My Dear Greeks.

I didn't take much away from the movie My Girl other then a handful of snot-smeared Kleenexes and a general distrust of bees. Although, I was, like, five when that movie came out, so I'm sure there is a lot more to it than I remember. Dan Aykroyd... Puberty... Death... Something or other like that. I don't really recall anything about My Girl 2 either, for than matter, the exception being the lead boy telling the lead girl that ear piercing was a barbaric custom.

I wouldn't say barbaric is the right word. My cat has a little hole in his earlobe from having some sort of back-alley cat fight club long before he became my squishy, little cuddle-lumpkins-kitty. It's a big enough hole to put an earring through, though I never would, because Leo doesn't even let me dress him up, let alone try to paint his nails and put jewelry on him. It seems barbaric that one cat would chomp another cat's ear just for fun, but cats can't be barbaric, because they're, well, cats. Barbarism is restricted specifically to humans. I looked it up on Dictionary.com. To be barbaric means to be an uncivilized person--or a non-Greek, if we're going with the older definition. So, in any case, other than my love of feta cheese and olives, I have nothing Greek about me. Therefore, automatically, I am a barbarian! So, I might as well just have some fun.

I suppose it's a matter of opinion as to whether a person thinks bod-mods (body modifications: including but not limited to body piercings, tattoos, assorted implants, etc...) are attractive or not. Or barbaric or not. (If you're not Greek, there's no point in really contemplating it too deeply.)

For example, most of my friends my age are tattooed. I am not. Yet, a good majority of my friends hold higher-paying jobs and have a higher level of education than I do. These are some of the people who help me correct my grammar for submissions and remind me not to swear so much. Like, these people are the help-little-old-ladies-cross-the-street types of people. My group of friends have become part of this growing counter-stereotype for bod mods, much like how there is a higher percentage of white collar business people dressed up in leather Harley chaps who motorcycle nowadays than there are actual stab-you-in-the-belly-with-a-broken-beer-bottle-if-you-look-at-me-funny bike gangs.

To my understanding, American tattoos used to be exclusively a military and/or tough guy thing. Military aside, my generation does not really define themselves by toughness, necessarily, because computer skills and a sense of humor will get a person a lot more dates today than being able to pull the plow when the bull dies. And really, isn't the biological imperative to try to obtain dates? Just kidding.

Thus, instead of merely having a bod mod to appeal to prospective dates, or to appeal to one's inner self, or to anger one's parents, one must show originality in his or her bod mod to navigate towards one's own fitting social circle. The days of getting inebriated and going into a reputable tattoo parlor, only to emerge with Miss Piggy's silhouette inked across your back are over. What I'm saying, is body modifications, whether you like them or hate them, are becoming more and more of a statement about what kind of a person you are. They are thought-out and planned. They mean things to people.

There are some people who believe that doing anything to your body is disrespecting it. There are some people who believe exactly the opposite. There are some people who will eat McDonald's three times a week and point fingers and those with bod mods. There are people with elaborate bod mods who haven't eaten red meat or refined sugars since they were old enough to know better. I believe it's all about what your internal compass lets you do. My compass is different from everyone else's, as everyone else's is different from each other's. I suppose one of the greatest things about living in the day and age we do now, is that we can all judge all we want to, but that's not going to do a ink spot's worth of difference. C'est la vie. To each his own. It is what it is, my fellow barbarians. And you too, dear Greeks.

The Dream

I am fairly certain Picasso's work "The Dream" is about the beauty of female masturbation... But in any case, that's not what it means to me when I look at it. Well, er... Most of the time...

When I look at it, I feel inspired to get shit done. I don't know why. But look at her. She and I... We're about to get some shit done. Important shit. Yeah!

Pink Caddy Nightmares

I hope that all the Mary Kay, Avon and other cosmetic salespeople are not offended when I say that you could not make me sell make-up even if you hung me up upside-down on a meat hook by my bootstraps and tickle-tortured me.

Let alone not wanting to sell make-up, I honestly believe I really couldn't sell make-up. You wouldn't ask Pavarotti for weight-loss advice. You wouldn't make Elmer Fudd your math tutor. And you wouldn't want me to do your make-up. Especially since I take the all-or-nothing approach to getting gussied up. It's either pet-haired sweatpants, Alice Cooper tee shirt, unshaved legs, bandanna in my slightly-unkempt and moderately-Nick Nolte-looking hair ...OR... Tammy Faye Baker make-up, ironed-smooth hair, skirt, uncomfortable shoes that have been described as “tarted up”and only seventy-five percent of the pet hair that is with me on less tarted up days.

