By Flickr user Jason Jones

I was told it couldn’t be done, but I proved the naysayers wrong—in the span of five days, I went from having a dead car to a new car at a great price and a great interest rate. Here’s how it went down.

Day 0

My ’96 Saturn SL2 finally called it quits. The Saturn was my fourth car, after a ’93 Dodge Shadow, a ’91 Ford Taurus, and a ’96 Ford Taurus. Those three were hand-me-downs from my mother, and the Saturn was a hand-me-down from my fiancé.

In other words: I’ve had no real experience in buying a car from someone. But, with no hand-me-downs in sight this time, I knew I was going to have to learn real fast.

Day 1

Fortunately, I have had people recommend things to me in the past when it comes to car shopping. The main site to check out is Edmunds.com, which hosts plenty of reviews and pricing information. But the most helpful feature I found on there was their auto loan calculator, particularly the “How Much Can I Afford?” calculator. Because I run all my finances on a budget, I knew about how much I was willing to spend per month and how much I could afford as a down payment. I also knew that because I’ve been carefully building my credit for the past three years, I could get a great interest rate on the loan, too. Popped in all that information, and voilà, there was the price range I could purchase a car for. (I will say now that this turned out to be very accurate in the end.)

Another great source was DealerRater.com. Go to their directory, choose your state, and start narrowing down by car make. (I already knew, after doing research in the past, that I wanted to buy an Asian car. So, that narrowed down the dealer searching a great deal.)

Once I found a couple of worthwhile dealerships, I went to their sites and checked out their inventory. This gave me a very good idea of the quality and the price range of each place, all without having to physically gets up and look at a whole bunch of cars at this point. Most dealership sites will list all the vitals and then some about each car, as well as a free Carfax report of each car. I highly, highly recommend doing this, because I know that even having done this, I still got overwhelmed looking at all the cars in person at the dealerships. The more research you can do before going near a car, the better.

Day 2

Okay, I narrowed down what dealerships I wanted to visit and what cars I wanted to look at. I have a good price range in mind. So, now I need to think about financing. As I was researching about financing, one thing I kept reading over and over again was “don’t finance through the dealership.”

There was a caveat to that, though. That sentence should fully read “don’t finance through the dealership… unless you have an interest rate to bring to the table and they better that offer.” In other words, shop around different banks and ask to be pre-approved for a loan. If they don’t have that, find out what interest rates they typically offer, and then apply to the bank(s) that offers the best possible option. You’ll be informed that you were or were not approved anywhere from the same day to a few days later.

The reason to do this is so that you create competition with the car dealership’s financing department. If you just go in with nothing, they could very likely tell you that the interest rate on your financing will be 15%, here’s your car, and have a good day. However, if you go in and say, “My credit union gave me a 60 month loan at 5%,” well, they know they can’t pull a fast one on you. If they can’t do better, you’ve secured a loan to purchase your car at an affordable rate. If they can do better, then you just saved yourself even more money. It’s win-win.

I unfortunately wasn’t able to do this till Day 4, because my transportation (i.e., my fiancé) was in work till midnight, so I had to do the initial financing research over the web. That was better than nothing, though. I do wish I had done it all on Day 2, as the process would’ve been a little smoother.

For a brief overview on this process, I recommend these articles on LendingTree and Maholo.

Day 3

I had a foundation thanks to my research, so now I went ahead and visited the dealerships. I went to four, although I left the second one pretty quickly as I didn’t see anything nice that was in my price range. I hunted down any car that met my criteria of 1) in my price range, 2) Asian, 3) less than 50,000 miles, 4) sedan, and 5) automatic transmission.

My fiancé and I made sure to make this day feel as relaxed as possible. We started with breakfast at Perkins. Then we stopped at two dealerships. After that, we took a lunch break and split a soda and fries at Wendy’s. Then we went to the final two dealerships. It wound up being an 8 hour day. My head was swimming by the end, and I know it would’ve been worse if we didn’t force the day to slow down.

I let my fiancé do nearly all the talking as that’s what he does best (he’s the schmoozer, I’m the money person). We test drove a couple of vehicles at each dealership and looked carefully over each vehicle. In the beginning, it was easy to get wowwed by each car. However, after a couple more cars, I started to realize that the things that seemed so cool to me are actually standard nowadays. Wow, welcome to the 2000s! Once I cleared my head, it was easier to look at the cars more critically. How does the acceleration feel? How does my body fit in the seat? Anything sound/look/feel weird?

Once we were done, we let each dealer know that we weren’t purchasing that day, said our thank yous, wrote down the year, make, and model of each car, and went on our merry way.

Day 4

Decisions, decisions. I narrowed down the cars I liked the most to three choices. Then I went to each dealership’s website and printed out the page and Carfax for each car so I could carefully think about my options.

This is when to get rid of any of the warm fuzzy feelings and to think practically. This is my budget, this is what I need, this is what meets those needs. There were a couple of nice cars that had to be cut from the list because, no matter how nice they were, they just weren’t in my budget. I don’t really need heated seats, no matter how awesome they are.

Once I made the choice, I had my fiancé the schmoozer make the phone call and let the dealer know my choice.

This day is also when I wound up shopping around for an auto loan. It’s doable on Day 4, but I really recommend sooner than later. The one upside of doing it on Day 4, though, was that I knew how much money to request since I had finally settled on which car I wanted.

Day 5

My mind is made up, I have a good car loan set up already, now I just have to go to the dealership and sign my life away.

This day goes by a lot easier if you possess a few things: 1) an appointment with the dealer, 2) good credit, and 3) the ability to say ‘no’ under pressure.

Since we had an appointment, we were able to start signing all the legal stuff right away. We also took a look at the car again to make sure nothing with it changed since we last saw it. (Oh, the last test driver ran into a mailbox? Oops.)

Once all that was done, we went into the office of the finance guy. He gave me an interest rate one whole percentage under the best deal I was given. (Therefore, the fact that I didn’t really have all of that stuff properly set up in time with my bank was moot. Bargaining accomplished.)

Then comes out the “extended warranty” stuff. This is tricky, because the general attitude towards them is negative. The first offer we were shown was definitely not worth it—I would have been paying for 5 years for a warranty that would cover me for at best 1.5 years. Once we said no, then the finance guy started looking through a database for offers not directly through the dealership. He found us something that would cover any road hazard repairs for up to about 50,000 miles on the car—which would be when the car is at almost 100,000 miles total. That made more sense, so we decided, knowing my luck with cars, to go for that deal.

We were in and out of the dealership in about an hour.

Day 6

I’m really happy with this purchase. Everything worked out as I had hoped it would. I know people who have spent weeks or months shopping for a car. I know people who spent all day inside the dealership purchasing their car because they weren’t prepared or they had poor credit. I know people who were taken for a ride (oh ho, bad pun) with the dealership’s financing and had to refinance elsewhere. It can all be a miserable experience, but it doesn’t have to be.

I will say that the one bad thing I experienced in all this is that I don’t think I’ll be inclined to work with my workplace’s credit union again for a loan. The loan officer treated me pretty condescendingly, which I would presume is because I’m so young looking. (I mean, to actually guffaw and shoot me dirty looks at some of the questions I had while filling out the loan application? Really?) It makes me wonder how I would have been treated at the dealerships and other banks if I had been without my fiancé, who is 13.5 years older than me. Or was it just that this particular woman was a jerk?

Either way, that was the only bad experience I had during this process. I’d advise other young females going solo to be on guard for that type of behavior.

Originally posted 2012-04-03 22:54:08. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

On my way home from the city, I took the wrong train.

By accident, though I am the kind of person who would exchange the tree canopies and scraggy power-plant exhaust chimneys for the beach and acres of fresh wood, on purpose. After a transcendent evening with my good friend Chin, I left Wall Street at 9:10, and my subway ride just made the connecting 9:37 from Penn Station. Or so I thought.

When I raced to my track and bolted into the train, I felt triumph and a burning sensation that erupted in my throat. The pain was worth it until I realized my mistake. The helpful conductor recommended I leave at Secaucus to wait for the later train I hoped I didn’t have to take.

