I Would Hate to Date Me

People post all the time about how we should make sure that women should have standards and only allow men with ABC qualities into our lives. That we should hold ourselves holy, yet accountable, which in my mind, is a wonderful sentiment. But quite difficult to do.

Because, let’s be honest, we all have our faults, don’t we? As I’ve said in a previous post, I would hate to be dating me. I would! I am a mess and I say that right now, straight out, that if I was someone dating me, I would probably be like, “Really? Again with the drama?”. I have a lot of drama in my life and not of my own creation. But it often leads me to look like this:

How did I end up in this situation?!!?

I don’t instigate drama, but it seems to coalesce around me, like annoying gnats hover around, say a cow or donkey (which makes me one or the other or both). Drama likes me. My immediate family is always going through something or I have to undergo some medical procedure to determine if I have an XYZ condition or my car gets broken into or my electricity goes out for however long that I can’t surmise or my basement floods, again…you get the idea. I actually hate, absolutely detest drama. I have tried to buttress myself against it using mainly financial resources or my personal, emotional barriers, but they always get to you, don’t they?

My boyfriend, John, is great. He’s like, “You always have drama.” But he knows it’s not of my own choosing or not even necessarily is created by me but he still sticks around. Which is admirable.

Because, if I was him, I would have thrown my hands up a long time ago and been like, “I’m DONE!  You’re too much!” Which I am.

Because, if I was a guy, if I was someone dating me, I would probably not like doing so. I think too much, I needle and grind away at the details, I detach and push people away while at the same time needing some reassurance and blame them if they don’t give me enough, I pad around in my pj’s and snap at those around me to “give me space, dammit!!” and then feel somewhat neglected if nobody is around, I do all the insane, inane crap that people who have abandonment issues do, the people who have too many thoughts rattling around in the brain do, those who pace and stay awake at nights in bed thinking, “What does this all mean?” and then stalk to the kitchen or watch Netflix movies do…that is me.

I randomly read books in the middle of the night or do things like suddenly clean up my bedroom or ferociously wipe down the floors in my house and immerse myself in doing laundry while also reviewing political articles online and comment on them out loud angrily. Yeah, I do that. And then I will take myself off the grid and then huddle in my comforter and snuggle down into my bed, thinking I’m done for now and ignore life for awhile.

Often, I feel like I am too little and too much at the same time.

So I would absolutely hate to be dating me. I would hate to have to deal with me, because I AM me and I hate to deal with me.

So when women say, “I deserve a man who is worthy of me,” I want to say back, “Really?!!? Look at yourself first. Because maybe you’re not such a trophy!!”

But maybe that’s just me.

Trump Miser Says NO To The White House Correspondents’ Association Dinner

Because He’s a Baby

I am right. You are wrong!! I am King! You are vassals!!

Trump Miser is up and at it again. Sigh. He has declined to attend the White House Correspondents’ Association Dinner. And you know why? Because he’s a baby. Because he’s throwing a fit, as usual, about how people are “picking on me!!!”. Wahhh!!! Kids can be so unfaaaaair! He doesn’t want to be the equivalent of the unpopular child at a Chuck E. Cheese celebration, where he is the pouting, high maintenance kid, the one who parents resign themselves to have to deal with. “Oh, no,” they think. “There’s What’s-His-Face. What a downer.”

Fuck the formal deputy press secretary’s (Sarah Huckabee) defense of “This was a president who campaigned on speaking directly to Americans, and that’s exactly what he’s going to spend his time doing.” You know, YOU KNOW, that if it was a dinner titled, We Love Trump and Will Kiss His Ass and Talk Only About How Awesome He Is, he would totally attend.

He would. Especially if they gave out some sorry-ass award titled Visionary of the Century, with his face on it and big glittering words spelling out, “To President Donald Trump. Mogul.” And then he would tweet about it. Because THAT is what the president of this great nation should do. Tweet. All about himself.

C’mon. You know he would go to such an event. He would attend and make his I Am Great faces while speaking about god knows what and bragging about, again, god knows what, stuff that he has spun out of thin air, like the princess in the Rumpelstiltskin story, making gold out of straw. Things partially rooted in facts, but slanted and twisted whenever the truth does not serve his purposes.

