Shaken, Not Stirred. One L, or Two?

James Bond had the right idea when it came to dealing with bartenders. Tell them exactly what you want, straight-up, so that the poor guy doesn't have to wonder if you want your martini shaken or stirred. Although I'm sure the subsequent phenomenon of people ordering martinis in bars like James Bond is annoying. I can imagine this scene in my mind where someone orders a martini "Shaken, not stirred" and then looks at the bartender like they're expecting to get a laugh out of a joke that's been told at least a hundred times before.

I know that feel.

Incidentally, I've had to adopt a similar strategy when telling people how to spell my name. My name is not complicated or particularly hard to spell. But thanks to a very specific potential presidential candidate whose husband was elected into office around the time I was born, it became complicated.

I'm talking, of course, about Hillary Clinton. Hillary Clinton, you'll notice, spells her name with two L's. I spell my name with one. Nevermind the spelling difference, nevermind that I was born shortly before the Clintons moved into the White House; people still asked my parents if I was named after her (and in the extremely conservative state I live in, they always asked it somewhat snidely).

As I grew up, I got more political jokes where my name is concerned than I care to admit; and, like those poor barkeeps dealing with the geniuses who make the "shaken-not-stirred" joke, I have heard almost every joke that you can think of, and I'll still smile weakly at them when they're made. Not because they're particularly funny, but because everyone who makes those jokes probably genuinely thinks that they're the first ones to make them.

It's a Yes. Nice effort, guys smile.

I feel like I should add a disclaimer, here: I don't think it's a bad thing to be named after Hillary Clinton. I actually like her.  I just happen not to be named after her. My parents merely liked and agreed on the name--although, when I started to be old enough to have opinions (read: toddler) I certainly didn't. It was nothing personal or political; I simply wanted to be named after something that sparkled or bloomed. Like Ruby, or Lilac, or Sapphire.

Yeah, I know. I was a very girly girl.

Hilary's still not my favorite name, and it certainly wouldn't have been the one that I chose for myself if I had been old enough to have a say, but I've gotten used to it. I especially have gotten used to people misspelling it. All. The. Time. If I had a nickel for every misspelling, I would certainly have a lot of money in nickels. Maybe not enough to pay for a year of my alma mater's college tuition, but enough for a used car. It happens at least weekly.

I've gotten used to just saying "Hilary-with-one-L" whenever I have to give out my name to important people like doctors or cute guys when I'm giving them my number. If I'm ordering from Starbucks or what have you, I obviously let it slide. I'm not that uptight that I can't take it if someone I don't know and is making coffee for me misspells my name.

On the other hand, part of me thinks that it really shouldn't be this complicated. I mean, why is two L's the default spelling for my name? Just because someone in the public eye happened to spell it that way doesn't (shouldn't) mean that's the default. And the thing is, my name isn't that elaborate or ambiguous-sounding phonetically. There are at least eight different ways to spell most names (especially girls' names) that phonetically all amount to the same thing. Not that creativity in name-spelling should go away, it's just, boy, do I get tired of the "One-L please" speech. As I'm sure the Katharines who have to give the "Katharine with an A" speech. And the girl named Jennie who has to give the "Jennie with an ie" speech. You get the idea.

I don't mean to get irritated about people misspelling my name. And generally I don't, unless you know me or interact with me on social media. Because it's kind of spelled out right there in all its single-L-ed glory for you to look at. If you spell my name with two L's on Facebook, then I know you're not really paying attention. I'll probably get over it, but I'll always be watching how you spell my name in future, and I'll probably give you a high-five if you suddenly spell it right without me having to tell you you're spelling it wrong. If you spell it right the first time, bam. Immediate respect.

I mean, it's my name. I like it when people get it right. As, I'm sure, does everyone. All my peeps with atypical name spellings, REPRESENT! What's the weirdest way someone has ever spelled your name?

Now, if you'll excuse me, MI6 needs me. And by me, I mean Hilary. Not Hillary. Or this guy:

Oh, the difference that adding an extra L can make.

Quirks. I have them.

In high school I became aware of a trend that was gripping my classmates. I'm not referring to skinny jeans, barrel-curled hair, or hipsters (though this was back in 2008, before hipsters. BH? Was there ever such a time?).

I'm referring, of course, to the reusable water bottle trend.

More than meets the eye...

Drinking water is not exactly something new. Water is kind of important. Plants need it. Humans need it. Blah blah blah. And the concept of staying hydrated has been on the radar for probably ever, because the six eight-ounce glasses of water that I'm supposed to have been drinking daily have been following me around like the world's lamest, wettest ghosts ever since I found out I was supposed to be drinking them.

Needless to say, I've amassed a lot of eight-ounce cup-shaped harbingers . I'm really, really bad at drinking water. Really bad at it. I drink a couple swallows if I get really thirsty, but as for drinking water just for the sake of it because I'm supposed to? I fail.

Enter the reusable water bottle. I almost feel like I must have seen water bottles as an accessory in high school. And, because I wanted to be accepted by all the regular, consistent-water-drinking cool kids, I bought one and stored it in my backpack. I think I used it maybe six times, during dance classes, before I lost it. And that was when I stopped caring about reusable water bottles.

Well, that's not entirely true.

College is like a breeding ground for reusable water bottles. It's a breeding ground for a lot of other things, too; but EVERYONE IN COLLEGE HAS A REUSABLE BOTTLE. At least, everyone at MY alma mater did. People carried water around in different containers like it was going out of style--everything from all-purpose plastic to designer to metal to "I just bought this from the student union and I'm reusing it before I recycle it" to glass jars to leftover orange juice cartons to mugs that had had coffee or tea in them and--and--

I think you get the picture.

Anyway, for reasons I don't fully understand in retrospect, I decided around Freshman Year that I should try to be more healthy and drink more water. So I took the water bottle I had received from the Freshman Orientation Swag (ugh, orientation) and bought another one, with the idea that I would swap them off in the fridge at home every other day, and get in a healthy amount of water while being somewhat charmingly sporty.

"Charmingly Sporty" are not words I'd use in conjunction to describe myself, ever; so I bet you can see where this is going.

Within two weeks I'd lost one of the water bottles. Within two months, I'm pretty sure I'd lost them both. Somehow I was undeterred and bought another one, and the only reason I didn't lose that was because I would remember about fifty steps later that I'd left it in the union and go back to get it. After the third or fourth instance of this happening, I kind of gave up and started drinking tea from the union instead. It's a lot harder to feel panic over losing a paper cup.

