You’re Just Jealous/a Hater

I’m so sick of people telling me I’m jealous whenever I disagree with something they’re doing. And not just toward me, the “you’re jealous” retort seems to be the go-to for people who have nothing wittier to say. Today, I was browsing Pinterest (naturally) and I came across a pictures that I don’t want to repost, of a young girl in verrrrrrrrrry short shorts (one pinner referred to them as cooter cutter, HA!) standing in some sort of public square. What I gathered from the comments was that this girl may be a French model and MAY have even done some topless adverts. Gross. Now, my gut reaction was, “Holy shit, put some shorts on that girl immediately” and I was not alone. Several people expressed their concern that this child was dressing inappropriately and showing far too much leg. No joke, others responded with comments like “Oh, you’re just jealous because you didn’t look like that when you were young,” and “Stop being a hater.”

When did we get to a point where looking out for a child’s safety is a sign of our deeply-hidden jealousy of pre-pubescent knock knees? To even make that kind of statement is sick! I will concede that I may be a little over-sensitive when it comes to child nakedness and there may have been instances of flagging Facebook pictures of people giving their infants a bath, but I stand by this. There are sick fucks out there who would love nothing more than to see your kid’s wiena. This does NOT mean I am jealous of you or your child and I am most definitely not a hater. I probably care about you and your child and it makes me ill that someone could be thinking of your babe in a lecherous manner.

But, this ‘tude is not just with babies. Heaven forbid you advise your friend that maybe she shouldn’t be blowing all her money on expensive shoes when she cannot afford the rent and don’t even think about telling your buddy that the whore he’s sleeping with may also be boinking his cousin. No way Jose, what you’re saying cannot possibly be true. You’re just jealous.

As someone who isn’t afraid of telling you my honest opinion, I have learned that most of the time people don’t really want to know what you think, they just want you to agree with them. So many people are afraid of hearing a reasonable suggestion, that they convince themselves that everyone in the world is jealous of them, hates them only because they want to be them. Every.Single.Person.

Whenever a skinny girl tells me she’s fat, I agree with her and advise her to invest i muumuus and leggings. Few things bug me more than someone who is fishing for compliments. I have decided to adopt that same way of reacting when someone tells me I’m a jealous hater – I’m just going to agree. Yes, I am jealous of your job where you get free car washes, but earn minimum wage with no benefits. Yes, I’m totally jealous of your ability to be a stay-at-home mom, even though it’s not your choice and your jerk of a husband won’t let you work. And, oh lord how I wish I could have your flat abs, even though it means never eating a full meal and working out in sweatpants for five hours a day.

God my life sucks, I wish I was you.

 

Why Would You Want to Elope?!

No bridesmaids in ugly dresses, no expensive flowers, a handmade blue dress, and my husband!

I knew I didn’t want a wedding before I even met my fiance. After I got engaged, I still knew it. I love weddings, but thinking about having my own gives me a panic attack. The idea of eloping sounds more romantic than any ginormous wedding I have ever attended. Still, when I even mention the E word to some people, I often got this post’s title question, filled with disgust.

My response: Why wouldn’t I want to elope?!

The wedding is not the focus, the marriage is. This is my biggest reason for not wanting a wedding. People seem to get so wrapped up in all the minutia that goes into the party that they forget the most important thing – you are committing your life to someone. That’s huge. This isn’t about one fun day, it’s about starting your lives together. It’s not about signature drinks and playlists, it’s far more special than that.

Money – duh. This one is obvious. Even small weddings seem to cost a minimum of around $10,000 (at least in California) and that number makes me sick. There are so many things I could spend that money on -  a house, an awesome trip, my future child – that will last much longer than one night. One of my favorite wedding blogs (yes, I read quite a few of them, I love weddings!), The Broke Ass Bride, has a feature called “Can’t Afford It/Get Over It” where they give you “affordable” dresses, with a cap of $1,000! Listen, if $1,000 is affordable to you, more power to you, but spending the equivalent of two months of my half of the rent on a white dress that I will never wear again just doesn’t seem responsible. I’m not going into debt so other people can drink and hook up at my reception.