The Secaucus train station is a series of four isolated platforms that rise above the Turnpike and the Meadowlands. From the Meadowlands-facing side, I can see the Empire State Building. That skyscraper is made visible by its fluorescent green crown, tall among the sea of lazy weeds. But the roar of the Turnpike below dominates the aural scene and the entire universe.

And that entire universe consists of just me and the friendly lampposts, kept yards apart. They just illuminate the emptiness. I am cold. So I take out my headphones and clamp them onto my ears. The opening sitar descent from Thunderball’s Road to Benares tears through the velvety night.

I have an intense fear of heights. I can’t stand near the edge of a balcony. When Beetle brought me to her breathtaking Herald Square terrace I fought to keep from either falling or choking on my own vomit. My fear of heights is less an objective concern than it is my self-awareness: given insufficient restraint, I would fling myself over high railings and throw my life away for the simple — drastic — fall.

When I was sixteen, I asked my not-as-yet boyfriend to take me to a high place. I visited his sprawling Hyderabadi house. We spoke together in an damp upstairs bedroom. He used the computer by the window while I leaned into the river of luxurious bedcovers.

And though I loved talking to him, I felt sick. When I went home I knew I’d have to face my grades. My grades weren’t just bad. These were why-on-Earth-haven’t-you-dropped-out-yet bad, so terrible my friends felt pity for me even when I lied about my grades to make them more palatable. I lived it, that weightlessness. I doubted myself until my mind bled. And I hated the fact that I never did homework no matter how much I tried or how diligently I reminded myself to do it.

I just wanted to step out from my conscious and live the deep beats and melodies that sang into the sky and Earth. I felt so distant from the bed, the room. Him. I wanted to reach out, mention the colossal weight on my ribs, and hope for some reassurance.

The words came out of my mouth before I could stop them:

“Can we go somewhere?” I asked. “High? Far away from here?”

Before, we had been talking about the places and people in our lives. That was the worst. All I had done, had ever wanted, was to get away from most of them. My feet rested on the invisible ledge and the pristine world remained, tranquil and pleasant, waiting for me below.

He nodded, getting up from his chair. Together we went downstairs, grabbed the keys from his father. We went, along with his sister, to Birla Mandir.

Birla Mandir is a temple and one of Hyderabad’s tallest structures. It took ten years to shape and carve it from powerful Rajasthani marble. Its views are stunning and offer a glimpse of both Hyderabad and Secunderabad, sprawling twin cities that squat about a gigantic manmade tank. Future Boyfriend pushed me by the small of the back up the wide stone steps while his sister lingered by the deities. She may have felt prayerful. I just yearned to savor those few seconds of charged fear and excitement between stability and the fall.

My legs hurt from the strain but I reached. I reached and saw the two cities spread below me, waiting for me to jump. I let my feet cross the impossible threshold for a second. Nothing held me back. No crushing gravitational pull. Both Future Boyfriend and his sister stood further away, watching a street procession while rapt with discussion. I could fall and they would never know.

I could be the last woman on Earth.
Its only hope.
Its only future.

A moment later, a familiar, debilitating panic clawed me away from the ledge. As I moved back I panted so hard my chest burst. I clutched myself, waiting for the others to finish watching and turn back.

Later my boyfriend told me he thought I was ill. I told him I thought I was dying.

Later he told me he understood my question. He loves high places and deceives himself less. His deepest fantasy involves being let out alone deep into the ocean, on a sailboat.

At Secaucus, I conduct a solo symphony. The weeds respond to every minute flick of my arms. The brash streetlights ruin every shot I try to take with my awful cellphone camera. And then I reach the end of the platform. My platform is a little longer than the other three.

Here, at the end, there remains nothing but the dark and gravel and the highway below. One misstep and I could careen onto the highway. I push my toes past the gate, as far as I dare to take them. The world is dark and quiet and I might fall.

But I don’t.

The self-preserving monster pulls me back from the edge. The music stops and I remember myself. I turn off my iPod and stop the seduction. I watch the silent traffic as the nausea paralyzes me. Five minutes later, the train whistle rips the fragile air.

As I get on the train, the Kingdom of Secaucus waits. We have a secret, it and I.

I close my eyes. When I open them again, I am far, far, away.

Originally posted 2012-03-08 23:53:22. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

As of Monday evening, 9,186 people want Sesame Street to let Bert & Ernie finally say I Do. Needless to say, any time you put ‘gay’ and ‘kids’ anywhere near each other people start freaking out.

This necessarily brings to mind other controversies surrounding ‘gay’ characters for children. Rev. Jerry Falwell set off a furor in 1999 when he accused the Teletubbies’ Tinky Winky of being a “moral menace.”

“‘He is purple — the gay-pride color; and his antenna is shaped like a triangle — the gay-pride symbol,” he wrote. He also noted that Tinky Winky carries a purse-like bag.

In 2005 Spongebob Squarepants, who holds hands with his best friend Squidward, earned the scrutiny of Focus on the Family:

…after SpongeBob appeared in a video promoting tolerance for different “sexual identities”. Critics argue that SpongeBob has never considered his friend Sandy the squirrel from Texas or any aquatic female a love interest, yet he spends an exorbitant amount of time with his starfish pal Patrick. Author Jeffrey P. Dennis has suggested a potential“erotic intensity” between the two, but SpongeBob and Patrick have only held hands. The show’s creator has said the character, like a real sponge, is probably asexual. (The Daily Beast)

Much like Rick Santorum fears that gay marriage heralds a hellish era of man-on-dog sex, Falwell and his ilk fear that these shows are “teaching kids to be gay”. They object just as strongly to messages of tolerance, nevermind outright friendship with gay characters. Heaven forbid homosexuality be normalized. Let’s not ‘expose’ the children to such things before the hate has really taken root.

Perhaps the best argument against this doomsaying is Bert and Ernie‘s longevity in the form they have always taken: Best friends and roommates. Sesame Street has been running since 1969, and Bert and Ernie have been there from the start. For 41 years children have grown up seeing two adult male characters co-existing quite peaceably. Their bond of friendship is often tested, and yet it survives. They get along even though they are complete opposites.

Several generations of kids have grown up watching them, and I can see no negative incidents spawning from it. Adults haven’t wound up on the therapist’s couch bemoaning how Sesame Street “made” them gay. There is no uprising of people who blame Bert and Ernie for making them question their sexuality. How many coming out stories have have you seen that feature these puppets? I see just one, which is deliciously snarky.

According to Sesame Street’s own website, “Today, approximately six million viewers watch Sesame Street each week, while more than 80 million are Sesame Street “graduates.” If 80 million Americans have watched the show, then surely an abnormally high percentage of them must be gay! And we simply can’t have that!

What is so awful about showing children healthy relationships–of any sort? Bert and Ernie are adults who treat each other with respect, who always find a common ground, who demonstrate that even extremes can get along. Friendship is more important than a lost rubber ducky.

Friendship is also more important than sex. The healthiest, most long-lasting marriages are between friends.

I would rather that children have an example of two people co-habiting and surviving arguments because their affection for each other outlasts pettiness than worry about their sexual orientation.

I think the only fitting response is for Avenue Q to stage a ceremony between its Bert & Ernie parody, Rod and Nicky. After years of Rod denying his true nature (“My girlfriend who lives in Canada-!“) the roomies finally hook up by the end of the show. They live in New York City, where gay marriage was just legalized, so it would be a very timely follow-up.

As for Bert & Ernie, I think everyone ought to reflect a moment upon what Alyssa Rosenberg of Think Progress has to say:

 I think it’s actively unhelpful to gay and straight men alike to perpetuate the idea that all same-sex roommates, be they puppet or human, must necessarily be a gay couple. Having close, affectionate friendships with another man doesn’t mean that you two are sleeping together, just as liking fashion doesn’t automatically flip a switch on your sexual orientation and make you only interested in dudes. Such assumptions narrow the aperture of what we understand as heterosexual masculinity in a really strange way. As much as I write about how narrow depictions of women can be in pop culture, depictions of men may end up being more positive, but that doesn’t mean they’re less limiting.

There is still a positive message in Bert and Ernie remaining simply roommates. Two grown men can co-habitate, be friends, and hug. And they should be able to do so without anyone making assumptions about who they do or don’t like to fuck.

This piece originally aired on August 15, 2011.

