Bev and Roz Stalk a Celebrity

From the comfort of their living room and a box of wine in, our favorite old ladies are watching the evening news. They don’t care so much about current events; therefore they gave up watching anything political or local years ago. Now they simply enjoy the trappings of celebrity profiles and hellacious gossip.

Bev is the more constant watcher of these things. The dent in her recliner cushion will agree with that statement. She loves her high definition television and often sits in the dark with only a cloud of cigarette smoke to accompany her.

Roz also likes the gossip shows, but she’s not glued to the television like Bev. She usually spends her evenings tinkering with gadgets or attending secret meetings without Bev’s knowledge. On this particular evening, however, she is propped up against a pillow, enjoying some wine with her good friend as they laugh at the latest celebrity news spewing from the mouth of Ryan Seacrest.

“How cool would it be to actually know a celebrity?” Bev muses as her fuzzy mind gulps down some more White Zinfandel.

“That would be cat’s ass,” Roz replies, “I once met Chevy Chase at a Starbucks, and he hit on me. I didn’t know it was him until after I told him to get lost. Then the Barista informed me that I just turned down a very famous man. His grey hair threw me off.”

“Oh how unfortunate! You could have charmed him into meeting somebody interesting!” Bev replied.

“Oh, yeah? Like who?”

“I don’t know somebody from Saturday Night Live, perhaps?”

“The only good episode of Saturday Night Live from the last twenty years was the one where Betty White hosted the show. You know that. Who would we want to meet from Saturday Night Live?”

“OOOH! Betty WHITE! I LOVE HER! We HAVE to meet her! Roz… seriously… how can we make this happen?”

The wheels in Roz’s head immediately started to turn. Bev could tell her dear friend was thinking hard and felt the need to say, “Think out loud, Roz. I might be able to help.”

“OK. Well let’s start with the internet.”

“That giggle thing?”

“Google, Bev. It’s called Google.”

“Yeah, that thing.”

“Sure, we can start there.” Within a few minutes Roz had her laptop out and was searching feverishly for information about Betty White.

Bev was always amazed at Roz’s ability to comprehend technology. She’s always had her finger on the pulse of what’s new ever since she was an underworld spy and had to use cutting edge technology for her job. Of course, Roz denies being a spy and simply says she’s smarter than the average bear.

It didn’t take any time at all for Roz to locate the name of Betty’s publicist and then hack into the mainframe of said publicist. Bev watched in amazement as Roz furiously scribbled down names, addresses and a schedule of public events at which Betty White would be appearing. Bev started to get excited at the possibility of meeting one of her idols as Roz uncovered more and more information.

By the end of the night, Roz had formed a master plan and at least 5 back up plans of how she and Bev would run into, introduce themselves and eventually befriend the great Betty White. They both slept peacefully in an alcohol induced slumber in front of their television that night.

The first plan of attack would be at a bookstore in LA where Ms. White would be signing copies of “Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover’s Soul” in which she was a contributing author. This required Bev and Roz to fly since they wouldn’t make it across the country in time for the book signing by car. The only hiccup at the airport happened when they inspected Bev’s oxygen tank and found her thermos of wine. When they took it away she screamed at them and Roz had to sweet talk the agents into letting them on the plane.

Once in LA, the ladies rented matching pink scooters (Roz didn’t want to do all that walking, and thought it was unfair for just Bev to have a scooter). They checked into their hotel room and then headed to the book store with a half an hour to spare.

Upon arrival at the book store, they discovered a long line of fans waiting to meet Betty White. They convinced somebody near the front of the line that it was a matter of urgency that they cut. Bev said she forgot her medicine and needed to get back to the hotel in an hour, and they promised they’d be quick. It was a lie, of course, but it worked like a charm.

By the time it was their turn, Bev was beside herself with excitement. Ms. White signed their books and dismissed them as soon as she was done.

“Wait!” Bev said as she was being waved off by security, “I need to talk to her! I need to make her my friend! Wait… BETTY!” But Betty White ignored her pleas as she continued to sign books for other patrons. Bev tried swerving around the security, but to no avail. They both were ushered outside and told not to come back.