I hate attention. The thought of a bunch of people staring at me while I am experiencing the most intimate moment of my life gives me hives. I would throw up halfway down the aisle and start screaming to people, “Why are you staring at me, swan?!” It would just be a mess! I get nervous being a bridesmaid in weddings and no one even gives a crap about you when you’re the bridesmaid. I can’t imagine being the bride. And what if you trip. Or your back fat is showing. Or your nipples get cold. AHHH the horror. No thanks.

I love my FI more than anything in the world. I would prefer to not scream at him over stupid things like seating charts and centerpiece colors. I have never known a couple who is planning their wedding and not fighting. I don’t want to have angry sex on my wedding night.

The never-ending invite list. It’s easy to make a cutoff when no one knows about your plans. Once you get grandma involved, then it becomes imperative that her brother’s cousin’s hairdresser suddenly be invited to your wedding. Okay, that’s extreme, but I hate the idea of “well, you have to invite Tommy because you invited his sister Jamie.” What if I see Jamie every single day but Tommy lives across the country and I haven’t seen him in five years? My elopement, my guestlist!

This is just a partial list of my personal reasons, please feel free to add to it!

Not Everyone is Mean

Recently, I signed up for a handmade holiday gift exchange through one of the sewing/crafting blogs I read Craftaholics Anonymous.I made a Christmas tree garland for my partner. It was a pretty cool garland, with quilt batting, a shiny green ribbon, and green and red fabric with gold thread.

I was feeling pretty good about my gift, until yesterday when I received my present. Check out my partner’s blog about what she gave me, it’s amazing! She gave me presents that reflect my loves and personality more than gifts I have received from family members! Aren’t the vintage pillowcase bags to die for!? And she made a Raggedy Ann makeup bag out of some fabric that her mother gave her. That’s crazy sweet.

And I feel like a big jerk for being so proud of my damn garland! Sky – 1, Amy -0.

“I better be invited.”

Is there a phrase in the English language that is more rude?! It’s amazing how many times I’ve heard it in the six days I’ve been engaged. Here is a newsflash, if you have to ask you probably weren’t going to be invited and if you were going to be invited, you’re not after saying that! Asshole.

Being invited to anything, be it a party, wedding, or threesome is not a right, it is a privilege. There are a bazillion reasons why you might not be invited to an event, regardless of how close you are to the host. The host could gave a giant family, small budget, and/or social anxiety in big groups. Or, in my case all three!

Before you make such a douchebag statement, why don’t you think for a second about all the time, money, and organization that goes into planning even the smallest gathering. The guest list doesn’t necessarily indicate your place in the host’s heart, but making such a rude statement pretty much cements yourself into the “never invited anywhere” group.

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Facebook: The Home of Half-Assed Caring

I have volunteered at the OC Humane Society, walking dogs and picking up countless bags off dog poop. I raised more than $2,000 and walked 60 miles in three days to benefit Susan G. Komen for the Cure. I organized an event that raised almost $800 in one night for LifeHouse of Orange County, a group that provides food to homeless people. I adopted an old, deaf dog from Seal Beach Animal Care Center instead of buying a fancy one at a pet store. I have helped build a house with Habitat for Humanity. I have donated clothes, food, and money to benefit causes I care about. I donate blood every couple months.

I’m not telling you this to brag or to make you feel guilty, because baby jeezus knows that I could be doing much more. I’m telling you this so you can see what I HAVEN’T done: I haven’t changed my Facebook status or picture to “benefit” a cause or raise awareness about anything. Even I am not that lazy.

Seriously people, all the cryptic messages about bras and purses and pregnancy are just ridiculous. PLEASE someone tell me how tricking people into thinking you’re pregnant is going to help cure breast cancer. Do you even think about the fact that many women are not able to have babies BECAUSE of cancer? Way to rub it in assholes.What is being cryptic actually doing for the cause? I bet you wear pink in October, too.

And, really, you post a status about all the abused animals in the world, but you trot your little designer dog around on its fancy leash? Do you honestly think there is one person on your Facebook friends list that doesn’t know that animals are abused, abandoned, and alone? Whose life are you changing by telling me to repost something that doesn’t even include a link to donate or volunteer?

I'm cute, but I don't save abused children!