Originally posted 2012-03-28 23:46:01. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

Learning and loving is what I’m all about.  I’m always on the look-out for new information, creating stories in my head for strangers who pass by me on the journey to their day’s destinations.  As with any person, my life has had it’s ups and it’s downs and surely, I have a lot more coming my way.

Lately, my life has been about settling in with my girlfriend, getting a steady job, and getting my life in order.  Approaching my mid-twenties, it’s about time that things started to fall into place.  Writing has been a part of me for a long time, and I plan on keeping it with me.  I grew up somewhat sheltered, but have only blossomed and become an open-minded, loving, and artistic person.

If there’s anything that I’ve learned and have kept with me, it is this:  if the things we want the most in life weren’t hard to achieve, they wouldn’t be worth any of the effort that we put into them.

Originally posted 2012-03-06 22:10:02. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

Comic by Roxy!

Paganism is often depicted as evil and Satanic, despite the prevalence of peace and equality throughout the majority of Pagan religions.

(A giant programming note: pagan religions are generally very peaceful. That’s not to say that there aren’t people who engage in “Devil worship” but these are usually not people who honestly believe in what they’re doing. They think they’re being rebels, they’re doing it to go against the grain, to shock people, and to rebel against their parents, society, their church, their school, whatever it is that they feel needs to be taken down a peg. They get their information from Hollywood and myths perpetrated by Christians. And the only way you can consider them to really be pagans is to use the broadest sense of the word “pagan” which is anything other than Christianity. Which also includes Hindus, Jews, and Buddhists among other non-Christian faiths.)

As far as magic itself goes, there is no such thing as black or white magic. Most pagans who believe in magic and magical use will readily tell you that there is just magic. You can use what is there for good or for bad, but it doesn’t suddenly become something new. But, I’m not even here to get into that. It was something that would inevitably come up, however, so I felt it was important to mention this.

Paganism is egalitarian, feminine, and natural. It’s also generally polytheistic. And it advocates peace. Paganism is not what Hollywood and Christianity would have us believe. Paganism encompasses many, many different religions. Each with its own set of beliefs and rules, many of which are shared by other similar religions that fall under that term.

Wicca is the best recognized pagan religion.

Many hear Wicca and think, “Witches!”

Many Wiccans use and embrace the term “Witch” and make it their own. They are not ashamed of it and nor should they be. That is just simply how they identify and there is nothing sinister about it.

Wicca, however, is a very peaceful religion. It isn’t about skinning animals to use for sacrifices. Just do a tiny bit of research into Wicca and you will find the Wiccan Rede* (via Wikipedia):

“An it harm none, do as ye will.”

The meaning for this is obvious. You aren’t supposed to deliberately hurt anyone or anything if you can help it. Don’t get hung-up on that, “harm none” idea, though. A Wiccan is definitely within their right to defend himself or herself if someone or something is attacking them.

Wiccans also do not go around cursing people! There is a Rule of Three to worry about (if common sense itself doesn’t intervene fist). The Rule of Three states (from Wikipedia):

“…that whatever energy a person puts out into the world, be it positive or negative, will be returned to that person three times.”

This can be good or bad, depending on what you have done. Have you done something bad? Well, then you’ll get it back three fold. Did you do something good? Then you’ll get it back three fold. It’s a way of saying, “what goes around, comes around.”

Now I want to get into the reason why I wrote this post.

Apparently, there are still people who are prominent or at least in the limelight who like to insist that Wiccans are Satanists. I recently read an article** where a woman was running for office solely so that she could get the word out against abortion. She even stated she did not care if she won. You see, before she ran for office she’d been trying to get ads against abortion aired on television. But, nobody would do it! They were deemed too graphic. However, when she ran for office in DC, they had to allow her ads because of the rules on equal time. She was entitled to it and being anti-choice was a big part of her campaign.

**[Before actually clicking on that link, however, I want to caution everyone. There are graphic images in the videos included in the article that will be disturbing to some people. If you don't want to risk it, don't click on the videos. Perhaps don't even click on the link at all. If it doesn't bother you, go ahead, but proceed with caution. Its difficult to describe them without seeing them.]

This woman, Missy Reilly Smith, is definitely not happy with Planned Parenthood and while telling us exactly why (abortion), she goes on to mention that Wiccans are proof that abortion is wrong and evil (and so is Planned Parenthood), because Satan is pleased when people sacrifice innocent babies to him.

“The more that you’re involved in this organization [Planned Parenthood] the more demonic you realize it is,” Smith said. “Many of the employees of Planned Parenthood and abortion mills, the actual killing centers, the employees are actual witches. They belong to Wiccan and there’s nothing more valuable to Satan than the blood of innocent babies.”

[Emphasis mine.]

I want to take this moment to say that that is the most ridiculous thing she could’ve said. Wiccans do not believe in Satan. Why would they sacrifice anything to a being that they do not believe exists?

This shouldn’t surprise me too much, though. This woman’s videos give a good deal of information. Misinformation, that is. Partial information. For example, she mentions that at a certain point in pregnancy (around 20 weeks?) that a fetus begins to suck its thumb. She uses this as a way to make you feel attached to the hypothetical fetus. But, she doesn’t mention that this is an involuntary reflex that has nothing to do with conscious thought or consciousness in general. The fetus’ body does this involuntarily as practice for sucking, so that it can suck when it is born, and thus get nourishment. But, this doesn’t mean that the fetus has any sort of conscious thought going on whatsoever. It is evidence of nothing. But, the graphic ads are used as shock value and while our psyches are still raw she is hoping to use this little tidbit of partial information in order to tug at our heart-strings and sway us to her side of things. Which is to agree that abortion should be made illegal.

This woman claims that she had two abortions and feels duped by the people who advised her and who performed the abortion. I am very sad for her if that is true. But, that is no reason to try to take away the rights of others, and it is definitely no reason to slander an entire group of people and give false or misleading information in hopes of advancing her goal.

Wiccans are just as divided about abortion as non-Wiccans. There are many that are in favor of keeping abortion legal, there are those that are opposed. The Wiccans who are employed at Planned Parenthood are not employed there so that they can deliver innocent blood to Satan. They are there because they believe that abortion should be legal and that its an important part of women’s reproductive rights. Among whatever other personal reasons or beliefs they likely have. Just like anyone of any other religion (or those who don’t have a religion at all) are there for.

I want to address something else, before someone else does, because of my talk about Wiccans not believing in Satan. Many Wiccans worship a specific God and Goddess. The God is the one I want to talk about at the moment. He is one aspect of Wicca that people point to and say that he is proof that Wiccans believe in Satan. That is the Horned God. He is not Satan. I’m sorry, but not every being that is worshiped which has horns is Satan or a demon. He is the God of the Hunt, the male aspect that complements the female aspect***. He is half of a whole.  He is the aggressive and wild aspect.

“In common Wiccan belief, he is associated with nature, wilderness, sexuality, hunting and the life cycle.”

The Wikipedia article goes on to mention:

“In traditional and mainstream Wicca, the Horned God is viewed as the masculine side of divinity, being both equal and opposite to the Goddess.”

This is not Satan. Wiccans do not believe in Satan, and I promise Wiccans (and pagans in general) do not eat babies or sacrifice them to imaginary demons that they don’t even believe in.

When you are examining another religion, one that you do not believe in yourself for whatever reason, you need to make an attempt to look at the religion objectively. If you are Christian, and you genuinely want to examine the Wiccan religion, you cannot put everything in a Christian perspective. You must step outside of your comfort zone and look at it from the eyes of a Wiccan, or from the eyes of a casual, impartial observer. Many Christians, for example, feel that the Bible says witches are bad, and any reference to a being with horns is really a reference to Satan, and that is true…in Christianity. But, it is not true of other religions. Many Christians get caught up in looking at other religions from their own religion’s viewpoint. Looking at it another way is not blasphemy or sacrilegious and does not denote that you are attempting to convert to another religion. When exploring another religion, you cannot let your own get in the way, or you are missing everything about the religion you are attempting to learn about.

*The Wiccan Rede – There is a much longer version of the Rede, but generally speaking the sentence I provided is the important part. The one part that all Wiccans tend to agree on. I should also mention that there is a more modern version,

“An it harm none, do as ye will. An it cause harm, do as ye must.”