“How rude!” Bev exclaimed once they were both outside.

Roz was calmer about the situation and said, “I kind of expected that to happen. It’s time for plan B.”

“What’s plan B?”

“Tomorrow, she’ll be cutting the ribbon at a new animal shelter. We’ll be there for the opening. Let’s hit a liquor store and go back to the hotel for tonight.”

With a resigned sigh, Bev agreed and followed her friend back to the hotel. She set her sights on the following day. Maybe she’d be friends with Betty White yet.

The following day, with filled thermoses and extra packs of ciggs, the ladies buzzed to the event at which they were sure they’d get to meet Betty White for real. This time they got as close as possible to the ribbon and waved fanatically as Betty White walked out with a large pair of scissors.

Ms. White recognized them immediately and whispered to her security guards. Roz was prepared for this and managed to out maneuver them and roll her scooter under the ribbon. She tried to offer Betty some wine, but Betty seemed to be quite scared of her fan’s extra attention. She took off and headed towards her car. The old ladies chased her down and followed her through the crowd of people. Try as they might, their scooters couldn’t keep up with Betty’s car and they lost her far too easily.

Without realizing it Bev and Roz turned onto a street where the Gay Pride Parade was taking place. Pulling out behind the Dykes with Bikes, they swerved into the glittery traffic and were immediately stalled behind slow moving floats.

A couple of young lesbians hopped onto the backs of their scooters, and asked if the old ladies were up for a party. Of course, they were. Bev shared her thermos with the young ladies and when the parade was over they found themselves at a large party in an apartment of a wealthy lesbian. It was there that they discovered how much the gay community loves old ladies. It was also there that Bev discovered pot brownies.

She unknowingly ate two of them before somebody told her to not eat any more. Bev took offense and said, “And why not? One of the great things of being old is overloading on sweets. I’m not worried about calories.”

The polite informant then said, “No… they’re SPECIAL brownies. Two is more than enough to fuck you up.”

Bev soon figured out what the person meant as she was laughing her ass off and helping herself to a huge pile of chips and salsa, “Those brownies are AWESOME! I need the recipe!” Immediately after exclaiming this, a recipe was placed in her hand with a wink from a friendly gay man, “Be careful with this. It’s top secret.” He informed her before walking away.

Bev spent the rest of the evening talking exuberantly about days gone by, and Roz spent the night dancing with gay men and taking off her clothes.

The next day they were both hung-over, but Bev decided she needed those brownies for when she and Betty White became friends. She just knew it would help break the ice between them. She paid a bell boy at the hotel to get her a bag of weed and the needed ingredients to make the brownies. By the afternoon she’d made three different batches of special brownies, and gave one of them to the bell boy for his help.

“Betty will love these tomorrow when we go to her house.”

“If she doesn’t, I think we should stop and get her a bottle of vodka on the way. I read somewhere that she enjoys vodka. No wonder she didn’t want any wine when I offered it to her yesterday.” Roz replied

“Yes, I bet that was the reason, “ Bev said genuinely, “We weren’t prepared with the right gift.”

So, the next day the ladies put on their best dresses and zoomed over to Betty’s house with a bottle of vodka and a batch of special brownies in tow. At home, Betty didn’t worry about having security around because she was convinced that people didn’t know where she lived. Therefore when her doorbell rang she was surprised to see her two most crazed fans waiting on her doorstep.

“Betty!” Bev said as the star stood with a shocked expression, “We brought you gifts!”

Betty White tried closing the door but stopped halfway and said, “Are those… SPECIAL brownies?”

Bev nodded.

“And is that a bottle of vodka?”

Roz nodded.

“Well I’m afraid I have no choice but to let you ladies in.”

Giddy with excitement, Bev and Roz crossed the threshold into the celebrity’s home. They finally did it… they were going to be friends with BETTY WHITE!

She led them to a backyard patio where they all looked out onto a spectacular view of Los Angeles. Betty mixed drinks with the vodka and the ladies enjoyed an afternoon where they were all in stitches and cackling as Betty White regaled them with jokes and funny stories of celebrity run-ins she’s had over the years.