The WORST was the whole “change your profile picture to a cartoon character to raise awareness about abused children.” You have got to be kidding me. If you want to put up a picture of Rainbow Brite, I say more power to you, she’s rad, but DON’T pretend that you’re doing it because you give two shits about a child. You’re doing it because you think it makes your profile look cute and you want to join in the fun with all your friends.

Here’s an idea, go spend your weekends in a soup kitchen, read to seniors whose families have dumped them in a home, sew blankets and donate them to a children’s hospital. Actually DO something that positively impacts the world and the things you claim to care about.

I wish I could spend every second of my day volunteering. I wish I had millions of dollars to cure diseases and save children. I don’t, but I do what I can. And, yes, I CAN change something on Facebook to make my friends think that I am this fantastic person with a big heart. I choose not to follow the herd and do these meaningless things. I choose to quietly volunteer and donate. I choose to take action about the causes I care about. Try volunteering and tell me that you get the same feeling from being in the trenches that you do by posting some stupid shit on Facebook.

Grammar Gripe: I’m Literally Going to Kill You

No I’m not, but, one would only realize this if they understood what literally actually meant. Turns out, most people use it to LITERALLY mean the opposite of what it does. Let’s review, shall we?

Dictionary.com

lit·er·al·ly -  actually; without exaggeration or inaccuracy

fig·ur·a·tive – of the nature of or involving a figure of speech,  especially a metaphor

In plain language, by saying something literally happened you are saying this is EXACTLY what happened. So, I am going to make a few assumptions. By virtue of the fact that you’re reading this, you have never literally died from anything, including embarrassment, fright, or sadness; your head has never literally exploded due to anger; your heart has never literally been broken (With the exception of someone who is reading this and has had some sort of heart surgery, I will give you that one); and you have probably never even wanted to literally murder anyone. Now, shamefully think about all the times you have said those things.

Literally saved by the bell.

See what I’m going for here people? These things happen figuratively, but people think that by saying “literally” (often pronounced liiiiiiiiiterally) that they’re stressing how extreme the situation is. Doesn’t work that way. I read one today on a LinkedIn profile: “I literally fell into public relations.” Really? You fell into a big bucket of PR, did you? Honestly, as someone who works in PR, I can’t imagine using this on my casual Facebook page, let alone my professional LinkedIn profile.

Yes, I know what you are trying to do, but think about the fact that you sound like a blowhard illiterate. There, I said it! Knowing the definitions of words is part of being educated, if you don’t know the definition of a word, don’t use it. This is something I have to regularly tell the college students whose papers I grade. It’s embarrassing.

Next time you want to throw out the L-word, take a step back and imagine the scenario in your head as if it’s actually happening. If someone’s pants aren’t literally on fire because they lied to you, just leave the word literally out of the equation. It’s tired of being misused and figuratively is annoyed at the lack of credit we give him.

The Bucket List…How Cliche!

Since all of my friends have started to get knocked up, a strange thing has started happening to me, I am starting to think about death! Weird, right? I mean, here I am surrounded by new life  and I think about how many years I have left until I die. My great grandma, who just happens to be one of the feistiest people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, told my mom that 75 is a good age to die. She lived far past that, she would know. So, I figure I have about 45 years left on the ole ticker. Time for a good, old fashioned bucket list!

1. Punch someone in the face. Yes, it’s first on my list. Maybe it’s my rage that boils whenever community college students cyber-bully me, but I have been thinking of this a lot lately. Ideally, I would like to get into a fight to accomplish this goal, but if arrangements have to be made via Craigslist, so be it. I just want to feel someone’s cheekbone on my man-knuckles. I know, I am sick.
2. Get punched in the face. I’m fair.
3. Go to rehab. It sounds awesome. Think of the people-watching for goodness sake! Plus, I don’t have to make any of my own decisions, which is ideal, I get to enjoy a lot of quiet time alone, and I can blame all my problems on my parents when I am  venting to my therapist. My whole goal in life is to blame things on my parents.
4. Throw a glass of red wine in someone’s face…in public. I wish people who pissed me off would be more considerate and do it when I have a big glass of Cabernet in my hand. I have always gotten dumped in private, too, so there was never a reason to waste good wine or stain the carpet. Ideally, this would be a stranger who just pissed me off at a bar.  This might also lead to accomplishing goals one and two.
5. Apologize to Andrew Martin. Poor Andrew was the first and only guy I ever kicked in the wiener. It happened in junior high and I still feel awful about it. The reality is, I just had a massive crush on him and didn’t know how to flirt (some things never change). So, Andrew, if you’re out there, I hope you can forgive me.
6. Have eye sex with a guy in a band. Oh, wait, that already happened.  Thanks, Sam Endicott.
7. Travel to every continent. Yes, even Antarctica, I can’t wait to club a baby seal and harpoon a whale. Maybe the Whale Wars guy will shoot at me. Ohhhhhhhhh maaaaaaan.
8. Get shot at by the Whale Wars guy. I’m a multi-tasker.
   
