Decor for the Modern Relationship

I have always been fascinated by home decorating.

I remember trips as a kid to Home Depot, and while my parents argued over what shower head was more economical, I would stray slightly away from them and gaze at all the light fixtures and figure out which one would work better in my dream home. By the time I was twelve, I would complain loudly to my mom about how I didn't understand why there wasn't any art on the walls or how tacky the big wooden box was that laid beside the fridge and was labeled "Taters".

I began working in a bead shop and discovering the pages of Vogue at about the same time. I gained a wealth of knowledge about color combination that most would not dream of. Corey and I would flit in and out of home decor stores and discuss what we like and what we didn't. So as my boyfriend John and I began discussing moving into a place together, I got really excited. I drug him to five apartment complexes in one day.

"Well, we could choose the one bedroom apartment with the balcony, or we could choose the two bedroom apartment without a balcony that is the same price. What do you think? Balcony or extra bedroom?"

"I dunno," he shrugged.

If only I had known that would be only the beginning.

"I was thinking we should consider a color scheme for each room, so to make the decorating process a bit easier," I suggested gently. "You know, since the bedroom is supposed to be a fort of tranquility, maybe light blues and khakis...?"

"Sure," he answered. Although it was in the affirmative, he still shrugged.

"What if we bought three of those cheap build-it-yourself bookshelves and placed them side to side, taking up an entire wall? A wall of shelves, embellished with little knick knacks and stuff? Wouldn't it look homey and modern at the same time? Like a real statement?"

"Sure." Same response. Same shrug.

I couldn't help feeling frustrated. Everything I suggested warranted a shrug. I was so excited to stand in WalMart and spend an hour staring at dinnerware, debating the pros and cons of solid color vs. pretty patterns, and trendy vs. traditional. These are the plates I would be eating off of for years, after all.

John was not so excited.

I did not, and do not, understand. Is this typical male behavior? Does he not feel it is his place? Has he not thought enough about decorating to have formed a real opinion or personal taste? Does he feel as if I am so dominant that I will do what I want anyway? Or does he simply not care? And if he doesn't care, what does that mean as we begin to build our lives together?

"I guess he doesn't care," I sighed to Cherish. "I don't know, maybe this is not as important to him. Maybe none of it is. The apartment, the decor, our life.... Maybe it is all convenience."

All of my mental running around came to a halt. John and I found ourselves in a store, and he pointed out an obscenely large clunky black pleather chair with sharp angles. "That's kinda cool. What do you think?"

For a second, I forgot who I was with. I am so used to playing the "let's imagine our dream home," with Corey that I blurted out exactly what I was thinking.

"God no! What is our living room gonna be, a 1970s bachelor pad for a middle aged balding man? What's next, a zebra print rug?"

The minute the words left my mouth, I wished I could cram them back in. I have been praying for some input, some sign he cares. I finally get it and I insult him.

I think that a relationship is all about compromise. And not just, "I like this shower curtain," "but I like this one!". Sometimes, being a good partner means knowing when to shut your damn mouth. Especially when the one you love is finally giving you what you want. Although that chair was God-awful, I could have been much kinder in how I responded. And maybe learning to be more encouraging is much more important than if all of our silverware matches or not.

Though you must realize, all of our silverware will and must match. Weather John understands the importance of matching silverware or not.

Shop Til You Drop

I don't think men can possibly understand the relationship between women and shopping. There are those moments of pure bliss, where everything aligns and your hands are gripping the handles of as many shopping bags as possible and its euphoric. And then, there are those other moments. Those moments that you are in a dressing room and you stare at your mirror reflection in utter defeat and try not to cry.

As a chunky little girl, I had those moments a lot. It was very frustrating to argue with my mother to let me try on the little miniskirts while she told me, quite plainly, "Little girls your size shouldn't wear these." I would insist, please, please let me try it on. Who knows? Maybe we were both misunderstanding my size and it would look cute! Sometimes I would eventually win the chance to try something on, and prance out in delight while my mother stared at me and shook her head no sadly.

As a teenager, I stopped caring. In a way to avoid the entire ordeal, I piled on tshirts stolen from my grandfather (a big and tall burly man who wore a 3x or 4x) and mens' carpenter jeans from Goodwill. My mother would sigh unhappily because I obviously "didn't know that I was a girl". The biggest brawl came about over my junior prom dress.