Nevertheless, the only people who would buy make-up from me would be either those who feel too guilty to say no or those who just want me to leave them alone already because I have hounded them relentlessly to make a purchase. I realized, however, that this is a relatively large number of people, or so I thought. I've done a lot of favors for people... Talked them out of unfortunate-looking body art. Burned them sweet mix CDs. Scooped their cats' litter while they were out of town. The least they could do is allow me to sell them cosmetics. Right?

Now, I have no interest in becoming a consultant. I know the consultants will tell you differently, but that all seems like an awful lot of w-o-r-k to me. No matter to me how rewarding it supposedly is.

However, one of my former teachers, Kristin, recently decided to become one, and so I was all for hosting her first party. She was more than just a teacher to me. She was my coach, confidant and cheerleader through all of my high schooling. She did a lot to mend the pieces of self-esteem that had been inevitably shattered by the junior high years. As junior high years just seem to do. So, in a small way, I hoped that hosting her party would somehow reciprocate the encouragement and get me some sweet make-up.

I invited over 30 guests via Facebook. I had every intention of making this the most make-up sellingist party that Kristin would ever have so that subsequent parties would seem like mere disappointments.

Alas, intentions were good. Results were not. I have never hosted a party with such an unintentionally-low attendance before. My mom made up fifty percent of my non-soliciting guests. Not even her delicious home-made brownies could reverse my disappointment and ultimate fear that I have, apparently, become a drag to be around. A party only a mother could love.

I checked my armpits. Not that stinky. I looked at the invitation. Clear directions were given. I don't think people dislike me as a person. And while hectic summer work schedules plague many of my friends, I think my low attendance boils down to the fact that cosmetics is a tough gig that many avoid.

Kristin, me, my mom, Susie and my cat seemed to have fun, even if I didn't make Kristin any sales. But I learned my lesson: cosmetic parties are for other people to host. Not me. Now, would anyone like to hear about the new line of Tupperware?

Briancentric

“He looked liked Danny Devito as the Penguin.” my boyfriend informed me this morning as we looked over pictures of his late father. Coming from Brian, “Danny Devito as the Penguin” is truly an endearment of sentiment and the utmost respect, though, truthfully, Brian wasn't really exaggerating. Brian's dad was a big man with long, grey, disheveled hair that didn't grow on the top of his head, but only one the sides and back like Gallagher. Brian loved and misses his dad. I wish I could have met him. Brian says he would have picked on me relentlessly, because that's what his dad did when he liked someone. “He used to wear suspenders with sweatpants.” Brian informed me. “Nearly every day.”

Now I am sitting across from Brian. We are at the coffee shop. I am working on this column. He is planning his next Dungeons and Dragons adventure while I occasionally remind him to wipe the droplets of foam from his drink (“Whatever has the most caffeine and chocolate in it.”) out of his overgrown mustache. Previous attempts of reminding him to just trim the mustache has only been met with resistance. He is wearing dark aviator glasses that he thinks make him look tough. Apparently, being over six feet tall and having wrists as thick as my ankles isn't doing the whole trick. He is also sporting his very favorite shorts. These shorts... are not my favorite shorts. They are ugly to begin with, and now, due to continuous wear, they need to be worn with gym shorts underneath just so Brian doesn't get carted away for one form of indecency or another. Oh yeah, and these shorts were hand-made by one of Brian's best guy friends and they are made almost entirely out of pieces of scrap material taken from couches. No kidding. Couches.

Oh gosh. Now he is air drumming to the music in his headphones. Oh. Now he is taking my pen that I got at the zoo with a hand-carved skunk on the top and he is making really loud, obnoxious skunk noises right here in the middle of the coffee shop. We are not the only people here.