They broke out the special brownies around sunset. The dark night set in, and the ladies laughed wildly as the moon rose over them. Finally, at the end of the night, Betty White showed them to the front door and thanked them for the visit. Bev and Roz felt like they’d made a genuine friend in the comedienne.

Still, the next day, Roz said there was one more event at which they could still run into the celeb. Bev said that she didn’t need to go, because she’d accomplished what she’d come for.

“We’re in LA for one more day. We may as well go and do what we have planned.”

Bev resigned herself to agree, and decided to bring the last batch of brownies since she couldn’t take them on the plane home.

High on brownies and excited about their new friendship, the ladies buzzed their pink scooters to the Los Angeles Zoo where Betty White was scheduled to appear. They enjoyed seeing all the exotic animals and delighted with the children who’d never seen a tiger or a lion before.

Finally they arrived at the spot where Betty White would be making a speech about a grand opening of a new exhibit. They sat in the crowd and waved at their new friend. When Betty White saw them, she didn’t share their enthusiasm.

After her speech she came up to them and said, “Okay. I’ve entertained your crazy ideas that we are actually friends. It’s time for the two of you to leave me alone, please.”

“But, Betty.” Bev and Roz protested simultaneously.

“No buts. I’m serious. If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll be forced to get a restraining order.”

Enraged with anger, Bev revved up her scooter and threatened to run Betty over with it. Roz stopped her and suggested they just go home. Resigned and defeated, Bev agreed. They turned to leave, but Betty had different plans.

She removed a blow-dart gun from her pocket and shot a poisoned dart into Roz’s neck. Roz fell off of her scooter and twitched until she died. Bev’s eyes glared at Betty as she reared her scooter in Betty’s direction. Another poisoned dart landed in Bev’s neck as she obtained the same fate as Roz, falling out of her scooter and twitched on the ground… death fast approaching.

“Nobody stalks Betty White.” Betty said as Bev took her last breath. Betty then leaned over to remove the darts. As she bent over she caught a glimpse of the aluminum foil wrapped brownies in Bev’s bag. She took them and put them (and the recipe which was tucked with them) into her own bag. When the crowd started drawing in, Betty told them that two of her oldest fans were so excited to see her they had simultaneous heart attacks. She yelled for somebody to call 911 with a knowing smile on her face.

Internet Bullies

With each wave of new technology we find ourselves becoming creatures of comfort with them. Thanks to the internet we can now do our banking from home, have groceries and entire wardrobes shipped to us, and with a few clicks of the mouse we can find out what our old high school friends are up to these days. Yes, the internet is a marvelous thing... but with the good you have to expect the bad.

One thing the internet provides is anonymity. There are so many forums where opinions can be expressed without the hassle of providing your real name. Virtual fists get to flying when people can't be expected to be held responsible for any of the words that spew from their hateful little mouths. Did you know there is a website that exists for the sole purpose of letting people within your town talk about any issues they have with the town (or the people in it) without ever having to reveal who they are (or even sign up for an account)? It's called www.topix.com. Look it up... look up your town and enjoy.

And then we have social networking sites like Facebook and MySpace. I haven't checked my Myspace in ages (literally), but I am all over Facebook. The convenience of having all of my friends at my fingertips is indescribable. However, sometimes Facebook is used with more malice intent.

I currently have a handful of people blocked from my page. Several of these people are people I'm actually friends with outside of the internet. We spend a lot of waking hours together, we go out and have drinks, we watch movies, we sit in my back yard and chill. But I cannot allow them access to my Facebook because I can't stand the drama.

There is a certain individual who I've gone round and round with. We all have people like this in our lives, and I'm lucky enough not to have to live in the same state with mine. Because we don't live in the same state, I, honestly, rarely give her any thought. I barely mention her because I barely think about her. She is barely a spec on my radar at any given time.

In fact, the only times I do think about her, or speak of her is when she tries pulling some off the wall crap with me and my friends (and as it turns out, a few of these friends are helping her do this, thus the blockage).