I am tired of Trump, of his proclamations about how COOOL he is, in the face of his recent recantation of the transgender laws regarding bathroom privileges. What was that all about? I mean, is someone going to check? Will there be guards posted around school bathrooms saying, “Hey, um, let me see if you are using the appropriately assigned bathroom.”? No, absolutely not. That would be weird and creepy and not to mention highly illegal in infringing on a minor’s private space.

So why do it? Because it’s not enforceable, by rescinding this right, to crap in whatever boy or girl bathroom a person wants, he did it to score himself points? Probably. Most likely.

Look, like I’ve stated in my previous posts, I have really wanted to support Trump to whatever extent I could because he was elected as the president of this country. My efforts at support meant nil, because I have no political influence whatsoever, but we are stuck with what we are…but he is making it so difficult for me, so damn hard, when he does stuff like this. I hate that I dislike the leader of this country not on just policy issues, but on a personal, visceral level on topics. Such as LGTBQ, women, and immigrant rights as well as the careful crafting and shoring of international relationships with other countries, countries that share this planet Earth with us Americans.

Rue and This Wolf Rest

Part 5 of the Red Riding Hood Story

Photo credit: https://abstract.desktopnexus.com/wallpaper/1375482/

The wolf, This Wolf, glares at me from one eye as I offer him my lunch. The meat pasty that my mother packed for me, tucked into the basket full of goodies for grandmother. It had tumbled out along with the other pastries, lying on the ground, slightly mushed and squashed.

Blood trickles down my arms and legs. This Wolf had also raked my neck, I can feel his claw marks under my chin, below my left ear. Hot pain streaks through me. But as he sits in front of me, panting, I sense hunger waves rippling out from him towards me. And a hurt and loneliness I know too well because I feel them myself often now that my father is no longer here, after he had his accident. I miss his strong arms around me, lifting and hugging me, then lowering me into my bed after a warm dinner, smoothing out blankets and stroking my hair as I lay my cheek against the cool pillow.

This Wolf is sad and hungry. So I pick up the meat pasty and brush the dirt off of it and place it in my palm, carefully, before holding it out to him. It is my gift to him, as we sit contemplating each other, my face towards his wolf face, waiting. Gauging. Deciding what we will do next.

“This is my lunch,” I say. “Take it.”

One large, yellow eye blinks. The other is swollen shut. His tongue licks his lips and the top of his nose. He sniffs. He is inhaling the scent of the pasty, the treat that my mother makes so well, dicing venison and folding herbs and vegetables into it to form a delicious mixture that she wraps with dough before baking the little crescents in the oven. They puff up, golden and tinged brown, before she brings them out, steaming. She makes sure to set aside at least one for me from every batch, because she knows that this particular pasty is my favorite.

So although my tummy is still grumbling, even now, as I am exhausted and hardly able to sit up, I decide to give it to This Wolf. I think he needs it more than I do.

“Here,” I say, “It’s good. It’s yummy. More than me.”

This Wolf’s large, black nose ventures towards the pasty. His nostrils open slightly as he smells it with snuffles, while his eye stays fixed on me. With a quick opening of his mouth – so big, so many sharp teeth! – he snatches it up and swallows.

He is very still after the swallow. As if he is waiting for his stomach to tell him whether or not it likes my present. His eye widens, shuts briefly, then opens. He settles down on his legs, stretching out slightly, no longer sitting upright. This Wolf seems tired, too.

“Tiny Rue,” he grumbles, “Would like more. All as tasty?” He doesn’t look at the rest of the pastries on the grass around the tree, just stares up at me with one big eye. I am starting to feel bad that I hurt the other one.

“Yes. My mother is a baker, the village only buys from her.”

“Good,” he sighs with a loud gruff. “This Wolf is hungry.” He rests his head on the ground.

“I know,” I say. “Let me sit for a bit and then I’ll gather the rest of the pastries. Then we can both eat. And rest.”