I'm not actually harebrained or spacey. Not generally. I have a very good memory for details about people and sometimes I think that creeps them out, and I have a very good memory where academia is concerned (I think I could still name all the presidents of the US if I tried, thanks Mr. Gardner) but when it comes to water bottles, I shed them like some girls shed hairpins. I'm surprised I didn't have a train of lost water bottles follow me up the aisle at graduation like Jacob Marley's ghostly chain of money boxes.

And it's not like I have anything against the water bottles themselves; it's just I have the hardest time actually wanting to drink water. Which is just such a disgusting first-world problem, I know, I know. I'm aware that there are so many countries that don't have access to fresh drinkable water, and here I am living in the US saying things like, "I don't really like to drink water," but... I kind of don't. Can't put my finger on why. All I know is that when I force myself to drink a lot of it, I feel kind of gross, not great--and if I'm to believe the hype, water is SUPPOSED to make you feel great if you drink the requisite amount. I start to feel all weird after glass #2. Especially if it's lukewarm water. Cold water is a lot easier for me to drink.

Which is really just more proof that I'm a picky spoiled first-world baby, I guess. Sorry, guys.

Am I the only one who has weird issues with water (probably not)? How do you people get your six eight-ounces a day? TEACH ME YOUR WAYS.

Nope. I don't have it all together.

Remember how much I was panicking the night before graduation? You know, less than six months ago?

Yeah. Me too.

Today, at the behest of my dear friend Carlie, I revisited my school's campus to catch a bite of lunch and have a long awesome conversation, and then after that I met up with my friend Megan in the Union to have another long awesome conversation.

Coming up on the Commons (which is an area with fountains and pretty views) I was already starting to feel weird. I've chosen to compare this to feeling how Frodo felt when he returned from the Quest and came back to the Shire; because geeky analogies are the things that I do. It didn't feel like home, anymore, and that was a horribly sad realization. Especially because those four years are kind of surrounded in a glow of the love and support of people that have changed my life. Even with my marriage, college was good. Every corner--even the stupid parking-pass-necessary-parking lots--has some fantastic memories.

Nostalgia and nausea have always sort of gone hand in hand for me, because once I start missing the past, I start feeling kind of ill, because it's gone, gone, gone. There's no going back, to coin a cliche. So I started feeling a little empty and irrelevant, because I in no way shape or form have even begun to figure my life out.

This was only amplified when my friend Megan said in passing: "I've been thinking about when to talk to my advisors about when I should start applying for jobs" and I immediately started kicking my past self as someone who is currently basically unemployed for having had so much stubborn, intense anxiety related to job-searching and--still having it, if I'm being totally honest.

And then as I was walking back to my car, I ran into another friend, Marya, who is (like me) visiting the campus and the people one last time before she goes off to another country to like, work and be cool and stuff. We ended up chatting for a while, which was nice, but one part of the conversation in particular really kind of jangled the kaleidoscope of my brain.

She had met people in Sweden (where she had been working) who had only just started college at the age I am now (23). They all told her, "You've got plenty of time."

As much as I don't want to waste time, sometimes I feel like I have. Being clinically depressed after graduation is probably fairly common, especially among writers/most artists, where you're almost guaranteed to have some sort of mental health quirk if you pursue a career in (gasp) culture instead of STEM (which is culture, but really, guys, the arts are important too; and I'll elaborate on that at a later time), and I'm certainly not immune. I've sort of been rendered immobile, as silly as it sounds; with school ending and friends leaving and not having the same kind of purpose. I'm good at being a student. I'm not so sure I'm quite that good at being a person. I mean, obviously, if I was good at being a person, I would have started looking for jobs before my first semester senior year had ended. I would have not been stubborn or let my anxiety get the better of me. And I certainly wouldn't be feeling invisible.

But what she said got me thinking. Maybe I did the best I could with what I had. I certainly could have done better. There's no denying that. But I also could have done much, much worse. And I'm pretty sure I'll figure out how to at least pretend like I'm an adult fairly soon; therapy should help with that, and also, I'm super tired of being stuck. Granted, the thought of getting un-stuck scares the hell out of me, because I don't know where to start, but I want to.

So no. I don't have it all together. I'm almost twenty three, and I'm still kind of confused about my life. But I'm starting to think that's okay, because all I have to do is hit rock bottom and then I'll write a seven-part book series that ends up being wildly popular.

Wait. no. That's JK Rowling. I've confused myself with JK Rowling.

But, I mean, the future really could hold anything. I'm not ruling it out.

Beauty Lessons I learned from TV's Babeliest Brothers (and one Awkward Angel) Part 1

It's not a secret that I have an obsession with Supernatural.

Sweet, sweet addiction.

I'm fairly sure everyone who has the internets knows I love this show. And I'm fairly sure my fervor on this blog and on my facebook page has either 1) scared my friends who aren't into Supernatural or 2) inspired my friends who aren't into Supernatural to watch this show. The friends who are already into Supernatural just nod and smile, because they know.

I was more surprised than anyone that I got sucked back into this show in June. Mainly because it's not British. It's probably the one thing I'm super fangirl enthusiastic about that isn't British.

What? British stuff is cool. So are bowties.

Anyway, if you've watched Supernatural, or even if you've seen pictures of the cast of Supernatural, you know that the show is full of insanely good looking people. And nowhere is this more evident than the show's main characters, Dean (played by Jensen Ackles) and Sam (Jared Padalecki).

Dean Winchester is too perfect to be real.
This has been a PSA by the HOLY CRAP,  JENSEN ACKLES association (HCJAA).

Ain't nothin wrong with this gif.
Shameless admiration of Sam. 

And, of course, there's Cas. 

Master of the Puppy Eyes.

Guys this good looking always have something to teach a girl. Wait, that sounds dirty. 

Guys this good looking always have something to teach the general public about beauty. Because let's face it, they're beautiful. 

So. Without further ado. Here are the Beauty Lessons I've Learned from Watching Supernatural. 

1). Find a Signature Style. 

These boys know what looks good on them. Leather jackets, plaid, and jeans. They have a look. They rock the look. 

They trust the look. 

