Our Fascination With First

What is our fascination with first? First place, first call, first idea, first light - first, first, first. What's this craving about? Does the human ego feed off of first place, while second and third go home hungry? Does the first one up a mountainside really have a better view then the straggler at the end of the line? Does the last piece of birthday cake sour or spoil? Is the last wedding dance less sweet or the silver medalist truly less inspiring? I would say no, but here we go. Everyday going round and round the cycle of first places, first-comers, and then all the rest of us.

When I am lap swimming, and all the lanes are full, no one ever asks if they can join me. We see another swimmer there and we back away saying - "oh, well, they were here first." I've seen kids call out "shot gun" not because they know what it means, not because they need to ride in front for motion sickness, but for the sheer joy of being first.

And I have to say - get over it, get done with it and get on with life! The second mouse gets the cheese while the first mouse gets dead. The tensile strength of silver is actually stronger than that of gold, and no one gets any medal for being too afraid to participate. Failing isn't second; it's not even last, and first is only what we make it.

Um...Naked Lady in the Hot Tub

I walk in. I see her, and it doesn't look good. Whether she's young or old, skinny or wrinkled, it's a lot of skin and I'm uncomfortable. She could be Heidi Klum. It doesn't matter. All that matters is she's naked and in my health club hot tub. She's got hair and skin and there's community water involved!

Now we've all been there, but it's how we react that has me puzzled. Are you one to bolt at the first sign of nipple? Do you suddenly feel the need to pee and sulk away to the toilet stall? Or do you smile and climb in with your swimsuit still on? All of these reactions are common and acceptable, and I am practiced at each of them, yet I wonder why one of my reaction scenarios isn't to drop my top and soak it with the nudists. I mean, what would happen if I, God forbid, actually had the courage to join in? God's vengeance really could strike me down, I guess, or I could get my in the buff bum laughed out of the locker room.

But I think it's the second scenario that has me worried, and I am not alone. According to Cosmopolitan.com "tons of American women are bummed about how they look nude. A recent Psychology Today survey shows that 56 percent of women are dissatisfied with their bodies."

So tell me, please, tell me. What do I need to do to soak in the nude? Don't get me wrong ... I don't want to "actually" get naked. What I want is to be like the naked lady that doesn't care that she's naked! That doesn't care at all what people think. It's the "not" caring I care about. Do I need to give birth in order to shed the suffocating layer of modesty? Do I need to take my size 10 frame down to a size two...one...zero? Somehow, I don't think that's it. But someday I'll find the yellow brick road to self assurance, and you'll see me, and then you'll be the one sayin "Um...naked lady in the hot tub."

Love and Perfection

Are love and like mutually exclusive, or can they coexist? Can you love someone and not like everything about them, not like everything they do, not like everything they say? Can someone be worth loving if they're not perfect?

I think perhaps my parents would say no. Could this be their old world mentality, or is it just "tough love"? And by the way, what the hell does that even mean? Tough love, tough this! I mean if true love can't get passed an imperfection, a disagreement, or a dislike, then pardon my language, but what the fuck are we doing here? Love could and love should do all of the above.

But many of us grew up in a black and white world: Someone uses narcotics - they are weak. Someone looses money - they are foolish. Someone becomes an addict - they are hopeless. Someone doesn't achieve WASP'ish success - they aren't trying hard enough. Love was only available when there was nothing to be forgiven, nothing to be disliked. Love meant perfection, and I'm tired. I am tired of the constant need to be more, make more, have more. Always, always more.

Let us make love more forgivable. Let it ebb and flow around faults. Let it be, let it feel. After all, that's what it's here for.

If Smells Could Kill...

As embarrassing as it is to admit, this evening my dog rolled in a dead carcass, the stench of which still has me seriously contemplating cremation. And one long, hot, baking soda pooch bath later, I find myself wondering- what else could smells do?

If a pregnant woman can become so scent sensitive as to vomit at a faint whiff of cantaloupe, then how long before we have smell-centered warfare. How long before I can pack a perfume that will teach the checkout line bitch that 12 items means 12 items? How long before missiles can be designed with scent in mind? Could we send enemy civilian populations running for the toilet and Pepto instead of the hospital, gas mask or bomb shelter? Hmm...