“Good. Yes.” His eye closes, although it flickers open from time to time, checking on me. Then it stays shuts as he shifts on the ground. I breathe in full lungfuls of air. I am alive. I am hurt, but I am alive. And This Wolf and I are sitting next to each other.

We are about to share a meal. And rest together.

Rue and This Wolf Battle

Part 4 of the Red Riding Hood Story

Photo credit: http://mymodernmet.com/little-red-riding-hoods-demise/

Tiny female human stands there. Looking at me.

“Where are you going, small human in red coat?”

She just stares at me. Wind along my back. Wind against her hood. They ripple. I wait.

“I am going to my grandmother’s house,” she says. I think of grandmother. Packs do not like humans. They fight too much. Meat is not tasty. Old prey, they crunch, not a lot of flesh. Not satisfying. But this small human is in front of me. She smells delicious.

“Little girl, how far?” I growl.

“I am not a little girl!” Her eyes squinches down. “My name is Rue.”

Enough! My mind says. Eat her! You are hungry! I am. Pit in stomach.

“Rue.” I say, as much in human-speak as I can. “Yes, tiny Rue.” She stands her ground. Looks at me. Slowly, she sets down her basket, the one full of enticing smells. Backs away.

She does not know, as I do, that once we spot prey, they rarely get away. Prey! The word sings in our minds. Prey, prey, prey! Food and eat!

“Where are you going, tiny Rue?” I ask. Approach her. She crouches down, glances around, spots a sturdy branch. Darting like a rabbit, she snatches it up. Holds it. Big branch over one shoulder, she stares at me. Face set. Cub is ready to fight.

Going to eat you up!

I pounce. She swings the branch onto my head. She is quick, tiny Rue, red coat swirling around her. The blow stuns me, but I am This Wolf. This Wolf! No pack, but still wolf! echoes in my head as I bound towards her.

My claws rake her coat. Feel them dragging down an arm.

“No!!” She shouts. Voice is full of pain, of alarm. Like all prey. I circle her. Her arm is bleeding. I smell the full flavor of red blood, of life. Tongue lolls out. Sniff.

“Come here, tiny Rue.” Pounce. Again with the branch, this time on a leg. It hurts. She has broken something, my leg says to me. I growl. No longer amused. I want to eat,  chew something up. Feel meat go down my throat.

She hits me. I claw her. Screams, voice high. Fear. But little human keeps on hitting. Slamming branch on my head, nose, snout. We are fighting, one on one. I can’t get closer to her. She can’t get closer to me. I claw, she bleeds. She brings wood down on me.

How? My mind howls.

I do not know. I am big and strong. I am This Wolf, but she is fast. She is a spark of fire, red and flaming. When I try to leap onto her, she stabs me with the branch, jams it into my eyes. My mouth. Open with anticipation of food. But no food. She is not the prey I know. She hits me, again and again. My claws flash out. I catch her flesh, over and over, but she does not stop.

My thoughts. Human! That is why we do not hunt humans! I know this, as wolf, but pack never hunted one, so I only heard. Now I see. Now I understand.

She is tired, is scared. I have hurt her in many places. But cub is still determined. Back against tree. Branch held high. My leg, left front, is dangling. Broken, By branch. By tiny Rue. My head hurts. One eye closed, swollen. Nose sore. Back battered.

We both pant. Studying at each other. Still and silent. She leans against tree. Red coat shredded. Bright blood trickling. Blood! My brain. Finish! But she is tough prey, prey that has hurt me.

I sit down. Thinking. Her basket is open, scents in air. She lowers the branch, sliding down tree. Looks around her. Sees what has scattered from the basket. She picks something up. Weighs it in one tiny paw. Opens, toes stretching. Lifts it towards me.

“This is my lunch,” she says. “Take it.”

Sniff. Meat. I look at her from my one open eye. Food on her paw. I lick my jowls. Lick. My nose twitches. Smells good.

Red Riding Hood Meets This Wolf

Part 3 of the Red Riding Hood Story

They finally meet.