2) Dress The Part 

Sure, they have their look that is their staple look. But Sam and Dean aren't afraid to dress for success on occasion. They've learned how important it is to wear the appropriate outfits for impersonating government officials, impersonating detectives, impersonating park rangers...

It may not be *you*, but sometimes an open mind pays off. Like on a date and you're going shopping for an outfit. Or, you know, when you've got to impersonate Homeland Security officers. 

3) Treat Yourself

I've heard the phrase "treat yourself" in conjunction with makeovers, massages, buying makeup, etc; but it can also be used in conjunction with actual treats. Sometimes, you've just gotta relax, slow down, and enjoy a big slice of 

PIE. 

If you're Dean Winchester and you're reading this blog, first off...uhhh, hi. You're really attractive.  Secondly, I'm fairly sure what went through your head was: 

Which is totally understandable. 

5). Have Confidence in How You Look, No Matter What People Say

I'm counting this as two, because honestly, this could also be a lesson in hair care. His hair (whatever you might say about the length) is so luscious. Whatever conditioner he's using, HOOK ME UP. 

Back to the original point--I'm fairly sure Dean has told Sam to GET A HAIRCUT more times than I can actually count, and I'm additionally equally sure that a lot of the fans support this idea. Sam is truly a beautiful human, but if his hair gets any longer, he'll start to look more like a certain Christian deity and less like the sorta-demon apocalyptic-vessel that we all know and love. 

Just a beard and sandals away. You know you can see it. 

But Sam keeps rocking it anyway. Sam is the poster child for "Long Hair, Don't Care." Sam likes himself and sees his attractiveness with his long hair and his short hair. Sam knows it's what's on the inside that counts. 

Even on those times when, you know, you seem to have misplaced a soul. 

Ahem. Yeah. Let's continue the list. 

6) Never Underestimate the Power of a Truly Badass Entrance 

First impressions are everything, and nobody on this show makes a first impression quite like our friendly neighborhood Angel of the Lord. 

Nothing says "pay attention to me" like walking through a barn painted with all kinds of deterrents like it ain't no thang, and then busting out a pair of angel wings.

For the rest of us, who are simply humans, there are ways. Wingless ways. But you can still totally make an unforgettable first impression.

7) Attitude is Everything.

Attitude will get you everywhere and everything that you want. Including the throne to the Kingdom of Hell. You've just got to be willing to put in the requisite amount of work to go along with it. Or, you know, get someone to do the work for you.

But, yeah. Mostly attitude. 

There are so many other things that could be on this list. So, what are some beauty lessons you've learned from The Winchesters and Friends? I know there has to be something I've missed. 

Sorry, what? I lost my train of thought. I found this when I was looking for gifs and...yep. 

Yeah, I'm definitely a Dean girl. It's a very real fact. 

Tired of Hearing About Feminism? Too Bad...

Ah, feminism. The "F" word. The word that causes people to cheer, or roll their eyes. The word that has been defined and re-definied for us by conservatives, by liberals, by feminists, by non-feminists. People defend it, attack it, hate it, love it. Nothing is quite so polarizing as feminism. Feminists can attack other feminists for "not being feminist enough," feminists can attack non-feminists for being wrong...it's all so complicated.

Yeah. Complicated enough that I'm going to try and talk about it. But if I can cover PTSD, I can talk about this. And I can talk about it in a mature way, if not as elegantly as Jenny Lawson.

With recent conflicting hashtag activism movements like "Not All Men/Yes All Women" and "I Don't Need Feminism Because/I need Feminism Because, it's especially easy to get confused. It's especially easy to misunderstand what feminism is. Is feminism misandry? Does feminism give women a sort of reverse advantage, as Fox News claims? Do people just need to stop talking about it, already?

As a sociology minor, I get that. And I admit, I'm biased. I've never not been a feminist. As a toddler (yes, at two years old) I was making statements about girls and boys being equal and how silly it was that people thought boys were better. I'm paraphrasing, obviously. But I've always had a certain kind of double consciousness that I'm a smart person, but also a woman; and that means that men will get certain privileges that I don't, and that kind of does make me angry. I've worked hard to earn what I have, and so it's common sense to me that I should get every opportunity a man would, in my chosen field. I also know that, under the current system, I probably won't get every opportunity a man would, and that feels wrong. So it's common sense to me to be a feminist.

What is feminism? Well, that is a simple and complicated question with a simple and complicated answer. The simplest answer is: feminism is the belief that men and women are equal, and deserve equal rights.

The complicated answer is: are we talking liberal feminism, Marxist feminism, or radical feminism? Are we taking into account the gender binary, societal gender roles? Are we talking female as sex (biological) or gender (assigned)? Are we going to talk about non-white, non-cisgender, queer feminist movements and issues? These are all parts of feminism, and are all equally important.

Basically, the complicated answer simplified is that feminism is a movement that strives to put all human beings of all races--female, male, queer, straight, trans--on equal footing. It just happens to be called feminism because the balance of power as it currently sits tilts the scales against women.

Phew. So much theory. I'm not even sure I've got it a hundred percent correct. So let's move to what feminism is NOT:

Feminism is NOT misandry. Misandry is a hatred and mistrust of men--the mirror image of misogyny, which is a hatred and mistrust of women.

It's a common misconception that ALL FEMINISTS ARE EVIL LESBIAN MISANDRISTS. We're not. Are some feminists lesbians? Of course. Do some feminists hate men? Yes. Does that make the movement invalid? No.

I've never met a feminist who is as crazy as certain members of the media will lead you to believe. For the most part, we're all fairly rational people who are just really sick of the patriarchy. This DOES NOT mean we're sick of men. In fact, most of us (even those of us who are lesbians--gasp) like men and have male friends. I'm a big fan of men. I've got a lot of male friends, I've had really fantastic boyfriends (as well as some really crappy ones) and I've been on dates with really sweet, really awesome guys. Does this mean I have to like male privilege? Or the patriarchy? Well, no.

A lot of men have been really defensive around me when I say things like "I really don't like male privilege. I don't think it's fair," or "I really don't like the patriarchy as a system." They seem to think I'm talking specifically ABOUT THEM.

