom I had kissed a few time in college. More than just a little awkward, I though it was super forward when J.K. slipped his hand up my skirt and panties and grabbed a fist-full of booty. It was hours later back at our friend’s apartment, I sat nursing my throbbing feet wondering why J.K. would grab my ass but not even kiss me once the whole night. After cursing the gods for making high heels fashionable, I decided to ask the question out loud.

“What? I didn’t grab your ass!” J.K. said. Being underage, and therefore completely sober I stood there shocked. “Are you sure?”

He was.

There it was, a perfect stranger had groped my bare ass in a club because he could. J.K., being a few years older was far more pissed than me. I was able to brush this off and move on with little effect, but that doesn’t me that others have to. Incidents like this would pop in and out of my life, becoming woven into the fabric of my life experiences. I wish I had a little less of a grin-and-bare-it attitude throughout my life, because maybe when the Taylor Swift’s and Ashley Judd’s of the world would speak out, there wouldn’t be a commonplace expectation for them to just shut up and accept it. To those ladies, I would like to thank you for setting boundaries and sharing your stories. You are making it a little easier for women who have yet to walk this earth.

 

The Lesser Affleck Takes The Gold

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There was a lot going on this past Sunday, it was Oscar night and I was in Vegas, visiting with a few of my girlfriends. The cheese spread was laid out, the veggies cut into perfect squares, and glasses of white wine flowed as we clutched our Oscar prediction ballots, not knowing this would become one of the most memorable Academy Award nights in history due to the baffling envelope mix-up that temporarily awarded the Best Picture to the wrong film. Within seconds, this unprecedented snafu became the headline that would haunt you for days if you were daring enough to turn on the television, radio, computer or even pick up a newspaper (’cause yes, they still exist). Like the nagging hook on an otherwise good song, it was all that people cared to talk about, probably because for the most part, if you didn’t watch the entire show, it was all you had heard about. But I feel it’s important to take a pause from addressing that particular WTF moment to examine another, and that was the awarding of the Best Leading Actor Oscar to the significantly lesser of the two Afflecks, Casey.

Manchester By The Sea is a decent film, sure  it’s a sad, depressing picture about loss, set in Boston led by a sullen man who requires few words – leaving Michelle Williams to do all the emotional heavy lifting in the most powerful scene of the film. And for the most part, Casey Affleck nailed the part, he can do the brooding Boston thing and we all know this because it is pretty much the only role he has ever played.  Gone Baby Gone, Good Will Hunting, Oceans Eleven – these are his biggest roles and he always plays “dat Boston guy.” Casey Affleck is a one-trick pony and yet somehow managed to get rewarded for yet another one of his carbon copy performances this year by taking home an Oscar! How did this happen?

As a voting member for the Television Academy, I have a little insight to the mind of a voter and I must admit I am perplexed at the selections made this year. Personally, I feel it is taken far too lightly if a voter doesn’t take into consideration the actual skill and range of the person they are selecting to win the highest honor of the year. For example if you were looking to cast someone in the role of a DEA agent in Texas, or a Pennsylvania Mennonite – or heck, even a California surfer,  Casey Affleck ain’t your guy. This guy is only this {} much more qualified as an actor than the pizza guy in a porn. Technically, the same could be said for Emma Stone, who has run the “I’m such a down-to-earth, cool, guy’s girl, look at my big eyes” role into the ground, but I could actually imagine her offering some range if she would dare herself to do something powerful that landed her miles outside of her comfort zone. Affleck on the other hand, I don’t think is even capable. So, without even taking into consideration the sexual assault allegations against Casey, or the astonishingly poor behavior Stone displayed when trying to stir the Best Picture shit pot by insinuating the academy outright lied about the envelope swap to multiple reporters, I sit here scratching my head wondering how these two jokers are walking away with the title Best of anything. Guess this is one more example of how 2016 was a year chockfull of terrible voting results.

