Bad Idea #49: August 5, 2010

It's over a hundred degrees outside, and not a breeze in sight.

Perfect day for a morning run, right?

Right.

But I hate being bogged down by water when I run, I so forego hydrating prior.

That way I won't get stitches from being water-logged, or hate myself because I drank too much and have to use the restroom halfway through my run, right?

Right.

Wait.

WRONG.

Guys. It's a terrible idea to go out on a six mile run in the heat, especially if you haven't had any fluids. 4 miles in, I was soaking wet. This would've cooled me off HAD THERE BEEN ANY WIND. Now that I think about it, there wasn't even any AIR. I was just running and suffocating in the heat when it happened. Call me a wuss, but I don't think that you are supposed to get violent cold chills in hundred degree weather. I had to stop at mile five and walk, praying I wouldn't die. I even stopped to drink from a gross, mud covered public water fountain. Thinking I was saved, I gulped the stuff down as fast as I could, only to HURL it from my body seconds later due to the fact that a) it was hot. I could've made a chai tea with that shit, and b) it TASTED like DIRT.

Let this be a lesson to us all. Wake up early enough to run before the sun rises to power and tries to KILL you.

Dying,

Julia

Bad Idea #48: August 4, 2010

When I was in junior high, everyone said it. It wasn't just a popular phrase, it was slang ingrained into everyone's head. It was part of pop culture.

"That's so gay."

Gay. As if "gay" = "stupid." As if "gay" = anything negative. It was a huge embarrassment to be called "so gay," and something was unfair or idiotic to the highest degree if it was termed "gay" by the masses.

What were we thinking?

Using words like "gay" and "retard" in place of insults or negative words is one of the worst ideas that is socially available to us.

It wasn't until I got to high school that I slowly began to realize that "gay" was in no way negative, and every time I said it in that way, I was being highly offensive. It wasn't until late high school, almost college, that I had more gay friends that I loved and held closer to me than strait friends. It wasn't until then that I became supremely passionate about gay rights... HUMAN rights.

High school. A time when we are ALL ass holes. Seriously, if you weren't a dick in high school, you have been either blessed in skipping that stage, or you will be a mean adult, because most of us hit the total and complete jerk stage in high school. Every. Last. One. of us. So think about how hard it is being different and not being able to help it in HIGH SCHOOL? To be unable to just fit in because you have a slightly different perspective? I had always questioned the losers that harassed people for supposedly "being gay." Sometimes these people were, sometimes they weren't. But either way, what were they thinking? I think it would start as some kind of joke, but the more serious it got, the more they realized, "Wait dude, I think that guy/girl really might be gay," the less funny it became. If it ever was funny in the first place. Which it was not. The more they realized what was really going on, the more they felt like douche bags. And with good reason. I had vowed to stop saying "man, that's gay" consciously by the time I was about 13. Others had started to slowly ween themselves off of it by the time we graduated, hopefully realizing that not only did they seem homophobic and insulting, but also just strait up immature, the product of a conservative suburb full of kids who thought they were bad ass skateborders or NFL-bound football stars.

By the time I hit college, I had eradicated even the association of the pop term for 'stupid' from my mind. And luckily, most others had, too. College is like heaven in many ways. So many good things happen in college, and though you realize that life is hard and it only gets harder from there, you also begin to see that the world can be so completely beautiful when you aren't bound to anything. People seem to be more aware of other people and their feelings as they grow up. Any gay, racial, or socioeconomic slurs are pretty much gasped over. Appalling.

"How could you say that?"

"What were you thinking?"

"That was so rude and not okay."

Gay being used as a synonym for stupid was a thing of the past now. Even when I went back to work at summer camp, or to sub in middle schools, I rarely if ever heard the term. Perhaps everyone is becoming more aware as a whole. Maybe it's not something you grow out of, maybe the world is growing out of it together. That would be nice.

But then it happened.

At the beginning of my second year of college, I moved into a glorious new apartment. I invited one of my best friends, a gay dude (go figure), over to bask in the beauty that was my new, clean room, with everything moved in and put away and sparkling. My new roommate came in to chat and goof around with us when she said it. SHE SAID IT.

"That's gay."

She knew my friend was gay. She knew. And she STILL said it, like the word "gay" was tainted with gross. Like, whatever she was calling "gay" was the dumbest most preposterous thing she'd ever heard of.

Ice to her. Ice shoulders. Not just a cold shoulder. I'm. talking. ice. I was so outraged that I couldn't even process a proper course of action. I could've just said what I say to everyone else; "Gay is not a synonym for stupid." I could've embarrassed her a little and said, "Really? It is GAY? Is it really GAY?" until she felt like shit and apologized and got the hell out of my room.

But instead I just filled the air with ice crystals, making it so awkward and uncomfortable that she left, at which time, we promptly began talking shit about the mishap.

Case and point: "gay" as "stupid" is out, a thing of the past that I am humiliated to have ever participated in. It should have never existed. I am determined to publicly humiliate people when I catch them. I'll try to be gentle about it, like Hilary Duff, but chances are that I will just tear you to shreds. You have been warned.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TVicCD8FmMs

Julia

Bad Idea #47: August 3, 2010

I think acronyms in general are a pretty decent idea. When people ask me where I go to school, I save a lot of breath replying with the letters U and T, as opposed to having to reply "The University of Texas at Austin." Yikes. That would suck. Not to mention that it sounds a touch pretentious. I mean, think about all of those poor kids who go to Harvard, or Columbia, or Cornell or something like that, a school that can't downplay its status with an acronym. I feel so sorry for them; they are basically forced into their snobbery.

Or something like that.

The point of the acronym is to simplify things and make life easier. But have you noticed that there are some acronyms that completely defeat that purpose? In writing about Tucker Max yesterday, I was looking around his website and came across this one:

IHTSBIH = "I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell"

Considering that every word in the title of his first book is one syllable, pronouncing I-H-T-S-B-I-H does nothing to cut the time off of it. Unless you use the acronym 100 times a day, it does not make it any easier to type out. You could attempt to make a word out of the acronym, but "i-hits-bih" sounds like some Yiddish expletive. The language is English, people. If it does not make a nice little three-letter word with a single vowel wedged between two consonants, making the acronym into a new word won't fly. And besides. "I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell" is a funny, intriguing, provocative title. We should be shouting the full title at the top of our lungs to share the glory and humor of it all.

(Sidenote* I actually heard two women in my restaurant discussing this book and giggling over the title alone. Like, extended giggles, like they thought it was absolutely hilarious. Don't rob these women of their idiotic, sorority honed giggles that they rehearsed all the way through undergrad to attract their future six-figure husband.)

This seems to be the first and only mistake on the part of Tucker Max. If that's as bad as it gets, I'd say he's doing alright.

Acronyms are a stupid idea when they are a zillion letters long, don't simplify anything, or have to be explained every single time you use them.

1) I used to be obsessed with the food network. I wanted to learn how to cook SO badly, and be this impressive. cooking. woman. I watched every show I could, gained 3 lbs during chocolate month, and for a time, was a devout fan. Luckily this phase fizzled out by age 17 or so. Rachael Ray is my kind of cook. Everything she does is quick and easy, and looks really super yummy. But I cannot watch her show. I knew that I could never watch her show after viewing only one episode.

"Now I'm just going to drizzle my skillet with a few tablespoons of EVOO- that's extra virgin olive oil-"

But she says this multiple times in one show. "EVOO- that's extra virgin olive oil." WHAT GOOD IS THE ABBREVIATION IF YOU FEEL LIKE YOU HAVE TO EXPLAIN IT EVERY TIME. Ugh, Rachael Ray. I don't know why this annoys me as DEEPLY as it does. But this little quirk of hers is a DEAL BREAKER. There will be absolutely no 30 Minute Meals for me. I cannot take it.

2) I used to be really into America's Next Top Model. I looked up to Tyra Banks, and completely idolized her for a time: she had programs for young woman, her own production company, multiple worthwhile charities, and a couple of TV shows on the side. No big. But then I heard her pull a Rachael Ray. They were at panel, discussing which 7' waif should be eliminated next. She turns to the hot ass Nigel Barker and says, "[This girl] is modeling H2T, that's 'head to toe.'"