9. Experience my kid telling me that they hate me. I’ve never seriously said that to my mom. In fact, we weren’t allowed to say hate, shut up, or stupid. Now my mom and I tell each other to “Shut up I hate you, you stupid loser,” pretty much every time we talk to each other. But, I digress. I always wonder how I would react to my kid telling me they hate me. Heck, if momma has a glass of Two Buck Chuck in her hand, the kiddo may get a face full of grape!
10. Work at a vintage shop buying clothes. I think this is my plan on how to spend my retirement. Odds are I won’t want to spend every waking moment with my significant other. I am already planning my escape.

Ta-Da!!!!!

Sewing Patterns Offer a Peek into History

I got a sewing machine from my mom a few years ago and I had dreams of finding vintage frocks and altering them to fit me. This is all well and good except that I have kind of fallen in love with creating my own pieces from scratch. Sure, I have altered a couple things, most notably my mumu turned super cute top, but even more alteration projects sit in my closet waiting until I finish sewing my next garment. Still, there is no reason I can’t combine the two. Enter the vintage pattern. I’m not talking vintage reproduction, no, it is the true original, vintage pattern that has captured my heart. Feast your eyes on the newest beauts to grace my sweatshop.

That’s right, baby. A pattern for every decade between 1940 & 1980. I love them.Don’t they look like Halloween costumes? I mean, that’s how people REALLY dressed. I showed them to my mother and she said that she’s pretty sure my Grandma Jackie had a dress exactly like the one on the 1960s pattern cover. A-freaking-dorable! Look how all of them are ladylike and compliment a curvy girl’s body. They just don’t make them like that any more. Everything now is a mini something-or-other and one must decide if they would rather their boobs or butt (or both!) to be on display when trying to find a dress. So, screw it all, I’m going back to the days when women were ladies.

To me, these aren’t just patterns, they’re pieces of history. Each one tells a little story about its respective decade. Look at the price increases, see how the diversity of the models changes, the hairstyles, the colors. For me, this is better than any museum and I cannot wait to recreate just a little portion of that.

The best of all are the mail order patterns from the 1940s and 50s. Not only is it cool to think about ladies sending away for the patterns, but the envelope are just full of stories and history. Below is a closeup of the envelope from the 1940s. This thing is 70 years old and it’s sitting in my apartment. That’s something that is tough to wrap my head around. Check out the stamp price of one penny! Notice the lack of zip code.

The address label is a piece of lined notebook paper glued onto the envelope. And, notice the name – Mrs. Robert V. Nelson. To me, this brings to mind the ugly side of those times, Women did not have their own identity. They were their husband’s property. I couldn’t not know whose patterns I had. So, the bf and I did some investigation, 2011 style and I would like to introduce you all to Florence. She is Mrs. Florence M. Nelson, the original owner of both of the mail order patters. She was born on Christmas Eve in 1919. She married Robert when she was 19 years old, was a homemaker and had a son, a daughter, five grandchildren, nine great-grandchildren. Her husband was a Mason and she was a member of both the Loyal Workers Club and the Abingdon Order of Eastern Star.

Florence Nelson died on July 1, 2006 at the age of 86. And, now I have two patterns that she cut out, and (presumably) sewed. She probably wore those dresses on dates with her husband or to take the kids on play-dates. No matter how many museums I visit, how many famous dresses I am able to look through bulletproof glass, nothing will be as cool to me as being able to use a pattern that someone used decades before I was born. It’s humbling and exciting and I cannot wait to get started.

Amy’s Grammar Gripe of the Week!

