Cheerio Girl

Buenos Diaz! Can you believe it’s December already? It’s a little hard to believe considering I live in America’s Finest City and the weather has been in the high 70s and low 80s for most of the fall. We just last week got some cooler temperatures at last, including a couple of spots of rain that lasted all of 48 hours and backed up our traffic for just about as long.  Usually I complain about this sort of warm-weather-winter thing because I like my holidays a little less on the tropical side.  Really though…. It ain’t so bad living in paradise.

Today’s blog post was inspired by a friend of mine (who so happens to be a bitchin’ stylist in San Diego’s East Village). My girl Briana has somehow managed to pop out four adorable children by the ripe age of 30 and has perhaps even more impressively managed to stay, if I may say so, real as f*ck, even as she rides around in her swagger wagon Toyota Sienna. I went to see her just a couple of weeks ago and she reminded me of a story she’s told me already once before but that never gets old. To be perfectly honest I forget most of the details. All I remember is that her second youngest, a sweet and innocent little toddler, upon making his first black friend, proceeded to walk up to the child, lick his face and yell out, “Mmm! Chocolate!” I just about wet myself. Out of the mouths of babes, I tell you. The innocence, the simplicity… it slays me.

So this blog post is in homage to that simplicity, a flashback to my own childhood. It’s a trip down memory lane to when things were simpler and when I was still a nerd, just a slightly smaller one. I hope these little stories will serve as a happy interlude to your day and perhaps inspire you to view the world as you did as a child. Without further ado, I give you: Cheerio Girl.

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Once upon a time, I was but a wee little toddler, chubby-cheeked, white as snow, and with bangs for mother-effing days. I loved books (duh), Barbies and this raggedy stuffed dog, and I really loved to dance around the living room all dang day. I LIVED in particular for the VHS tape of Madonna’s The Virgin tour.  It was my jam.

I can actually recall these days quite vividly. I’d open my eyes, wipe the sleepies away, brush my teeth with bubble-gum toothpaste and then get dressed. Usually I chose a tshirt and pants, but if I was feeling particularly festive I’d throw on about 20 bangles and this sweet get-up that consisted of a crop-top with bottoms that looked like a skirt with leggings underneath. My grandmother used to sew back in the day and sold her goods at a local swap meet on the weekends. This particular outfit was one of my faves, so I’d happily model it at her swap meet stall if I got to take it home with me afterwards. Picture me walking up and down that asphalt with attitude in a variety of colorful 80s prints. Uh huh honey.  

So I’d put this sucker on and make my way to the living room where I would carry out the sequence of steps my mother had taught me to do on my own and not bother her for: “Press ‘On’ button on TV and VCR. Press number ‘3’ then ‘Enter’ on TV remote for Channel 3. Put tape in VCR. Press ‘Play’ on VCR.” Then the magic began. I believe the opening number was “Dress You Up,” where Madonna started off at the top of a small set of stairs and descended them two or three at a time whilst striking something akin to a Heisman pose. She was decked in a very colorful concoction of lace and studs and fingerless gloves and did that classics 80s arm-swing move as she belted out the chorus. Naturally, I followed suit. I twirled, I spun, I toe-tapped and sang my little heart out song after song after song.

I loved Dress You Up, Holiday (CELEBRATE!!!), Into The Groove and Lucky Star; I had signature dance moves for each that often left me dizzy and exhausted. My absolute fave however was towards the end of the tape. Right when Like A Virgin was about to wrap, I’d haul toddler ass to the kitchen and pour some Cheerios into a Ziploc bag then run back to my spot in front of the television screen in perfect time for the next number to start. I’d pop little handfuls of cereal in my mouth and dance furiously in place as the verse built up to the chorus. Then came my moment, so I screamed at the top of my lungs: “Cause we are living in a-a Cheerio world, and I AM A-A-CHEERIO GIRL! You KNOOOOW that we are…” Yeah. It was another cool five or six years before someone took the time to correct me, and I didn’t accept this correction quietly.

In telling this story to a coworker a few weeks ago, I made an interesting connection: I apparently felt compelled as a child to tie my snacks in with my chosen activities. For instance, I was really obsessed with a cartoon on Nickelodeon called David the Gnome. David was a little gnome doctor who lived in a forest with his wife Lisa. He had an awesome sidekick fox named Swift who would take him places when other gnomes or animals needed healing, and Lisa would always bake them a loaf of bread to take on their journey to save the world.

I thought this loaf of bread much resembled a particular type of pan dulce (Mexican sweet bread) called a puerquito, a golden brown pig-shaped pastry that tastes somewhat like gingerbread. Since we often had this in our house, I felt the need to bake one up to coincide with the loaf Lisa baked for David. By “bake,” I mean I’d use every ounce of my strength to heave our toaster oven from the lower cabinet onto the counter and would then place my puerquito in said oven for five minutes.  I’d take care to carefully pull it out with oven mitts when the timer went off and blew on it to make it cool enough to touch- even though I never actually turned the oven on or even plugged it in for that matter. I’d then sit in front of the TV and munch on my little pig while David and Swift went off to save the day. If there was no puerqito available to me, I’d settle for ripping the guts out of a loaf of French bread, smashing it and molding it into a smaller loaf and putting that in the not-turned-on toaster oven. I’m aware the loaf of bread was already, well, a loaf. But the guts were my favorite, so… leave me alone.  

I also had a food-related Cinderella-watching ritual. Remember that scene from Disney’s Cinderella where she’s doing her chores and goes out to feed the chickens? I was absolutely convinced that she was feeding them teeny tiny pieces of American cheese. So yes- I’d pause the film just before the chickens were fed and make my way to the kitchen. I’d grab a Kraft American single, peel off the plastic and then fold that cool, clammy slice over and over, creating little cubes that I thought looked just like the chicken feed. I’d pull out my shirt, or dress, or pajama like Cinderella did to her an apron and place my cheese cubes there for easy access. Cinderella tossed her feed to the chickens, I tossed cheese to myself and sang along with Gus Gus, Jaq and Cinderelly.

I could go on about my weird food obsessions, like how I freaked the hell out when my mom gave me cream of wheat for the first time because I thought she’s tracked down the fairy tale people and gotten the recipe for porridge (which I thought was a mythical food of sorts). But let’s talk instead about how inquisitive a tyke I was. I was that kid, the “but why?” kid. I was every bit as hell-bent then as I am to this day on finding a way to know things. For example, I asked my mother to explain what a maxi pad was. She bought them on a regular basis, seemed to try hide doing so, and these times were something she used and I didn’t. Naturally, I demanded to know what they were for and why they were only intended for adult use. My mother went with the little-white-lie route and told me they were really durable tissues for grown-up ladies. Fine. That sounded plausible. I mean, why would my mother lie?

