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