You've come a long way, baby

Is this hysteria all because little girls want so badly to be princesses that when a "commoner" actually does marry into royalty, the entire female kind are trying to live vicariously through her?
I loved the tale of Cinderella as much as the next little girl, but I never actually figured a prince on his white horse would come knocking on my door with the lost glass slipper. I knew it was a fairy tale and the fact that real royal families did exist didn't excite me much.
They still don't excite me much. That's why I don't understand the fascination with William and Kate.
It's not even "Kate" anymore -- it's Catherine. I guess once you go royal it requires a much more formal name.
I want to scream, "It's just a really expensive wedding, people! Get over it!" But it's not just any old expensive wedding. It's a really expensive royal wedding featuring a common, ordinary girl who won the affections of prince who could feasibly, someday have the throne.
Cinderella has arrived. (Only this Cinderella was born into an upper-middle class family, attended a prestigious college and wears designer clothes.)
I was hoping once the event had actually taken place the hoop-la would end -- not much luck with that. Every media outlet bleeds with coverage of the event. People.com carries more than 100 photos of the ceremony alone. I'm guessing I won't be able to watch E! for the next three months because the True Hollywood story of "Will and Kate: Road to the Alter" will be replayed constantly. Move over Kardashians, there's a new girl to talk about.
Females are not alone when it comes to fueling this hysteria. I heard a group of men talking Friday about the royal wedding. The discussion ranged from how their wives DVR'd it as to watch later, to what the wedding dress looked like, to the logistics of how the big day was arranged. But the part that really got me was one man made sure his daughter saw the ceremony so he could point out that there are princesses in real life. He explained to her how this ordinary girl was marrying a prince, and that the prince's grandmother, was a queen.
Idealizing this makes it seem as if he was saying, "Yes darling, they do exist and if you dream big, someday this could be you, too."
Feed the frenzy. Feed it with designer wedding dresses, while noshing on quail eggs and wearing jewelry made from 100 year old gold.
Cinderella has left the building; hopefully for a deluxe penthouse she purchased for herself with the money she saved from her well paying job at a law firm, where someday she hopes to become partner. Teach them to insist upon themselves, not to dream the fairytale dream.
Good luck, Catherine. Apparently, everyone's watching.

www.people.com/people

Refresh and repeat

Wow, I'm surprised I even remembered my password, it's been so long. I'm honestly a little scared.
When I first started this blog a good friend of mine said, "I hope you keep this up, you're a good writer."
The words hung, thick in the air.
I was offended. Why wouldn't I keep this up?
"I don't know," she said, "Sometimes people get busy, and life gets in the way."
I know she didn't mean anything by it, but why wouldn't I continue this blog? It was such a bold move for me at the time, of course I would dedicate the time it took to do this. I mean, I wrote just as much when I worked at a newspaper full time, why wouldn't I continue to write as often.
As I've found out, it's much easier to do things when you're getting paid.
Rather, it was much easier to write when I was getting paid to do so.
Sometimes life does get in the way, and makes it incredibly hard to dedicate time to writing when all you really want to do is sit, let the boob-tube entertain you and not have to think or analyze your life. Because, really, the last thing I want to do is think about another bill I have to pay and the plumber I have to call. I'd much rather let Netflixs entertain me with episodes of The Office and Glee.
It's much easier to watch Sarah Jessica Parker pretend to be Carrie Bradshaw and fictitiously write about her life than to have to think analytically about mine.
For this, I am sorry: To the four people who actually followed my blog and to myself -- for slacking severely on my writing. It was important to me and I let it fall to the wayside.
When I did get a new job in writing, another friend asked me if I was going to continue writing. This perplexed me, because I was in fact, writing everyday now.
"I am writing," I said. "I'm just doing technical writing."
"Yeah, but I mean, YOUR kind of writing," she said.
Oh, yeah ... that. Those words hung thick in the air, too.
I didn't really know what that was anymore, it had been so long.
In life, there's no guarantees, not even that I'll continue to stay up to date on this blog -- all I can say is that I'll try. And that has to be good enough.
But in all honesty, I know that I have two good friends who will keep me in line, should I forget to update.
Refresh and repeat ... yeah, life's kinda like that.