It was most unfortunate (for my mother, anyway), that not soon after this incident, a gathering of women found itself at my parents’ home. My mother was hosting a bridal or baby shower, I believe, and one of the women in attendance sneezed. I’d been playing quietly in a corner when I heard this call to service, this opportunity for me to save the day and show how well I pay attention. I popped my head up like a mischievous meerkat then darted to my mother’s bathroom where I grabbed a “durable tissue for grown-up ladies,” peeled the plastic off that bad-boy and slapped in on my palm. I ran back out into the living room and beelined it for the woman who’d sneezed and with my arm stretched straight out and in front of me beamed, “Here you go!” Mama dearest walked in the room holding a tray of beverages and mustered every bit of her strength not to drop them or keel over from embarrassment.That’ll teach her alright.

So remember kids: sometimes made-up lyrics are just better. Fancy cheese is great but American just does the trick sometimes. Bread  of all kinds is amazing. Porridge is a real thing. Maxi pads are stupid. Don’t lie to a kid who remembers shit.  

Bookishly yours, 

Vanessa

P.S. so when I said I had bangs for days...

Ale looks thrilled. and hey- bangs!

I like Easter eggs. and bangs. 

Me, a fake turlte, and my bangs. 

Ballet and bangs. Lots of bangs. 

Mother-Daughter bangs! This *may* just have been the maxi pad day....

Words Mean Things

Buenos Diaz!

I’d like to first thank each and every one that “Liked” my Facebook page! Last week I reached the 100-like benchmark (pops collar), which to a more seasoned page-owner may be kids’ stuff but for me was cause for a full blown dance party in my car (to Beyonce’s Grown Woman, in case you were wondering). I got the news from a weekly email from the good people over at Facebook reporting on the overall status of the page, i.e. number of likes, popularity of individual posts, and figures on reach and engagement. It made me think. Well, it made me dance, but then it made me think. 

As a good friend put it earlier this week, “Every post, every like, every share, every comment reflects its creator and become his or her brand.” That brand has enormous visibility thanks to the power of social media.  It would seem that more often than not, people are aware of their primary brand- i.e. the one they actively manage at work, at church, amongst loved ones in everyday life, etc. It is the secondary brand, the one created on social media whether consciously or not, that is too often not considered or given enough weight. 

It used to be just the young’ns that I thought needed reminding of this concept. I try to give these kids out here a lot of leeway because I was young and silly once too. I for sure posted more than a few questionable photos in my late teens and early twenties: pictures of my “face” or my (yikes, blonde) hair but hey! look! boobs!, shots of me getting’ low on the dance floor of some house party with a beer in hand and a giant sombrero on my head and other ratchetivity. I’ll also be the first one to tell you that a) I was young and young people do dumb things, and b) I had major self-esteem issues as I suspect many of today’s youth do as well. Still it seems like the images filling all of our timelines and feeds are increasingly revealing, attention-seeking and sexualized, each day a little more than the one before. It’s all about the “like,” all about the Vine, all about breaking the internet.

Case in point: after-sex selfies. Yeah, you read that right. Selfies. After the sex. Online. I spent several minutes last week asking myself whether or not it would be super creepy to look up the hashtag. Alas, a certain disgusted curiosity got the best of me, and as my mother would say, “Santa Madre!” It’s real, it’s disturbing, and it’s a good thing I’m not a mother with a kid trying to pull this crap or I’d be forced to coin #aftermymamakickedmyassintonextTuesdayselfie.  Go ahead- look it up. Behold aaaaaall the users who know nothing of privacy settings (or propriety, or life). You’ll find captions like “Guess what we just did?” and “Sorry not sorry.” You’ll also find some hilarious jabs at this stupidity like one of two cats lounging by a fire. As for the ones that truly appear to post-coital shots- Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. These kids need Jesus. 

It’s not just people’s own photos or videos either, but those of other groups or individuals that they turn around and share. I realize a lot of people spend their day gawking at adult film stars making real friendly with plumbers and pizza delivery guys.  I’m sure tons of folks got a kick out of Floyd Mayweather’s trashy-ass video where he’s posted up in his draws amid 10 strippers twerking. To the guy that came across a photo of three US soldiers who appear to be brutalizing a Middle Eastern woman, you should absolutely feel disgusted by this atrocity if it is what it looks like. 

It’s the part where you say, “By golly, I will share this with everybody else!” that demands a second thought. Yes , you are the scum of the earth if you violate a woman. Blasting the photo of the act on the internet to bring shame to the perpetrators, however noble your intentions, is insensitive on multiple levels. Would she want that photo to be seen, or would it force her to relive the horror and the pain and the shame? What about other victims of abuse that are unexpectedly accosted by this image in their feed between pictures of friends’ babies and cat videos? There are primary and secondary affects to our actions, as well as a time and place for them; just as we should think before we speak, so should we think before we share and know both our audience and platform.

Then there are the actual words that people post, and I’m not even talking about proper use of the English language (Girrrrrrrl, please. Don’t get me started). Some of this I write off to immaturity- the way too many drunk or soon-to-be drunk photos captioned with some variety of “turn down for what?!?,” the frequent rants airing out child-support woes or baby-mama drama; the “fuck this, fuck that, fuck you and your little dog too” tirades. I like to think that these are the follies of youth, but too many of the guilty here left youth behind many a moon ago.

This brings me to a major pet peeve, one that forces me to contemplate hitting that “Unfriend” button a few times a day: people who insist on sharing articles and commenting on them passionately when it is blatantly clear that they read only the headline and not the actual body of work. As a lover of words, this feels like an attack on my spirit. Leave my spirit alone please. What’s that you say? You did read it? Oh, then you just don’t care what words mean. Got it. Well, you and the folks who only read the headline can go sit in the same corner together because you’re both equally working my nerves.

An example- if you’re going to make political commentary, please, oh PLEASE try not to live up to the stereotype of the ill-informed American. Just a couple of weeks ago, I came across numerous posts slamming the hell out of Barack Obama, unleashing the sound and the fury on this man for saying that moms choosing to stay at home with their kids is not a choice he wants Americans to make. Pero…. no, dude. I watched that speech! What he really said was:

“… Moms and dads deserve a great place to drop their kids off every day that doesn't cost them an arm and a leg. We need better childcare, daycare, early childhood education policies. In many states, sending your child to daycare costs more than sending them to a public university.  And too often, parents have no choice but to put their kids in cheaper daycare that maybe doesn’t have the kinds of programming that makes a big difference in a child’s development. … And sometimes, someone, usually mom, leaves the workplace to stay home with the kids, which then leaves her earning a lower wage for the rest of her life as a result. And that’s not a choice we want Americans to make.”