This is not telling Wiccans that they are free to do whatever they want. It is adapted this way, because too many people were getting hung up on, “harm none” and it was getting to be ridiculous. Is it harming someone if I stop them from harming someone else? Is it harming someone if I don’t? Is it harming someone if I defend myself from a physical attack? Is it bad to kill a spider?! And other like things were getting ridiculous. Thus, came the add-on. [Wicca For Beginners -- Thea Sabin]

***I mentioned earlier that equality is important in Wicca. This is very true. Wicca places much importance on balance and harmony. In many covens (yes, you read that right), you will find that there are equal numbers of women and men. This is balance. Men are no more or less important than women, and vice versa. But, both are halves of one whole. That’s the easiest way I can think of to put it. Naturally if there is a goddess, there must also be a god. There are some Wiccan sects that break from this, like the Dianic Wicca, and others like it, which mainly or only worship a goddess or a set of goddesses, but no gods. There will always be exceptions to rules, but the Dianic path is not the norm for worship as far as the majority of Wiccan covens and sects go. At least, not that I know of.

Originally posted 2012-03-24 23:43:58. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

[this post ran on June 2, 2011, but it's still a great excuse for why I couldn't write -- or post -- anything for today.]

So this morning, I put the finishing touches on a personal essay. I thought it was some of the best work I’d written for a while.

I’ve been staring at this screen for ages. I tried to narrow my interests to a particular topic. Should I write about food? (see: neglected Eat Cheap Shit column.) Should I write about Anthony Weiner? Or about the horrific events surrounding Dominique Strauss-Kahn and a Sofitel employee?

It’s just that I can’t.

I haven’t been able to do it for a while. I do have opinions about fresh food. A guest showed me an excellent gobi paratha recipe and I spent hours over the weekend, just watching her expert hands knead the bread. I have opinions about the Anthony Wiener case: why isn’t he responding to questions properly? Why does anyone in his right mind think that he tweeted his dick to a stranger? And can Andrew Breitbart just go fellate himself already? And the coverage on Dominique Strauss Kahn has gone everywhere from victim-blaming, to French-hating, to serious musings on misogyny and its manifestations at home and abroad.

These are fascinating subjects. They deserve attention, and they get them. And I try, in my own way, to add to the conversation. But anything I say feels regurgitated. I add nothing new. I simply echo, forming another mirror in a passageway of mirrors. Somehow this hallway of reflected material constitutes dialogue.

I had a post ready to go up today. I’m not going to say what it was about, because I will put it up. I wrote about an experience. It involved a shared experience (ie, other people have written about it). The topic can scholarly or superficial; it crosses the delicate line between both. And I’ve been trying to approach it from that scholarly perspective. I wanted to say the quick-witted thing, make the extra conclusion,  find that quote. Never mind that experience I felt when being near the experience, close enough to touch. Being in the presence of that stimulation was anything but clinical; being there as part of the memory rather than the objective experience is where my interest lies. The more I wrote, the more clinical I felt.

I know that I’m capable of hard analysis. Given a reason, I can be logical. I just prefer not to be. There is so much untapped beauty in the subjective, I find that muddying myself on an unfriendly and well-worn path makes no sense for me. An event in isolation feels too sterile for my consideration. So I place things in patterns, make connections, draw them to me. I would rather be evocative than precise. And the more that I read and understand, the more pressure I feel to reject my preferences and move to something safer.

Feelings are dangerous. Facts convey an easy authority. But truth begins with the facts and quickly moves to either the sublime or the horrifying. It is the individual experience, and the general experience.

When I feel that pressure to analyze and write about that objective topic, I freeze. Sometimes I doubt my own authority or command of the language. Often, I feel I don’t have something extra to contribute. Perhaps I come from a different place. Maybe I’m saying the wrong thing.

I have a post to tilt on its axis. I hope it works this time.

Originally posted 2012-03-22 23:24:20. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

To recap, “TiMER” is a near-future science fiction rom-com, in which a device has the ability to tell you when, to the day, you will meet your One True Love.

There is an unsettling aspect of this movie that I’d like to discuss in greater detail. There are easily 4 moments in this film which seem quite anti-feminist, or at least appear to propagate the idea that women are the only ones actively looking for love. It seems that in the world of TiMER, women are the ones looking, and everyone else is just along for the ride. I want to say that I don’t know how I feel about this, but that would not really be accurate.

See, I feel ambivalent about this, the best way I could describe it is that this tendency makes me feel weird. On the one hand, it’s great that women can take their Destiny into their own hands (Ha! Literally!) but on the other hand, it just seems icky.

I’ve already talked about Oona taking Brian to the TiMER store, and how little he seemed to actually be into this whole TiMER idea, and how much it seemed like Oona just pressured him into it. I’ve also already talked about Marian being the driving force behind her 14-year-old son getting a TiMER. It seems vaguely anti-feminist to me, that Oona and Marian are focusing so strongly on the whole TiMER issue that every other aspect of their lives seem to be completely irrelevant, hanging out in the peripheral until that whole True Love thing has been sorted out.

Not to be misunderstood, I certainly don’t want to imply that a woman who takes control of her own love life is acting in an anti-feminist manner. My concern is actually that the writers or producers of this film seem to be propagating the oft-heard and rarely-loved-by-me theory that a woman without her man is nothing.

Because really, I love my husband. I really do. But there much more that makes me Me, besides just my love for him, would find it beyond insulting to be solely identified as girl who loves that guy. It’s not just that I wish to be identified as someone more than just his-spouse. It’s that, in a perfect world, I’d like to get to know more about Oona than just the character traits that directly relate to her quest for and romanticization of True Love.

Oona is somewhat obsessive about her love life. She’ll go on blind dates arranged by her mother. She judges her sister for being promiscuous when she knows that her One is out there. As an orthodontist, the only thing we know about her professional life is that she will let her patient get her braces off early so that the patient can look cute for the boys when she starts school in the next few weeks. I don’t know if that makes her a kind and empathetic orthodontist, or a mildly incompetent orthodontist who is willing to put her practice on the line for the opportunity to allow her young female patients to conform to societal standards of beauty that don’t involve oral hardware. We know that Oona is very cutesy when she is spending time with Mikey, and we know that she is secretive about her relationship with Mikey around Steph.

But we don’t know if Oona likes to read. We don’t know if she was a good student at orthodontist school. We don’t know if maybe her original dream was to be an internationally-acclaimed neurobiologist, but she just couldn’t handle the organic chemistry prerequisites. We don’t know if she likes to knit because it calms her, or if she loves reptiles because she thinks even the less-than-cute ones deserve love, or if she likes to go to the airport to people-watch because the transiency of traveling makes people seem more real to her.

And it is in this respect that this film seems anti-feminist to me. Because Oona isn’t exactly a fully developed character, so much as a one-dimensional Macguffin-seeker. We get absolutely no hints that would imply that there is more to her than her quest for True Love. And that makes her less than a person, really. It’s not through any fault of her own; on the contrary, it seems that she is just proof that gender-discriminatory constructs can leak over into fantasy-fiction.

And then there is free-spirited and promiscuous step-sister Steph. She seems pretty disillusioned by the TiMER. Who wouldn’t be, with a wait of more than another decade before meeting their One? She spends her days working as a receptionist (with attitude, of course) at a nursing home, because, in her own words, old folks don’t care about the TiMER, and they don’t spend all day talking about when they are going to meet their One. She spends her nights working as a bartender, because that’s the best way to meet men with TiMERs who want to sow their oats before zeroing out.

She doesn’t seem to be exactly obsessed with the concept of the One the way that Oona is. She also doesn’t seem to be the most romantic person in this movie. In fact, in the words of Dan the Man, a guy she kind of likes even though he doesn’t have a TiMER, she is the most inappropriate person he has ever met. She says the most random things. She doesn’t care about the so- called important things in life. She is living her life for herself, TiMER be damned. This tiny little device will not dictate how she lives, which makes her the most refreshing character in the film for me. She’s not trying to fight fate, because nothing, not even fate, will determine what makes her happy.