And now he is making munching noises to the Bobcat machine outside our window that is digging up the patio slab for whatever reason. “Omnomnomnomnom. Ooh! Look at it dig! It'd be cool if it rolled down the hill! Thump-a-dump-a-dump-a-dump! Woah! Look at that! That's awesome! There's another Bobcat, honey! This one's bigger! Omnomnomnomnom! Baby! This is like a real-life video game! The Bobcat operator has a joystick and everything! Woah! That's so cool! Those Bobcats look like their eating big concrete slabs of cookie! Man! These operators are really good! It would be way funnier if they didn't know what they were doing.” Yes. We are definitely getting disapproving looks now from the other coffee shop patrons.

Now he is back to playing with my skunk pen and bobbing his head to his music.

The more I realize to what extent I am dating a thirty-year-old, hyperactive man-child, the more I love him. He matches my shyness with sound effects. He deals with his losses with humor. He trumps my embarrassment by making me laugh. And on the most groggy and unrested of Sunday afternoons, when I'm stressed because my weekend has been filled with obligations, none of which included getting my sore feet rubbed, he makes me loosen up and realize life is not all about being serious. Life is about sweatpants, skunk pens and the appreciation of talented Bobcat operators.

This was an email to a select few peeps... I think it's a nutshell kind of sum-upper type email...

Woaw...

So...  It comes to no surprise to you that I am...  Well...  Occasionally a little flighty.  However, I am taking that into account when I tell you that my life's aspirations are changing.  While it is true that I enjoy massage therapy, I am getting exceedingly nervous about my personal safety when it comes to my profession; did you know that an estimated one in six Americans have one form of herpes or another and that even without genital contact, it's crazy-easy to spread?  Moreover, despite the statistical probability that tells me otherwise, [small number]told me on their intake health forms that they have herpes, so that I may take added precautions while massaging them.

Did you also know that last year, the U.S. ranked 9th in the world for highest number of rapes per capita?  I can only wonder how much I have elevated my personal risk by having a profession where my potential aggressors are already naked and may have the assumption that I am a prostitute.

I had a pretty good idea about all this a mere three years ago when I decided to attend massage school, but I felt a little more invincible than I do now.  The Trish who was impenetrable to disease and would gladly rip off an aggressor's arms and legs with her bare hands has somehow transformed into the Trish who, you know, might like to have herpes-free biological babies one day and no longer holds any illusions about her own herculean strength. Can't open jars. Probably can't fend off perverse deviant evildoers.

This hurts.  I absolutely love working in the salon.  I love chewing the fat with my regulars while I shove my elbows into their occiputs.  My landlord/boss/coworker has become one of my best friends.  I don't want to let her down by moving on.  But being one of my best friends, I think she knows that I am an uncontrollable sphere of molten-hot, attention-deficit energy who cannot be contained!  I think she knows I need more. I just feel bad because it's hard to find reliable, year-round, certified help in the beauty/spa industry.

I am not jumping into anything just yet. I obviously need to take my planning and soul-searching very seriously before I do anything. I will continue to work at the salon for quite some time while I plan my next step (and figure out how to tell my boss) (hopefully not while getting raped and/or contracting herpes).

That next step being...

Here goes: My boyfriend and I would like to open a small used bookstore/coffee bistro/gift and gaming store/social venue. That's sort of a mouthful, I realize. I'm hoping, though, that diversifying several goods and services under one roof will spell success for us in an economy where most just-coffee-shops fold in towns like [My town]. As of now, all but two in the area have. Yep... Diversity... Everything from comic books and memoirs to espresso and grilled hummus wraps to Magic cards and Dungeons and Dragons miniature figurines to pine cones with googly eyes glued to them (you know, for the tourists).

This seems like an unconventional way to follow my dreams of being a writer and cross-country traveler, being tied down to a business and all. I understand that. However, I have come to realize that no matter how busy I've been in the past, writing is one thing I have always made time for regardless. Writing will always be there for me, just like my unwanted arm hair. I seem to even write more when I have limited time to do so. And as for the traveling, people keep telling me to do the traveling when I'm young. I wonder on what funds. The career of massage therapy, or at least my career, is not nearly as lucrative as salary.com led me to believe (What kind of massage therapist really makes $70,000 a year?! Not the legitimate kind, I'm guessing?) I don't think I'm that horrible at what I do, but according to them, I am in the lowest 5% of massage money makers. I do not live an overly-frivolous lifestyle, yet I have no real savings or travel fund to speak of, despite my usually having a second job. I get by on a month-to-month basis. I know that starting a business won't make me rich. Heck, even if it succeeds, which it statistically only has only a 50% chance of happening in the first place, I probably won't have a comfortable living for the next five years. But, hopefully, a few years down the road, I will be able to afford travel. It might not be the case, but the uncertainty of maybe earning money trumps the certainty of not having it with a career in massageville.