Tyra. Wha- that was dumb.

Click.

There ends a long, 13 season love affair with America's Next Top Model.

IGTCIMBIOTLOITSAGSVDAWAHDOM.

(If you couldn't figure that one out, it's "I'm Going To Change Into My Bikini In Order To Lay Out In The Sun And Get Some Vitamin D Along With A Healthy Dose Of Melanoma.")

Julia

Bad Idea #46: August 2, 2010

If you haven't read I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell*, by Tucker Max, I'm going to have to ask you to pick up a copy immediately and change that. You will be disgusted, you will hate him and think he's a jerk, and you will think that it is a really bad idea to be such a bad person. However, you'll soon come to realize that Tucker Max, is, in all actuality, a complete and utter genius, even if totally unethical. Who needs ethics when you're funny?

*I am well aware that the title should be underlined and not italicized. Thanks for nothing, blogspot, for NOT letting me notate correctly.

Start by reading some of his stories here:

http://www.tuckermax.com/stories/

Now, before you want to kill the guy, take into consideration that human beings lie. Frequently. Ladies and gentlemen, we are ALL liars. Deny it all you want, but you know that you have told lies, be it to protect someone's feelings or to bulk up a story and make it more exciting. Sometimes it happens involuntarily, just pops right out of your mouth, while others, you have been rehearsing it in your mind for long periods of time. Some of us are great at it, or, if you're unfortunate like me, you can't tell a lie and keep a strait face.

We were just talking about this today. A couple of friends and I were mulling over some glorious lies we'd told to get out of things, to make excuses, and to liven up a story that was really funny at the time, but didn't seem fresh anymore. They were all harmless, of course. It's not like any of us have ever lied about anything important. That's where you get into trouble. Tucker Max, though a completely different type of person than my dear mother, has obviously taken lessons from her. She is the embellishment QUEEN. I remember being younger and hearing her tell a story to 3 different friends in a day, listening to it change and grow more and more grandiose with each and every telling.

Example:

Real story

My grandmother was visiting us when we lived in Florida. She was sitting out on the back porch, reading, when she discovered a tiny garden snake across the porch. She picked up a nearby hoe (of the tool variety), gave a quick little chop, the snake was dead. My mother saw all of this from the kitchen window.

My mother's greatest fear in life is snakes. So her version of the story went more along the lines of something like this:

Mom's story

"My mother was outside reading on our porch swing, and you know, it's a beautiful day. A little humid, but heck, this is Florida. She was just putting her book down to take a sip of iced tea when she looked up and saw it; a giant, 4' long tree snake just slithering toward her. 4' LONG! That could've eaten one of my children! How it got into OUR back yard, I'll never understand, but we should have called Animal Control is what we should have done. Mom was quick on her feet, though. She grabbed a shovel and pounded it's head flat, knocking that sucker strait out. Then she took the hoe and started to kill it for sure. I look out the window from the kitchen, there I am, cooking a loving meal for my family, and here is my 75 year-old mother in the back yard, the hoe braced over her head like some sort of maniacal murderer, hacking away at the beast."

We all know which story was more fun to read and imagine. And in the long run, who is mother hurting by having fun with her overactive imagination?

Same with Tucker Max. His stories are morally bankrupt, a horrible example to any impressionable youth who might for some reason have that book in hand. But he HAS to be making a ton of that stuff up. And that is o-ttractive. I think he's a total hottie for being able to write stuff that has made me laugh out loud like an idiot in public.

Though, I think maybe I'll refrain from pursuing that attraction. The fact that all of that came out of his mind is slightly frightening, even if I just spent an entire entry justifying what he does.

Be on the look out for Assholes Finish First, coming out in September. Just from reading the TITLES of the stories in his new book, I am positive it will be as good or better than the last.

http://www.tuckermax.com/blog/details-about-assholes-finish-first/

Not lying about that.

(I've actually yet to exaggerate, embellish, or enhance anything that I have put up here. Just if you were wondering... I think I am going to keep it that way, too.)

I'm going to go revisit some of his older stories today. The best thing about this guy? He gives shout outs to Austin, Texas, UT, and the ladies that walk our streets.

Ba. ha. hahaha. hahahahahahahaha,

Julia

Bad Idea #45: August 1, 2010

Youtube may be one of the greatest inventions known to man. Though, when you are trying to get work done, youtube can be a pretty bad idea. This is "Youtube can be a bad idea depending on the situation: Installment 1."

We were talking about lollipops the other day at camp. This happens. There are children around, and to get them to do something you want them to do, you may or may not bribe them with lollipops that you may or may not have any intention of following through with. We have all done this, perhaps. Anyway, it reminded me of an old commercial for Charms Blowpops from when I was little.

So of course I went home and looked it up, because I seemed to be the only one that remembered this particular advertisement, and needed confirmation that I was not making it up. I stumbled upon a TREASURE CHEST of awesome 90's commercials, thanks in large part to the related videos suggestions on youtube.com.

It is my firm belief that most things geared toward children hit their ALL TIME PEAK IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD in the late 80's/early 90's. Even marketing strategy.

Check these out:

1) Barbie- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6kip33bAfSI&feature=related

I wanted to buy every single variety of Barbie doll ever made ALONG with all of the accessories and things that Barbie needed to maintain a high standard of living between the ages of zero and 9. The commercial looks SO enticing, does it not? The house just folds right out, and Barbie moves just like a real girl throughout her dream home. It was not a toy. It was a piece of well crafted art. But so is the commercial. Those adorable children were no doubt switched out when it came time to shoot Barbie up close, the director opting instead for professional Barbie handlers to guide her perfect, plastic body through the commercial, providing kids like ME with the illusion that Barbie would be this graceful and fun to hangout with when I owned her, too. Not the case, but I STILL had a blast with her for every moment of our precious time together. Now little girls choose half-dressed Bratz dolls, which are really just slut training devices invented by middle aged men. But I won't get started on that. I've already made my point.

Charms Blowpops:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=khVQW5yXkNg

And here is the commercial. The one I'd bee searching for. Full of kids that I, the everyday child, could easily relate to, just hanging out on a colorful, artistically put together set enjoying some blowpops. Lollipops seem to be a rudimentary element to having fun after viewing this commercial.

Zebra Fruit Stripe Gum:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t1ci_JVK0i8&feature=related

This gum was SO awesome. I believe they still sell it, but there is no advertising space left for it on television. Man. When I got a pack of Zebra Fruit Stripe gum, it was like the sun was smiling down on me. I had the world in my hands, and everyone that wanted a piece was at my mercy. Power. That's what gum is all about.

McDonald's:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xal85wfPUyQ&feature=related

This commercial is like a full episode of Sesame St. or Eureka's Castle crammed into the space of about a minute. WHO WOULD NOT WANT a hamburger happy meal after this? I mean, a guy was willing to STEAL to get his hands on them. And then, when Ronald gets them back, he is so happy that he is willing to overlook his buddy's theft and just give him one to share the love. Yes. That is what it is all about. They MUST be AMAZING.

Blue Packaged Gummy Bears that no longer exist:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tASXup4tGQQ&feature=related

I don't understand why this particular brand was discontinued, because I loved them. I played with them more than consumed them, because I opened the pack and established a deep personal relationship with each one before we began our gummy bear playtime adventures.

Playdough:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xQ9G3HfcheE&feature=related

"Fun to play with- not to eat."

I beg to differ. Slightly tangy. Very delicious. And if you put it on a "play" ice cream cone, you can't tell preschool children not to eat it. It makes no sense.

Soon to cover 90's television, pop music, clothing, and any other nineties gold that I can get my hands on.

;)

Julia

Bad Idea #44: July 31, 2010

I love film. I've recently taken a much deeper interest in film acting and production. I enjoy a film that forces me to think, feel, and lose myself within good writing, good acting, and good production qualities, just as probably any film person will tell you.

Contrastingly, I HATE being forced to feel emotions that have anything to do with weddings and children. This is all about to tie neatly together, I promise.