I'm not. If you're a dude, you're not the system. You benefit from the system, especially if you're white and straight. That's not your fault. It doesn't mean you like it. But you do benefit from it, and half of the battle is acknowledging that you do without getting defensive and throwing #notallmen around like confetti. We get that it's frustrating. I was super frustrated when I realized I have white privilege and I can't revoke it. The balance of power in the system gives it to me. And it makes me uncomfortable every single day, that I have a privilege that I didn't earn and I can't do anything about it by myself. It makes me ill. It should make me ill. 

And I have certainly met women who don't like feminism and feminists. My former mother-in-law told me that I needed to tone down the feminism if I was going to have a happy marriage. I've even recently had female friends tell me they're not feminists and that feminism makes them angry and tired. Do I necessarily a hundred percent know where they're coming from? No. Feminism is something that I have really strong feelings about.

But does this mean that I shame them and judge them? No. As a feminist, I'm all about choices. If you chose not to be a feminist, that's your business. But make sure you know what it is you're choosing before you make a decision. Jenny Lawson said that, and I agree.

I've taken you through the theory. Now it's time for the personal portion of this post.

I'm going to begin with this phrase: I need feminism. It's an oldie, but a goodie.

The most obvious reason I need feminism is because I was abused by someone who was supposed to be my partner in life. I became a statistic, and I know what it's like to feel totally powerless and scared. You guys already know quite a bit about that. So I'm going to go with some less obvious reasons.

I need feminism because I'd really like to feel safe walking down the street or working the stall at the farmers' market by myself. I've had several experiences of men approaching me while I'm alone at the booth and saying really inappropriate things to me. I've been shouted and heckled walking down the street. None of that makes me feel super awesome. In fact, it makes me feel gross, dirty, and like my body is public property somehow. It's not.

I need feminism because I can watch about a hundred movies about meaningful friendships between two guys and maybe find one about a meaningful friendship between two women that isn't between two sisters or doesn't somehow turn sexual. I'm all for portrayal of LGBT love stories. I'd just really like to see two women being really awesome friends. Because awesome female friendships exist in real life. I've got a ton of them. I wouldn't be who I am without my support group of female friends. So I think it can be a thing that happens in movies.

I need feminism because I'm not the sum of my body parts. I've been treated like that before. It sucks. I've also been treated like a human--the guy I went on a date with most recently treated me more like an equal than about half of my actual boyfriends did--and that was such a nice change. I've had guys I barely know make insinuations about my sex life, which is absolutely none of their business.

I need feminism because objectification is real, and no matter how hard my parents worked to keep me from buying into self-objectification, it was prevalent and persuasive enough to suck me in anyway. And it still sucks me in, even though I consider myself to be an enlightened woman. It's too easy to see myself as an object.

I need feminism because "friendzoned" is a term and I've been on the receiving end of it. It's horrible. I like to think of myself as a nice girl, but when I get accused of friendzoning I used to feel so awful and guilty. Now I just feel irritated. Yes. I get you're a nice guy. I never said you weren't a nice guy. But that doesn't give you any perks other than friendship. 'Liking' my posts and photos on facebook, hanging out with me--none of that means you'll get in my pants or even get a date with me, and if you're doing all that with the intention of trying to seduce me, you're not actually my friend. Being my friend means being my friend. And I promise, being my friend is actually pretty neat. I'm really loyal to my true friends. And there's this double standard with friendzoning--I hear guys talk about it ALL THE TIME, but girls rarely refer to themselves as being "friendzoned," even though I'm fairly sure girls experience unrequited feelings just as commonly as guys do.

I need feminism because people think feminism only just pertains to the Western world. Feminism is a global issue. It's easy to say you don't need feminism if you're a white, Euro-Western woman. But the world is a lot bigger than us, and women around the world face some terribly serious threats.

I'm not much. I'm one woman who strongly believes that women are capable of everything men are. I believe that women are underrepresented, abused, and undervalued, both at home and on a global scale, and that is totally unacceptable. People should not accept it.

How many women who could write this blog post in a much more inspiring and moving way way than I do, who don't have the means or the voice?  How many Malalas are out there who haven't been supported by their families in their dreams of education and equality?  How many women who could change the world for the better?

I believe in feminism's cause. It's not a perfect movement. It's really not. But it is inherently good. And I just really want people to see that.

Further Reading (I know, no articles for the other side, but they're hard to find in my world, and I'd be happy to read and update this post with some well-thought out against articles if they are supplied):

http://iwantedwings.wordpress.com/2014/07/21/a-response-to-women-against-feminism/

http://jezebel.com/5992479/if-i-admit-that-hating-men-is-a-thing-will-you-stop-turning-it-into-a-self-fulfilling-prophecy

http://thebloggess.com/2014/07/women-who-are-ambivalent-about-women-against-women-against-feminism/

How to Hold a Baby

Yeah, I know what you all are thinking. You're thinking Hilary, what the hell is wrong with you? How to hold a baby? What kind of a how-to is that? Also, are you pregnant? 

I'll answer the questions in order:
1). I don't know.
2 & 3). It's a valid one. Bear with me.
4). ABSOLUTELY NOT. Let me say that again: NOPE.

As an only child, babies and children in general are kind of a mystery to me. I may or may not have called my mother while babysitting a neighbor's crying baby because I couldn't get it to stop.

I was young, okay? And to be honest, I'd probably still call my mother if my own hypothetical baby was crying and I couldn't get it to stop.

You really didn't think I couldn't not make a Supernatural reference on my blog, did you? 

It doesn't help matters that my dad's side of the family consists of only three grandchildren, myself included; and that my mom's side of the family hasn't had a new baby (up until this year, but I'm getting to that) for five years. Last time there was a new baby in my immediate family circles, I was still a teenager.

Hint: I'm not a teenager any more. 

Recently, my cousin Heather had a baby, and when I say recently I mean like a week and a half ago. This marks the first new baby that the family's had in a while. I had the opportunity to go and visit Heather and her newborn daughter, Scarlett, in the hospital. 

She is truly a beautiful baby, and I was/am amazed by this tiny little life. 

But I mean, I had no idea how to hold the baby. Like, a vague idea of cradling, but my mom and my aunt Susan were cradling the baby and moving the baby around from cradling her to leaning her against their shoulders and I was like, WHAT IS THIS WITCHCRAFT? I knew from my high school Child Development class that you're always supposed to support a baby's giant bobbly head because they certainly can't support it themselves, but I'd learned nothing about shifting the baby around.

HOW TO HOLD A BABY, according to an untutored only child:

1). Hold out arms to receive baby. 