I am more than halfway to my grandmother’s house. My fear of entering the woods has faded a little,  even with the dimming light around me as the sun gradually settles into the hills beyond. I am singing, sometimes skipping on the path, sometimes bending down to pick flowers for grandmother. I am enjoying my trip. My basket swings from my arm, my red coat is keeping me warm. Safe.

“Don’t eat any of the treats for grandmother,” my mother had said before I left. “I put in a meat pasty for you for lunch. And if you are still hungry, you can eat a roll from the basket, but the rest is for grandmother.”

I nodded yes. Food is scarce for us, mother and me, since my father died a year ago, from an accident. That is what my mother and others tell me, an accident. They don’t say anything more, so I know that it was not something simple, from tripping over a stool, it must have been something greater and more fearful. But I do not ask. Because I do not want to know. And because my mother is sad already and I do not want to make her sadder.

So I nodded. Yes, mother, I understand.

I am thinking of this as I am traveling through the trees and flowers, my stomach rumbling.

I am not close yet to grandmother’s, I tell my tummy. Just wait a little longer. It does not say anything after that, although it still complains with grumbles and gurgles.

I am tucking a handful of blueflowers into the basket – oh, how bright they are! – when I suddenly feel a presence in the woods. As I continue, I start to shiver. I draw my coat closer around me. It is my armor. But there is something out there, I can tell. A big something. A scary something. And although my father is dead, I am still his daughter, a daughter of a hunter and carpenter. So  I know. There is a creature stalking me, following me, with its eyes on me. My ears pick up the sounds of pawsteps.

As I keep walking along the path, all I feel are eyes. Watching me.

I slow down. I look around me. I know I am in danger.

And through the increasing darkness, a wolf steps out of the woods in front of me. He is enormous, with dark rugged fur and blazing eyes. He is hungry, ravenous. I sense this. Because I know how the desire to eat something, hair and whiskers and tail and all, can consume you.

He blocks the entire path. I realize at that instant that he will not move, ever, until he gets what he wants.

“Hello,” he growls, “I am This Wolf.”

Stupidity About “Spanish”

I went to the ER and urgent care a few times last year. I’m the type of person who loudly insists that nothing is wrong with them when something obviously is, yet refuses to go see a doctor, so by the time I feel badly enough to do something about it, it has become an emergency of sorts (also, I was going through some tough medical issues). Hey, in none of my entries have I ever said that I’m reasonable 100% of the time.

These visits resulted in many stories because going to an ER in Baltimore City exposes you to all sorts of crazies (especially at the Hopkins affiliated facilities, I guess crazies still recognize quality).

One of the incidents that I was privy to was one that flabbergasted me. A Hispanic man came into the ER and started speaking to the customer service or help desk representative. The man spoke limited English, the rep spoke zero Spanish. So he called over the security guard, who was also of no help, who then flagged down the police officer on duty. All three of them started to question the man and between them, were able to ascertain that he wanted to visit someone who had been checked in through the ER earlier that day.

“What is his name?” Help Desk asked.

“José Hernández,” said the man.

“What was that?” Security Officer said.

“José Hernández,” repeated the man.

“What?” Security Officer said. To the others, he stated, “I don’t understand him.”

“What is his relationship to you?” Police Officer asked. The man responded with a lengthy explanation in Spanish. The three others looked at each other and shrugged.

“I’m sorry,” said Help Desk. “I don’t know Spanish. Is he your brother?” The man shook his head. “So what is your name?”

The man said his name, which I couldn’t make out, but obviously his last name wasn’t Hernández (although of course that didn’t necessarily mean that the patient wasn’t his brother). “So he’s your brother?” The man shook his head again, in agitation this time, and spoke and gestured in a way that conveyed, NO, you dumbasses, NO he’s not, but I want to see him, I want to know where he is so I can see if he’s okay!!

“I don’t know what he’s saying.” Help Desk said to Security Officer, who held his hands up in a I give up motion.

“Do you understand him?” Security Officer asked Police Officer. The latter rolled his eyes.

“What is his name again?” Help Desk asked.

“José Hernández!!” the man shouted.