So why is it, towards the end of the second act, that Steph tells Oona in a fit of rage that she would always try to help her search for the One by offering up “TiMER-less losers” for Oona to prey on? All of a sudden, this abrasive and free-spirited character just had her the all-encompassing search for searching for her One, but just helping in Oona’s search seems counter-intuitive considering what we already know about her.

Again, it all comes back to the these women are doing what they Destiny. What I want to know is the women’s search for love? I get it, this is probably supposed to be a chick flick, which means that we care more about women, and the men are simply secondary characters.

Incidentally, I only just recently learned about the Bechdel Test**. I don’t tend to watch many chick flicks, I’m more of an action movie kind of girl. But! I find it quite interesting that the two chick flicks that I have seen in recent history both seem to fail the Bechdel Test, and both on part three.

Yeah, you could argue that Steph, Marian and Oona talk about their family, and how perfect it is, or that the three of them talk about Love, but not necessarily as relates to men, but I think if you look at the spirit of the question, this movie still fails. The only thing the women of this movie talk about, with each other or with male characters, is love, the search for love, and the concept of romance. It’s too much for me, and it fails the spirit of question three of the Bechdel Test, because in that respect, these characters are very one dimensional.

I think that Just Because a movie falls under the rom-com area of purview does not necessarily mean that a movie should or would fail the Bechdel Test, and I think that this movie may have had opportunities to pass the test. It seems that the spirit of the Bechdel Test focuses on the character development of the females in a film. And really, if Oona, Steph or Marian had any kind of development that told us anything at all more than just “TiMer: check, True Love: check, Men: check” then I might be more satisfied with the results of the Bechdel Test. But even our main character is poorly developed as a character or a person.

Anyway, a decent chunk of the second act is spent showing how things are happy, wonderful, and full of love. Oona is in a relationship, of sorts, with grocery store Mikey. He just works at the grocery store to pay the bills, his real passion is music, because what else would tell us that this is a failing relationship besides the trope of having a musician for a boyfriend.

We see a montage of happy times with Oona and Mikey, and it’s quite endearing. She plays video games with his friends. He pretends to be a dentist looking at her teeth. They snuggle in bed and tell each other how much they hate each other, in the most loving of ways, of course.

Incidentally, this is something I’ve seen in a few different movies and television shows lately. A couple that very clearly loves each other never actually says the L-word, but rather spends unusual amounts of time thinking of ways to say they hate each other instead. But they express this so-called hatred with nothing but love and devotion in their voices. This makes me uncomfortable, for two different reasons. Obviously, it takes all types of people to make the world go round, that’s what they say, right? Well, for me, personally, I don’t tend to use the H- word very often, and in the rare occasion that I do, I really REALLY mean it. I would never ever use the H-word with someone I love, jokingly or not.

I’ve been in relationships where truths were “accidentally” spilled through the usage of jokes, sarcasm, and other pseudo- dishonesties. When someone says he was trying to give you a thumbs-up, but “accidentally” flipped you the bird instead, someone like me tends to think that there may be some truth to the sentiment. And when someone tells me, with a joking or loving tone of voice, that they hate me, I tend to believe the words, not the tone.

Words have a power that many people seem to underestimate. I spend inordinate amounts of time thinking about words, because there have been oh so many occasions in my life where it was the words that made the difference, not the intent. The words one chooses to use, particularly in heated situations, can mean the difference between the forgivable and the unforgivable. An example: I once heard the following, “I love you, even though you aren’t as hot or as interesting as this girl I work with.” I heard the L-word, sure, but the reason why that particular memory is still so very vivid in my head, even after almost a decade, is because of the rest of it, not because that was the first time this particular person said the L-word to me.

So yeah, words have a strange power.

So, Oona is happy with Mikey. She forgets to think about her blank TiMER when she’s with him. She forgets to think about his TiMER that is slowly and steadily approaching zero. She thinks only of being with him. This is the Oona that she wants to be. This is the Oona that I want her to be.

I get emotionally attached to characters, especially the particularly well-developed ones. I empathize for this girl. I want her to find love***. I want this montage to be her happily ever after.

Alas, we are only about halfway into the movie, and there needs to be an event that sends the plot spiraling inevitably towards climax and denouement. And if you watched this movie the way I did, the next event after the montage of happy fun times certainly qualifies as said event.

Again, I can’t stress enough, spoilers abound.

Oona and Steph get into a fight. Steph finds out about the secret relationship that Oona has been having with Mike, and doesn’t approve of Oona continuing to sleep with this boy with a TiMER approaching zero. For as much as Steph makes it clear that she is upset and disappointed with Oona, it quickly becomes clear that her anger and disappointment stem directly from her concern that Oona will be hurt. They may be “just stepsisters” but these girls are best friends, they may as well be sisters.

I have sisters. Sisters can be your best friends. Sisters can break your heart. In the event that sisters break your heart, at least for me, it’s out of concern for them, worry about them being hurt, concern that life is being unnecessarily difficult for them, maybe a wish that you could just make it all better. My sister is my best friend, I love this girl like no other. I would be worried, scared, disappointed, if I were in Steph’s place, if my sister were in Oona’s place. This is one of the scenes that hits closest to home for me, because of the realism of how their sisterhood is portrayed.

And just as things are about to blow up, Mikey interjects, and tells both of them that there is no need to fight, because his TiMER isn’t real.

Let’s take a moment here. The first time I saw this, my jaw dropped, and I sat there catching flies for a good two or three minutes. To say that I did NOT see that coming would be a gross understatement of the worst kind.

Okay, so Mikey has a fake TiMER, he’s not really zeroing out. That’s great, right? Now Oona and Mikey can have their happily ever after, right?

Wrong.

This movie does not believe in happily ever after. We’re two- thirds of the way through, story-wise, and it is altogether too easy to see that nobody will end up happy at the end of this. Except maybe fourteen-year-old Jesse.

Oona flips out when she finds out that Mikey has been lying to her. She seems to fail to notice that this is one of those “kind of okay” lies, because she is finding out that the truth is to her benefit, if she would only calm down. But our heroine is so afraid of commitment, and so unwilling to give a relationship a chance just because it’s not her perfect vision of the ideal, that this part of the film quickly spirals into tragedy.

It’s funny, after all of this talk about how it’s all about the women, and men are completely and utterly unromantic, we find ourselves in a scene where the romantic roles seem to be reversed. Mikey has admitted his lie, and is bravely trying to emphasize that his lie was in the hopes of alleviating some of the stress and pressure in meeting women. More importantly, he didn’t immediately admit to the lie when he started dating Oona, because he (rightly) saw that she was so hung up on the TiMER question that she would never have given their relationship a fair chance if she had known the truth from the beginning.

Oona is the heroine of this movie, but in this particular scene, she comes off as quite unlikeable. Her Rules of Relationships are so exacting, so specific, that she immediately and without second thought manages to dismiss the possibility of being with this wonderful boy, simply because of this problem with the TiMER. Throughout this scene, I find myself yelling at the television**** because how can she be so blind that she doesn’t see Mikey for who he is, and more importantly, for what he could be for her?

Again, we are back to a major problem I have with this film, and with this character in particular. I understand, logically speaking, that with a movie called The TiMER, focus on anything other than the TiMER would be disingenuous. However, from the perspective of a storyteller, I feel a missed opportunity here. Oona dismisses the man she seems to love, even though she wouldn’t ever say the L-word, because he won’t get a TiMER. She would NEVER know if he was her One, not with the certainty that the TiMER provides.

There is a certain level of illogic in this part. Oona is failing to take into account the fact that maybe, just MAYBE, if she were to develop her relationship with Mikey, maybe she’ll find that she doesn’t need the guarantee of the TiMER if she has him, there for her, day after day. And maybe she’ll find that it is possible to find love, without necessarily knowing if it’s True Love. Or maybe she’ll find out that after letting the relationship grow, maybe Mikey will break down and get a TiMER, for real this time*****.

Ultimately, Oona just doesn’t quite make sense to me. I don’t suppose that she should, but I wish that she would. Because she has an opportunity for love, even if it might not be True Love.

But I guess the question you have to ask yourself, is could you stay with someone you love, if there was no possibility you would ever find out that this person was your One?

* insomuch as one can control their destiny, but that seems like a topic for another day.