Make no mistake: I am not telling you that you have to like ol’ Barack. I’m not saying you need to agree with his views or support his policies or get a dog like his or dress like Michelle.  I am only saying you should be well informed before you go on a hell-bent rant that holds no water. He did not say that mothers shouldn't choose to stay at home; he spoke on the unfairness of current policies affecting mothers, the often exorbitant cost and sparse availability of quality childcare, and the difficult choices that mothers are forced to make as a result of these contributing factors.  I respect any cogently formed opinion whether in line with my own or not, but please for the love of all things holy-think, read, digest and understand before you hit “Share.”

As Crissle from one my favorite Podcasts “The Read” will tell you- words mean things. Your words, other people’s words, words in general. And as my favorite blogger Vanessa will tell you, so does everything else you put out into the universe. You’re free to like what you like, hate what you hate and do what you do- these are some of the many wonderful rights afforded to you in this great albeit imperfect nation.  There is however a consequence to your every action, that’s just a fact of life no matter who you are, where you live or to what deity you pray. What you say and do on social media is a reflection of you. Not just the other party-goers, not just your deadbeat baby daddy, not just the lady at Sprint that may or may not have just been doing her job when you cussed her freaking face off- YOU. Craft thine image carefully, and don’t be afraid to make changes.

Bookishly yours,

Vanessa

Linked In

Buenos Diaz! So, it was a couple of years ago that a tall, slender, red-headed beauty in the state of Arizona joined an online community called for professional networking. A friend suggested she join to make some connections that might aid in her pursuit of landing a job in sunny southern California. This site seemed like as good a start as any in her search for new employment and a new direction, so join Linked In and cross her fingers Miss Ginger quickly did.

It wasn’t long before a strapping young specimen of the male and Polish American persuasion took interest in Miss Ginger’s profile. He was tall, he was dreamy, lived here in San Diego, and worked in a field related to her own. For the latter reasons alone and not at all because of his dashing good looks, she reached out to him via InMail and picked his brain about the job scene. The InMails became Face Time calls, then Face Time lead to texts. It started out platonically enough, but soon the tone began to shift. The convo became a little less “Have you seen this job posting?” and a little more “Hey sexy fox, how many baby foxlets do you want someday? What are your thoughts on Jesus and immigration reform? And do you like cats?”

He liked her, she liked him; he was moved by her passion, she found him endlessly hilarious. He played soccer, she wrote in journals. They both liked cats and country music. They agreed to meet in person and BOOM! CLAP! WOW! Sparks flew, angels sang and trumpets sounded in the distance. Ginger soon packed her bags and joined her beau in California. It was obvious early on that this shit was for real.

This weekend Ginger took another trip, this time down an aisle. There her lover stood waiting to make her a wife. She’s joined Linked In to find a job, she ended up with her soul mate. She’d wanted to connect, and connect she sure did.  

Inspired by their the love and commitment, I’ve reflected a lot on how I’ve come to feel about love. So, here we go: Ginger and Kulpa, this one’s for you.

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Lesson 1: Your love’s not my love and my love ain’t your love.

Whether you’re falling in love are deep in the throes of it, inherently someone (and probably multiple someones) will tell you what steps to take next. They’ll tell you what worked for them, or preach about what didn’t; they’ll tell you when it’s too early to do or say or want something, and also when it’s too late to consider such a thing. They’ll offer up a formula for how many days it takes to really know someone. Everyone has two cents to offer you if you want to be happy.

We’ve all been through this; one person will have a friend whose cousin’s dog walker married her husband after knowing him for 3 days and has been married for 50+ years, but someone else will know a girl who knew her man for a week when they walked down the aisle and was divorced quicker than Kim K dumped husband number two. The world will tell you there are certain rules, terms and conditions that you must adhere to and obey or else be destined for loveless misery and a life as a spinster with cats. This just isn’t the case, and I’ll be the first to admit that I’m new to this like of thinking- love is truly different from person to person.

I myself spent years thinking people who get engaged before dating for at least a year were absolutely out of their effing minds. My philosophy has been that it’s easy to be dazed and googly-eyed in the first year. It’s what comes next that really sets the tone. Then I met Ginger Spice and the Polish Dream, and I was forced to eat quite the healthy portion of humble pie. They’d dated for a grand total of seven months when they got engaged and there is nothing about that which makes any less than perfect sense to me.

Now, do I think this whirlwind romance makes sense for everyone? Nah, playa.  What works for Couple A may spell disaster for Couple B. There are no universal rules, no blueprint or foolproof recipe that ensures a particular outcome in a relationship. Yes, there are certain truths about love that I think we can all agree on; overall though, I think that love is just too complex and delicate a thing to be or mean the same thing for the millions of people on this planet and their various DNA combinations. Love is too beautifully wondrous and mysterious a thing to be approached so methodically, so practically. I’ve vowed recently never scoff at love just because it’s packaged a little differently than the common ideal. Your love is different than mine, and that’s how it should be.

Lesson 2: Love is a choice.

How many times have you heard the words, “You can’t choose who you love?” If you’re anything like me, the answer is “a f*ck ton.” Your wording might be different than mine. Sorry about that.

Accepting that this adage is not indeed true has been one of the greater revelations of my life. It is a concept first brought to my attention by one of my best friends Daisy after attending a very spiritual wedding treat with her fiancé a few weeks ago. The realization that love is actually a choice has been sobering and at once liberating in turn. If you think about it, “you can’t choose who you’re attracted to” is far more accurate a statement. Chemistry, sparks, butterflies, chills- those are the feelings and sensations that you can’t fake or force. They may take time to develop but they’re either going to be there, or not. If they are, you may fall in love if the timing, lighting or alcohol by volume is right.

Falling in love, however, is not the same as actively loving someone- that’s a horse of a different color. You fall without thinking or planning, you stay because you want and then choose to. Loving someone, especially after the gloss and sparkle of a new relationship has waned, is indeed something we can choose to either pursue or abandon. We choose whether to continue down that path, to give of ourselves, to make time for this other person, to consider their existence as it affects and fits in with our own. We choose to compromise, to listen; to forgive, to understand; to engage, to be present; to be honest, to be patient. It is not an accident or the result of dumb luck when love endures. It is a voluntary, physical practice that we have to work at, and it isn’t always easy.

This may sound burdensome at first; to me, it’s rather beautiful and empowering. If love is a choice, then we can choose to keep the flame burning. When two people make that courageous choice to say “Hey, so, you’re the one. You make me all kinds of stupid happy. So sit down and strap in, because we’re going to remember our love for one another even when the going gets tough,” that is invigorating and noteworthy. It is my sincerest hope that if I do find someone crazy enough to handle my particular brand of crazy someday, that he be brave enough to choose to love me, actively and honestly with all that he has to give.