2). Cradle baby in arms to give maximum head support 

3). quickly realize that the cradle position is not even a little bit comfortable for you, but the baby seems fine with it. 

4). Sit and cradle the baby. Arms start to shake a little. DO NOT stand up. Ever. 

5). Watch the baby squirm and worry it will start crying. 

6). Overthink how you're holding the baby. Wonder if the baby is comfortable. 

7). If baby starts crying, give it to someone who knows how to deal with that, because you don't. 

HOW TO HOLD A BABY, according to other people, mothers, and so on

1). You just know. Because you're magic and not an awkward only child. 

My mom and my aunt did give me something of a tutorial to try to teach me how to move little Scarlett around, but for the most part I was incredibly gun-shy and maintained the cradle for most of my visit. 

But then, something weird happened this last Saturday. 

I was working the market with AJ, and one of his friends that I'd met at his birthday party came to our booth. She had her two-month-old son with her, and I stepped out from behind the booth to look at him.

"He's so cute," I said.

"Would you like to hold him?" 

I took a moment to think about it, and then, to my surprise, said yes. 

She moved him from her sling and handed him to me. I put him to my shoulder, just like I'd seen much more experienced baby handlers do. 

I was shocked with myself. Where did these skills come from? 

I held him for a while, and then gave him back so I could work. And then, once things had slowed down, I held him again. And I was moving him around, shoulder to cradle to leaning against my legs, and I felt like some kind of wizard. 

Either I'm getting better at this game, or this baby is a magic baby, I thought. 

Me holding the baby while taking a selfie. Excuse the no makeup. 

I confessed to his mother as I handed him back for the last time that, as an only child, holding babies has always been kind of scary to me.

"Really?" she said as she tucked her baby back in his sling. "You seemed totally confident to me." 

I shook my head, baffled at myself and my newfound baby skills. But hey. If I've got them, I'm not questioning where they came from. I just hope I can handle a crying baby with this level of calm and expertise. 

We'll see. 

Ain't nothin' we angels can't do. 

The Perils of Gym Class

I'm sure whoever invented the idea of gym class had good intentions. "Let's find a way to help children be healthy and get exercise in," they probably thought. "Also, children made to sit still for this long get really fidgety and annoying, so we'll be killing two birds with one stone. Everyone wins!"

But you know what they say--"the road to hell is paved with good intentions." Incidentally, that's exactly what I'm speculating the road to gym class is paved with. I'm fairly sure that that means hell and gym class are exactly one and the same.

None of you will be shocked to hear that I was not a particularly athletic child. I was an incredibly prolific swimmer and a decent dancer, but anything that involved hand-or-foot-eye-coordination (yes, foot-eye coordination is totally a thing, ask any self-respecting soccer player) was a little bit beyond me. My parents were of the school of thought that "if she shows an interest in it, we should let her do it--but we should also make her try as many things as possible," and after years of torturous summer camps, they finally understood that I was what you'd call "indoors-y" and preferred reading to 90% of other activities.

"Perky" and "Sporty" are synonyms in my mind.
I'm not either of them. 

Gym class was never a problem when I was homeschooled, 1st through 5th grade. Mom and I would go on early morning walks or play basketball in the empty church gym. This is what gave me the illusion that I might actually be decent at throwing balls at things, but really shows how little I actually knew about basketball.

Fast-forward to sixth grade. 

 

Actually, don't. I don't remember a thing about gym class in 6th grade. I know that we had one, and that, presumably, I would have been required to participate, but I was probably too distracted mooning over my sixth grade crush to remember what torture we went through. 

Seventh grade, though, I remember, because that was the first year I was made to run the mile. 

I can put up with the indignities of soccer, ultimate frisbee, and flag football, but running the mile is just plain embarrassing. I've never been a runner, and when I have had cause to run long distances I usually start tasting iron and my chest gets tight, which either means I'm really out of shape and I'll die young or I've got a touch of runner's asthma. I never had this problem swimming laps, but running makes me dizzy. Or at least, it definitely did when I was in seventh grade. 

My teacher explained the task--we needed to complete a certain number of laps to get one mile, and then we would be done with class. Not ever having done this before, I was fairly sure I'd manage, but I was by no means looking forward to it. 

About halfway through, I was seriously slogging. Three quarters of the way through, everyone else had finished and I was starting to see stars. My teacher actually had to help me down the stairs and back to my classroom because I had nearly fainted. I was humiliated. No one wants to be *that* kid, especially not me, with my burgeoning anorexia. 

By the time the next gym class rolled around, my teacher had an announcement: she'd miscalculated the distance and made us run two miles instead of one. Which was a small comfort to my shame, and if I wasn't an incredibly innocent child at the time, I probably would have been thinking in curses. 

Eighth grade, I didn't even try to disguise my dislike of gym class. I was very much in the throes of the Adolescent Awkward Phase, where my body was simultaneously betraying me by going through puberty, and being betrayed by me, because I wasn't eating. It was a rough time for everyone, and to my disgust, running the mile became a quarterly occurrence that I dreaded. Not only that, but games that I hated like dodgeball and basketball were being incorporated into our routines, as well as some Presidential Fitness thing that Bush introduced specifically, I think, to punish me for not supporting him in his 2000 and 2004 campaigns for president. 

Not everything about gym class was a nightmare: I discovered I liked volleyball (or, at least, when compared with everything else it was downright enjoyable). Just most of it was. Everything seemed to tell me that I was not ever meant for gym class: the humiliation of without question being the worst at everything (and, like Divination, gym class is not something you can read into perfection, and YES I WENT THERE with the Hermione comparison), as well as feeling like I was disgustingly unattractive and overweight and all my bodily flaws were on display for everyone to see. 

Seriously. It makes me uncomfortable just remembering it. 

This was never more apparent than when the school installed plastic tile-things in the previously concrete gymnasium floor, presumably to minimize the amount of injuries and potential lawsuits. We were playing something--probably basketball--and I biffed it, because that was one of two things I did when playing sports. 

1). Falling over. 

2). Freezing like a deer in the headlights until someone yelled at me to PASS THE BALL and then flailing hopelessly to get the ball as far away from me as possible

Anyway, it was a really minor fall--I wasn't even smarting a little--and I got up and kept going in an effort to Be Like the Cool Kids Who Always Got Up and Dusted Themselves Off and Played Sports Well. I didn't even notice I'd split my knee open until my best friend, Becca, pointed out that I was bleeding all over the floor. I looked down, and sure enough. There was a substantial trickle of blood running down my leg, as well as several spots on the gym floor. 