I mean seriously, if the expired animal custard my dog found, could instead find its way to some victimized villages in the Congo, I know we could keep some of the violent, blood thirsty, diamond greedy thugs away from the women and children. Of course the women and children would have to get used to the stink, but I think we could make it work. And I know what you're thinking, but trust me, nose plugs won't stand a chance.

You're Not the Boss of Me

At some point in our youth, we all made the assumption we were in charge of our own lives. We’ve all been innocent and impish, obstinate and headstrong. We’ve all stamped our feet and yelled "you’re not the boss of me." We’ve all childishly declared “you’re not my parents” or “you can’t make me,” and because we were cute and small – we got smiled at, laughed at, and perhaps even scolded. But behind the reprimands was a small sense of pride … the faint twinkle in the eye that "our" kids will never get pushed around or succumb to peer-pressure. Our kids won’t blindly follow.

But boy oh boy - were we wrong. According to lifeoptimizer.org one employee may have to report to as many as 33 people as their boss. Another website even compared the modern boss-employee relationship to the biblical slave-master relationship. So wake up. We are NOT the boss of ourselves. We can’t just encourage children to be independent without giving them the tools to actually do so.

Most of us have to work for others, and we hate it. The question is, were we meant to? Are most of us supposed to be the peasants answering blindly to the surf lords, and if so, is there really anything we can do about it?

Comfort ... Who Knew it Was a Sin?

Any woman who claims to not have fat-pants is flat out lying. Fat-pants, your go-to-pants, pajama pants, boy pants, grub pants, granny-pants, granny panties: we’ve all got ‘em. Even the size zero wearing Barbie dolls have the drawstring sweats they go to when they crack open the Ben & Jerry’s.

So if we all have them, why aren’t we wearing them? I’ll tell you why - society doesn’t want women to be comfortable! Anti-comfort has become the latest fad as current clothing styles are purposefully tight. Thick denim sticks to our legs ‘til thighs rub with friction and red rashes develop. Spiked heels might deform our feet, but boy oh boy do they hike-up the butt cheeks. Bras show more bust than they support, and low cut shirts chill the skin and deflate our egos. Comfort is fashion sin. Society can’t have a woman at peace. If women love self, then economy collapses: martini sales plummet, makeup conglomerates downsize, and fashion designers lose their power.

So what if we were to rail against this? What if, and I know this is a radical idea; we were to stop letting pant sizes and runway models determine our mood. What if, we were to let ourselves feel the comfort of elasticity?

I want the comfort, so jot this down - you skinny-jeans, designer pushing fashionistas: most of us are regular! Most of us need clothes for life, not a life restricted by designer clothes. So to all the happy-hipped, regular looking, loose-pants-loving, normal, beautiful women out there, I say: “regular looking women unite!” Regular women – let loose. Let a best friend’s loving voice sooth the need for skinny-jeans. Let this blog, for one small moment; soothe the need to be different than you are. Let yourself NOT fit into the skinny jeans and be okay.

Good Catholic Girls Don't

My reality turned tilt-a-whirl started with Sunday coming too early and a check book bouncing out of control. I had never bounced a check before. You just don’t bounce checks in my family. Its grounds for removal, jail-time, and a life long subscription to my dad’s “Save Your Money” lecture series.

After all, good Catholic girls don’t bounce checks. Mom always said every penny counts, and mistakes count twice. Now, we’ve all heard “every penny counts,” but the second part of this phrase is Midwestern born – it’s the classic Roman-Catholic, guilt laden mantra to abide or die. But money goes bad on lots of people, and I’m tired of absent dollar bills making me feel alone.

According to, blameitonthevoices.com (and remember this is a blog, not a PhD Research Study), “If you have food in your fridge, clothes on your back, a roof over your head and a place to sleep you are richer than 75%$ of the world.” And “If you have money in the bank, your wallet and some spare change you are among the top 8% of the world’s wealthy.” So I guess I am richer than 75% of the world, but the grown woman in debt can’t keep the good Catholic girl from feeling guilty. What I would do without this imaginary line of bullshit I just don’t know, but it is bullshit…so why don’t we let ourselves believe that.

My check book will need a whole seven days to calm down, and for now, I am going to let myself believe money goes bad on lots of people.