I worked a long week at camp and at my restaurant job. Honestly, I could've been going to bed at 9:00pm every night and been a happy woman. But alas, job number two kept me up much, much later, while still needing to rise around 6:00am. So yeah, boo hoo, poor me. Whatever. My mother, a wonderful, kind woman, took pity on me, and suggested that yesterday (Friday) when I got back to her house from work, we go and see a movie.

This is my life in college #4,836,542: It's a bad idea to turn down a free movie. In high school, if your mother had said, "Hey girlfriend, let's catch a flick tonight!" which for the record, is not how MY mother tried to stay cool during my teenage years, you'd say no. Absolutely not. I would not have been caught dead at a social watering hole like a movie theatre with my mother at any point in time during my early teens.

But then, as my brother went off to college and came back on breaks, I noticed some odd behavior on his part. He went a LOT of places with my mom or dad by himself, places where all of his friends could potentially BE. What gives, brother? And then he sat me down and told me the secret, the big secret that all teenagers must learn:

If you are willing to spend time with your parents as you grow older and more distant, they are willing to pay for EVERYTHING. For example, you hit the mall with mom, try on a few clothes and outwardly lament over the fact that you are a poor college student and do not have the money to spend on frivolous items such as clothing at the moment. As you make a sad, well acted journey to disappointedly return each item of merchandise to its place in the store, Mom takes pity on you, and offers to make the transaction on your behalf, since she has noticed that you have desperately been needing some new jeans anyway. Cha-ching, ladies and gentlemen. Cha. CHING. This principle can also be applied to things that can deplete the bank account such as dining out and movies. And, my brother stressed, once we graduate from college and get real jobs and lives, this will not be acceptable, therefore we must live for the present. Respectable children DO begin to pay for themselves at some point in time, so it was IMPERATIVE that we lap up this golden, though manipulative, treatment whilst we could.

So probably in my junior year of high school, I got a head start on the "hanging out with the parents for the monetary perks" thing. Then I realized that I was over being an angsty teenager and LIKED hanging out with my parents. And I promptly said "screw you" to all of the friends that looked at me like I was weird for wanting to spend time with my family.

People can be jerks.

Anyway, still within the spectrum of college student who needs a financial break every now and then, I took my mother up on her offer to see a movie and was excited about it all day long, like a kid looking forward to a birthday party. I got home, showered, and waited for my mom to initiate the movie conversation. If you are not paying, you cannot bring it up, and you cannot choose the movie.

"You still want to go to the movies-"

"-YES."

"Let's see Ramona and Beezus. It looks so cute!"

"Um... yeah. Okay. ...Well...Let's go."

Not that I am hating on Ramona and Beezus. I read the books in second grade. They were an integral part of my childhood, and I enjoy remembering my childhood. But I was kind of hoping she'd lean toward Inception or Charlie St. Cloud. Though I should've known better. My mother doesn't like movies with action, complicated plots, death, or any human emotion that is not happiness.

So whatever, we go to Ramona and Beezus.

I laughed so hard in some parts that tears streamed from my eyes.

I was so moved at moments that I cried.

I loved this FAMILY. COMEDY.

What?

WHAT IS GOING ON? AM I INSANE? I AM ALLOWING MY EMOTIONS TO BE TUGGED EVERY WHICH WAY BY RAMONA AND BEEZUS. AND I DO NOT LIKE IT.

If you've read any of my facebook notes recently, you'll know that I detest weddings and the idea of happy families and children.

Okay, well I don't detest them. I just don't feel like any of that is something that I need to think about right now. Or even in the next five, maybe even ten years. I hate being made to think about children I might have, I hate that my heart melts toward them, I hate any thought that begins with, "Maybe at my wedding I'll..."

No. Stop it. There is no wedding that you need to worry about right now. I highly doubt your kids will be as freaking ADORABLE as Ramona Quimby, so don't get your hopes too high.

But then again... what if MY kids are cooler than Ramona Quimby? This could happen, that's all I'm saying.

Again, no. Stop. STOP FEELING EMOTIONS AND THINKING ABOUT YOUR FUTURE. I sincerely hope that the makers of Ramona and Beesuz did not intend to put my psyche through the ringer like this when they made this precious little film.

I will not be around kids for the next two weeks. I think that this is a good start on the road to recovery.

(Big sigh.)

Julia

Bad Idea #43: July 30, 2010

I am an avid 89.5 listener. KMFA is the only thing that plays in my car from August until December. Then I pause to listen to Christmas music, and return to public radio in January. But come June, I switch over to the more popular stations. ("What?" you say? "Isn't 89.5 the most popular station among college students in Austin, TX?" To which I would roll my eyes and tell you to stop making fun of me.)

96.7 Kiss FM has a lot to offer in the mornings on the way to work. The Bobby Bones Show truly is entertaining, and even informative at times. And I have a massive crush on Bobby Bones. He's a classy guy. His aura reads positive and beautiful even across FM radio waves. But talk shows are beside the point.

Pop music today is not all bad. I don't NOT listen to it all year because I don't like it. If its at least catchy, it has done its job and deserves to sell. No, I chose to refrain from 'round-the-clock popular music because I cannot handle listening to the same ten songs for months at a time. Pop radio stations almost always kill their hits by consistently practicing the horrible idea of overplaying them.

Ke$ha is trashy as sin. I don't think that, if I knew her as a person, I would have much respect for her or want to become best friends. But "Tik Tok" and "Your Love is My Drug" were some really great songs... until I heard them thrice in one 20 minute car ride. Similarly, some really great recent pop hits, songs that I have found to be new and innovative and GUIDING POP MUSIC IN NEW DIRECTIONS have been obliterated by radio DJ's who listen to every request they get and just keep one record spinning all day long.

If I hear "California Girls," "Hey, Soul Sister," "Bulletproof," "Airplanes," "Billionare," "Break Your Heart," or ANYTHING by Lady Gaga over the weekend, I might die. This is not a drill. My eardrums might squirt out of my ears and RUN to get away from the SAME MUSIC OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN, and then I will be deaf. Then I will not hear the screech of the giant Norwegian Ridgeback that swoops in from behind to eat me as I get out of my car, and will be chomped by a dragon from a fictional book series, suffocating in his saliva as he swallows me whole, burning up to ashes as I pass the part in his throat that produces fire.

Dramatic?!

NO. NOT IN THE LEAST BIT. Did you not read the part about this NOT BEING A DRILL?

So radio goes back to 89.5, where the worst piece of music I am going to hear is Bolero.

(I'll let the bassoon players hate me for hating Bolero. At this point? I. don't. CARE.)

I got the magic in me...

Julia

Bad Idea #42: July 29, 2010

I have hypothyroidism, which was a really bad idea on the part of whoever created the universe, or just human evolution in general. I will no doubt write an entire bad idea about how truly despicable hypothyroidism is at some point (or even multiple points) in time.

But that's not where I am headed today.

Due to my hypothyroidism, I have to get up in the morning and take one medication, wait thirty minutes, take a different pill and a half, wait another thirty minutes, and then I am allowed to consume breakfast. Detrimental since every experiment since the mid nineties states that eating the moment you wake up kick-starts the metabolism. But whatever. I eat in the car on the way to camp, because in order to eat at home, in order to sit down at a table with a paper and a cup of coffee like any normal person, I would have to get up around 4:30 or 5:00 am, which I am not willing to do at this point in my life. So I usually take something semi-portable, that I can easily eat and drive with, something I can throw away when I get out of the car.

Today I decided on Greek yogurt and a banana. Delicious, nutritious, and easy enough.

However, I was running late. Just a little late, mind you, but this was the second or third morning in a row, and I am not the kind of person whose heart remains at a normal rate when I am running behind schedule. So I roll up the banana peel, place it in the empty Greek yogurt container, and leave it in the cup holder of my vehicle to clock in, not even thinking twice. The car is parked beneath a scorching sun. From 7:30am to 4:00pm.

When I return to my car, I find a mass of black in the cup holder. The remains of the banana have decayed over the course of the day, leaving the entire interior of the car reeking of the sweet overripe smell of Chiquita. The Greek yogurt has evaporated into flakes, which, all things considered, is more fortunate than it could've been.

