Vet It All Out–Column 8.16.07
August 16, 2007 at 6:40 AM
Thanks!
One of my dearest friends, Carmen, is ditching this pretty, great state and heading to the land of sun and bikinis. To read this week’s column written as one last guilt trip click here. While at his house I couldn’t help but notice the giant dent he’s made in his packing:
I have a feeling he’s going to need just a few more things for survival than roller blades, baseball mitt and hat. But at least he’s got the basics.
To read this week’s column where I make an attempt at pole dancing go here. To visit The Goddess Academy site go here. To see brilliant photos taken by Cottonsox Photography go here. (Obviously I am in none of these pictures–I was the one tangled in tears on the floor.)
That ought to keep you busy for at least an hour. Enjoy!
My personal life makes my head hurt. Lately, I am left feeling stuck and unappreciated. I needed something to boost my self-confidence. Which, thanks to a crappy couple of weeks, is now in the crapper. Without it, I don’t foresee finding a healthy relationship.
My mission to achieve stronger self-confidence led me to The Goddess Academy where founder Nicole promises to help women achieve self-esteem through tapping into their inner goddess. Bingo. It sounded like just what I needed to get out of my pity party slump.
I perused the website trying to find where I should start. The Academy offers a variety of workshops and classes to choose from. After reading each class description I opted for the pole dancing series. It sounded fun and if nothing else an excellent workout. I thought it best to leave the ‘Making Love to Your Man’ series until I actually had a man. All the classes sounded intriguing and once the pole series is over I’ll definitely move onto the next– if I can still walk.
I talked a friend into taking the class with me. Nicole was nice enough to invite us to watch a special advanced class with a special guest: Jenyne, an award winning pole dancer from Las Vegas. She was an amazing performer, and by watching her I saw the beauty involved in pole dancing. It’s not just about dancing in a seedy strip club; it’s an art form that requires an amazing amount of endurance and muscle strength.
Watching Jenyne and Nicole dance left me absolutely terrified. I’m a klutz and have never been athletic. I couldn’t help but think that I got myself in way over my head. It was going to be a challenge to stay on the pole and off the floor.
I ignored my growing insecurities and attended the class as scheduled. Nicole was an incredibly patient teacher. I wasn’t the most graceful class member and she made me feel comfortable enough to keep going.
After an hour of dancing, I was spent. Every muscle in my body ached. My friend was equally as sore. As promised, it was a fantastic workout. The next morning I woke up and found myself still unbelievably sore and bruised everywhere: my ankles, my knees and even my arms. Nicole mentioned that I should expect small bruising, but being slightly anemic my bruises were nowhere near small. The bruises did, however, make for entertaining conversation with my family.
Days later I was still feeling the effects of my “workout.” Even putting deodorant on in the morning was painful. I consulted with my friend and we decided holding your entire body weight on a pole is bound to leave some muscle aches and we shouldn’t let that stop us from returning.
So we went back the following Saturday. The second class wasn’t as wearisome as the first and I found myself getting the hang of it. I definitely enjoyed myself more and will continue the classes. I don’t see myself making a career change but I absolutely believe it can boost self-esteem– after the bruising fades, of course.
Click here to read this week’s column. Suddenly my aversion to grocery stores will make sense.
Twilight Concerts at the Gallivan Center are one of my favorite summertime activities–well that and retreating to anywhere with air conditioning.
Apparently I’m not the only one who loves spending Thursday evenings at the concerts. Last Thursday I think the entire city showed up; including everyone I’ve ever dated—this may or may not be an exaggeration. It’s an odd feeling looking into the sea of faces realizing you’ve kissed, at one time or another, a lot of those faces. More faces than I’d be willing to admit to my mother.
I’ve never considered myself a slut. I’m 31 and single, so I’ve dated a lot. To me this seems quite normal, but to others it may not. For example a woman approached me at the grocery store a few weeks ago and felt the need to call me a “slut” and “bad example for her teenaged daughters.” I smiled nicely and thanked her for her feedback. I wish I had the guts to say what was on my mind. No, not “screw off” but rather that I’ve never considered myself a good example for anyone– other than what not to do. I should have pointed out that my column is not intended for children but for 20 something hipsters in the city. Perhaps there is some neglectful or bad parenting on her part by letting her 13-year-old daughter read the dating escapades of an adult. Whatever.
I thought I’d moved past this horrid women’s words, but standing at the concert seeing so many men that I’ve dated over the years brought her words to the front of my mind.
Am I a slut? I’ve been dating for 15 years now. What if I hadn’t come from a Mormon household where my parents didn’t allow me to date until I was 16, then what? I’d have reached whore status by now?
Urban Dictionary defines slut as “a woman with morals of a man.” When I read it, I couldn’t help but laugh, but then a sobering thought came over me: it’s true. Had my brother looked into the crowd at the concert and pointed out to a friend all the women he’d dated, his friend would most likely congratulate him. I’d even be willing to bet the grocery store lady would write it off as a young kid sowing his wild oats assuming it was just a stage he’d outgrow. So why are my dating practices being frowned upon?
I can’t help but wonder if this happens to women outside of Utah. I doubt they’re held to such high standards. I don’t understand how I’m supposed to meet a nice man and settle down if I’m not out there dating. See the conundrum?