It can be tough out there sometimes -- let's look at the big picture

Sometimes things that happen to people aren’t fair.
Sometimes they just plain stink.
Sometimes it helps to put it all in perspective – this is if you can see through the darkness and wade through the pile of self pity surrounding you.
Sometimes perspective is a hard thing to get.
The life events happening to me in the last few weeks seem incredibly stinky – for lack of a better, more appropriate, non publishable word. I learned a long time ago I shouldn’t address something as “unfair.”
“Life isn’t fair, April,” my high school journalism teacher told me one day while reading an opinion article I wrote. “Explain why something is unjust or wrong, don’t leave it at ‘it’s not fair,’” he sternly said. “It sounds trite.”
Of course I had to look up what “trite” meant. But he was very right – life isn’t fair.
But getting a little perspective on the issue: my unjust events aren’t really weighty on the overall scale of life. I am not sick or dying, nor is anyone I care about. I am not homeless, and not quite penniless. There is food in the refrigerator and gas in my car. I have not been discriminated against or wrongfully accused. I have friends and family who love me.
These current issues are a mere blip in the timeline of my life. In retrospect … ok, I’m not quite ready for retrospect mode, but hopefully I will be soon.
I think there’s still a pile of pity by my right foot.
May all of you find a little perspective today, too.

I gotta get into the Gap

I think I’ve found my perfect, dream job.
Only it’s not so much a job as it is a hobby.
But it’s not really a hobby as it is …
Me buying things and then letting others know what I think of it.
See --- a perfect job for me! My love of shopping, writing and telling my opinion all wrapped up into one perfect career.
The Gap and Old Navy – my two Mecca’s for clothing – want to know what I think about their products I order online. Not only do they request to know how I feel about my recent purchases, they asked me to create a user name and log in password to further authenticate my opinion pieces.
Yeah, I’m pretty special.
Very few things are more fun than rating, categorizing and providing feedback on an article of clothing. For about three minutes I feel like a clothing editor in “Lucky,” “In Style,” or even “Vogue.” For those 180 seconds I get to use words like “empire waist,” “embellishments,” “structure” and “accessorize.”
It’s pretty much three minutes of pure bliss.
Look for Gap Lover 99 for all your honest clothing review findings.
Now, if I can only find out how to turn this completely voluntary, money-spending Internet review gig into an actual paying job where I don’t have to first fork over the money to buy said clothing, I’d be in a constant state of bliss.
Gap Inc., I’m available for hire.

LiLo and ATho

Inmates are sick of Lindsay Lohan. Inmates, you are not alone. I am, too.

But the infamous party girl is out. She was released at 1:35 a.m. from a Lynwood, Calif. jail and ordered to go directly to rehab. No stops, no family, just straight to another place where mean people will tell her what to do, where I'm sure someone will treat her "unfairly" and it will make the news.

It always makes the news.

But it is people like me who are guilty for further promoting this girl, who let's face it, is just famous because she was once an up and coming starlet. I read the numerous news stories about what inmates at the time thought of her, how she was not able to smoke but could keep her hair extensions and still take her ADD and sleeping aid medications. I try not to click on the headline links calling out LiLo news -- but it doesn't work. I will read everything -- even political news -- before finally succumbing to the temptation. I try and rationalize it: If I read the “real” news first it some how makes it OK to read this gossip.

Did she exit the facility after visiting the small, dirty bathroom in the jail's waiting area before her big exit? Did her staff of hair, make up and wardrobe consultants get to have any time with her? Was she really wearing leggings from her clothing line that debuted last week with out her? Ugh -- this information is now in my brain and it may never come out. It probably pushed out other information that I might really need to retain like how to spell certain words or what five times five is.

I hate myself a little for knowing this stuff.