Perishable foods are a bad idea when you are in a hurry and won't think about them and their consequences. If you have a food handlers license, you know that it only gets bad when things are left in the 'danger zone,' or within the realm of chilly-hot room temperatures. Well, this stuff was hanging out within the perils of the 'danger zone' for almost ten hours.

Needless to say I threw it away, sanitized everything that it touched, changed out my air freshener and set my alarm for 5:00am the next morning.

Tired already.

Julia

Bad Idea #41: July 28, 2010

Every school year brings a new craze that is usually established on vacation over the course of the summer months. Pokemon, Neopets, yoyos, pogs… all of the faves when I was in elementary school. This summer, the latest trend among the hip, fresh primary school crowd is Silly Bandz™. Whoever invented Silly Bandz™ was a GENIUS. Why? Because Silly Bandz™ probably cost a fraction of a penny to manufacture a thousand, and retail to innocent children for roughly a dollar each. Almost every child at my summer camp wears at least one wrist fully of Silly Bandz™. So let’s say that there are 400 kids at camp, ¾ of them partake in the Silly Bandz™ fad, and ½ of those participating own 20 or more Silly Bandz™. You know me. I’m not one for math, but I suspect that’s a shit ton of money made considering that almost none went into it in the first place.

Anyway, these Silly Bandz™ are ridiculous. If you don’t know what they are, I will enlighten you, free of charge. Silly Bandz™ are rubber bracelets that retract into shapes when you take them off. For example, as you will notice in the picture, I now own four Silly Bandz™ that I earned through having small children love me because I am incapable of yelling or being forceful in any way whatsoever. Observe the purple shark, orange frozen yogurt, light blue guitar, and moderately blue-green anchor.

1) The purple shark really just looks like a fat fish to me. This is a problem on many levels, because it causes the traders (aka, the children, hard bargainers) to not be satisfied with a trade unless they agree on what the shape is. For example, I really wanted the moderately blue-green anchor (reasons to follow) and was in negotiations to trade with a 3rd grade girl who had it in her possession. I had a pink flamingo to offer. The 3^rd grade girl was convinced that the flamingo was an ostrich, and that I was trying to pull a fast one on her. Excuse me dear, but orstiches (orsti… what is the plural for ostrich?) are not pink. She reluctantly made the trade.

2) The orange frozen yogurt is an excellent example of the odd shape choices that Silly Bandz™ utilizes. They also choose some rather boring shapes, like, my favorite, THE CIRLE. WHAT A NOVEL IDEA.

3) The light blue guitar is an example of a shape you get lucky with, because there is no dispute over what it is. You cannot hold it on its side and think it is an ice cream cone. It is a guitar. I’d say that 1 in every 100 Silly Bandz™ is this easily identifiable.

4) Ah, the moderately green-blue anchor. Properly aligned, this Silly Band is just as I said, an anchor, but orient it any other way but upright, and you have got a moderately green-blue set of balls and a wiener, friends. This is a GIGANTIC problem. When I took off my Silly Bandz™ to show to other counselors, they all were taken aback by the vulgar image that they saw in front of them. Did Silly Bandz™ have a porno package? The answer is no, obviously, HOWEVER, MANY, MANY of the Silly Bandz™ are questionable. Throw in some glow-in-the-dark action, and it gets even weirder.

In conclusion, it's a SILLY idea to buy into fads- a total waste of time and money. You can’t get back the money you spent buying useless rubber bracelets. You can’t get back the time you lost fighting over whether that yellow Silly Band is a vampire crouching down beneath his cape with an arm over his head or a platypus chewing seaweed salad from HEB. You can’t get back the friends you lost when you became popular or unpopular due to your abundance or lack of Silly Bandz™ respectively.

Save your money, and buy a cool car or yacht. Then you will have REALLY earned your popularity, right?

Right. Something like that.

Julia

Bad Idea #40: July 27, 2010

Hitting people is a bad idea.

This is common sense. There are very few situations, if any, that call for offensive, spur of the moment physical violence.

I was explaining this to a four year-old boy at camp today, for he did not seem to understand. He had been repeatedly punching another boy that cut him in line.

Okay, he cut you, I get it. That's not right. But, dear four year-old boy, please take into account that the boy that cut you is QUITE a bit larger than you, AND he is also your age, so he is technically allowed to hit you back and not get in trouble for being older and knowing better. Only, he will beat you, because your poor, unfortunate frame is not what we would call 'strapping' for a four year-old. If any four year-olds may be considered 'strapping' at all.

Anyway, I take him out of line to pick his brain. What was causing this violence? Did he feel that it was acceptable for him to act out aggressively every time he didn't get his way? Was he learning this at home? Did his father beat him? (Okay. A little far.)

I begin the normal round of questions:

"What did you just do?"

"Why did you do it?"

"Why was that wrong?"

"What, in your opinion, at this point in your spirit journey, would you consider to be the meaning of life?"

As he squealed some answers, head hung low with shame, I noticed that a shining stream of clear fluid boogers were running down his nose, flowing dangerously close to his mouth.

"Go wipe your nose, please," I told him.

But rather than running to the potty to find a paper towel or tissue, or even using his shirt to wipe it , he opened up his mouth, stuck out his bottom lip, gave a big, vigorous inhale, and suctioned the stream of boogers into his mouth.

What. just happened.

I stifled a heave.

"I cannot believe you did that."

"My mom says it's okay because it's only water," he cooed. That's it. I had discovered this child's contrasting hyphenated description.

ADORABLE/REPULSIVE.

WHAT KIND OF MOTHER WOULD TELL HER SON THAT IT WAS OKAY TO DRINK HIS OWN LIQUID SNOT. THAT MUCUS STILL CAME OUT OF HIS NOSE. It is still waste that his body rejected from within. IS SHE TRYING TO KILL HIM? Should I notify Child Protective Services?

"No sweetie. That is in no way okay. Please wipe your nose."

He then stuck his face into his shirt and blew his nose, hard. He pulled it away to reveal a big splotch of bright green boogers, solid this time, a congealed mess.

Ugh. I couldn't deal with this anymore. His counselor would notice the boogies momentarily and take him to the bathroom to clean his shirt. Hopefully. All I knew was that I could not do it. I. could. not.

"Thank you. Now, you can go back to play, but keep your hands to yourself."

He toddled back to the line. I looked over two seconds later to see him holding out his shirt in front of his face, examining it closely. He selected a booger, sculpted it into a little ball between his fingers, and placed it into his mouth, savoring it like a piece of rich, delicious candy.

(Long, unbearable silence.)

I apologize. I... I have no more words.

Julia

Bad Idea #39: July 26, 2010

For years and years, I never really bought into yoga. It didn't look like a ton of fun, didn't seem all that beneficial, and I highly doubted that it could help me discover any weaknesses in my chi. I mean, my chi had no weaknesses.

Riiiight.

So I never gave it a fair shot. Never (seriously) took a class, never checked it out. But recently, I have learned that NOT doing yoga is a bad idea. I have gotten so into it, to the point where I wake up an extra hour early to be able to fit it in every day before work.

Yoga really works your entire body. I know it seems like not a lot of work, and it may not be the most intense thing you'll ever do, but hear me, it can be challenging. I am really flexible and pretty strong, and I could NOT just walk in and be a yoga master. It takes a lot of balance and control, balance and control that builds up your CHI. Your "weakness free" (aka severely damaged and you don't even know it) chi.

I'm going to go get my downward facing dog on, and I highly recommend that you do the same. :)

Namaste, brothers and sisters.

Julia

Bad Idea #38: July 25, 2010

When moving large blue panel mats, setting up for the day's tumbling lessons at summer camp, it is a wise idea to look at the mats first. It's a bad idea to pick something up without really taking at least a second to look at it.

1) These large mats could be covered in vomit. This was not the case, but that would be absolutely disgusting if you picked it up and accidentally swabbed that all over your body.

2) It could have a rat or a herd of poisonous spiders (because spiders travel in herds) living in the padding inside of the mat. These vermin could pass on rabies, hep A, B, or C, or KILL you. This was also not the case, however, a large black widow spider HAS been found in the shed where these mats are kept. You would think that one would consider that upon entry.