“Look, sir, there is no need to get riled up,” Police Officer said. “We don’t speak Spanish, we’re trying to help you.” The man looked like he was going to cry or punch all three of them, his frustration was that palpable. He was obviously somewhat frantic, his friend was in the hospital, he just wanted to see him but was being stonewalled by an impenetrable wall of hospital security. Who weren’t being mean. Just clueless.

“This is obviously going nowhere,” Help Desk said. “We’re just going to have a get a translator down here.” Then he picks up the phone and calls some number and speaks to someone and I kid you not, says, “There is a man looking for his brother or friend or someone who checked in, but we can’t understand him, we don’t speak Spanish so can’t figure out the name, can you guys send a translator down here?”

Okay, I give Help Desk kudos for requesting a translator. But. BUT, If I wasn’t into my seventh hour in the ER waiting room and in pain, I would have screamed, “THE SPANISH LANGUAGE UTILIZES THE SAME CHARACTERS AS ENGLISH YOU IDIOTS!! YOU CAN’T ‘TRANSLATE’ A SPANISH NAME INTO ENGLISH, STUPIDS!! IT’LL STILL BE THE SAME NAME!!!”

And “If you can’t understand the name because of his accent, have him write it down! Again, it’s still the same characters!! What’s wrong with you people?!!? ARGGGHH!”

Fortunately, a nurse passed the desk, heard the commotion, and told them all that she spoke Spanish so was able to sort things out.

However, I was astounded that three people, three grown men in charge of security at a Johns Hopkins hospital in a city full of Spanish speakers, weren’t able to figure out that the Spanish language, like German, like French, like Italian, utilizes the same characters as English (discounting accent marks). I mean, you can’t “translate” names. It’s not like here in the States, we call Volkswagen “People’s Car”. I mean, really, people. Get a clue.

My Big Bad Wolf

Part 2 of the Red Riding Hood Story

I see her.

Foolish tiny human.

Resting in the leaves, I see the girl. Walking by herself on the path. Picking flowers. Humming a tune. About her mother, the warmth of home. Food for grandmother. But she pauses often. Looks around. She knows danger is near. I rise. Follow.

My brain. Kill her! 

My stomach. Eat her up! So empty. Since I left wolf pack.

You do not belong, they had said, all eyes on me. Too many thoughts. Too many feelings. You bring disorder. They did not force me away. We are wolf, we are pack, there are rules. To challenge, follow at a distance, leave or to lie down to join the Great Forest as we fade. These are the choices when shunned. I did not want to fight Alpha. Or die. No lingering as an outsider. I am wolf, This Wolf, I will not beg to be part of the others. Loping on grass, I turned my back on them.

I am alone now, without pack.

The girl has a basket with delicious smells. My nose in the air. Sniffing. Enticing scents. But the small human is a larger meal. We, all packs, prefer other prey. Not humans. Those we rarely hunt. But I am hungry. I am just one.

My paws keep pace with her feet, slowing when hers does.

We tread together, This Wolf knowing, small human not. But she senses. Draws her red cape around her. Basket more against body. Fingers white with cold, lips  drawn tight. A frown on her mouth, on her forehead. She surges forward. She is a fierce cub.

I get closer. And closer. Girl human slows, head turning from side to side. No wolf ears to point, to swivel, to hear my gradual padding towards her. Yet, she slows to a stop. She knows I am here. Stands in the middle of the path, paws firm against earth.

Her eyes straight ahead. Sun setting. I step out in front of her.

“Hello,” I growl, “I am This Wolf.”

My Little Red Riding Hood

Part 1 of the Red Riding Hood Story

I am entering a world unknown.

Art credit: http://nkabuto.deviantart.com/art/Little-red-riding-hood-339098789

I am on my own, entering the woods with a blanket of red around my shoulders and on my head. The trees tower over me. The sunshine, which was so brilliant when I set upon the path, dims as I walk, step by step.

“Go visit your sick grandmother,” my mother had said, handing me a basket packed with pastries. I had traveled this way many times before, but now the leaves are whispering more softly against each other and the branches above me are more still than I had ever remembered. For the first time, I feel small, although I am, although I am not any bigger or older than I was when I set upon this journey last.

Be careful, the swaying flowers say to me.