Her latest war with me (or attempted war, because this blog is my first, last and only response to her attempts at garnering my attention) has me penned as the internet bully. She's convinced I'm a gossip monger who is spreading disease about her over the internet and around her home town. She's painted herself as a helpless victim.

She has messaged people in an attempt to get them to confront me on her behalf. She's posted a note about me and tagged several people in it to get them to let me know. She even messaged my mother to vent her issues with me. The only thing she hasn't done is contact me personally. She has my phone number, my email, and (until two minutes before composing this) she wasn't blocked from my Facebook.

She won't contact me, though, because she knows that I haven't said or done anything to her in months. The things she's accusing me of are blatant lies, and I'm not even phased by it anymore. She fails to excite me, rile me up, or get me going. She claims she is going to start ignoring me... well I wish she would already. I've been ignoring her for a long ass time now.

Here's the thing... I'm not an internet bully. I don't harass her, talk about her or post things about her on an anonymous forum. In the past I have had words with her in person about differences between she and I... but when it comes to Facebook I only vent a little and I never name names. When she went to my mother and begged her to "make it stop." I had to laugh. Because, on my end, it's been stopped for a long long time. Me thinks she doesn't want it to stop. She likes the attention and she's confessed to using my words to make herself money... which, as a writer, royally pisses me off. I'm not a fan of plagiarism. And I'm not a fan of internet bullies. Please... you know who you are... leave me alone. This shit is getting old.

Flowers in the Sky

I'm going to pull a little bit on your heartstrings, if I may.

A few years ago my mother watched a television show which talked about different things you could do with your body once you are dead. Up until then she'd always told me she wanted to be cremated, placed in a beautiful urn, and be displayed in either my home or my brother's. She then went on to say that whoever puts her in a closet first and no longer displays her will be haunted by her ghost. Then that television show put a new idea in her head.

Among the many options they reviewed (sending it into outer space, donating it to science, turning it into jewelry) there was one my mother got the most excited about. Fireworks. This expensive alternative highlighted how one's ashes can be packed into several different large fireworks, and then be shot into the sky in an official send off. She suddenly changed her mind and excitedly told me about it. I was less than thrilled.

I actually gave her a look of horror and then immediately had that overwhelming feeling of bursting into tears. I exclaimed that I'd never be able to watch fireworks ever again if she did that... and she'd be gone forever. My brother, however, says that's what we're doing. No question he thinks we should find a way to make it happen when the day comes. I suppose he's right, but the idea still makes me sad.

As time would find out, a couple of years after my mother's revelation, fireworks would come to remind me of somebody else who's no longer with us. Shanna. I wrote about her in my first post on this blog, but I'll recap quickly for those who may not have read it.

Shanna was the first friend I made in first grade. I was new to town, and, other than Mavis and Danielle (both of whom are also no longer with us), I hadn't made any friends yet. Shanna was the first girl to spend the night at my house, where she formed a crush on my brother. It was short lived. We didn't remain close throughout the rest of our school years, but we remained friendly. I always enjoyed running into her and talking with her.

Two years ago, today, she passed away. I'm not getting into specifics about her death, but I will say that she was taken from us too soon. I honestly believe there will not be a Fourth of July for the rest of my life where I won't remember her. It really sucks losing friends when your young.

Yesterday really did seem like a day of remembrance. The patriotic feel does that to people. We remember to be grateful to past generations. We remember the troops who are not given the day off to be with family and friends. And the civilians tend to remember those they've loved who cannot attend this year's BBQ party. Getting older only means there will be more and more people who only live in your memory.

I was fortunate enough to spend the Fourth at a friend's house. I engaged in a lot of fun conversation, ate way too much great food, and even got a little tipsy with some cocktails. We laughed and made a lot of jokes. We gossiped and broke out some opinions. And we felt our hearts sigh when we spoke of the friends we've lost. After the festivities we gathered up our lawn chairs to see the fireworks.