3) It could be covered in mud and dirt.

This WAS the case. It is 7:45 am and I have just showered, fixed my hair, and am overall clean and ready to start a beautiful day. I am sweaty and slightly gross within a few minutes of moving mats around and setting up, and by the time I am done? The LAST mat I moved? COVERED in gross. Did not look before picking it up. It is sliding down the front of me as I carry it to its place, and I stupidly think, "Wow, I am super sweaty if I am having trouble gripping this. What a way to start the morning. This will be a long day." Indeed, I was not THAT sweaty, sweaty enough for anything to be hard to hold onto. But once I set it down, and realized that I now had about a half inch thick layer of mud and dirt all down the front of me, I quickly put two and two together. And it was 7:45 am. It only got dirtier from there.

Showering.

Julia

Bad Idea #37: July 24, 2010

Don't sit down on your parent's comfortable living room couch for more than five minutes after a long day; you WILL fall asleep when you have a boat load of work to do.

You will not answer all of your emails.

You will not read for psychology.

You will not call people back, even the ones that you are dying to talk to.

You will not finish your song.

You will not read your book.

You will not work out.

You will not even check your facebook.

No, once your head hits the pillow of that couch, once you think, "I'll just rest my eyes for a few minutes and then get to work," a powerful, powerful sedative seeps through the cushions of that blasted couch and permeates your skin. You are now close to dead, asleep within seconds, and before you know it, it is three in the morning. You are still filthy from summer camp, without brushed teeth or a washed face, feeling like shit, and HAVE NOT DONE ANYTHING THAT YOU PROMISED YOURSELF YOU WOULD.

Get. it. together.

Julia

Bad Idea #36: July 23, 2010

Stemming from Florida v. Wade is today's horrible idea.

Fighting over boys is the dumbest, stupidest, most ridiculous idea you can have.

When you and your friend are interested in the same guy, various outcomes may arise. It is up to YOU to combat all of the negative ones on the following list:

1) If you are smart (your friend doesn't even have to be smart. You just have to be) you will just forget about it and let it go. The boy isn't worth losing your friendship over. Right when the thought comes into your head, you stifle it, occupy yourself with something else, and just leave the situation alone. You can control your actions and take care of everyone involved in the situation.

2) If you are super into the guy, like, unavoidably in love with him, you can tell your friend, and you can both beat around the bush if you are normal, non-confrontational people who care about each other. This will lead to a grotesque awkwardness, and finally, the slow dissolve of your friendship unless someone completes that listed in 1).

3) You could verbally fight for him. This would involve anything from well thought-out arguments expressing your point of view to calling your friend a skanky shallow slut that is unworthy of his attention. Chances are, you are not friends with any skanky shallow sluts, so you are speaking unjustly out of passion and will regret it, as I ALWAYS do when negative, heat-of-the moment speech leaves my lips. Oh yeah, and you won't be friends anymore. And everyone will be in on the drama, as the fight has gone verbal and extended beyond the two of you.

4) You could beat each other up. Winner takes the man. By this point, are you not wondering why the boy hasn't stepped in to do anything about this? Is he worth fighting for if it has come to kidney punching your friend? I'd say no. Not remotely.

5) You could, in the case of Florida v. Wade stab your romantic rival twice in the chest, killing her. I would not recommend this, for the obvious reasons. I can't even imagine... I'd rather be tortured and then killed than even raise a hand to hit anyone else. Especially over a dude. Few men have proven that they are worthy of any time investment, let alone acting like a maniac for. And besides that, I think the good ones don't require you to act like a manic. I think the good ones have some sense. I know that good ones exist, ladies. It's just a matter of sifting through the jerks.

The guy that these two girls were fighting over? He encouraged them to fight each other. He encouraged them to lose sleep over him and build a hatred for the other girl involved. He testified that neither were even his girlfriend, they were both just "friends with benefits." And he also fathered a child with a third girl that was not involved in the stabbing. Real winner, huh? This was enough to have my mother upset that the girl was found guilty of stabbing when she was egged on and driven crazy.

(I understand this argument. But the point is that she still STABBED the girl, mother. I too have felt completely insane at times due to a string of stupid gentlemen in my life, but never felt the need to involve sharp, life-threatening objects, such as the kitchen knife lodged between the victim's ribs. I'm sure that most of us can back that up. And like I said, I would rather get the crap kicked out of me than hurt anyone else.)

Stabbing = bad

Forgetting that friendship is important = bad

Stabbing > forgetting that friendship is important (I didn't want anyone to think I was saying they were equal. Stabbing is worse. As if I needed to clarify.)

All we need is love.

Julia

PS You can check out the facts at the CNN website. Florida v. Wade. What a sordid case.

Bad Idea #35: July 22, 2010

My mother and I have been sucked into watching In Session: Florida v. Wade over the past two days. I want to save another post concerning this case for tomorrow, so I'll give you the breakdown that led to the conversation inspiring today's bad idea.

Basically, last April, in Florida, two Caucasian teenage girls fought it out over a guy and one ended up stabbing the other. The victim died, and the knife-wielding young lady, charged with second degree murder, is pleading self-defense. More on this later.

So, we're watching witnesses testify, commenting, altering our opinions, trying to see everyone's point of view when my mother says it, the sentence that almost made me cry.

"Why are they fighting like black girls?"

WOAH. I beg your pardon?!

I don't consider my mother a racist woman. But she is a racial generalizer, which most of the time, is not all that much better. She buys into stereotypes and applies them to people without giving it a second thought. I don't think it's some malicious attribute to her spirit. I think it's a generational thing. But now, in 2010? That's no excuse. I laid into her.

1) Mother, "black girls" are not all fighters. Does this perhaps stem from left-over visions of your adolescence, when schools were being racially integrated and you witnessed many a fight? NEWSFLASH: You too might be a little aggravated if you'd been kept out of everything good that society has to offer. Just a thought. But mother, there are fighters, super unnecessarily aggressive people, in every race. And how is it that "black girls" fight, by the way? They all stab each other? I think not. I. think. not.

2) It seems to me to be more of a class/education thing. There are poorly educated, "trashy" people of EVERY race. We all know this. Status is a big deal, and if you grew up in a trailer park, didn't graduate from high school, and have trouble holding a minimum wage job, you are viewed differently by society than someone who grew up in a suburb, got a Masters, and makes $100,000 a year plus. It's an unfortunate system, but this is just the way of the world. It shouldn't have anything to do with race. It has all to do with ignorance and prejudice.

"The time to make up your mind about people is never... There are no rules about people, that's all."

-Philip Barry, The Philadelphia Story

Mother, listen to Mr. Barry. I'll even rent you this movie.

Fairly,

Julia

Bad Idea #34: July 21, 2010

My gay friends can talk about Lady Gaga for hours.

I wish that were an exaggeration, however, it is not. Not in any way, shape, or form.

It is such a bad idea to argue with any gay man over the talent, beauty, artistry or historical facts of iconic women such as Judy, Liza, Madonna, and Gaga.

Just... don't do it.

I fully acknowledge that these women are talented, original, and have specific things about them that are totally special and wonderful as performers. They would not be popular music legends if this were not the case. But Lady Gaga wears. me. out. I don't have the energy to love her. She's so intense. Just the thought of being in one of her costumes for more than five minutes is exhausting. I don't know how she lives her life under this veil of divadom, and much less, how she convinces people that this is really just the way she is.

No, Lady Gaga. I don't believe that you never wear pants, always don 15" heels, and always hide your face as much as possible. I believe that when you are NOT being a pop culture sensation, you walk around in boxers and drink coffee while reading a newspaper in the mornings. I mean, Gaga, I sincerely HOPE you would do this, or at least some normal things. For you, I wish some sense of normalcy, some grounding element to your life, since most of the world holds you to this impossible, superhuman standard. But then again, maybe you like that. I don't know your life.

(But Love Game and Alejandro sound the same to me. I thank you for bringing dance music back into the light, but let's vary it. And please take your leg off of the piano while playing. We get it, you do yoga.)