But my all-time favorite quote from "a source" in the latest story on People.com, "[Lindsay] felt she deserved the day to spend with her family after she behaved well in jail." What?! After she behaved well in jail? Is not behaving in jail an option? Can you not behave when you sit alone in a cell for hours upon hours? I just want to smack this cocaine-loving, pill-popping, waif of a girl and tell her, despite to what her deranged parents have said to her, the world does not revolve around her.

Or maybe it does. Because there's people like me who take enough time out of their lives to read countless silly stories and write our own opinions about her.

I feel like a little piece of my soul is missing. I officially hate myself now.

Shaken -- to my core

An acquaintance takes something out of a bag pops it in their mouth and follows it with a gulp out of a water bottle. I thought it was some sort of health supplement for weight loss.
"What'd you just take?" I asked.
I'm always interested in losing weight, even if I never actually lose any.
"Effexor," was the one word response matter-of-factly stated.
This was not the answer I was expecting. However I am all for medicating when exercise, diet and therapy just aren't working.
"Oh, I thought it was the herbal supplements you were taking," I said. "I took Effexor, I like Effexor." Was the only reply I could think of. I don't usually go around sharing that information, or expect people to share it with me.
My acquaintance went on to tell me another form of medication was originally taken but it had some wicked side effects and after a tumultuous life event, something else was needed something to alter their state of depression.
After a brief talk about the side effects the drug had on me when I first started taking it -- wanting to sleep for three months straight, weight gain and having a flat line response when it came to anything emotional -- my acquaintance shared even more.
"When I went to the doctor she asked me, 'What reason can you think of for you not to take your life?' I didn't have an answer for that," my acquaintance said.
My mouth must have dropped open at this point. Never in my life have I heard someone utter those words. Never have I knowingly been in a room with someone who can't think of a reason to stay alive. This, I couldn't relate to.
Even at my worst, even during all the heart-pounding panic attacks and overreaction with a river of tears, I could never think of a reason to not be alive. I was out of my league now. What happened to talking about a drug and it's side effects?
"Now, I don't know you well, but I think you're fantastic," I said. "I can only imagine what your close friends and family must think of you."
"Ah, well, my children are doing OK and I've seen my grandchildren, I think it would be OK if I weren't here."
"You can't mean that," I replied ready to burst into tears at the thought of this person feeling so alone and being so indifferent to the idea of dying. "You really mean so much to so many people, one little bump in the road, no matter how big and significant it feels at the time, is worth not living."
I was shaking. My acquaintance was not.
"I don't know," was all that was bluntly said.
"Oh, it's all worth it, even if it doesn't feel like it now," I sputtered out. "Really."
If I ever had Jedi mind powers now was the time I wanted them to kick in. But I don't, so I had to convey my emphasis through sympathetic eyes and the forceful way I got out the word "really."
This seemingly simple conversation shook me to the core -- the glimpses of peoples' lives we see when they let us in. Sometimes it's not pretty, but this just presents us the opportunity to help another person out any way we can.

A fashion don't on the Mtown streets

I don't get it. I don't get it and really, I just don't want to.

I know Iowans always take the warming temperatures to extremes. After a long, cold, white winter it is understandable why, when the sun shines just a little and climbs above 50 degrees, shorts and flip flops come out. I get that.

What I don't understand is why, when summer does come, men have to immediately take off their shirts. Now, if they are exercising or working in the yard, fine. More power to them. But why, when it's a mere 78 degrees, not humid and on the cusp of dusk, a man has to have his shirt slung over his shoulder when walking the Marshalltown streets.

I'm chalking this up to something a woman just can't understand. Not unless it's a far too many cocktails in Las Vegas or an alcohol induced incident in New Orleans at Mardi Gras, or something. Either way, it's not a sober thing.

I don't want to see men with a huge pot bellies strut their stuff on the blocks of Mtown. I don't want to see this any more than I want to see a woman's thong showing out the back of her jeans.

I don't get it.

It's summer out there -- the temperatures will only get hotter -- be careful.