This year my home town put on a show for the first time in two decades. Luck would have it that this display in the sky could be perfectly viewed from my front lawn. A group of roughly thirty of my family and friends clustered up by my house on the hill to see the show. It was magnificent.

There is something so awe inspiring about watching fireworks. You're sitting there quiet, staring at the heavens, gasping at magical nanoseconds of bright, glittery, booming explosions. I don't know about you, but in this quiet head space I think about Shanna. As each explosion forms these beautiful firey flowers in the sky I think of her beautiful daughter. As another one bursts and leaves an imprint of a chandelier in a drifting cloud of smoke my mind travels to a time of younger innocence. I can't help but feel the pure joy the fireworks exude. They are magic, truly.

Now that I think about it... I could not think of a better burial for my mother. Everybody loves fireworks...

The Fear of Being Fearless

As a child it was easy to admit fear. I was afraid of the corner of my grandparent's basement where no natural light ever seemed to infiltrate. I was afraid of Nola... the claw-less attack cat. I was afraid of falling off of high towering objects. Yet, I always ventured into the basement, I tried relentlessly to get that damn cat to like me and I was always climbing on top of things.

As I grew up, though, I stopped conquering my fears by means of facing them. In fact, I steadfastly avoided them at all costs. When I was in school, and I had a crush, I would avoid that crush and hope to God he didn't find out liked him. When I was afraid that my father would disappoint me I'd mask it with a smile and pretend to not be bothered by it. When I was afraid I wouldn't be able to lose weight, I wouldn't even try.

Now as an adult I've come to realize I'm ruled by fear. And, admitting that is scary business. Admitting fear is admitting weakness. It's leaving myself exposed and vulnerable... and that alone is a huge fear of mine.

So why am I doing it? I recently realized that when I'm afraid of something, it seems to come true.

For instance, a couple of years ago I was afraid that the man I was falling for wouldn't ever return my feelings. That fear came true. Then I was afraid he'd find somebody else. That fear came true. Then I was afraid he'd fall in love with her and take a serious step of commitment with her (like moving in together)... that fear also came true. Now, I fear he'll marry her (something he said he had no interest of ever doing). And, I fear that because I fear it... it will come true as well.

I know logically that just because I'm afraid of something happening doesn't mean it's actually going to happen. But I also wonder if being afraid of it isn't the same as knowing it's going to happen but secretly hoping it doesn't. Am I just really bad at accepting things as they are, or am I really, really unlucky?

For a long long time I was afraid of the number 13. My childhood dog died on a Friday the Thirteenth. My grandfather died on November 13. I took a date to a party once, on June 13 (many years ago), and he had sex with somebody else in the bathroom. On another Friday the Thirteenth, my boyfriend showed up to a girls' night out drunk off his ass and embarrassed the hell out of me. The more and more I was afraid of the number, the more bad things started to happen in and around that number. It was as if my negative energy brought on the negative activities.

So, I faced the fear. For the first time since childhood I took an irrational fear and head butted it. I, Destiny Fritz, got the number 13 tattooed onto my body. There's no escaping it now. I even got the tattoo on FRIDAY THE 13TH! I'm surprised I didn't contract a communicable disease, given my fear of the number. So far, it hasn't brought me bad luck. In fact it feels freeing to say "I had this fear... and now I don't. See? I can't be afraid of something tattooed on me." Because no matter what, that number is in my life every day now.

I want to be fearless. I want to love fearlessly. I want to go through my life knowing there's fear, but saying, "Fear... you don't scare me anymore." Because what kind of life is one ruled by fear? How will I ever accomplish anything if I'm afraid of what people will think, what people will say or how it will look? I've come a long way in being a confident, self assured person... but I still have a long way to go.

I think admitting the fear is the first step. When you say you're afraid of something, then you have it out of the way. You've expelled part of the fear and you now have the opportunity to come up with a solution against it, move past it, and just maybe... conquer it.

So what am I afraid of? So many things. I'm afraid I'll never finish a book. I'm afraid I'll never get that book published. I'm afraid I'll never find somebody to fully love me for who and what I actually am. I'm afraid I'll never lose this weight. I'm afraid I'll always be distracted from accomplishing my goals.