They ARE your biggest fans, and the WILL follow you until you love them. I will like you lots, but I will refuse to discuss your tortured, soul cutting depth with anyone. Is that there? In my opinion... EH. Eh, I say to you. Eh.

Eh,

Julia

Bad Idea #33: July 20, 2010

Everyone has different tastes. You, for example, may love piling all of your Thanksgiving food together into a roll for a Thanksgiving sandwich, as my father does, which is not something I have ever been tempted to try. You may love aspic, which is a disgusting, terrible idea in itself. You may not be much for sweets, which is a feeling that my brain could not possibly begin to comprehend.

But no matter what your tastes are comprised of, there are some times when experimentation and trying new things may be a bad idea.

I drove back to my parent's house after class tonight. I walked into my 23 year-old brother preparing food in the kitchen. Now, it's almost 11:00 pm, so unless he has been drinking, or has another good, reasonable explanation for impaired judgement, there's really no reason for him to be eating. Unless he has been starving for days on end, which he has most certainly not. But whatever. Boys do weird things when it comes to food. They don't have to worry about food attaching itself to their thighs in their sleep. They just eat. So I got over that.

But then I looked at what he was making. Here is the recipe, as far as I could gather:

3 lean cuisines of the chicken alfredo variety

3 flour tortillas

6 slices deli ham

6 slices of swiss cheese

1 cup or so of shredded cheddar cheese

Multiple pieces of smoked, cured salmon

OLIVES (BAAARF)

Sour cream

Salsa

Hot Sauce

Directions: lay tortillas flat on a plate. Heat lean cuisines. While lean cuisines are in the microwaves, place ham, salmon, and cheese on tortillas. Disperse evenly. Scoop contents of lean cuisines on top. Finish with olives, sour cream, salsa, and hot sauce.

WHAT. IS. THAT. DONALD, YOU CANNOT PUT NOODLES INSIDE OF A TORTILLA. YOU. CAN. NOT.

He sat down and ATE every last bite of that shit as I verbally tore it apart.

"Let's consider the fact that tortillas are basically just flour and lard. Carbs and fat. Then you put THREE FULL MEALS into them from lean cuisines, full meals with pasta and chicken and spices that DO NOT IN ANY WAY compliment anything that normally goes inside of a tortilla. Then you put in 50 lbs of cheese and added ham and FISH. Now, I may not be Jewish, but I am smart enough to know that pork is the food of dark magic. And cured salmon is not fully cooked, you are aware of that? Salsa, sour cream, hot sauce? This is like, some nasty Italian/Mexican/American wrap that I want no part of. ESPECIALLY IF IT CONTAINS OLIVES. YOU ARE GOING TO DIE WHEN YOU FINISH THAT. I WASH MY HANDS OF YOU AND YOUR FLAGRANT DISREGARD FOR THE RULES OF NORMAL HUMAN ACTIVITY."

He didn't say anything. He just ate, a dumb smile on his face that occasionally changed when he got a big blast of hot sauce, super happy that food was going into his stomach. He washed it down with a glass of milk, then popped the top off a pudding cup and drank it like it was liquid.

That all seemed like a very bad idea to me. I dunno. Maybe it's just me.

Julia

Bad Idea #32: July 19, 2010

This bad idea is dedicated to one of my mother's best friends, who just posted a facebook status about dropping something gross out of her fridge and having it spill all over the floor. Since this has happened to many of us, let's roll with it for the day. It is not a smart idea to take a heavy object out of the ice box with one hand, especially if you have already committed another bad idea by storing the heavy object awkwardly, precariously, or without a proper cover or lid.

(What? That was the longest, seemingly dumbest bad idea sentence I've ever wrote, I think.)

1) The first time I ever heard my mother say a bad word was when she took a giant jar of tomato sauce from the fridge and spilled Niagra Falls of red sauce on the floor. It was all one fluid, graceful occurrence. The woman has a very slight bone structure. Some might even call her frail. So what on earth would make her think that she could one-hand 124,323,456 fl oz of tomato sauce? She does this anyway. I'm still not even convinced that she ever truly held it in her hand. It went down in slow motion, shattered and COVERED EVERY INCH OF THE FLOOR.

"SHIT."

At the time, that was like my mother had just announced that she had a lurid past as a hooker. I didn't know she ever said bad, filthy words like that, words that clouded the positive energy of the space. Though later on, when the Christmas tree would fall on top on her, she would drop an F bomb so forceful that it would cause me to run to the other room for fear of her wrath after emerging from beneath the tree.

2) Recently, as in, the past few weeks, my parents had a little cookout. My mom made this potato salad with sweet potatoes and mangos that was really yummy... the first time you ate it. Stored as a leftover, it congealed into soupy, disgusting, BRIGHT ORANGE slime. And of course she made enough of this stuff to feed the entire neighborhood. Problem was, the entire neighborhood was not really into the idea of orange goop. So, stored in her fridge was a GIGANTIC bowl of the stuff, right out in the front, on a shelf. Every time you opened the door, there is was. The tub of potato salad. We could've fed an Ethiopian village with it. But I would never do that to starving Ethiopians. They have enough trauma in their lives, I think.

So, one morning, I went to find some Greek yogurt. But almost everything in the fridge is stored behind this bowl. I am strong. I am woman. Hear me roar. Get out of my way, bucket of barf, for I want some Greek yogurt, and you will not stop me. I could take you with one hand tied behind my back. This is not an idle threat. I take the bowl with one hand, the lid slips off, my hand slides with it, and there is a split second where two things happen:

a) I still think I can save it, so I FRANTICALLY wave both arms to get beneath the bowl.

b) I see my life flash before my eyes. My mother will be FURIOUS when she sees this crap all over her floor, with my dog licking it up, and then puking it right back up at the taste of it. She will hate me. And when you feel like your mother hates you, it is a sad, sad feeling.

Well, I certainly don't save the bowl. What kind of story would it be, what BAD IDEA lesson learned would come of me catching the bowl? It hits the floor, splatters ALL OVER the place; on the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the counters, my hair... and my face freezes in a painful, fearful, WTF JUST HAPPENED IN THE SPAN OF 0.5 SECONDS face. I can't even move. I stand there and stare. My mind is now worn out from all of this high stakes action that has taken place in such a short time. I'm not thinking about how to clean it up. I am not thinking about what anyone will say when they walk in and see me standing there, covered in what looks like vomit. I. am. just. staring. Because I cannot emotionally handle any other mental or physical action at the moment.

Luckily, my father walks in from mowing the yard. He LAUGHS. But the man also cannot resist a mess. He is on it, helping me clean it up before I get caught.

USE TWO HANDS. For the love of god. Use. two. hands.

Julia

Bad Idea #31: July 18, 2010

It would never occur to me that I possessed the ability to take other people's things. Stealing would just never cross my mind. Luckily this one has stayed out of my head, because stealing is a super shitty idea. I went to stay at my parents house over the weekend, and seven cars on their super safe, suburban street were broken into and had things taken from them. In MY case, it was my itouch (complete with nasty, sweaty workout armband, because I had just ran) and my car charger.

0) Moral of the story is that you can't leave anything cool out in the open and visible. EVEN IN YOUR PARENT'S DRIVEWAY. I am well aware that someone might be tempted to break in and steal the Hope Diamond if it were laying in the passenger's seat. This is why I ALWAYS carry MY Hope Diamond in my pocket, on my person. You wouldn never even know I had one. But my ipod? Which is engraved with a longhorn AND my name, by the way? Yeah, I guess that's still valuable enough to entice some sticky fingers.

0.5) Second moral of the story, which I did not know about, is that you must lock your doors from the car lock if you have automatic locks. I do NOT do this all of the time. I get out of my car to go into the grocery store, turn around, beep my car locked with the key ring and don't even give it a second thought. But apparently the way the key ring locks your car and the way the door locks lock your car are wired differently, and if you only use the key ring, it is easier to break in. When my car was broken into, there was no sign of forced entry. BA-LEH. That was me throwing up from misery due to lack of ipod. (And don't ask if I locked my car. I have already told my parents, the police, my brother, and the spirit of my dog that I DID IN FACT lock the vehicle upon arrival at the house).