The Might of the Snowflake

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“Snowflake” has become the conservative anthem. Hurled frequent and loud to the modern-day liberal as an insult, it’s popularity grew in 2016 and like a broken record, it repeats on an endless loop, filling the bellies of the parties bottom-dwelling trolls with endless joy. I am not entirely sure who is due credit for coining the term, though like most conservative ideas, I assume it caught fire by being showcased on the Fox Network at some point, either by an anchor or guest, but more than likely both. And like the good parrots they are, it became one of ten words solidified in the Trumpster’s dictionary, right next to Benghazi, emails, and Lyin’ Ted.

Not exclusively used to reference the millennial movement any longer, even party leaders are subject to low-brow taunt.

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Ah yes, we get it, snowflakes are delicate and easily destroyed, zing, Wayne Dupree! And for many Trumpsters, the irony is completely lost on them that they recite endlessly about the weakness of the left but then want to stockpile guns, thinks ISIS is everywhere and are afraid of Muslims, even the babies coming into the country seeking desperately needed medical treatment. I’m not saying that all conservatives feel this way, I happen to know a lot of conservatives who are decent people and they tend to be the kind to engage in meaningful discussions and avoid the pettiness displayed by the conservative types who slum low and address people as Libtards.  I mean, the tweeter above seems to think he deserves a slow clap for saving America? Give me a break!

All this slandering rhetoric does is light a fire in the heart of the liberals. They are uniting and mobilizing, fighting for civil rights and against authoritarianism and a rigged political system. And as their voices unit, they as a whole grown stronger everyday. So, call them snowflakes if you must, but keep in mind when a whole lot of snowflakes amass and move rapidly in one direction – that’s called a fucking avalanche.

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Word to the wise – don’t underestimate the might of a Snowflake.

Dating, Noah style

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Between settling into a new career, planning my upcoming nuptials and slowing taking another swing at my novel, I’ve been off the bloggy multiverse for a bit. I recently found myself in a fun discussion about dating – one that was generated by a cheesy “ain’t that just typical” pun about single men that I found HIGHlarious, but in reality was actually met with a blank stare and perhaps the sound of crickets by my audience of one. It took a slight jogging of my memory before I realized that, said conversation companion, had been in only one relationship since high school and didn’t have the entire Mencyclopedia Britannica it seems every single female in L.A. claims to have authored.

Silly me, since moving to Georgia, “this isn’t California anymore, Toto” seems to be my mantra.

As a seasoned, professional dater with 29 years experience (less the first 16, unless you count practice kissing with my pillows), it seems that I may just be somewhat of an authority on the matter. I mean, at the very least if we are using the same standards of “authority” say a show like Married At First Sight uses when they pick their “matchmaking experts,” that are little more than new-wave hippies parading around like psychotherapists (I’m sure you didn’t get your “sexology” degree from Harvard, buddy). So yeah, I guess I can call myself a bit of an expert on the matter. By the time I was done covering the basics of modern-day passive communication styles, sexpectations and  the disturbing rise in ghosting techniques, I had amassed a few more participants in the conversation.

A pretty fair suggestion emerged that this perspective was likely due to the type of man whom I had dated in the past. As I sat there and thought about it, I concluded that I didn’t actually have “a type” at all. Spinning through the rolodex of former suitors, I could see a wide range of everything from race, background, income, physical qualities, it was all over the place. And then it hit me, I was the Noah’s Ark of dating, I think I have dated two of every kind!  And no, not in the slutty way, as a matter of fact I was most adamant about one thing, if you are dating someone and don’t sleep with them after three dates, there was a 90% chance you would never hear from them again. In my experience, a guy who thinks you’re just okay is willing to put up with you for a max of three dates before they move on, to which I will raise a glass and toast to not having any precious time in my 20’s wasted by the ill-intentioned. Nope, I wasn’t going to be fooled by any husk pretending to be boyfriend material, if I was going to make lousy decisions I would do it willfully, with two eyes open and a middle finger pointed straight up to the air. Yep, my mistakes were my own and I love the fact that I was able to share little moments of my life with such a variety of people. I like to think about all the evening’s of deep conversation, good music and laughs and about the ones that got away, but mostly, I love to think about the one that decided to stay.