1. **Does the film have more than one named female character?
2. Do the two (or more) female characters have a conversation with each other?
3.  …about anything other than men? *** Notice I did not say that I want her to find her One.
4. **** Yes, I am that kind of viewer, I sometimes will have entire conversations with the television. Don’t judge me!
5. ***** But I feel like that would be bordering on manipulative if Oona were party to Mikey getting a TiMER. Because I don’t doubt that he would eventually break down and get one, For Her, and he would be internally protesting, but still, anything For Her. And that would make Oona even more unlikeable, if that were the result. But I digress.

Originally posted 2012-03-26 23:08:50. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

This is why people drink, isn’t it? I feel sick. I feel tired. I feel vile.

I had a dream this morning and you were there; we were kissing, and I could hardly breathe because even that was too much strain–being in someone’s arms was more than I could bare. I woke up and felt disgusted and knew that I was done. No more Herr Rodniks, no more Pretties, not even any more Ls. I’m tired, and sick. I need a break. I want a break. I can’t do this to myself any more.

I could say that I’m beginning to doubt that I’ll find it, ever–the holy grail–and that may even be true. But the point is I’m sick of looking for it. I’m sick of hoping for it, waiting for it, following every little false trail thinking it will at least teach me something I need to know.

Nothing is going to make this better, easier, less painful. There is nothing I can do that is going to make this process go faster, there is nothing I can do that will make it more bareable. All I can do is committ to it, and not make any mistakes that will prolong it. I’m done with detours. I am so fucking done with detours.

You weren’t L, this morning in my dream; you weren’t the Pretty; you weren’t even some figment of my imagination. This morning, in my dream, you were Herr Rodnik, and you were in my house, of all places. When we had met, that one night this past December, you had never set foot past my driveway, and I wouldn’t let you kiss me till we’d walked twenty minutes to a secluded spot, even though I didn’t have a weapon, didn’t even have pepper spray with me, and I didn’t even have your last name. Of course your first name may well have been made up, but if it was it suited you. It suited what that was to me: a fuck by the river, except instead of the town mistaking you for a dangerous stranger who might have hurt me while I knew you were my secret long-term relationship, no one knew you existed and I knew you for the stranger you were. It was this past December, do you remember? I snuck out to meet you at one in the morning and walked back with you three hours later, kissed you goodbye at your car and tasted myself on your lips. You had carried me for a few steps of the way, on a dare, because you were almost a foot and a half taller than me, and joked that my purse was heavier than I was. A Nalgene full of water will do that. In the meantime, I haven’t gained weight.

What’s worst of all, perhaps, is that I thought I’d found Long Term with L. Now it seems that was never going to be. I don’t know who he is anymore, and I don’t know if I care. Well, of course I care; the question is, do I think it’s worth the bother? Out of anyone I’ve been with, he’s the only who wasn’t a Lost Boy: he knew what his passion was, he knew how to provide for himself while being happy, and he knew what he had to expect in terms of financial security–without being scared off into some more-profittable soul-draining job. He knew who he was, he knew what he wanted, he knew how to express himself in a way that others could understand, and he knew how to listen for what people were really trying to say, or trying not to say.

And yet… something wasn’t there. He was so self-contained. Very aware of it, but… awareness is only the first step. Something else has to follow. Now he’s looking for someone who enjoys kissing, snuggling, hugging. He’s looking for something Open. He’s hoping to try Poly. It’s not that I think he has no right to; he’s not “mine” anymore. It’s that… Who is this person, and where did he come from? Was I listening that badly? Was I really so deaf? And why, why, why is it that when I find someone who seems to appreciate me for what I think matters, does he tell me my crafting is awesome and Thanks for introducing me to my New Subculture? Even J saw me for what I had to offer. I feel sick, I feel sick and tired, I want to get out of my skin and shred something because how can I have been such a great and terrible fool, again?

Having my friend across the ocean offer me a room to move into doesn’t help. The thought of dropping everything, of starting from scratch all over again… I don’t know that I can do that anymore. I don’t know that I want to.

Originally posted 2012-03-27 22:53:44. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

“America has been in the grip of accelerating inequality for decades. Politicians have been supporting policies that benefit the few at the expense of everyone else. No matter what you call it – trickle down economics, free market fundamentalism, crony capitalism – it is all rooted in the idea that if you take care of the people at the very top, everyone benefits. That is a lie and we reject it.”

(wearethe99percent.us)

Everyone knew about Occupy Wall Street when I was in college. I remember whispers behind the backs of teachers or over lunch tables. We even had a campus movement linked to a larger one in our small city. (Not many people came, but the whispers were here to stay.) Facebook updates and status messages kept us informed about the larger New York City protests, where they exploded.

I remember watching feeds streamed live from Zuccotti Park. I saw several ‘protesters’ tell others to turn off their cameras and recording devices. Others punctured the tires of empty police cars swallowed by the protest — even as the cameraman said, “I don’t know what they’re doing, they’re not with us.”

At college,  a few of my classmates supported the cause by covering the quad with chalk drawings and making signs. Some even slept in the quad as well, although that didn’t last long. Someone spray-painted an anti-Occupy slogan on the walls. Did he think this would change minds?

In New York, things are different. The protests have now moved uptown to Union Square. I simply needed to go there to see the remaining seventy-some-odd protesters gathering in the park with sleeping bags, blankets and signs.

Though I thought I might talk to others, I found myself playing the part of an observer, blending rather than interacting. At the Free Books stall, someone pushed a copy of All Quiet on the Western Front into my hands. For a moment I considered sitting down to read; the book was old and well-loved, and someone underlined entire paragraphs. Probably a student.

Meanwhile, in the center of the park,  the crowd circled a group of cardboard signs. A woman stood, ready to give a speech.

“My name is ******,” she said, “and I haven’t been to prison.”

The scene: December, on the streets surrounding Zuccotti Park. The police drove protesters from the area. A group of twenty split away as they pushed through the city. One kid confronted a police officer; chaos ensued. The cops pushed him to the ground and arrested him as everyone tried to flee at once. More police swarmed the area. ***** could not run fast enough. An officer slammed her head against the side of a police truck. As she lay, concussed, a few protesters stayed with her until help came.

***** could not charge the officer who assaulted her. She didn’t know his name or his badge number. She could not hold him accountable.

After the protests she applied to graduate school and was rejected everywhere. During the protests, a socialist newspaper interviewed her. Her name remained searchable online because of the interview the newspaper. Fearful, *****’s mother begged her to request the story be pulled from the website. (Socialists — avowed socialists — apparently don’t get into grad school.)  I guess the story remained online. She never completed her studies.

It was an ugly, painful story. There are many others like it. As two protesters began speaking, a middle-aged man came up to me and asked what it was all about. Why had they moved from Wall Street? As I found myself unable to answer him, asked the two speakers. Why were they here?

“I was down with Occupy Wall Street before it was Occupy Wall Street,” he responded, and launched into a stirring speech, but I hated his angry, confrontational tone. I worked my way around the block. I wanted to know what others thought.

Officers stood on each corner for several blocks, leaning against subway rails as they chatted with passerby, paying scant attention to the protests. I moved on to the farmer’s market, pausing to ask a vendor how business was doing.

He gave me a thumbs-down, the corners of his lips stretching somewhere between a grin and a grimace.

I asked him why.

“The protesters. The news vans and the police cars come to watch. They block off the street so nobody can cross.” People gave the protesters a wide berth, slowing things down. I asked him what he thought of the movement itself.

He laughed.

Everyone seemed to be waiting for something to happen. I had come back from dinner when I heard news of the first arrests. O. showed me the story. “We were just there,” he moaned.

I remember waiting for him on the corner in the park, seated on the concrete wall just beyond the fence. Officers had walked around in riot gear. As night fell, I knew the police were not intending to simply ‘wait and watch’. It could have been us, had we stayed.

A student gave me a surprising answer when I asked her what she thought of the protests.

“You know, there are always ‘Big Events’ going on. But the big things happening in our lives that are more important to us than the protest. A lot of us in the city don’t pay attention. Big things happen all the time, so they don’t really seem like big things anymore.”

When I was a student, the city was a big deal. Occupy Wall Street was a Big Thing. We were riveted; we thought something might happen.