"Seriously," she said to me later, when I was in the bathroom putting an office-supplied band-aid on my injury, "are you made of glass? I'm pretty sure you're made of glass. I think you break easier than anyone I know." 

I would have reminded her that I've never actually broken any bones, and that she was probably a lot less breakable because she'd spent time fending for her life among her eight siblings, but she was right. Skinning your knee is one thing. Skinning your knee when you barely touch a padded plastic floor is another. 

High school was a relief, because you only have to complete so many credit hours of gym class, and I'd knocked those out in 9th grade and the rest were taken care of by my ballet and modern classes. Which, I was still rather physically inelegant at that point, but at least I wasn't having to run the damn mile anymore. It was also a relief because it meant I didn't have to participate in another science fair EVER AGAIN, but that's another story. 

The Chick-Fil-A Curse

Fast food restaurants, man. First that Wendy's, and now the Chick-Fil-A near the space where I'm rehearsing for my show, Two Gentlemen of Verona. I blame Kate and Ivy. If it wasn't for Kate and Ivy (aka SAM AND DEAN) then demons/weird events would not have started happening at the Chick-Fil-A.

OK, but maybe that's not fair.

But it kind of is.

You see, it all started the night of auditions for the show I'm currently in, when Ivy and Kate ran into someone Ivy calls "The Most Hated Boy(TM)" I shan't reveal his actual (absurdly pretentious) name, on the off chance that he somehow reads my blog without knowing me, but I'm fairly sure he would know who he is anyway. Mean people have psychic vibes like that.

 Most Hated Boy earned this epithet by being a really awful, awful person and hurting Ivy. I've never met him, but I dislike him already on the grounds that he hurt my friend, and I will kick your butt if you hurt my friends because I'm a seriously badass angel.

 -

I wasn't there for this particular incident, but basically it was upsetting for her to see him there and she was pretty angry and sad afterwards and we got the fulll story about why Most Hated Boy is Most Hated Boy, but that's Ivy's personal stuff and I'm not sharing it on the internet. 

The Chick-Fil-A curse continued the day Kate and I were starving after rehearsal and drove there to get food. Kate's the one directing the show, so she was tired and hungry and I had been at work before rehearsal and I was also tired and hungry. The plan was to discuss the day, discuss some projects that we're co-creating, and part ways after eating. The last thing either of us wanted was to get approached by some poltergeists. 

And by poltergeists, I mean the special brand of guys that tend to end up hitting on Kate and I. Remember the guy at Wendy's? Who wouldn't stop telling me that my dress was beautiful, that I was beautiful in it, etc? That's the brand. 

We got to the Chick-Fil-A and went in. We were flanked by two guys--maybe mid-to-late 20's; but we didn't think anything of it. We ordered our food, got it, and sat down. 

We were immersed in a conversation about the Dashwood Chronicles, a video-diary project we're working on a la the Lizzy Bennet Diaries, but with the Dashwood Sisters as the vloggers, when suddenly a voice interrupted our discussion. It wasn't disembodied, but for a second I'm fairly sure we both thought it was.

VOICE: You can come sit with us, if you want.

We looked around the restaurant, bemused, but since there was only one other person in the vicinity, it was pretty easy to figure out who had done the talking, even though for whatever reason he was staring at his fingernails or something. It was one of the pair of guys who had ordered their foodstuffs just after us. He glanced up at us and smiled.

The penny dropped in my head (oh right, he's hitting on us), and I looked at Kate, waiting for her to politely decline, because really, who tries to pick up girls in a Chick-Fil-A? 

Come on, Kate, say something. *cue head-tilt*

Meanwhile, Kate was looking back at me, frozen. She opened her mouth to say something, but a vague choking sound came out.

Uhhh...uh...I, uhhh...

So neither of us said anything. We just sort of sat there in silence, trying to figure out if the other person was going to decline, until "Smooth" Guy just kind of gave up and said, "well...you don't have to...if you don't want to." He said it in this awkward way, too, and I felt bad for a millisecond. But it was awkward enough that I thought he probably wouldn't try to instigate any further conversation.

I never learn.

Relieved, I stuck a giant fry into my mouth, chewing happily but wishing those guys (there were two of them at the table by this point; his friend had joined him after) would please go sit somewhere else, their presence and the potential that they might look at me/look at Kate was making me a little wary.

 I don't like it when people stare at me at the best of times. I've been known to snap "WHAT?" at my parents if I catch them looking at me while I'm surfing the internet or eating. There are a very few people in the world whose unswerving attention I'm okay with.

The silence lasted for about half a second before--

"SMOOTH" GUY: So do either of you go to school?

KATE: Uhhh, I go to the University, and she just graduated.

ME: *swallows fry* Yep, I did.

"SMOOTH" GUY: What are you studying?

KATE: Theatre.

ME: I got a degree in English. Creative writing.

"SMOOTH" GUY: Oh. What do you want to do with that?

"What do you want to do with that?" is my least favorite question, followed closely by, "do you want to teach?". I suppose that generally, the people who ask it mean well, but I just don't understand its necessity. Isn't the clue in the title--you know, creative writing? You'd never ask someone with a degree in mechanical engineering "Oh, what do you want to do with that? Do you want to teach?" No. You'd assume that they were probably going to be a mechanical engineer. "Oh, you're studying pre-med? Does that mean you want to NOT be a doctor?"

ASK ME ONE MORE TIME IF I WANT TO TEACH
GO ON, ASK.

Instead of decking someone in the face, however, I calmly just replied--

ME: I want to be a writer. 

"SMOOTH" GUY: Oh, a writer? Like what kind of writing? Like, SciFi, or like Stephenie Meyer?

ME: No, like good writing.*

*this was in response to the latter half of his question; not the first. SciFi is great. I'm a huge fan of SciFi. I'm sorry to all you readers who might be Meyer fans, it was a knee jerk reaction and I'm really not a fan of her books. Sorry. 

"SMOOTH" GUY: I know Stephenie Meyer. 

ME: *opens mouth, closes it.*

OTHER GUY: Wait, you do? 