Now that I've said all of that out loud, I'm going to work on ways to solve those fears. I'm going to take them, crush them, and prove them wrong. Who's with me? Who wants to get rid of the fear?

Father's Day

When I was 6 years old my mother and father split up. It happened in the Spring of 89' and my mother found herself acting as both parental roles in my and my brother's life. It makes sense that on Father's Day that year we went to a St. Louis Cardinal's game instead of a cookout where fatherhood is celebrated. It would be the first of many Father's Days to come where I didn't see my father or get to wish him a Happy Father's Day.

Despite my dad's general lack of a presence in my life, I never really went without a father figure. For many years I looked to my grandfather to fill this role. He was a very funny man, and he was gifted with colorful word choices. If I spilled food on my shirt while eating he'd tell me to "eat like I'm riding into the wind." He was a biker, and this phrase was his way of telling me to lean over my dinner plate. If I choked on something or had a coughing fit he'd say, "Block her Henry!" I never quite figured that one out, but it was usually accompanied with a swift blow to my back to help me survive the moment. When he watched the news he called it "Library hour," and when he took a nap he called it "Happy Hour." Both phrases were his way of telling me to pipe down and be quiet for a little while. He also had the uncanny ability to assign outlandish nicknames that stuck for people he was fond of (I was Junior or Rerun). I find myself with his sense of humor inside of me. When I say something witty or give somebody a random nick name I think of him and silently thank him for his genes and his remarkable influence on my life.

When I was 12, my mother met my step-father, Terry. Through the years I've never started calling him Dad, but in a round-about way... he has become exactly that. When I'm talking to friends (or even random people) and I use the term "my parents" I am referring to my mother and my step-father. I've even referred to him as my dad or my father when talking ABOUT him. For some reason, though, I've never felt the need to actually address him as such.

The time when I first felt like he was taking a fatherly role in my life was when I was 13. I came home from a dance at school bawling my eyes out. I can't remember the name of the boy I liked back then, but he had been at the dance with another girl. It devastated me. Terry took me to get ice cream (always a good call) and he told me I was beautiful and that boy was a jerk for not seeing this about me. He said not to worry, there will be more boys. He made me feel better. He took my broken little heart and put a band-aid on it. At the time he and my mom weren't even engaged yet, but I hoped he would stick around forever.

I was there when he proposed. My mother, Terry and I were laying on a blanket in my grandparent's back yard. It was late August and we were watching the meteor showers. Only the crickets made noise as we lay in silence watching the sky. Then, out of nowhere, Terry says to my mother, "You're going to marry me, aren't you?" My mother simply said, "Yes, I am." There was no excitement. There was no ring. He didn't get down on one knee and make a speech. He simply said what was on his mind, and my mother simply replied. It took a moment for me to realize what just happened and I shot up and said, "Did you just propose to Mom?" He said, "Yeah, I think I did."

That was that. Within a year or so they were married. I was the maid of honor, and my brother gave her away. On that day our little family of three grew sizably. Not only did we gain a step-father, but we also gained two step sisters (one of whom had a baby girl) and a step brother.

Through the years Terry has been my rock more times than I'd like to admit. He taught me how to drive. He taught me how to fish. He participated in lengthy discussions about life with me. When I was 16 he helped all of us get through my grandfather's passing. He's fixed my curling irons, my car, and numerous other objects when they broke down. He went with me to the vet's office when I had to put down my childhood pet. And when I got my heart broken as an adult, he was there again with words of encouragement. In all senses of the word, except the biological sense, he has been my dad for a very long time.

In the meantime, my biological father and I had a rather rocky relationship. We had arguments and falling outs. We said things that I'm sure we both regret. We went years without speaking to each other. As of right now I haven't seen him face to face for 14 years. That's half of my life. But, as of last summer, we are communicating again.