As you can imagine, I have a lot of work ahead of me. I just spent eighty bucks on a variety of Idiot's Guide books, I've been brainstorming like a felon, and I've been researching how to write a business plan. I know I will need to look into grant writing and funding strategies. I need a time line, a location, education, bookkeeping knowledge. Everything. I need to learn and do everything that needs to be known and done to have a small business. It is an understatement to say that I am in the most preliminary phase of the planning. This is why I am writing this email: I am desperately begging you, my sage and wonderful loved ones for any advice you can send my way. At this point, I do not know what I am doing. At all. You are getting this email because I sincerely value your opinions and wisdom.

Stuff I Saved... For Some Reason... :D My Happies and Lols.

Kids These Days, I Tell Ya...

The closer I get to my ideal child-bearing years (those years being between the ages of 45 and 60), the more horrified children make me. Okay. Perhaps it's not the children themselves. I don't think a bunch of towheaded, freaky-eyed kids are going to file out of the cornstalks with the pure intent of... Well, I don't know what they did in that movie, because I'm too frightened by Children of the Corn to actually sit down and watch it—but I know those blondies did something bad to the grown-ups. Something real band.

It's not that. It's... Well... Thirteen years ago I accidentally dropped my six-month-old second cousin onto the corner of a coffee table. I'm pretty sure there's a circle of Hell for that. Rapists. Murderers. Pedophiles. Coffee-table-toddler-droppers.

Oh, the crying and the mouth blood. It was like a horror movie. I know now that mouth blood always appears way worse than it really is, because a gallon of saliva with one drop of blood in it magically appears to be a gallon of blood. But that was something I didn't grasp until I had all of my wisdom teeth removed as a teenager and despite ruining a perfectly good pillow, I didn't die the death of a shriveled-up California Raisin.

I am scared that every time I come within a three-foot radius of a child, I'm going to break the darn thing. Or traumatize them. Or get an angry lady, who seems very capable of beating me up, yelling at me for somehow slighting her child.

Maybe when I have kids of my own, I will be less uneasy. Less uneasy about squishing my child's head underneath an unattached slide, like I might have.. sorta... kinda.. maybe did on my very first day of babysitting way back in the day. I didn't mean to squish her head. How was I to know that playing on disassembled playground equipment would be unsafe for a six year old? I was eleven. I had zero babysitting experience at that point, and very little god-given common sense.

In my defense, I've had quite a few successful babysitting gigs over the years. Gigs where nobody got dropped onto a coffee table or squished under a slide. I also was a lifeguard/art director/camp councilor during my summers of high school. And nobody drowned, suffocated on glitter glue or got eaten by bears on my watch. A couple close calls with the glitter glue and I did have to rescue a Lassie dog that got tangled in a buoy, but overall, I kept my campers relatively safe.

Despite my blossoming babysitting career, I got older and went to college. For some reason, people tend to think college kids aren't as responsible as high school kids. Thus, my babysitting went down the tubes. Perhaps college students' reputations are tarnished by the image of spring break debauchery and the concept of Ramen noodle malnutrition being somehow chic to the college scene. I thought maybe I wasn't getting babysitting jobs because I had been found out as the irresponsible coffee-table-toddler-dropper that I was! So, I stopped looking for gigs. I wrote myself off as “not a kid person” and became increasingly finicky around the ungrown.

Last week, my boss asked if I would please, please, please babysit her eight-year-old twins while she took her twelve-year-old daughter to see Justin Bieber and her husband worked. My boss is one of my closest friends, so I immediately accepted, although, I was nervous.

To my relief, when I got there, the twins were perfectly behaved. I kicked their butts at Twister (because I'm the Twister champion...). They painted my nails blue. We ate sandwiches for dinner. It was awesome. Nobody, myself included, got traumatized. Nobody got hurt. My boss didn't threaten to kill me when she got home. I'd even say I actually had fun. Perhaps children are not so scary after all?

Who am I kidding? Of course they are.