Be vigilant, grunt the toads that are dotted alongside me as sentries, as I pass each one of them.
Be aware, the sparrows murmur as they settle upon their perches on twigs.

I am all these. I heed those I trust, the ones I rely on for comfort and advice during sunny days, when I am lying under the open sky on the grass near my house or in my bed, breathing in the warm air drifting in through my window.

So I am careful. Vigilant. Aware.

I look up and see an enormous tree trunk, one that was felled by a thunderstorm years ago. It had always been there, I had seen it countless times, but now it seems unfamiliar. The moss, which I had seen as a soggy mass, now appears as a miasma of dark tendrils grasping upon gray bark. The trunk rises high, dwarfing me.

What is the new place? Will I actually arrive at my destination? I draw my coat around me. It is bright, the color a vivid contrast against the fading light. I stroke the soft wool, rub the corners of the ends of my collar and trace them up along the edges of the hood framing my face, my hair with its curls tucked in.

My coat is red, a bright red, a blood red, a red of life and vitality. It settles around me in heavy folds that sway only slightly as I walk. It is my armor.

Suddenly, I don’t feel so small anymore. I am a spark of fire in the darkness of the woods with a basket full of life. I am ready for whatever lies ahead.

I Think I Was In a Haunted House (of Sorts)

My boyfriend, John, and I have recently started looking at houses to start a home of our own. It’s weird for me because, per a previous post, I’m not much into suburbia, which is the area we are focusing our attention on. But it’s been interesting to see the different types and layouts of houses. We have been mainly looking at those constructed in the 60’s and I’ve always passed many in my car and thought, Why are they so stolidly rectangular? Now I know it’s due to efficiency reasons: they are easier to build and therefore cheaper, while the low ceilings and straightforward design diminishes heating and cooling costs.

Most of them need work. I have always lived in more modern homes so was completely unused to the narrow and pitched staircases and teeny-tiny closets and lack of lighting; those with absurdly low ceiling heights seemed a tad oppressive and the kitchens more suitable to a small apartment than an actual house. I’m also not fond of the ranch homes, because I like having different stories to separate some of the space from the other. However, each usually has its own unique characteristics and charming appeal, even when in disrepair.

We toured one, however, that scared the crap out of me. It was in Ellicott City, situated right on one of the main roads. It was a multi-story, grayish-blue house with porches in the front and back and decent yard space. When I entered, I immediately felt a little disoriented, as if I wasn’t sure what space naturally flowed into the next. We toured the basement and there was a part of if that was dank, dark, and oppressive. I shivered while standing there, wondering what exactly it was about the room that gave me the chills.

The feeling increased especially when I entered the top two attic rooms. There was no physical resemblance to the Overlook Hotel in The Shining, but those images of the twin girls in the movie and the spookiness I felt when reading the book came instantly to mind. It’s as if there was a strong personality or presence watching me in those rooms, especially the one I first entered on the left. There wasn’t a sense of “a spirit trying to tell me something” that crops up in horror movies; it was similar to when you’re in a room and you suddenly know that someone has entered the building you’re in because you can sense another person.

As I was walking down the stairs back down to the main floor, the floors seemed at a slant and I was afraid that I was going to trip down the steps and had to hold the banister to keep myself in grip. All I knew was that I wanted to get out there, and fast. Right away.

When John and I reconvened in the living room of the house, he said, “Yeah, this house is off the list. Definitely.” The agent nodded her head and made a note and we exited.

“Did you feel that or was that just me?” I asked when we were standing outside.

“No, there is definitely something weird with that house.” He said. “It feels wrong.”

“Yeah, like something bad happened there, right?”

“I had the same feeling, too.”

I’m not saying I’m psychic or have a sixth sense or anything to that extent. Most of the houses I’ve been in have felt neutral. They didn’t give off any positive of negative vibes. A few have exuded comfort, as if you could tell that they absorbed years of family coziness. A couple have seemed cold or unfeeling. Some sad. There was one house I was in once which almost felt dormant, as if it was in hibernation or far removed from the occupants that lived there. I always chalked it up to my own imagination.