Then the police drove the protesters from Zuccotti Park. The whispers died on our lips. Here in the city, the protest continues at a fraction of its original size. Few pay attention except to avoid the protestors. Some change course to avoid the crowds, others push through them. It feels like nothing’s different, because to most New Yorkers, nothing is.

img credit, user DoctorTongs via Flickr

Originally posted 2012-03-23 21:14:26. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

My post about surviving narcissists garnered more interest than I ever expected. I’m glad what I had to say had such a positive effect on people! I’ve been asked what the tipping point was, and about how I got to a place where I was strong enough to leave a bad situation. There’s much more than I can say, but I’m going to touch on some of the most salient points here.

For this story, I’m going to use pseudonyms. Since my eclectic circle of friends reminds me of the Baby-sitters Club series, I’ll just steal those names. It’ll make for some funny mental images! My former friend, the narcissist, will be Cokie Mason. I’ll be Mary Anne; Logan will be my significant other. We’ll be in Stoneybrook, near Stamford.

Woolly Bully

As my friendship with Cokie progressed during our college days, I hated that I had to change my behavior just to survive a conversation with her. I’m a laid back, easygoing person. I try to understand ideas and points of view that I hadn’t considered before, I see validity in different perspectives if they’re not coming from total ignorance. I don’t take debate — or arguments — personally.

But Cokie wasn’t like this at all. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve held and expressed a differing opinion, only to be verbally beat up for it. Not in a I-disagree-with-you-here’s-my-preference type of dialogue, but just full-on bashing and belittling over the STUPIDEST stuff.

For example:

Cokie loved getting on my case about Conan O’Brien. I love Conan and I’ve been a fan of his forever. She found this, for some reason, very offensive.

She hated him and his shows, calling his humor “weird” and “dumb.” If I mentioned something about late night television, I was lectured on my bad taste. Jay Leno, she said, is the best late night talk show host ever.  No alternative opinion. This is the only way. Those who disagree are crazy. Somewhere along the line, Conan became “mine”, and the attacks became more personal. (Her inability to separate what a person likes from who a person is became a reoccurring problem over the years.)

It didn’t stop at Conan — she belittled me about all sorts of things, small and big: various decisions I made about my wedding, Sasha Baron Cohen, alt rock music, spiciness of food, fashion, pet preferences, driving directions, work relationships and dynamics, Logan, her boyfriend’s family, car colors, the rutting season of deer.

Seriously, it’s the most random list, and this is only off the top of my head. Basically, she took issue with any opinion I had that didn’t match hers to a T. Who the hell wants to get beat up all the time for having unique thoughts and opinions?

Can’t Beat ‘em, So I Joined ‘em

Well, not me.

That’s why, after a while, I started trying something else. With Cokie, I dropped my live-and-let-live attitude.

So, back to Conan.

Whenever she’d start going on and on and on about how ridiculous it is to think Conan is funny, I’d start cutting into her appreciation for Jay Leno: You’re not a senior citizen from Kansas, so why the hell do you like him? His humor is mean-spirited and based on ridiculing people just to make the audience feel a false sense of superiority. Hell, even my cranky grandmother thinks Leno is mean. Apparently one time when Leno was guesting for Johnny Carson, he beat up on Patrick Swayze the whole time—she was horrified, and apparently a lot of other people were, too, because Johnny Carson had Swayze come back on so he could apologize on behalf of the show. And his main bits, he stole from other people, like Letterman and Howard Stern. Carson didn’t even want Leno have his job, he wanted Letterman to get it. But Leno’s people went behind Carson’s back and got Leno in.

Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? Rather than listen to any of this, though, Cokie just dug in her heels, dismissing any point I made. It was like trying to respond to YouTube trolling. It was like an existential crisis for her if there was someone around her who wasn’t validating her opinions.  Her way of life = only way of life.

This issue became more glaring as I started to notice holes in her stories. The more closely I observed, the more I realized that she would twist her opinions and stories around just to find a way to stay in the right. She would convince others that what she was saying was the God-honest truth, to build a network of enablers and flatterers that would not break apart her carefully constructed version of the world. Whenever someone would introduce cracks into this construct, she would break down. She never built up the strength to deal with reality.

As this relationship went on, I started to become around her a person that I hated. I became obnoxious, condescending, and intolerant. I became everything I hated about her just to survive our conversations. And it just wasn’t working.

I became ashamed of the way I was acting. I never acted like this with anyone else; only with her. But if I didn’t, I’d feel like a failure for not standing up for myself.

Ignorance or Obstinacy

Should I have shown her how ridiculous she was? Yes. But when I ventured into that type of territory, I’d get attacked again. Because I don’t understand.

Whatever.

I gave up because, as I learned over time, anything fell on deaf ears. She always responded in one of two ways: ignorance or obstinacy. Either she remained oblivious, or she would attack the other person and put herself in the role of the victim. She consistently found ways to deflect responsibility.

And it wasn’t just me. In high school, a group of her friends planned a trip without her. When she found out, she confronted the girls. How could they do this to her?

Very easily. They didn’t want her histrionics to ruin the trip for them (and she’d been ruining things for them for a while now). Rather than use this as a wake-up call regarding the way she treats her friends, she now says this incident ruined her trust in people.

Criticism can be heard to take. But when others avoid you constantly, it may be that you are the common denominator. It’s been about ten years since that incident, and she still sabotages her relationships with people by not wanting to self-reflect and empathize with those she hurts. Instead, she hides behind the phrase, “I’m not perfect.”

So, after several attempts over the years on my part to address our problems kept being met with ignorance or obstinacy on her part, I knew things couldn’t get better. As one of my coworkers explained to me:

“People don’t change—they get more ‘so.’ ”

That Isn’t What Lenny Bruce Meant

There is, however, another way Cokie really made me feel like a shitty person. Here is where I reached my breaking point.

And that was her racism. I kinda denied this was going on, but I could smell it.

She told me of how a black guy told her she was a racist in a chat room because she said she’d never date a black man (“That doesn’t make me a racist!”). She freaked when she had mentor a black teenage girl for a Big Sister/Little Sister-type program as a psychology degree graduation requirement. She specifically described how uncomfortable she was about having to be with an urban girl with whom she would have nothing in common.

It wasn’t until my promotion/birthday party in nearby Stamford last year, and her reaction the following day, until things were put into in perspective for me.

That night, a group of us got together at a club in Stamford, where my friend’s band was playing. It was me, Logan, Dawn, Mallory and her boyfriend, and Cokie and her friend. As we were leaving the place (Cokie already left, and my group and I were getting a cab), Cokie called. SCREAMING bloody murder.

Something apparently happened on the way back to the car. She began: “This black guy starts yelling at me ‘hey fat girl!’” And then she said, “Why is it okay for him to call me fat, and it’s not okay for me to call him a n—?!”

She then dropped the n-word at least a good twenty more times.

I didn’t know what the fuck to do. The crowd buzzed around me, I could barely hear her, and I could not understand what she said. No decent person speaks like this. I found a way to cut her off and hang up the phone.

So, I was in shock. Because I didn’t want the taxi driver to overhear me, I kept quiet during the cab ride home. Not a matter of his race — couldn’t see him — but just because what she said was so… unnacceptible? horrifying?

I mean, how can she think being called fat is equivalent to dark references to slavery, Jim Crow laws, lynchings …?

I’ve been called fat (I had a lot of weight issues growing up and was bullied in school and dance classes for it), and as much as it sucks, it is NOT like calling someone the n-word. Nope, no way, no how. I didn’t get denied the right to vote because of my weight, or told I couldn’t marry a skinnier person, or have to drink out of a different fountain … because of my weight.

IT IS NOT COMPARABLE. WTF. SRTNJ;HSONI;RTHSHEADDESK.

So, me being the enabling asshole that I am, I tried to tell myself that she was drunk. She didn’t realize. I tried to drop it from my mind.

The following day, Cokie makes a status update about it on Facebook, mentioning she had a good time despite that Stamford is filled with horrible people. (Again, wtf. It was one person.) But then, her friend Grace chimes in.

She tells Cokie about how, well, what can you expect from people in (my) state? It’s filled with horrible people! Cokie responds with a plea. She has horrible things to say that she could only say to her friend Grace.

Grace is like, poor girl, bring it.