Love is friendship on fire.

If there is one thing I know to be true, it is this indeed that love is friendship on fire. I have it engraved on a necklace and I tout the phrase every chance I get. People say this so often that it begins to sound banal, but your partner really should be your best friend. Love works best, in my observance, when it takes on the form on a deep, meaningful, laughter-filled friendship.  The couples I know who have persisted and continue to thrive are the ones who are notably each other’s most trusted companion. When my mother has some great and exciting news, my father is the first one she thinks to call. When my friend has a hilarious story to share, she can’t wait to call her boyfriend to tell it. That seems to be the key, to see in your partner not just a person to eat with, sleep with and go to the movies with, but as your favorite person in the world with whom you can’t wait to spend your day.

In closing, to my newlywed friends- I applaud you for daring to making your own rules. They are your own and no one else’s. Own them, live them, thrive in them off into the sunset. I hope you will choose to love one another every bit as much tomorrow as you do today, and every other day as much as the one before. Value your love and the friendship that exists at its core, then set it on fire and let it be the force that binds you. Remember the meaning of the bands you each wear on your fingers and the vows you spoke to each other but a short week ago; I salute your connection and wish you even more happiness that you’ve already known. You’re all linked in and ready to go.; go be happy forever.

Bookishly yours,

Vanessa

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They seriously give each other looks like this all the time.

Maids in Waiting.

This chick. Ugh. Making bridal look effortless.

Ginger and the Bookworm

Tricks, Treats and Turn Down

Buenos Diaz, and Happy Sunday! It is currently 6am, and most of you are probably in recovery from your Halloween weekend, that highly anticipated time of the year when kids get cute to beg for candy, chicks wear lingerie and animal ears in the street, pets get forced into ridiculous get-ups for photographs and my various social media feeds are filled with carved and candlelit pumpkins. The costume-donning masses pretend to be something they aren’t for a night, or on the contrary use Halloween to let their most genuine but hidden identities be exposed in a rare moment of Gaga-like abandon.  

In my early twenties, I rode *hard* for this Halloween thing. My friends and I spent the first four or five Halloweens of my 21+ years in Sin City, and I confess that we were some of those girls doing the most with our costumes. Our ensemble’s theme was always “sexy”  (isn’t it always?); sexy mechanics, sexy gangsters, sexy firefighters, etc. We’d start with a basic frock, hack away at it with scissors then add a crap-ton of props and accessories to make it clear that we were indeed in costume and not just wearing torn-up Dickie jumpsuits with colorful bras and glittery eye shadow for no good reason. Ah, to be young, wild and recklessly free.  

I was going to insert a photo of one of tose customes here. Then I looked at the photos. Haha. Nope.

Now as a grown and bookish woman, Halloween hath not the allure it once did. The only costume I concern myself with now is the team costume I have to wear to work for our annual day of marketing clients in full dress-up mode. I’m generally a good sport and go with the flow of what everyone else chooses, but I sure did put my damn foot down this year and demand of my Account Manager that our costume selection not require me to wear any kind of facial hair for once . Two years ago, she’d handed me a pair of lederhosen, a felt hat and a terrible adhesive mustache. It was hot as hell and the sweat beads began to form on my face even at 9:30 in the morning. I was meeting 95% of my clients for the first time that day and had the pleasure of doing so with this ugly patch of synthetic fibers clinging crookedly to my upper lip. How I’d wished the giant plastic beer stein in my hand was real and filled with some cold, delicious brew…

Then last year around mid October, this same woman approached my desk with this giant smile and “Eureka!” expression on her face to tell me that this year we would go as the cast from Duck Dynasty. She’d already bought everything we needed from Amazon, so all I needed to supply were a pair of jeans and a black top. All I got from all of that was, “you get to be a hairy dude.” Not only did I have to wear facial hair again, but a giant, terrible, itchy beard at that. That fluffy and poorly-made mass of what I can only describe as stretched-out chestnut-brown cotton balls hell-bent on looking like tentacles was a giant pain in my ass. I looked like a poor man’s Moses if you didn’t look too carefully, if Moses had worn camo and a beanie and liked Le Volume de Chanel mascara.

This year, we got to be Spanish dancers much to my delight. Red lipstick, a slick bun, a rose in my hair and a long skirt- done and done! We were making our rounds to see various clients and drop off baskets of treats when we drove onto the property of a client whose offices are in a large and beautifully designed business park and in a building with a gorgeous view of San Diego. As I got out of the car, a pack of little humans from a nearby daycare could be seen approaching the building in the distance, each toting orange pumpkin buckets on their trick-or-treating mission. As I looked upon these 20 or so children, I was reminded of a meme I’d seen on Facebook proposing a new drinking game wherein the participants take a shot every time they see a little kid dressed as Elsa from Frozen. It occurred to me that had I signed up for this endeavor, I’d have been drunkity drunk drunk by 10:30am off this little tyke sighting along.

There were a few other costume trends- among the boys, there were tons of Supermen, Batmen and Spidermen. A few of the kids with lazier parents wore black shirts and pants with a skeleton painted on them. There were a couple of DIY Minions and a pumpkin or two… then came the kid whose parents get a giant gold star. In a world where 95% of the kids you see are decked out to look like a princess or a superhero came this little gem, an adorable little boy whose parents has dressed him up as the Waste Management guy. He had a little cardboard truck painted dark green and affixed to him via some Velcro and suspenders. I laughed so hard I almost wet myself. He looked proud to play the part of the trash man, and for that I wanted to pick him up and hug him.

 

Oh the cuteness.

 

After the clients had been seen and a few hours of work had been squeezed in, we all left the office early and I went straight home. I drank some Nebbiolo and wrote partially in the dark for fear that kiddies would come knocking on my door asking for a trick or a treat. I’d completely neglected to buy any candy and all I had to give were some oranges, kale, Medjool dates or perhaps a Chia Pod. Not your average kids idea of a good time, at least not in the hood. Perhaps in the nice part of town, I could have blended up some kale smoothies and given those out in teeny tiny cups. “Here you go kids, get your fiber and calcium! No cavities in these here parts! Make good choices!”  