But with this house, I couldn’t. I’ve never, EVER, been in a house that creeped me out as much as this one did. There was an atmosphere of unhappiness and sullenness, not outright anger, but a resentment of sorts that pervaded the upper floors.

Did I visit a haunted house? I don’t know. I believe that they exist, but have never personally known anyone to have lived or encountered ghosts in one. All I know is you could not pay me enough to spend one night alone in that house I visited.

Our Guilty Pleasures

We all have some. I have many. And they are somewhat embarrassing to relate. But here are most of them:

  • The television series, Supernatural. My boyfriend, John, is always like, “You’re watching Supernatural again?!!?” and my response is usually, “What, you’ve never watched a show over and over? That’s why it’s your favorite show, because you do!” I don’t know what it is about the series. I think it’s because it combines science fiction and fantasy, yet folds in humor I can appreciate while following a tale of two brothers who have a complicated, at times contentious relationship, but always acknowledges that family is everything. Even though for me, I count my close friends more as family, the entire concept of what constitutes one fascinates me. And the Supernatural brothers are always like, yeah, we ‘effed up and kind of ‘effed each other, but we’re family, right? We’re not going anywhere! We’re in this together! It would bring tears to my eyes…if I cried easily. Which I don’t.
  • Taylor Swift. Yeah. I love her music. Can’t deny it. There is still a part of me that feels like I’m emotionally ten to fifteen years younger than my biological age. I still have a lot of angst and anger over resolved and unresolved issues. What can I say? At least I admit it.
  • Erotic novels. Um. Ahem. Yes, I do love my erotica. I will settle in sometimes with one of these pretty happily. They are unrealistic and hysterical, but I still do indulge in them.
  • Cheesy 80’s movies. This is a function of my age. I grew up in the 80’s and 90’s eras, but there is something about those 80’s movies like Footloose and Dirty Dancing and The Breakfast Club. They are just so optimistically goofy and silly with a side dish of dry amusement that I love. The 90’s fit in with movies like Reality Bites. 
  • Those damn Coca-Cola polar bears. As I’ve written before, they get to me every holiday season. Those commercials? Warm the cockles of my heart during Christmas, without fail.
  • Rocking out in my car. Every time. If I hear a song I love, I don’t care. I will sing insanely loudly and dance and point a finger to emphasize certain words. I crank up those tunes. Also, the music drowns out any dubious noises from my car that would otherwise alert me to the fact that there is something wrong with my engine, air conditioning system, or muffler. If I can’t hear it, it doesn’t exist!
  • Snuggling into bed at insanely odd hours. I have a decently flexible schedule, so work from home often. That means that there are times that I will take a nap at two in the afternoon for no reason at all except for the fact that I feel a little sleepy or tired. I’ll work later into the night (I’m more of a night owl), but even then, I feel kind of guilty, like I’m playing hooky and slacking off.
  • Eating food completely unsuited to the time of day during which I’m eating it. I’m not big into sweets, I tend towards the savory. So I may eat spaghetti at 4:00 a.m., slices of salami at 8:00 a.m. before I dash off to work, two huge kosher pickles when I get home or five Pringles chips and two creamy, square slices of cheese for dinner. It’s a luxury I give myself, to have a break from the normal breakfast-lunch-dinner routine. I will also eat chunks of cucumber or tomato with vinegar and salt at random times just because, well, they’re delish.
  • Dancing around in my pj’s while singing to chick music. I still do this. With my hair up in a ponytail and everything. Sometimes I try on makeup of screaming colors and then of course, when the episode passes, I put it resignedly away, acknowledging that I am just not the kind of person to casually wear sparkly purple eye shadow in public.
  • Downing half a bag of cheesy poofs in one sitting. I love cheesy poofs. I am actually not as unhealthy in my eating habits that this post makes me out to be, but we’re talking about guilty pleasures, right? Friends of mine have asked, “What is it about those things that you like so much?” and I’ve said, “It’s like…eating cheese air.” They then respond that it actually sounds gross, not yummy, to which I say, hey, I’m the one eating them, not you! Crunch!

These are not all of my guilty pleasures, but they top the list. What are yours?