Okay, here’s the thing that Cokie always mentioned about Grace—Grace is racist. Like, really, really racist. Like, has 700 Facebook friends, and 698 of them are white (with the other 2 being Asian) kind of racist. It’s totally obvious what Cokie and Grace are talking about here. Cokie wants to get together with Grace to rant about “n—s” who have wronged her.

(One of my favorite things about Cokie is her extraordinary ability to generalize. One person in Stamford makes a comment to her, and the whole town is full of assholes. One black person does this, and all black people are “n—s.” It’s a pattern.)

So I’m in this agonizing situation—do I call her out on this? Or do I be a “respectful friend” or some shit and keep quiet? I wound up opting to just criticize her generalizing remarks about Stamford and ignored the race issue. I really regretted doing that, but I didn’t want to start drama. People don’t like being moralized to anyhow, so how was my chiming in on that topic going to help?

Once, I got very close to standing up for what I felt was right. It wound up being the last time I saw her in person.

Since she was going to be in the area, and she likes shopping, I thought she’d enjoy a trip to a large, popular area mall. It’d been a while since I went.  So, good harmless fun, right?

I’m just going to start sharing some of the day’s dialogue.

Cokie: [Screams, while we're waiting in line to pay in a dept store] Oh my God! Why are there so many people here not speaking English?! I can’t believe this! What type of place is this?!

I’m mortified. I don’t know what to do. Where the hell’s the social script I need to use to adapt to this situation?!

WTF.

Cokie: [Screaming while we're waiting in line to pay at Burger King; there's a Hispanic woman and her two young kids in front of us] I can’t believe there are so many people not speaking English here! I can’t believe I’m surrounded by these people!

Me: You’re in the northeast. We have a diverse group of people here. Don’t you have this in your city?

Cokie: God no! It’s not this bad!

Okay, politeness wasn’t working here. So, when we sat down after she purchased her food, I more straight-forwardly tried to call her out.

Me: You know, it’s not okay to say those type of remarks. Especially right in front of all these people.

Cokie: Nah, it’s okay, I was only saying that in front of a woman and her kids!

WTFWTFWTF.

Empathy wasn’t working here. I try making it about her, then, and play into her comfortable stereotypes.

Me: C’mon, you want to say that in front of the wrong person and get shanked?

Cokie: Oh, that’s not going to happen! It’s not like that woman is going to do anything!

I gave up.

I’m really disappointed in myself. I transitioned into a story about how Logan and I were in line to get free boxes of cupcakes at a cupcake shop’s grand opening the other day, and how there was a large Hispanic family in front of us (about 5 kids), and gee, how unfair it was that this one family was going to get like 20 free cupcakes.

I feel like in transitioning into this story, that it was like I was telling Cokie that what she was saying was okay. Not that she’d ever accept being told anything else, I reached that point of no return. I fucking hated myself now.

This is not the person I wanted to be, and I was only ever like this around her.

I thought about all the other racist shit Cokie had done in the past. Others had stories, too. My friend Stacey went to see a movie with her. Much of the time, Cokie was complaining about the “loud black woman” a few rows back—who, in the end, turned out to be a small white lady. (Yay, stereotyping.) There are others: I wasn’t the only one who saw what was going on with her.

I did some soul-searching and came across something interesting. Cokie and I had a joint blog together. For one of the posts (a post she never published) Cokie’s from our joint blog, a post which she never published, in which she bashes her friend Grace for being racist. Yet, she says the most condescending possible things about acceptance and inclusion, things she just doesn’t understand.

It’s racism on a more sinister, awful level. It’s like when people say, “This is my black friend.” “This is my gay friend.” “I’ve been to parties for Jewish people.” omg. It’s so nice of you, White Privileged Middle Class Person, to be interested in this whole other world! Just, wow.

I Want To Break Free

Talking to her did nothing—her bad behavior was another crack in her world, and she wanted to be enabled, not shown the crack. During the last few months of our friendship, I tried addressing some things, but she didn’t remember anything! Moments that were seared into my brain just didn’t exist for her. And that, again, was the God-honest truth for her.

It was a big wake-up call.

I spoke to over a dozen people—friends, family, coworkers—asking about what should I do about this relationship.  Everyone, especially the older and wiser, told me to get the hell out. This couldn’t be salvaged. She was too much of a narcissist to ever understand that what she did was wrong.

I was fortunate to have a huge support system who was willing to show me the hard truth. I’m not used to putting myself before others, but it turned out that my pain was hurting those around me.

After careful consideration, I knew I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t deal with her bashing our mutual friends behind their backs, only to act like sunshine and roses in front of them. I couldn’t deal with her bashing Logan (the most hilarious time being when she tried to accuse HIM of being a racist! trolololol).

I hated her bullying behavior, her ignorance, her racism, her meanness. I just couldn’t deal with all of this bullshit. I didn’t like who I was turning into. And it was one thing when she picked on me for dumb pop culture shit — about 90% of our conversations — but when she started to trash and belittle my wedding because it wasn’t what she’d do with her wedding?

Oh no. No way.

Between her bashing and the series of racist remarks made during the past year, I was done.

Where Are They Now?

Well, here I am, a survivor. After she went on another narcissistic tear right before my wedding shower, I tried to let her go gently, but she had none of it. She twisted what I said and ranted to others behind my back.

I was done. I told her I was tired of her constantly making me miserable.

She sent this back:

If you have this low an opinion of me and apparently have for years then I guess there’s really no point in me still being in your wedding or life. I would have tried to change if you made it clearer that you felt that way. I know I am not perfect and still have things to work on, but I didn’t realize I was a source so negative that I compared to Bebe in your eyes. It is clear to me now that no aspect of my being in your life has been positive to you. Please send me whatever compensation you think is fair. I wish you all the best and hope you have a beautiful wedding.

She sent another email two days later with the subject “Please Read.” I immediately deleted without reading. I was tired of her telling me what to do, so read I would not. She already gave me the ol’ “Have a nice life, bye”, so what’s the point? No more bullying for me.

I make my own decisions now.

It was one of the best decisions I made in my life. I will never forget what I went through, because if I do, I will repeat my mistakes. I no longer regret anything that happened during those six years of friendship, because I’ve become a better person because of it. I made mistakes, but now I have a better idea of how to not make those same mistakes again. That’s a really good thing!

What’s my life like today? All that energy that went into feeling miserable because of Cokie’s loud misery,is now being used to spend more time with my true friends, start grad school AND a certificate program at two different colleges, earn more responsibilities and a higher salary at my job, develop a start-up with a former coworker, and building on my relationship with my husband and my in-laws.

I had an amazing Beatles and NY Giants-themed wedding, with my awesome now-sister-in-law taking Cokie’s place in the bridal party. I didn’t realize what a huge weight I carried my shoulders, and how much Cokie extracted from me. Once I let her go, it became obvious.

I still have a lot more to learn about enforcing boundaries and being less naive, but I have a really good support system to lead me in the right direction whenever I get lost. Life is a marathon, not a sprint, so progress towards becoming less codependent with others will be a lifelong process.

As for Cokie, I get reports from people from time to time. She’s still in la-la land and bitter. Months later, on Facebook, she posted a status. She hoped the Giants, my favorite team, did not make the Super Bowl. She’d cry if they won, after everything she went through—and it turns out they did win so way for her to set herself up for unnecessary drama. And then, in a bizarre twist, she wished the mind-erase procedure in the film Eternal Sunshine were real so that she could forget our friendship. (Unsurprisingly, all of this is pop culture based.)

She also published a blog post trashing me by name the day after my wedding. She attempted to justify everything. Cokie had been an awesome friend, and I was a coward when I broke free from her. (How could I ignore that she gave me a used bridal magazine where she bent half the pages of on the dresses she liked? That was a special magazine!)

I didn’t need any more evidence that I did the right thing, but she’s the gift that keeps giving! She’s followed all the narcissism-junkie behavior I blogged about last August to a T. (However, she’s apparently “over me.” We women know what that lingo means.) Her drama is someone else’s problem now, and as long as she keeps herself surrounded by the usual crowd of enablers, she’ll stay the same ol’ Cokie.

Good ol’ Cokie.

Originally posted 2012-03-07 11:10:47. Republished by Blog Post Promoter