Being single was two sides of a coin, there were ups and downs but when it comes to my personal chronicals of dating and knowing how it led me to the path I travel today, I wouldn’t change a thing.

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts… till now

/ meganestes / Leave a comment

I was actually really geeking out when rumors were flying last year that they were thinking about doing an all female Ghostbusters. This coincided with a period of time when I had been developing a lot of my own writing, so I actually sat down one day and thought through what I would do with the plot if I were in charge.

So, today was the day I had been anxiously awaiting, they dropped the first Ghostbusters trailer and I wanted to see if it was anything like I had thought or perhaps something even better. It is not. Not even close… not even funny. And this criticism is coming from a girl who loves all four of those actresses, including Kate McKinnon and Leslie Jones. I still watch SNL once in a while, even though the only “cool thing” to do is bash it mercilessly and squawk about how it hasn’t been funny since Belushi died (insert world’s largest eye roll). But, sorry – not even I can find a way to defend that hot steaming pile of trailer that made my eyes burn.  Was it really that bad? I watched it twice – dear gawd yes. So, many questions bounced around my head – why are they doing a reboot and not a stand alone? Could they be saving all the funny stuff for the movie? Did they forget to watch the original film and design the new ghosts after the ecto-cooler drink logo?

Anyway, in an effort to wash the gross out of my mind, and because I think it would be fun,  I’m going to share a quick version of what I had outlined more than a year ago:

———-

Ghostbusters headquarters is 30 years older and falling to pieces, and so is it’s last remaining inhabitant, Dr. Raymond Stantz. The much rounder and grayer Ghostbuster does an interview with the local news about selling the building and contents, he admits he will be retiring to florida since there isn’t much use for a Ghostbusting business after they were phased out by a phone app.

Eventually, it’s purchased by a group of three super nerdy women in their late 30’s (led by a liz lemon type), they set out to restore the building to it’s former glory and turn it into a museum.

At the celebrity filled party for the inauguration of the museum, a careless waiter pops a bottle of champagne and the cork smashes through the glass peep hole of one of the containment units. An initial gasp comes across the crowd, but our liz lemon type assures everyone there is nothing to worry about since these units have been clear for years. She couldn’t be more wrong and a ghost emerges from the unit and begins to wreak havoc. People scream and try to open their Ghostbusting apps, but their cell phones can’t generate service.

Across the city, all of the ghosts people had previously been scaring away with their apps are reclaiming their space due to the large scale phone outage (quick homage to the original GB montage).

Taken in by the law, the women are told as the new owners of the facility, they are to be held accountable for everything and had better fix it. Without any working phones to contact any of the actual Ghostbusters, the three women go to visit the one person they know is left in New York City who might be able to help them. They tap lightly on an old rusted apartment door.

“Whaddya want?” A sassy Janine says. After hearing their plight and initially slamming the door in their faces, Janine reluctantly agrees to help them. They gather intel and equipment back at HQ, and figure out how to stop the ghost. They suit up and Janine takes her rightful place as Ghostbuster number 4. Hijinks ensue as the novice group try to locate and take down the frequency disturbing ghost – and they eventually get the job done.

Back at HQ, Janine shows the girls how to store the ghosts properly. The phone is ringing off the hook, people are calling in – no longer confident their phone apps will keep ghosts at bay they need the Ghostbusters to trap them for good. With a growing confidence among the younger team, they decide it’s fate to reopen the business. Janine says she’s too old for this crap though and takes off her uniform, while the other girls gear up to head out again. Our Liz Lemon leader says they will need some help cover the phones for a bit. Janine rolls her eyes and turns away, we secretly see she is giddy when she slides into her old desk, looking exactly the way it had in 1984. The phone rings again.

“Ghostbusters whaddya want?” Janine shouts into the phone.

Fade to black.

———

Sure, it’s not a prize winner, but I spent all of 20 minutes on it and think it’s far more relatable then that very odd trailer. I could be wrong, but that is where my gut stands as of now.

I’d love to hear what you think about the trailer and what you hope to see in the reboot. After all, there is always HOPE.