Alas, no childrens showed up, and even with the neighbors blasting "TURN DOWN FOR WHAT!!" next door, I turned down indeed and treated myself to an early bedtime. I was tired, dammit! Or perhaps this is thirty.... more importantly, I took my butt to bed early because I had an event to attend the following morning: the 20^th Annual Dia de los Muertos Festival in Sherman Heights. I woke up early, did a quick 30 minute workout that really just turned into dancing like a maniac in my living room to some hip hop and cumbias, then made myself one of those kale smoothies and was out of the house by 8:30am. I met my buddy Celina and her mother Sue at the Sherman Heights Community Center to set up Celina’s Gypsy Treasures booth for the event, and there I stayed until 7:00PM that evening. The event itself was incredible: live music from mariachi, Latin rock bands and conjuntos, performances from numerous ballet folklorico groups and Aztec dancers, tasty food and beverage items, and amazing altars in remembrance of those who have passed on.

There were of course also tons of amazing vendors like Miss Celina herself in all her Gypsy Treasures glory. It was an honor to be her gypsy elf at this event and work her beautiful booth. I will be detailing the event in an upcoming post that I hope you will read and enjoy- stay tuned for that! I must levae you now to go get pretty for a surprise I have planned for someone special. Ssssssh. For now, enjoy your Sunday, make it a fun day, and I’ll catch you all again soon.

 

The Gypsy and her Treasures

 

La Gitana y La Bookworm

 

 

Ready, Set, Write.

Buenos Diaz! Or "noches" really, as I am just getting around to publishing this post close to 9:00 PM. It once again has been months since my last post, but hold your horses before you dismiss me as a flake. I've been working on a few other things, mainly finding myself most proccupied with a hefty dose of self-evaluation. You see, a thought, a crazy idea popped into my head sometime this summer, one that grew and flourished and came to a full bloom in this month of my thirtieth birthday. A lot of introspection went on, folks. Here is how it went.

I'd taken the day off work some months back and was blogging in my backyard on a lovely summer evening. I had a glass (well, a thermos) of wine in hand, earbuds pulsing music in my eardrums and my laptop perched on my lap as I sat on a blanket in the grass. I'd spent most of my day this way, pausing occasionally for sustenance, to read a few chapters of a book and to do some laundry. I was dreading the sunset that was quickly approaching; no matter how beautiful the San Diego sky looked when it was seemingly set on fire, it meant my day of reading and writing was drawing to a close and the alarm to wake me the following morning for my real job was looming threateningly. I sighed as I sipped my Tempranillo and said out loud to the air, the grass, the pesky spider crawling towards my ankle: "If only someone would pay me to read and write all day." And like the cheesy "aha" moment in a predictable feel-good film, I was instantly changed as the next few words tumbled out of my mouth: "I want to be a writer, dammit. I am a writer." My jaw dropped at my self-confession, at the secret I'd apparently been keeping, though not very successfully, from my own self. I'd suddenly spoken these powerful words out loud, and that action was seemingly the catalyst that set a new life path in motion.

Go ahead, call me corny. No one will fault you for it, least of all me. I won't even be mad if you laugh at me when I tell you that I stood up and danced around a tiny bit- I couldn't help it, my playlist was set to random and Robin Thicke's "Blurred Lines" came into rotation. More importantly though, I'd made a decision then and there that despite not being very deeply thought out made me ultra giddy and elated. I kept the decision to myself for some time to really give it time to sink in, to make sure I wasn't just caught up in the wine-induced haze of a beautiful summer night or reacting to the increasingly stressful environment of my job. Two whole weeks passed before I breathed a word of my idea to a single soul, and that omission made me feel like the possessor of the most delicious and scintillating secret.

When I finally told my cousin Alexis the news that had been burning me up on the inside, I cried. Then I told my friends, then select members of my family, then of course my employer and the entire chain of command therein. Each time I read another person into the plan, I cried anew, and smiled most dorkishly. These have been the happiest tears I've cried in many a year, and it is this very emotional reaction that makes me trust implicitly that I am doing the right thing. Much like Jesse Spano in her caffeine craze, I'm so excited and I just can't hide it: I've decided to leave the job I've worked at for the past nine years to pursue this crazy pipe dream of writing for a living.

The funny thing about this plan is that I don't really have a plan, strictly speaking. I know that I will give my current employer until about February of 2015 before I officially depart, which is the amount of time it till take to find and hire my replacement, sufficiently train him or her and pass off my book of clients. I know I am going to focus on writing and that I will need to find a job to pay the bills whilst I figure out how to make this all happen. I know I want a job that is better aligned with my literary pursuit, to be more immersed in the world I love and in which I want so desperately to live. I know it will be difficult, I know I will have plenty of dues to pay and sacrifices to make- and this idea elates me to my very core.

There are a couple of projects in the works- a book I hope to publish next year as well as a bit of a joint venture with my good friend and world traveller Celina Rodriguez. The latter refers to my involvement in Celina's business; her online store, Gypsy Treasures, features handcrafted global accessories from her many travels. I am assisting her with the promotion of this endeavor, a *very* taxing one indeed that involves shopping, perusing her wares, photography, eating delicious meals and then writing about all of it. I cannot rave enough about the beauty of these handmade products! I myself have purchased a number of her treasures and a day doesn't go by where I'm not stopped by someone to ask me where I got my bag, my wallet, my scarf, etc. If you find yourself in San Diego this weekend, come on down to the Dia De Los Muertos festival in Sherman Heights on Saturday, November 1st where Gypsy Treasures will be a featured vendor. Come shop, observe or just come hang with Celina and I, or as we have dubbed ourselves: La Gypsy y La Bookworm. I'm thinking we need superhero capes, don't you think? I do.

So there it is, friends. It's time to take a risk! I have entered my Nerdy Thirties with a bang and hope you will join me on this journey. I appreciate all the support that has been so generously given already, for the encouragement of friends and family alike to pursue this passion and write my way through it. I'm excited! Here's to doing more of what makes you happy and daring to live the life you want to lead.

Bookishly yours,
Vanessa

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Check out Gyspy Treasures: https://www.facebook.com/GypsyTreasures619

Come visit Gypsy Treasures, La Gitana y La Bookworm at the Dia De Los Muertos Festival!
The 20th Annual Sherman Heights Muertos Festival, celebrating Day of the Dead art, culture and community. Come check out our booth featuring beautiful hand-made ‪Gyspy Treasures and enjoy community altars and food! 

Saturday, November 1st from 10am-6pm
Sherman Heights Community Center 
2258 Island Avenue
San Diego, CA 92102


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The bookish excitement was real even then:

 

 

La Gitana y La Bookworm

 

From Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain, via text from my friend and fellow bookworm Melissa. I am neither an introvert nor can I stop talking, but these words are just beautiful.

Guilt, Be Gone

Buenos Diaz, peoples!