As an adult I can look back and see the mistakes I've made with him. I was a child then, and many of them can be excused or explained by age. I also manage to see his mistakes in a clearer light. I've forgiven him completely because I know he didn't realize the monumental mistakes he was making as he made them. And holding onto that anger only makes me an angry person. I can honestly say that I love him... but he's never been a permanent fixture in my life. He's never been who I ran to when my car or my heart was broken.

This year, for the first time in over 20 years, I told him Happy Father's Day. I left it as a message on his Facebook wall. It was posted there right next to another salutation left by a young woman in his new life with his new wife. This young woman, I assume, sees him as a father figure in her life. And even though I have an amazing father in Terry, part of me is insanely jealous that my dad obviously got it right with somebody else. Where was that for me? Am I being selfish to wonder that, and wish for it a little bit? Because, you see, when I was deciding on a picture of my dad to post as my profile pic, I chose one of me and Terry. I'm sure that caused a twinge of jealousy in my father's heart. For that reason, alone, I have no right to be jealous... yet I am.

Buck up, Destiny. I tell myself that, because when I look at Terry I'm amazed at how good of a dad he is. He has excellent relationships with his daughters. He's currently helping one of them out who is coping with her own broken heart. She's like a sister to me, and I love being able to say that. This year on Father's Day he stepped up in a way that no father is required to, and in a way that some fathers never do. The thirteen year old inside of me is beaming because when I wished he'd stick around forever... that wish came true. One day when he's dancing with me at my wedding I'll thank my lucky stars that there are men in this world who are fathers to girls who don't share a shred of DNA with them.

Happy Father's Day... a day late.

Repeat Offender

Oh how nice it must be to have all that attention from him. He treats you like a goddess doesn't he? He calls and texts you regularly, and he takes you out and shows you a nice time whenever you ask him to. He probably tells you that you're beautiful, and sweet, and funny, and sexy. And I know you love it. What woman wouldn't?

He's not the first, though. He won't be the last. There is something about you that draws men in. They want you. They need you. They have to have you. Normal, upstanding, goodhearted men turn into dumb, ignorant, cavemen around you. You must put out some sort of pheromone to get this attention. I can't figure it out, but you'll never be lacking for the attention of a man.

The downside to always being the recipient of male attention is always being the recipient of negative female attention. Most of the women I know can't stand you. I think part of it is jealousy. They wish they received the validation that you get from men. Or you are receiving the validation from the man they want, or the man they had. That can spark rage inside any woman's heart.

The jealousy turns into disrespect quickly. Women talk, and, before you know it there are rumors about you floating around. Some of them are true. Some of them are not true. Still you hold your head high and you continue your path of destruction. You go from one guy to the next. As long as there is a line of men who are willing to show you the attention you so badly crave, there will be a longer line women ready to discredit your name anytime it's mentioned.

I've found that it's not always women who are quick to bad mouth you, either. You tend to infiltrate groups of guy friends. When one of them doesn't work out for you, you float to another one... and then another one. Before you know it you've made your way through the group of friends, and they all think bad things of you. They tell their friends, who tell their girlfriends. And then half the population of an entire town knows about you without actually knowing you. It's sad really.

It all reads as insecurity. You leave yourself open to this interpretation. It makes sense, though, because what self respecting girl would spread herself around like that? The proof is in the pudding sweetheart. It wouldn't be so negatively put upon you if you seemed to have standards, or morals, or remorse for when you actually hurt people.

You do hurt people, you know. You hurt a lot of women who date these guys. Although, I kind of think you do these women a favor by showing them how much of a dog their man can be. Sure, he can smell the scent you're putting out there, but if he were seriously committed to another woman then he wouldn't fall for your charms. When he does... that other woman should see the light.

But, you also hurt guys. Because not all of these guys who go after you are dogs. Not all of them are previously attached to another girl. Some of them are really good guys at the core. They're hard working. They are genuine. They aren't assholes... not all of them. And you lead them on. You make them believe you are in it to win it. But then somebody else picks up what you throw out there and you can't turn down that attention. You'll either cheat on that good man or toss him aside with the evening trash. And then he's devastated. He never saw it coming.