1) Taking what belongs to someone else just doesn't make sense. I mean, let's think about this. When in doubt, victimize yourself.

You open up a lemonade stand to earn money to buy the new mermaid barbie with color changing hair, which to anyone but you, would be freaky and borderline stupid. BUT YOU COULD NOT RESIST the commercial. Those girls playing with the new mermaid barbie with color changing hair looked completely content with their lives. You too seek that level of contentment. Therefore? MUST OBTAIN NEW MERMAID BARBIE WITH COLOR CHANGING HAIR. Cannot get around it. So you open up a gourmet lemonade stand, working from sun up to sundown selling Minutemaid that you *wink* mixed by hand with all natural ingredients from your great grandmother's Norwegian recipe. (Since Norway is famous for lemonade.) After selling 1,999 cups of lemonade at $0.01 apiece, you have finally saved enough to buy everything you want in life. You purchase the new mermaid barbie with color changing hair, your mother covers the sales tax since you don't know anything about that kind of stuff, and for about twenty minutes, your soul is complete, your chi centered, and your aura has fallen into and elated peace with the world. This feeling wears off slowly, but not before you take it to school and show everyone how happy you are in attempts to make them die a little inside at your newfound oneness with the earth.

But after nap time? New mermaid barbie (appropriately named "Barbie") is not in your cubby. She is not at your chair. You did not leave her outside at recess, in the lunch room, or in the potty. You are distraught. Everything you worked so hard for, gone in the 30 minute blink of the eyes that is nap time. Your aura has been beaten down, and you now know for SURE that there are some very bad people in the world.

Little did you know that your best friend, unable to see you too happy, took mermaid barbie, and will soon be one upping you with the new ballerina barbie, complete with her own barre, anyway. And she will not have slaved away in the hot sun for it. No, her dad will have bought her that, a pony, and an entire wardrobe from the Limited Too because he feels bad about divorcing her mother for his secretary and only coming to see his precious little girl once a month. But even if she DIDN'T work for it, ALL OF THAT STUFF IS STILL HERS, and you, oh you, you with a conscience, you will refrain from TAKING any of it, because you know it's wrong, while silently resenting her existence. You can't have ALL of the American Girl doll collection AND a best friend who is not jealous. You. can. not.

Life. is. so. complicated.

Mourning my losses,

Julia

Bad Idea #30: July 17, 2010

I was taking the orders of a family at work yesterday. It was a family of four, with youngish parents, probably in their forties, and a son and daughter that looked like they were probably finishing middle school and starting high school. The kids ordered, and when the parents asked them questions they didn't respond.

"They stopped talking to us a few years ago," the dad said joked. "You probably remember that stage. You're not much older than them."

"I never stopped talking to my parents," I giggled. "I may have been embarrassed by everything that they did, but I never stopped talking to them."

"Then yours were lucky," the mom said.

"Just wait," I told the preteens. "You'll get to college and realize that you have the best parents in the world. You will appreciate them so much it hurts."

They rolled their eyes at me, as if to say, 'okay, fuck off,' and I gave the parents a smile.

I was telling the truth. I never stopped talking to my parents. Instead, I turned everything into an angsty teenage screaming match. Teenage angst, though a necessary part of life, is a bad idea that I wish could be avoided.

My father and I did not get along when I was in high school. Actually, "not get along

may be a slight understatement. For four, long, grueling years we fought each other tooth and nail over the DUMBEST stuff.

He didn't like the cheerleading uniforms. He hated my boyfriend. He didn't want me playing instruments (aka, my little bass drum or my piccolo) in the house at midnight when he'd just got back from a trip and hadn't slept in 48 hours. He made me go to church. He told me I spent too much money. He mocked my mood swings and hormones to my mom and brother behind my back.

At the time, it was like he was attacking my life, telling me he hated everything about me as a person. But you know what? The cheerleading uniforms WERE stupid. Hell, cheerleading was stupid at times. My boyfriend WAS a dick. Not just a dick, he was a MAJOR ass hole. It is perfectly understandable that a man wants to sleep and not here the pathetically easy parts to high school drumline cadences on a bass drum or the shrill whistle of a piccolo at night. I still don't agree with church, but it makes sense that a he might try and instill some values in his family. I DO spend too much money. AND OF COURSE MY MOOD SWANG. Not only was I a teenage girl, I am, in addition, as if that weren't bad enough, a hypothyroid patient. These were all valid arguments that my father brought up with me. And suddenly realizing that he was right about everything is not shameful. I don't say, "oh, you might've been right," grudgingly through my teeth. I'm not embarrassed to have ever been a teenager. No, I am actually more relieved that I passed that stage and left it far behind.

But back in the day, when I knew everything, and was WAY cooler than ANYONE in my family, I fought with my father to the point of tears. I would scream and cry and act like a total and utter lunatic. I thought I was completely justified. He was SO mean. He was RUINING MY LIFE. I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU.

All he ever said was, "Hate is a very strong word." Well, yeah, dad. Strong words for strong, if misguided emotions. And my dad is REALLY good at pushing buttons, so I hit some embarrassingly rage-filled moments. I never wanted to be like him. I never wanted to talk to him. When I was nominated for homecoming queen my senior year, I wanted my brother to be the one to walk me down the field. I wanted nothing to do with my dad. He admitted once that he had not been there for at least 50% of my life due to his job. The moment he said that, I had ammo. Manipulative teenagers will do that. We could NOT have been more opposite.

But even in those years, there were nights when he'd get home late, come into my room to say good night, and he'd end up sitting there and we'd talking and laughing and tell stories until way into the morning.

I've realized over the past few years that I think I am most like him, out of everyone in my family, which would've made me sob in the past. I would've been horrified by that when I was 15. But I'm really, incredibly proud to say that now. My dad and I both work really hard for what we want, and can't stand people who don't. We both love entertaining others, making them laugh and smile. We both are neat freaks, and WAY TOO METICULOUS in almost everything we do. We are both exceedingly loyal to those we love. We both take care of others well. We both obsess about small, insignificant details, and let them bother us. We are both incredibly waspish. We have the same weird eyes, with no color.

My dad is one of the best providers I can think of. He is super smart, and has always handled everything financially to where we haven't had to think about it. I was never denied any interests or passions. What's that, Julie? You want to paint? Here. Here are the supplies. Make something beautiful, make something you see. Oh, you like soccer? Well here. Here are some shin guards. Get out there and play. Oh, you don't like that as much? Never mind. What about gymnastics? Go do flips. Go sing. Here are voice lessons. You need reeds for your bassoon? Check. Cheerleading? I mean, if you really want to. You want to audition for colleges? Alright. I'll take you all across the country to do that. It's ridiculous how much the man has given me. I can't even tell you. I can't even begin to be THANKFUL enough for just that kind of thing. But what's more important is that my dad has never put me down. He has always acted like I am the smartest, the best at everything I do. I used to resent it, thinking he was just trying to put pressure one me. But part of me thinks he might really see me that way, which is flattering, encouraging, and makes me work all that much harder, because I NEVER want to let him down.

My dad grew up dirt poor. The whole "walked to school, barefoot in the snow, uphill both ways," thing is kind of a cake walk compared to his childhood. He grew up on a farm with 3 brothers and sisters, working hard and staying focused. Compare that to the SUPER FUN childhood that I experienced, where I was never in want of anything, and I feel spoiled and guilty. But that's how he set it up for us. That's the gift he gave my brother and I. He set up our lives so that we could always wear clothes we wanted to wear, and have birthday parties, and go to college wherever we wanted. He made it so that we could follow our dreams, and try and fail and try and fail and hopefully succeed somewhere down the line.

No gift I could give my dad would be comparable to what he's given me.

Happy 51st, John. I love you.

Julia

Bad Idea #29: July 16, 2010

I'd like to share with you a definition that I crossed while reading my psychology textbook.

Time out- removal of an organism from a situation in which reinforcement is available when unwanted behavior is shown.

I am not kidding. I did not make this up. This is a highly complex term that Spencer A. Rathus feels the need to spell out for me in Psychology: Concepts and Connections.