It's been awhile- my usual excuse is that I've been busy (which I undoubtedly have been). I've been adding to my book more than my blog lately- I've got to tell you, it is no easy task figuring out what to put where. In my daily life, every element of the world around me sparks a topic for me to write about. I'm constantly jotting things down and snapping pictures like a maniac, then I sit down to write when I get off work and I'm stumped. Do I blog it, do I book it, do I do both? This is when I start to fantasize that I will be the next Carrie Bradshaw in that some random publisher will approach me in a fortnight or two to impart the good news that he or she would like to turn my blog into a book. Except Carrie had a column, not a blog, and she had an editor, and lived in New York City where she was getting paid to write in the New York star and could afford Roberto Cavallli and Manolo Blahnik on said writer's salary. Sooooooo... I'm thinking this will NOT happen for me. I'll keep working on that book separately though. The good news is I have a title and a good chunk of material! I'm excited. I think I'll need to give myself until the end of the year to wrap it up though.

Today's blog follows a lovely trip to Northern California to visit one of my best friends Carlos. It was a quick Friday-to-Sunday trip filled with chit chat and libations with a little bit of nature thrown in for goos measure, or as I like to think: because I'm obsessed with gorgeous tree-filled places. Honestly, we could have sat in his place all day eating pizza and playing video games. I would have been happy just to see this guy (ok that's not entirely true, but you get what I mean). It was great to catch up with him and get a dose of his unique brand of humor and sarcasm. I'm very proud of him as well- he's about to start his second year at Santa Clara Law. Go Carlos! You're doing us all proud. #certified

When I started this post, it was Monday morning and I was sitting back in San Diego doing laundry and unpacking & such. I decided to also indulge in my guilty pleasure: reruns of Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Some of you will chime in here going, "OMG! I watch that toooooo!!!" while the rest of you will come at me like torch-wielding villagers for this silly obsession. To you, I say: leave it alone! Put down your opinions and judgement for 6.7 seconds, this portion of the story is really more of a segue.

I wasn't paying attention to the first part of the episode, truthfully, since I was absorbed in the Nordstrom anniversary sale catalog and obsessing over a Vince Camuto skirt that I would never buy if it wasn't on sale and don't really need, but then again NEED. It's that awesome. I tuned in towards the end though, right when Kris Jenner had staged a semi-nude photoshoot for herself in her backyard- like with professional photographers and lighting, the whole shebang. Kim, Khloe and Kourtney then stepped into the scene mid-shoot to find Kris in the pool wearing nothing but a sheer cover-up and six or seven pounds of makeup, then proceeded to immediately attack her for not "acting her age." They heckled her a good deal and poked fun at her nudity until Kris, evidently hurt by their judgment, lashed back- she just wanted to show her daughters that "being 50 you don’t have to curl up and disappear, you can feel vibrant and sexy at any age." This got me thinking...

At first listen, I liked the positivity of that message (though I perhaps would not have chosen to express it via a Glamour Shots solo sesh in a pool with my goods being clung to by a flimsy wet fabric). After all, I like to think that in 20 years when I'm knocking on 50s door, I'll not be doing so as a mullet-permed hunchback wearing sweatpants with my cat posse in tow. I'd like to be a hot old lady, but classy. Think Helen Mirren, but Mexican.

Theeeeeeeeen I had a change of heart. When Kris Jenner dished that line about being sexy at any age, I quickly went from "good for you!" to "hold up a cotton pickin' minute, Kris" (and yes, I did say "cotton pickin." I watched a LOT of Looney Tunes as a kid). My reaction changed so quickly because I remembered that this same woman has had multiple face lifts and breast implants. So when she sat there touting "beauty at any age" as a lesson to her daughters, I thought to myself, "That is really easy to preach when your 'beauty' has been adjusted, added to and restored via a trusted plastic surgeon and your boundless checkbook." It angered me because in the end, the message there is a good one; the source is just not the most shining example of its veracity.

Then, because I play devil's advocate with myself all the time, I asked myself whether I was being a bit of a hypocrite. This is what lead me to want to blog- it's not a brand new topic, it's one we've likely all discussed before: what is beauty? Is it natural, or can it be arrived at through some creative measures and still count? Where do you draw the line between sensible enhancement and superficial modification? I dye my hair, even if it is close to my own natural color, and I style it to either enhance my curls or straighten & sexy them up. I wear makeup daily, and what's more: I can admit that I like wearing it. I don't honestly know whether I would feel the same if I was some beautiful, natural beauty, but as it stands now I find it rather fun. It's an element of fashion, an accessory. Now, I know better than to put makeup and hair under the same category as going under the knife; the former is temporary and is used to bring out what you've already theoretically got, the latter is permanent and adds or removes what your genetic code did or did not manifest in you. Still- both are used to "change" you. So am I any better than the Kardashian matriarch?

I started to think a lot about body image. Me, for example: I get up at 4:15-4:30 am five days a week to hit the gym before work. I'm no CrossFit champion, but I get in a good 30-40 minutes of cardio then add in weights, calisthenics or TRX work for another 30. I avoid carbs, not altogether by any means, but I do limit my intake and try to stick to lean protein. I juice daily, and beyond that my liquid intake is limited to regular water, coconut water, nut milks or regular milk. I'll have a soda once or twice every couple of months and while I enjoy my wine, I keep it to one glass every few nights. I'm not saying I never indulge in an unhealthy morsel- we all do sometimes. But I generally feel guilty about it afterwards and vow to add an extra circuit to my next workout.

The kicker here is that I am not as fit-looking as that regimen above would lead you to believe. I'm curvy, and no: I don't mean I have a tiny waist with big boobs and a butt to match, which seems to be what most people mean when they use that word. I don't know how to describe my body, honestly. I've got a decent cup size and wider hips that might be more enticing if my waist would listen and get smaller. Some days I like my legs, some days I don't. So I keep on hitting the gym and torturing myself to be smaller, fitter, thinner.

Pero, I'm healthy. Then in theory, I should be happy with my figure and call it a day, right? Well- I'm not. And this is the utterly vicious cycle I find myself in daily- the cognitive dissonance of wanting to appreciate my body the way God made it while also wanting to be thinner. I want, like any woman, to feel beautiful. I want to feel like I'm every bit as appealing and sexy and desirable as a girl half my size. As such, I've come to really appreciate the Honor My Curves movement for championing the expansion of the definition of beauty to include all shapes and sizes- not just the ones that you might find on the cover of LowRyder magazine, you know? My kind of curvy isn't the kind of curvy that I feel is traditionally labeled as attractive, and I'd like to think that maybe that could change.