"SMOOTH" GUY: Yeah, her dad spoke at our graduation in '07. 

OTHER GUY: Wait, he did? 

"Smooth" guy was obviously getting a little frustrated with Other Guy's persistent Cramping Of His Style, so he went off on a long "I'll prove it" tangent by saying that the first book had just come out and Alleged Father of Stephenie Meyer mentioned it in his commencement speech, which was super bull, "Smooth" Guy  because I was 14 when the first book came out which means it did NOT come out in '07. Nice try, though. Anyway, we stopped listening as he was trying to prove his story to his unconvinced friend, and incidentally also finished our food and made a quiet exit, which lasted only as long as we were in earshot. Out of earshot, we started laughing and trying to figure out what the social conventions actually are for trying to pick someone up in a fast food restaurant. Do they exist? 

I'm not really sure they do.

Anyway, by this point, we'd already ascertained that the Chick-Fil-A was probably cursed, but we didn't stop eating there. Ivy, Kate and I decided to return, this time accompanied by another member of the cast and our friend, Taylor. 

Taylor is legitimately one of the funniest people I know. If she was writing this blog, it'd be even more amusing than it already is. She's playing my third (and best, of course) suitor in the show we're in, and she goes to school with Kate. Not sure who she'd be in our Supernatural theme, though. I'm not going to give her a character without talking to her first, though; because I'm sure she'd like a say.

She is Crowley, in our Supernatural Team. Which fits. Sarcastic, funny, and attitude.

Seriously. Don't. Taylor will take you down. 

We pulled into the parking lot of the Chick-Fil-A, and I could feel a twinge of apprehension. What weird thing was going to happen this time? Were we going to run into my Ex? Had Chick-Fil-A perhaps turned into a portal to hell in the week since we'd been there last? 

The only way to find out was to go inside. 

A cursory glance upon entering revealed no crappy exes, no uncomfortably awkward guys, and no demons. So far, so good. 

We stepped up to the counter, ordered food, and went to go find a table. 

KATE: Just so long as it's not that table *gestures to the table we'd been sitting at when Awkward Guys were chatting us up.*

TAYLOR: Why. . .?

KATE: It's cursed.

So we sat at another table, but it was either 1) too close to the table that was cursed or 2) was cursed itself because we had only been sitting there for a few moments when a shower of water flew through the partition and landed squarely on Kate's legs and the table. One of the employees had been cleaning up and accidentally knocked a vase of (fake) flowers over with her movements. Needless to say we all jumped, and Ivy probably pulled out the Colt (if we had a Colt) because when you're in cursed locales you're extra cautious. 

Once we realized we weren't in danger of our lives, we relaxed. The employee apologized several times, and we assured her it was okay and that we'd just go sit at a new table. At that moment, our food was ready, so Ivy, Taylor and I picked up trays while Kate shook the water out of her skirt. 

We started moving towards a new table, when suddenly there was a resounding splat. Kate's milkshake had done a graceful swan dive off of the tray as Ivy was putting it down on the table, and the styrofoam cup had exploded upon contact with the tile floor. It was a piteous sight to behold. 

IVY: Not my fault! 

KATE: I didn't even get to taste it!

TAYLOR: Go ask them for a new one. If you tell them what happened, they will make you a new one. 

KATE: I didn't--

TAYLOR: I'm serious. Go. 

So Kate did, and sure enough, they did make her a new one. So even though the Chick-Fil-A is cursed, its employees are nice. And nothing else went wrong that night; we had a great conversation and lots of fun was had by all. Taylor and Kate told us about their Senior Show, Bluestockings, which sounds like an incredible play. And then we left. 

But we haven't been back there since. 

Because that Chick-Fil-A is cursed, man. 

Conversations with Myself

IAs an only child who grew up in a neighborhood deviod of the company of people my own age, I've learned to cope with being alone. Not that I've always liked being alone; sometimes I would really appreciate having a brother or sister to talk to and tease (but that's what I have friends for, right?). Talking to oneself/arguing with oneself sounds creepily schizophrenic, but 1) I'm a writer, so it's how I work out plot and dialogue and 2) I'm an only child. Who else am I gonna talk to when I'm alone and it's as silent as that time when Dean Winchester had to climb out of his own grave?

I've been watching too much Supernatural. Too much?
No such thing.

Basically, if you throw in the aforementioned depression/PTSD into the mix; the conversations with myself get a whole lot more interesting.

Exposition, part two: There are always two sides to every conversation. Even when the conversation is with yourself. So I'd like to describe these two sides.

Number One: The productive side. I didn't graduate college with a 3.9 because I was lazy. Okay, sometimes I was lazy, but NOT VERY OFTEN. When I get driven/inspired, I can accomplish a hell of a lot. This usually happens during times when I have strict routines, like. . .school. Some of my best fiction was written during finals. This side of my personality I'm going to illustrate with the help of the fictional version of me:

Hair: Check.
Stress: Check.
Braininess: Check Check. 

For all you muggles, that's Hermione, and if you don't know Hermione, then I'm just kind of a little disappointed. Luckily, there are seven whole books out there that you can go educate yourselves with.

Part two of the personality I'm going to embody with my favorite Winnie the Pooh character:

Oh, bother. 

Basically explains itself, I think. 

So. Now that we've met the main characters, we can start a dialogue. 

HERMIONE: You know, you should really do some writing today. 

EEYORE: Eh. I could, if I had any ideas. 

HERMIONE: Well, you're not going to get any ideas by laying there. 

EEYORE: Who says?

HERMIONE: Basically every writing instructor that's lived. Remember? You get better at writing by practicing. 

EEYORE: I'm probably a terrible writer.

HERMIONE: That's the exactly attitude to take. Get up! Go do something! 

EEYORE: But all my first drafts are bad. 

HERMIONE: Anne LaMott, Eeyore. "Shitty first drafts are okay."

EEYORE: But revising is hard.

HERMIONE: So? 

EEYORE: I'm just uninspired.

HERMIONE: Quit making excuses! 

EEYORE: I'm also really tired.

HERMIONE: You know you just made a rhyme, right?

EEYORE: Oh look at that. I did. 

HERMIONE: Besides, if you can stay up until 1am giving every single facebook chat sticker in existence a character from Sherlock, Doctor Who, or Supernatural with Kate, YOU CAN WRITE A PULITZER PRIZE WINNING NOVEL. 