I'm having a bad day. I am disappointed/aggravated by certain situations and people. Spencer A. Rathus, my friend, you have just made that LIST by talking down to me.

This book is full of common sense, idiotic content like this. I understand that this is a PSYCH 301 class. I know that you know that I know nothing about psychology.

BUT MY PARENTS DID PUT ME IN TIME OUT. I am not stupid. Please don't talk down to me in the dumbest way possible. In fact, it is a sweet, delicious victory when I can scoff at how stupid you sound whilst you treat ME like my existence and attempt to read your worthless textbook is a joke. Condescention (if that's not a word, I just invented it) is an awful idea.

There are only two reasons that I can think of for including such definitions in your book, Spence.

1) You believe your reader demographic to be comprised solely of well born, undisciplined students, whose parents or nannies never put them in time out. "What is this 'time out' you speak of?" they would ask. And your brilliant definition would tell them, in turn evoking the YEARS of pent up mommy and daddy issues that they have suffered from decades of neglect, even if they did get a Ferrari for their 16th birthday.

2) You believe your reader demographic to be comprised of ROBOTS with no human emotion, who do not learn or become in any way conditioned due to learned experience. Which would be silly, because a robot wouldn't be reading your book to gain knowledge, Spencer. It would be programmed in it already, along with USEFUL information.

Seeing as how this book is sold in ACC bookstores across Austin, Texas, to students like me, taking summer blow off classes there, or diligent students trying to earn an associates degree, I have a hunch that you have missed the mark, good buddy.

If there is one thing that makes me want to shatter the cup I am holding and stick all of the little ceramic shards in my heart, it is being talked down to.

Talk up, rather?

Julia

Bad Idea #28: July 15, 2010

By the time my brother had graduated from high school, my mother had lovingly constructed for him a scrapbook, documenting the major events of his life that she had been recording since the glorious day that he was born.

By the time I had graduated from high school, my mother had maybe thought about buying a scrapbook to start for me. I will most definitely be talking about the bad idea of LOVING ONE CHILD MORE THAN THE OTHER on another day. I will NOT forget to come back to that idea.

Realizing that I am fairly close to graduating from UNDERGRAD, my dear, sweet mother realized that if she was going to make a precious scrapbook with expensive stickers and cutouts from Hobby Lobby, she was going to need to get cracking. She got out all of her pictures, laid them out on her underutilized dining room table, and began to sort through and create a timeline. This gave way to some problems. I am... "studying" (/writing blog entries/writing songs/writing whatever the hell I want) at the nearby kitchen table and she runs in every ten seconds to show me a picture that she thinks is adorable, or will evoke some sort of memory. At first, I am extremely annoyed by this. But as it keeps happening, my cold, frigid heart begins to soften with nostalgia, and I cave. I close the laptop, more than happily close my psychology textbook, convincing myself that a break IS necessary, as I have finished TWO ENTIRE PAGES of my alloted reading... that I am still very behind on...

From a logical point of view, taking multiple hour road trips down memory lane is a bad idea when you are trying to get things done. But from a viewpoint that begs you to consider the fact that you have a heart and NEED to remember how beautiful and carefree your childhood was, I suppose it is a rather good idea.

Taking time to remember your youth is an incredibly worthy experience. Observe the picture in the top right corner. That child had absolutely no care in the world, yet EVERYTHING was a huge deal. A good day involved a popsicle. She was sad when the sunset, because the day would end, and it would never be the exact same day again. She was terrified of caterpillars, even though she knew they would become pretty butterflies. She constantly saw imaginary people and objects, acted as though she was under grand circumstances. Everything in the world was big, and scary, and intriguing to her. She pretended her dachshund, Evinrude (I know), was a mermaid when, together, they would swim away form the ugly sea witch (brother) on the lawn outside. She hung all of the Christmas ornaments on the Christmas tree at her eye level (3 ft or so off the ground). She screamed when she fell down, but would be giggling again within seconds. She was so unique. So filled with awe. So excited. Much more so than she is now.

Man, I wish I could be that way forever.

I forget which Harry Potter it's in, but Dumbledore chides himself at some point because he had forgotten what it was like to be young. He told Harry that he couldn't get upset with Harry, because he'd never experienced age, but he was angry with himself for forgetting how it felt to possess youth.

I liked that.

But I don't like having to return to a bunch of work after this wonderful break. Talk about killing a high.

Working (or rather, writing a new song about remembering my youth. Yay, inspiration. Yay. to. you.)

Julia

Bad Idea #27: July 14, 2010

It is the 13th. Not Friday the 13th, but I think superstition is a great topic anyway. There's the black cat, the broken mirror, the umbrella in the room, the ladder walking. But superstitions themselves are all kind of dumb ideas. What, everyone in the world who sees a black cat by chance will have something awful happen to them? That reeks, because black cats aren't exactly a rarity. I don't recall ever breaking a mirror, but so what if I had? What is the difference between mirrors and other glassy, reflective surfaces, things that DON'T bring shitty luck when you break them? I have, many a time, opened an umbrella indoors (for long durations) and walked under ladders in the past year alone. I am living. I did not contract a rare disease, nor file for bankruptcy as a result of these "bad luck"-bringing actions. So why do we even bother wasting the breath, the very energy that it takes to say, "Step on a crack, break your mother's back?" (Which is a load of hooey as well. My mother has never had back problems in her life.)

I used to be VERY, STUPIDLY superstitious about numbers. I liked certain numbers, and I HATED others. I had a system to figure out what multiples meant. I did almost everything conscious of the way the numbers would work out.

I liked 2, 4, and 7. Don't ask me why. That's just what I had decided was legit. If I went running, I had to run 2, 4, or 7 miles, preferably in a time that added or deduced to 2, 4, or 7 (ex. 4 miles in 31 minutes, because 3+1=4. If I missed the 31 minute mark, I'd have to slow it down to hit mile four in 34 minutes, because 3+4=7 and so on). If I decided to run more than 7 miles, it would also have to come out to 2, 4, or 7. So 11, 13, 16...133...).

I did not like 1, 3, or 6. Again, don't ask me why. Any time I looked at a clock and I got a 1, 3, or 6 (for instance, when you are praying to speed time in order to be released from algebra II, you glance at the clock and see the it is 10:02 am. NO! 1+2=3 and 3 means bad. Something awful will happen to you because of this). This aversion to 1, 3, and 6 also played into finding good numbers.

5, 8, and 9 were neutral, a complete waste of time. They put no spin on the aura of the day, and did nothing for my frantic chi.

So it worked like this. Beautiful numbers involved 2, 4, and 7 directly. Less beautiful numbers were made of of bad numbers and neutrals that came out to good numbers: 13, 1+3=4, or 18, 8-1=7. Did I mention that you could also call upon any form of math needed to yield a desired outcome? Because you could. I'm just using addition/subtraction as easy examples. I actually spent the time going through every possible arrangement to arrive at the best conclusion possible. Ugly numbers directly involved a 1, 3, or 6, but could be lessened in terror by neutrals and beautiful numbers: 42, 4+2=6. Not great, but not as bad as it gets.

The rules continue, but by now you are thinking this inside your brain:

"THIS IS FUCKING EXHAUSTING AND POINTLESS. I AM ANGRY TO KNOW THAT SOMEONE WASTED SO MUCH ENERGY CONSTANTLY THINKING ABOUT THESE RIDICULOUS NUMBER RULES INSTEAD OF JUST LIVING HIS/HER LIFE."

And I would say that you would be completely justified.

I will also point out that none of the rules make a ton of sense, due to the nature of numbers, and shift inconsistently by the creator's will. Aka, me.

This is why superstitions are silly. Because even when I did have a constant stream of these thoughts running through my head? Bad numbers never resulted in anything bad. And good numbers? I cannot think of a time when I looked at a clock, saw a glorious number, like 7:42pm (which, any way you calculate it, gives you a two digit with some badies that equal out to goodies, but is negated to the positive due to the presence of all three goodies from the get go... ironic) nothing GOOD happened. In fact, I remember some pretty bad things happening when good 'omens' had presented themselves, COMPLETELY DISPROVING the very notion of superstition, especially in numbers.

Now I am all worked up.

Julia