You know what else? I'd be a bold-faced liar if I said I wouldn't be mother-flipping ecstatic if I could lose 20 pounds. I'd love to just pick clothes off a rack and be confident that they'll fit. I'd love to do a pull-up, or wear a bikini and *own* it. I'd love to know what it's like to turn heads. And sometimes I feel like this makes me a traitor to my "kind." I'm content to sit here on the board of the Girls with Curves Club but would rip up my membership card and run like I stole something if I could qualify for the Fit Girl Coalition.This is a confusing space to live in, my friends.

Many will argue that you can appreciate a fuller figure and still want to be more fit, and I suppose this is true. It's just hard to really embrace that fact if you're mid-struggle. I live in Southern California, and in San Diego at that. GEESUS PEOPLE, the pressure! The world would have me believe that in order to be my most beautiful self, I need to be lead a gluten free, dairy free, sugar free, calorie free lifestyle; I need to be a vegan and run in marathons and do pilates, all in between yoga sessions and organic food shopping. I do partake in some of these lifestyle mantras and activities, I enjoy them in fact. But sometimes I just want an effing burger. Not a soy burger, not a turkey burger- a buurrrrrgerrrr. Meat. Cow. And with cheese. Sometimes I want fries, or ice cream! I want more cheese! Sometimes I want to skip the gym. Maybe even for two days in a row. Still, I want to be thinner. I really do. I want to say I'm comfortable in my own skin, and I sometimes am... until one of those Kim Kardashian types walks by me, then I want to throw myself in front of a moving vehicle. Here we go again.

There's that guilt. The guilt is palpable. The guilt that maybe I've gained five pounds if I did have that cheeseburger or that stupid, sexy Salted Caramel gelato by Talenti (my kingdom for a scoop!). The guilt that I didn't get in enough cardio. Or there's the reverse guilt if I did eat super lean and hit the gym hard this week: am I taking myself too seriously? Am I forgetting to relax and enjoy myself a little? Am I becoming one of those annoying people who talks about their awesome workout every morning when the gal next to me just wants to enjoy her donut in peace (the answer here is yes, in case you were wondering)?

Where is the happy medium?!? Where do you find the confidence to live in your own body and just be, to know you're doing what you can and giving it your best effort? Because let's face it- we don't all have to work as hard to look a certain way. My brother can eat Doritos, pizza, garlic bread and chicken wings all day but has to lift weights and drink protein shakes to keep his weight up. He does 15 minutes of cardio at best and keeps his figure. I'm over here eating lean and running for miles just to fit in my jeans. And I ask myself daily- am I supposed to just accept that we're built differently but be ok with my fuller size, or am I supposed to dig deep and work three times as hard to try and ourtun my metabolism? I don't quite know the answer. Some days I feel like I've done enough. Other I wonder if I'm supposed to try harder. Again- the guilt.

Interestingly enough, I was really thinking hard about this topic and was on a writing roll when I had to stop and save this entry for later completion: I was off to a book signing for one of my favorite authors as of late, Jojo Moyes, who made an appearance at Warwick's Independent Bookstore in La Jolla in promotion of her latest work, One Plus One. She was absolutely, genuinely charming- witty, dynamic, warm and passionate. She spoke of the book of course and obliged the substantially sized crown in patiently answering all of it's questions, touching on everything from her writing process, sources of inspiration, her experinces as a writer over the years and her family life as well. Something she said really stuck with me: when asked how she is able to juggle being a writer with being a mother of three, she spoke of the difficulties in setting aside time to write. She said, "I try really hard not to feel guilty, I've always found guilt to be a useless emotion. So of course I feel guilty every day."

There it is, guilt. The very topic I'd just been writing about. I thought about that statement all the way on my thirty-minute drive home. The guilt she referenced was a different type of guilt, yes, but what she said about it was peculiar and interesting in it beinf described as a useless emotion. There are clearly instances where guilt probably does us all some good, perhaps when we're in the wrong and need to make amends. Still, if you stop to think about it, how often do you feel guilty for reasons that truly are of no good use to you? If you can honeslty say "not often at all," mazel tov. Send me your contact info as I should probably be paying you to be my life coach. I suspect thought that for more than a few of you, as with me, guilt creeps its way into your life and not only complicates it uncecesarily but also just makes you bloody miserable. In my own life, guilt has often been my reason for overthinking, the source of relentless indecision, the foundation of stress and anxiety, the cause of self-loathing and dangerous behavior. I.e., a certified pain in my ass.

So I'm going to trying this on for size- I will try to feel less guilt. I will aim to be healthy, I will aim to be strong. I will accept that my healthy and my strong may look different than yours. I will have cookiedough or a piece of manchego if I want to, and I'll enjoy it. Some days I'll make tofu and roasted veggies, but sometimes I'll allow myself a grilled cheese. I'll be the first one to yell from the rooftops if I ever fit into the freak-em' dress hiding in the back of my closet. I'll just try really hard not to obsess about it, which,if you know me, will be no easy feat. Still, I'm putting it out there in the universe where it's real and can't be unsaid: I'll strive each day to give up the guilt. Who needs it anyway?

-V-

Love Me Tinder

It. Has. Been. Too. Long.

I'm such a slacker! I've neglected my blog, which is silly since writing it is one of my favorite pastimes. It envigorates me, it pleases me, it should be a bigger priority! It just seems as of late that I a) have no free time, and b) the free time that I have managed to muster up has been sucked up by the book challenge I've embarked upon for 2014. I've pledged to read fifty books this year- and to whom did I make this pledge, you ask? I don't know- to the book gods. To Jesus. To my imaginary friend. Who cares? I love big books and I cannot lie. Twenty down, thirty to go.

Tonight though- I am finally going to finish a piece that I started over a month ago. It explores a topic that has come up in conversaton increasingly since I turned 29, that magical age where according to some, I should have begun to hear the ticking of an internal clock that for me personally appears to be broken. It's that thing you see all those commercials for, the thing that people like to hint at you needing to try, that thing I'm personally still very on the fence about...

Online dating.

First of all- I have to say that this stuff is getting specific as all hell. We've all heard of Match.com and Eharmony, perhaps you've heard of Christian Mingle or Our Time. That type of specificity seems to sit just fine with me; if you're a good Christian man or woman, I can understand your desire to weed out the druggies, hoochies and other unholy riff raff, just like I totally get that our single senior citizens don't want to consort with the young and the restless twerkers of America whose every other word may or may not be "I can't even."  However thanks to the occasional bouts of insomnia which lead to late-night TV perusal on my part, I have come across some hilarious and in some case ridiculous dating sites of which I question either the legitimacy or ridiculous ad campaign. To name few:

• Gluten Free Singles- I ask you, do you really need to bond with your mate over your wheat aversion? I have recenlty begun avoiding it myself to alleviate an annoying skin condition, but my scalp issues don't need to rob you of your pasta fix, or rob me of a perfectly fine man just because he likes English muffins or garlic bread.
• Farmers Only- This commercial features a talking cow, terrible graphics, and a really country voice-over.... yeah.
• Purrsonals- for people who love, you guessed it, cats. I guess all the cat ladies got together and decided that wanted to stop being the poster children for perpetual singledom?
• Clown Dating- STOP IT.
• 7 Or Better- I hope I don't have to explain this one. They require that you send in three pieces of photographic evidence. OMG, knock it off.