(authorial intrusion: I wish I was joking. Actually, no, I don't. I'm fairly sure Kate and I won the internet with our characterizations of Sam, Dean, and Cas.)

Just in case you thought I actually was kidding.
I'm not.

EEYORE: That was different.

HERMIONE: Really? What was the last thing you wrote?

EEYORE: . . .

HERMIONE: Was it or was it not really really bad Supernatural fanfiction?

EEYORE: You can't prove anything. 

HERMIONE: It was. 

EEYORE: So?

HERMIONE: It proves you can get inspired and write even if your writing sucks. 

EEYORE: Yeah; inspiration based on other people's work. 

HERMIONE: Point is, you can write. What happened to that story you were working on at the end of the school year?

EEYORE: It got lost when George Clooney's hard drive died. DUH. 

HERMIONE: Why don't you re-start it? 

EEYORE: Because. I don't have the energy and I can't remember it. 

HERMIONE: But it was good! The characters were good! The plot was going somewhere! 

EEYORE: You're right. I know you're right. 

HERMIONE: So. . .?

EEYORE: I'll start writing it again. 

HERMIONE: Good! 

EEYORE: After I take this nap.

HERMIONE: WHY DO YOU NEED A NAP? YOU HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING ALL DAY! 

EEYORE: Shhh. I'm trying to sleep. 

And that's how it's been, every day of the summer so far. What I really need to do is get a routine in my body where I sit down and designate time to writing EVERY DAY. I just get distracted by the copious amounts of British TV and Literature that I could be devouring and I'm lost, staring at Dean Winchester's annoyingly perfect face and yes I know that he's not British and his show is not British but mercy, he's the most perfect man, sorry Sam fans...that's all. 

How do you motivate yourselves to write, if you write? Share tips with me if you have any! 

If You Take Two Girls to TFIOS...

There are good friends. There are great friends. And then there are the friends that you trust enough to watch you disintegrate into a puddle of tears and not judge you, because chances are they are themselves also a puddle of tears.

For me, that friend is Kate. Kate is basically me. Just copy and paste my personality and thought processes into a different body and that basically explains the dynamic of the friendship. We have several theories as to why this is, the most significant one being that we're both actually just different regenerations of the Doctor Who character River Song (for those of you who don't watch Doctor Who, just ignore that reference, because like most Doctor Who things, it'd take a whole blog post to explain).

It's weird to think that I only met Kate a year ago, in our very awesome production of The Merry Wives of Windsor. She was one of the aforementioned Wives and I was the barmaid/least dressed person onstage. I suppose the day we coordinated our wardrobe so that we would be twins, and actually became friends should have been an indication of what the rest of our friendship would be like.

Ah, the summer of the flapper phase. For me, obviously. Not for Kate. 

In any case. Months and several emotional crises later, Kate and I decided to attend the movie The Fault in Our Stars. Which is based on a book by the amazing John Green*.

*Side note--is there a word for being attracted to men with glasses? Because that's a thing that I definitely have. Stephen Colbert, John Green, Hank Green. . .other various guys. 

Technically, the TFIOS movie counts on its own as an emotional crisis, and if you've read the book, you'll understand why. Typically, I'm extremely stoic when it comes to emotional things, and while I was touched by the book, I didn't cry at its ending. Generally I like to think of myself as half-Vulcan, and while occasionally something gets to me, it's rare. Before seeing the movie, I hadn't cried for, you know, about a year and a half.  I'm not one of those people who enjoys a good cry while watching Titanic or whatever the kids are watching these days. It doesn't feel cathartic. It feels messy and also uncomfortable. 

I don't think I was emotionally prepared enough to take on the movie. Graduating college has been bittersweet, so I've been a little down. And there's the baggage that's been metaphorically handcuffed to my wrist since my marriage ended that I only deal with on the occasions when I absolutely have to. That didn't seem relevant, though, since the movie is about neither of those things. I was a little skeptical about the possibility of tears. After all, there's nothing like watching a bunch of other people (especially when those people are much younger than you and possibly haven't gone through puberty) crying to take the tragedy right out of any movie and make it a lot more uncomfortable. 

All the same, just to be on the safe side, I armed myself with a box of tissues and set off to meet Kate at the movie theatre. 

Kate was running a touch late, so I settled in and bought myself a caffeinated drink from the theatre's concessions. This was a bad idea, because almost immediately everything got funnier (which, arguably, is not a proven side effect of caffeine). By the time Kate arrived, I was fully sure I was going to be that person in the movie theatre who laughed at inappropriate parts like an insensitive jerk. 

My caffeine face,  Kate and the box of tissues. One of these three things did not survive the TFIOS movie.
The other is a box of tissues.
And the other thing is Kate. 

And for the first half-hour of the movie, I totally did feel like that person. Granted, the first half-hour of the movie is exposition and buildup, but everything seemed funny and I ended up laughing silently into a tissue rather than crying into it.

That. Did. Not. Last. 

Kate and I are both only children, which is where 90% of our understanding of one another comes from. When you're an only child, your parents are the #1 source of love in your life but also the #1 source of annoyance. In a good way. The protagonist of TFIOS, Hazel, is also an only child, and she worries about how her parents will survive once she dies from the cancer she's had since she was thirteen. 

That was when things started to get a little misty. Because I get that. Kate gets that. Neither of us have cancer, but our parents are the people who have been the closest to us all our lives. We worry about how they'll cope if something did happen to us. 

By the time we hit Amsterdam, we were both puddles. Thankfully, everyone else in the theatre was a puddle too--the sniffles echoed around the theatre as though they were brought to us by THX.

Although it is entirely possible that the sniffles I was hearing were just mine and Kate's. Echoes are pretty powerful things and we were crying pretty hard. 

The movie ended, and that stupidly awesome Ed Sheeran song came on, and I think we even cried harder through that song because Ed Sheeran. 

The aftermath.

And then we went to get Frozen Yogurt because how else are you supposed to feel better after watching a terribly sad movie? By that point, our poor brains had had *enough* grief, and so instead we started laughing about how much we had cried. Which was an absurd amount. I'm fairly sure the attendant at the FroYo shop thought we were crazy, because we alternately were in hysterics, laughing; and sniffling.

It's a vicious, John-Green-induced cycle. Laughter. Tears. Laughter.

Tears.