I need to get back on the blogging train and what better way than to launch a series about my favorite topic in the world – grammar!!! (Pause to let the applause die down.) I’m not sure if other languages are deteriorating like English is, but it’s dreadful. I have started freelancing as a writing tutor for an online tutoring company and I grade college papers that are barely comprehensible. These are college papers written by high school graduates! Come on, ‘MERIKAH! Now that the BF has grown tired of me bitching about people’s grammar eff ups, I will vent weekly on the blog. Lucky you.

This Week’s Gripe: Back to Back

This saying makes zero sense. Saying back-to-back episodes, back-to-back championships, etc. is really the exact opposite of what you’re trying to say. If you’re watching two episodes in a row of the same TV show, aren’t you ending the first one (back) right before the start (front) of the second one. If the episodes were truly back to back, you would be watching the second episode starting from the end and going in reverse! Same with championships. If a team wins two championships in a row, do they really have back-to-back seasons? Nope.com.

Now, even more offensive than B2B is the atrocious back to back to back! WHAT?! Let me illustrate to you what B2B looks like and you tell me where you’re going to make that third back fit.

Unless Bill or Bobby grows a second back, there is no way to fit another back in there. Three episodes in a row is back to front squared.

So, just stop it.

This has been the first edition of Amy’s Grammar Gripe!

Attention Women: Stop Crying!

I was inspired to write this blog by the above video. And, yes, I am well aware of the fact that it is probably fake. The authenticity of the video makes no difference to me because there are actually women like this in the world. Women who cry about everything.

Recently I found myself screaming at the TV “STOP CRYING” while watching MasterChef auditions. Now, some of the things the judges say can be hurtful (and the meanest things aren’t even coming from Gordon Ramsay, I could dedicate an entire blog to what a pompous asshole Joe Bastianich is, but we’ll save that for another day), but these particular tears were not even the result of insults. A woman, who was a very articulate attorney, started crying and begging them to let her move into the next round. The food got lukewarm reviews – not turrible, but not MasterChef-worthy either. Her cooking was not up to snuff. Instead of walking away gracefully, this woman actually put her hands into prayer position and was crying and pleading like a three-year-old girl. It was disgusting. But, the most vile part was that the judges put her through to the next round because “They saw something in her.” Really?! What I saw in her was a spoiled little brat who has been able to manipulate men her whole life because she is an attractive woman who can turn on the waterworks.

Way to set back the women’s movement, brat. Whether it’s a correct view or not, crying is seen as a sign of weakness in this country and I am of the belief that it should be avoided at all costs when you’re in the workplace/professional situation. I know, I’m a cold, heartless bitch, but you know this already. I think I have cried twice in front of co-workers and I am completely ashamed of myself. Once was over a boy (of course) and once was over being threatened by a co-worker. Both times I ran into the bathroom and pretended like the water never came out. You know why, Hilary doesn’t cry.

I know, you’re thinking I just jumped the shark, but hear me out. I look up to Hilary, not for her marriage (although I would nail Billy-boy in a second!) but for her balls. I love how she can walk into a room filled with military men and they shut the fuck up and show her respect. I like that she has worked her way to the top and has only minimally used her husband’s past post (I know, that’s debatable)  to get what she wants. She’s no one’s fool, not even Bill’s (come on, she knew about Monica the whole time) and I like that. Even if you’re not into that extreme coldness, I believe that in the workplace women need to demand respect. They need to be seen as being on-par with men if there is any way that we have a chance to break through the glass ceiling.

Here’s the thing, men don’t cry at work. Men don’t stress about someone gossiping about them, they confront it. They don’t get all teary if someone criticizes their work in a meeting, they either take the feedback or try to rationally plead their case. They don’t beg people to like them or their work. And they’re more likely to be in charge than women.

Hilary never had a shot at being president because there are still those who believe “a woman would make irrational decisions while she’s on her period” or “women are too sensitive and soft to be tough with our enemies.” Whose fault is that? Yes, it’s partly people just thinking archaically about women, but it’s also the fault of everyone with a vagina. Until we start holding women to the same emotional standard (in the workplace) that we hold men to, we will be seen as the weaker sex. The more irrational sex.

Did this blog make you sad? Please, wait until you get home to start crying and feeling sorry for yourself.