 Then there are the dating apps, and I'm using the term "dating" loosely here as several of these apps are quite clearly "down to the the deed if your profile pic is hot" driven more than they aim to help you find that special someone. One that's been recently brought to my attention is Tinder, which to be honest struck me initially as the mobile dating app equivalent of "Hot or Not." You upload your pic to a profile then narrow down a few things: what sex you're interested in, what geographic radius you'd like to search in, and what age range you'd like to include in your search. You can upload a few more photos if you like (the average I saw was five) and include a few sentences about yourself. You set your parmeters , then presto: you are presented with a list of potentials stacked like a deck of cards.

The app will tell you if the person whose profile you're looking at a) shares any Facebook friends with you, and b) shares any of your interests, data also pulled from Facebook (i.e. the pages you like).  If you like what you see, you swipe right on the screen; if you don't, you swipe left to pass. If you swiped right and that individual swiped right for you as well, boom! It's a match. What I do like about the app is that you don't find out whether the person passed on you, per se. If you "choose" the person, they will only show up as one of your matches if they "chose" you in return. In other words, you don't have to face any real rejection; if you choose a person and they want nothing to do with you, there is no nasty pop-up reading "You're kidding, right? Dream on." That individual simply won't show up in your list of matches. As one of my best friends Carlos described it, "it's efficient. Yes/no, chat if mutual. Now if my chat game isn't nonsense, let's get coffee."

I gave this thing a try at the behest of my friend Celina who had some formidable success with it. I explained my initial aversion to this type of stuff to her, at which point she suggested I give it a shot if nothing else as a social experiment. She pointed out the entertainment factor, i.e. the ridiculous things people have to say about themselves in their profiles and/or even more ridiculous selfies people post to entice that right swipe. She also introduced me to something we call the Live Tinder, wherein you narrow the search radius to less than a mile and can literally find people (very) near you in real time. No lie- the "live tinder" is a lil' mucho for me. But I did sign up to be a good sport, and because I am often criticized for not being open to trying new things when it comes to dating. So- I came, I saw, I Tindered. Turns out I suck at Tinder.

It would appear from my Tinder findings that 90% of the bachelors in San Diego have washboard abs, tattoos and spend all of their time snowboarding, surfing and running marathons. Honestly, I find that intimidating. I get it, I do live in America's Finest City and that fact alone is going to heavily shape the types of people I'm going to encounter. I'm not averse to fitness, in fact I love to work up a good sweat- I like hiking, yoga, dance, bootcamp, kicckboxing, etc. I am not however going to be on Sports Illustrated any time soon and am flat out put off by all the men with perfect physiques, megawatt smiles, all kinds of beautiful-hued eyes. You'd think I'd have swiped right repeatedly at the sight of these beautiful specimens, especially since that whole rejection factor is rather elimianted and because I'd be a fool not to feel some attraction....

Not so. I feel nothing for these beautiful people.

I'm trying to work out for myself whether that's normal or not. I'm reminded of something Carlos has told me on more than one occasion, which is that men fall in love with what they see while women fall in love with what they hear. He was referring to attraction more than actual love of course, and I'm beginning to see how right he was, at least from where I'm sitting. If I really sit down and think about it it, it's like there's a spell cast on me wherein I'm blinded/immune to physical attraction until my brain has fallen for a man's brain first (leave it to me to use spells in my analysis). The spell is lifted (or shall we say the blinders are removed) if and only if I've determined a man to be intelligent, kind, funny and, you know, not a douchebag. When that checklist is fulfilled, I suddenly notice that gorgeous set of green eyes that have been staring at me all along, or the beautiful skin tone, or the full lips, etc. Prior to me determing those things about you, you're kind of just a talking lump of clay and I'm a girl which a paper bag over her head.

So: if you are me, an ardent sapiosexual who has a "Talk Nerdy To Me" print hanging on her wall at work and who wants to know what books you've read and liked in the last five years before our conversation can go any further and I can become privy to your attractiveness, will an app like Tinder ever really work? Is it just a black-and-white fact that dating sites/apps don't work for people like me, or do "people like me" need to just be more open-minded, less uptight, more self-confident, etc and thus make dating sites/apps work for them?  This whole time I've justified my aversion to online dating with the assertion that I don't feel a sense or urgency to date or get married. And this holds true for me even now- I'm very much someone who prefers for things to happen to me organically, who subscribes to a kind-of laissez-faire relationsip economics theory wherein I assume that the things that need to happen for me will happen in their own time without too much active intervention on my part.

This predisposition on my part made it very awkward when I read my cousin Alexis in to my experimentaton with the app and showed it to her. I was explaining how it worked when she saw a guy in my feed who she thought might be good for me and swiped right- so of course, he was one of my matches. A whole little fanfare went off on my phone screen, like I'd just advanced to the next level on a video game and I was being congratulated for accomplishing this feat. I engaged in a little back and forth chat but didn't feel the need to take it any further (Sorry Mauricio). The whole thing felt contrived, and I couldn't shake that feeling hard as I tried to do so.

The question then becomes: am I TOO old-fashioned in my approach to romance or just old-fashioned enough? I want to be able to tell my kids that their father and I met when we bumped into each other at a bookstore or at a mutual friend's party, or hell, at a stoplight. For better or worse, I'm not all that enthused about having to tell them we met because my pic was cute and he swiped to the right, or even that my list of traits matched Daddy's set of traits according to an alogorithm on a site measuring 29 dimensiosn of compatibility. Is that old-school but admirable, or am I being a luddite, immovable ostrich with my head resolutely shoved in the sand?

The truth is that I don't think there is a right or wrong answer here because love, attraction and their other related states represent differet things for different people. Try as we may to boil them down to a science, I have the sneeking suspicion that they will continue to rail against out efforts to figure them out completely. We all have different triggers, different soft spots, different predilectons and predispositions; what makes me swoon may make you want to punch a bunny, and what makes you want to vomit may just make my heart flutter. Online dating will work for some and not for others- I'm not sure what category I land in yet. What I do know is that this entire line of inquiry exists because matters of the heart aren't logical.

I think that's my favorite thing about them.

Ever hopeful,
Vanessa