It’s a lot to think about. I tried my best to ignore my newly found dating insecurities, and enjoy the rest of my night. Waiting in line for a drink I couldn’t help but cross my fingers hoping not to run into anyone wanting to accuse me of being a poor role model.
Had I not been on the lookout for Mrs. Grocery Store I’d probably not have noticed The Yuppie going out of his way to avoid me. Yep, he took the long way around the plaza. It wouldn’t be an evening out without some sort of drama.
To read this week’s column click here!
Also, my first promo ad is running. I’m thrilled! Click here to listen.
The Travesty of Transformers—What really happened to Captain America
I held out as long as I could but it was inevitable—I saw Transformers last weekend. I had certain reservations about seeing the movie. I hated the cartoon as a child.
I have four younger brothers, so when it came time to pick what we watched on television I was always outvoted. Stupid Democracy. Rather than watching Barbie and the Rockers, I was stuck watching Transformers. Bitterness breeds hate.
I finally gave into a friend who’d been asking me all week to go see the movie. He bribed me with candy and air conditioning. It worked and I found myself stuck in the longest movie since Magnolia. Don’t get me started.
Had my friend mentioned there were jets in the movie I wouldn’t have taken so long to give in. I’m a sucker for jets; F16’s to be exact. I’ve always loved them, and after dating a flyboy I’ll always be fond of all things Air Force. Captain America is a jet pilot and every time I see a jet my heart leaps, for more reasons than the excitement of the jet.
I have regrets.
Breaking up with Captain America is one of those regrets.
I was faced with the decision between an ex-boyfriend who was suddenly ready to commit and a very short, very new relationship with Captain America. In a classic dumb girl move I picked the ex (who’d previously broken my heart) over the new guy who showed amazing potential.
Months later when things didn’t work out with the ex-boyfriend I realized I still had feelings for Captain America. I called him and we got together for drinks. In a brave move I told him I still cared about him and wanted to date again. Like every cliché movie, silence filled the room. Those few seconds until he spoke felt like an eternity. Once he did speak, I wanted the take it all back. He‘d just started seeing someone and he wanted to see where it was going.
Although I was crushed, I was still able to see the irony of it all. Really, why would he break off things with his new girlfriend for one who’d left him before? Obviously he was smarter than me, and was able to learn from past mistakes and not follow the same path of poor decision-making I had. As much as I wish things were different, I couldn’t fault him for that.
Now as he’s getting ready to move out-of-state I can’t help but question, why am I not the girlfriend going with him? Not that I would, but still.
Every woman needs the story of the amazing man that got away to share with girlfriends over a bottle of wine. Captain America provided me with just that.
To read this week’s column click here.
click here for this week’s column.
I think the universe swallowed my last date. For real! I always wondered what happened to those really great two-date guys. You know the ones, you meet and feel like there could be a real connection, and then suddenly they just drop out of sight.
My friend Aimee has a theory they disappear out of fear. They’re too scared to deal with such a possible connection. I, on the other hand, think it’s like a missing sock our of the dryer; the universe just steals them.
I met this particular guy on my old standby Match.com. After a few emails we decided to meet for coffee. He was running a bit late, so I ordered a drink and sat down with a newspaper. I left my bag on the chair next to me, in order to save a seat in the busy coffee shop for him. A few minutes later an older man came and moved my bag to sit down and started chatting with me. He was so nice I couldn’t bring myself to ask him to leave. We chatted until my date arrived.
When I saw him arrive I joined him in line and said, “Oh, I hope it’s okay I brought my Dad. He really wanted to get out of the house for a while.” He knew right away I was kidding and played along. I love a good bit, and within five minutes we had one of our own! This was promising.
We didn’t run out of things to talk about, which was nice. We were discussing movies when I mentioned my current obsession/fear of Hannibal Lecter. I’d recently finished a marathon of Red Dragon, Hannibal, Hannibal Rising and ending with the first movie in the series, Silence of the Lambs. Needless to say I had Hannibal on my mind.
Thinking perhaps I was an Anthony Hopkins fan he asked if I’d seen The World’s Fastest Indian, which was filmed out on the Salt Flats. I had, and also mentioned I, being a Utah native, had never actually been to the Salt Flats.
After an hour we both had to be elsewhere so we made plans to get together a couple days later. Between the two dates we continued to send emails and text messages, finding that we were really hitting it off.
For our second date we met at Desert Edge Brewery for dinner. I was going to already be there having drinks with a friend so he kindly agreed to just meet me there.
Originally, he suggested we grab dinner and head out to the Salt Flats so I could see them. Which, I thought was sweet, but slightly creepy. The last thing I wanted to do was jump into a car with someone I’d only just met. Better safe, then sorry. Sure, in hindsight I could have probably just mentioned the idea of driving out there with a stranger made me uncomfortable, rather than asking if he planned to take me there to kill me for the sake of my skin. It made sense; the salt would be a nice skin scrub producing much softer skin with a lovely glow.
He laughed it off and we had a nice time anyway, or so I thought. We exchanged a couple of text messages the next day, but then nothing. If the situation were reversed I’d certainly not want to date someone who wouldn’t stop talking about Hannibal Lecter and serial killers. It’s just not that sexy.
One of these days I’m going to figure out that I don’t actually have to vocalize everything on my mind. And also, my new scary movie obsession has to end, otherwise my social life might.