Well, he might have seen it coming if you had been honest from the get go about the kind of person you are. But you're never honest from the beginning of anything. You pretend. You figure out what it is that they are into... where their passion lies. Then you pretend their passion is your passion. You don't have an opinion of your own (not one you'd actually say during these preliminary periods) and you certainly won't show them anything that's real about you. You only put on this little show, which makes them think they've struck gold. Finally... a woman who is exactly what he wants... only because she makes herself appear that way, fellas.

Eventually those true colors show, though, don't they darling? It's hard as hell and exhausting as fuck to keep all that up. You might wait until you have another man waiting in the wings to let these real facets of your personality shine through, or you find yourself slipping and showing them too early. However it happens, he will start to see he was duped. You're not the girl he thought you were... instead you are an immature drip of a person who can't take responsibility for her own actions. And when he calls you on it, you will call him an asshole and blame him for everything wrong about the pretend relationship the two of you just had.

Never fear, though, sweetheart. There's another man waiting to woo you. And it doesn't matter that you were only thinking of him as a friend just a week ago. He's here now... and he's giving you that attention. He's distracting you from the last guy. He validates your existence... and he starts the process all over again.

The real bitch of it is, you're not a bad person. You actually do have a good personality. You just decide to shelve it and swap it out for whatever it is you think this guy wants you to be. I wish you'd be honest with yourself... for once... you might find somebody you don't have to play games with or be fake with. Then it won't matter what anybody says or what you've done in the past, because you'll finally realize that it's not about them... it's not about pleasing them, getting them to notice you... it's about making you happy and respecting yourself enough to stop this very destructive behavior.

Revision

Over the last week I have found myself among some pretty influential company. My dearest friends.

The unfortunate event of a death in the family brought home Rob. He recently moved out east and had been enjoying coastal living when he was informed that his cousin died in a drunk driving accident. He made his way back to Illinois to pay his respects. While he was home I had the pleasure of spending a couple of evenings with him. As usual, these evenings were soaked with alcohol, long conversations, laughter and insight.

He and I have never lacked for conversation, and we've never been afraid to delve into ourselves during these conversations. We will talk about anything from broad topics like religion and politics to more focused points such as personal growth and internal struggles. Through these rather therapeutic discussions I've learned more about myself, and my own capabilities. One of the things he said this week was "Let go of your ego."

I don't consider myself to be terribly egotistical, but, I suppose everybody is to an extent. Letting go of one's ego is probably an entirely impossible task. I'm sure even the most silent monk will still think of himself more than he thinks of others. It's a natural instinct. However, Rob had a point. If I let go of my ego, I will essentially make myself more useful to others. By making myself more useful, I become a better person. When that happens I can think of myself in a better way... therefore boosting my ego. Does that make sense at all?

Rob wasn't the only friend challenging me in my journey called life this last week. My friend, Jessica, unknowingly joined him. She recently obtained her Master's Degree in Social Work, and she's a victim of the economy. She's keeping tabs on how many resume's she has sent out and she's rapidly approaching the number 50. Surely she's also doing a lot of her own soul searching.

I told her I have a new outlook on life. I've decided that no definition can be applied to me. I've observed that people tend to define themselves, each other, and their situations. They say to themselves, "Am I better than he is because I have a better job?" Or they assign definitions to those individuals who they feel threatened by. Through doing this we limit ourselves and our peers. So I've decided I have no definition, and if you want to define me I will defy your definition. I will not fit into your category and you can't make me.

As I explained this to her she played devil's advocate and said to me, "If there were one thing you could change about yourself, what would it be?" I came up with an answer quickly, though I won't share it here. It's private. She said it wasn't society that wants this from me, it's me. And changing myself won't change my definition since I refuse to have one. She's a smart one... and she managed to get me to do even more thinking.

As you may have noticed I've changed the look of my blog. I am no longer mundane and predictable. I'm revising my life and taking power over it. These changes are happening and they will take place. I'm not resistant to them.

Thank you, my friends, for being who you are. You push the limits and dare to ask questions. This is why I love you. Don't stop doing it, because through your bravery and your insight I am propping myself up and moving forward. I love you all so so much.