My mom had not attended her own prom. I didn't care about mine. I didn't want anything strapless. I didn't want anything that would show any pudge whatsoever. In desperate attempts, I suggested to my mother: "How about a mini skirt and a Hawaiian shirt? How about a tuxedo?" She shook her head, insisting that she was trying to make sure I didn't wear something I would regret. Dress shopping took weeks. Weeks of, "Hey mom, this is alright." "But Brandi, it's not prom material."

Finally, we found a dress that fit and was in our price range. It was strapless. It was beaded and embroidered and everything else I had said I didn't want. Dejected, I rolled my eyes. "Sure. This will work." If my mom had paid attention, she would have realized that what I was really saying was, "I don't care anymore; I just want to quit shopping!" I wore it to junior prom but was so happy to store it in my closet at the end of the night and never get it out again.

This experience came to mind when I went shoe shopping a couple of weeks ago. I have a nice event coming up and wanted some shoes. Sadly, I wear an 11 and a half. Wide width. Walmart carries up to a size 9. Target doesn't carry wide width at all. So, I on a student budget had to desperately try various stores looking for something in my budget in my size.

Once again, I had many moments where I felt utterly defeated.

Until a couple of nights ago. I discovered eBay shoes.

If you enter the search criteria of 11 and a half or 12, wide width and extra wide width, over 2,00 results appear. 2,000 results that a girl can sort by price. Consider it my own personal sense of heaven. I can spend eight bucks, including shipping, on a pair of stylish black ankle boots if I so desire. I never imagined being able to afford such stylish shoes on the off chance I ever found them in my size. And, if I'm unhappy, I ship them back. Or repost and resell on eBay.

And my senior prom? I decided I refused to wear a dress I didn't love again. So that satin prom dress stayed in its closet and I ended up wearing a $12 white Marilyn Monroe costume I found at a thrift store to my senior prom.

At the end of the girl, a girl's gotta feel good with the choices she makes. Especially with her own money. And thanks to eBay shoes, I may begin to feel less self conscience about my feet for the first time in a very long time.

Drive Me Crazy

Not so long ago, I found myself amongst a group of friends, two of whom had recently received speeding tickets. As they bemoaned the upcoming court dates, I asked a few questions.

"Oh," I concluded to one girl. "You've got no problem. Davidson County main courts are pretty damn easy. Everyone walks in. The judge tells you to rise if you plead guilty, and if you do, you get to walk out within twenty minutes instead of listening to everyone whine about how they 'really did stop at that stop sign, they promise!, your honor'."

"Now, you... well, it's gonna be hell, to be honest," I said, focusing on another friend. "Plan at least two and a half hours. Small town courts are the worst. The Cheatham County Court Judge was really tough, and we all had to stand up before court was in session so that anyone in inappropriate attire could be promptly escorted out. That process took twenty minutes alone. Though to be fair to the smaller courts, the Belle Meade Court System was surprisingly lax. The judge there let all students go first."

All side conversations had stopped. "Wow, Brandi," said another friend, obviously trying to hide a huge smile and laugh. "You sure seem to know your courts in middle Tennessee."

Oops.

Sometimes I don't know when to shut my big mouth.

I had to blush.

Okay, in the five years I've had a drivers license, I've had way more speeding tickets than I should have. And then, my license was suspended for six months and I got a ticket for driving with a suspended license. That combined with innocent ignorance of tail lights being out and a forgotten seat belt... let's just say it adds up.

Not only that, my grandfather has had more than his share of DUIs. I've been in a couple of different courtrooms, defending my honor to His Honor, remembering watching my grandfather in the same courtroom 15 years prior defending his honor. It helps stick out in my mind. Imagine my surprise when a particular surrounding county judge was the exact same who threw my grandfather in jail for ten days all those years ago. I remembered this judge as soon as I saw his bald head.

Interesting side note: one night, I was pulled over by a police officer for not having a seat belt on. My best friend was in the passenger side beside me. The police officer was not kind. He blurted out how many past offenses were on my record and asked how in the world I could "forget" my seat belt with my record. He kept using that phrase too. "With your record..." he would think I was more cautious. Let's just say after he finally let me go (without a ticket, thankyouverymuch, I am nothing if not charming), my best friend stared at me incredulously and repeated my number of offenses several times over.

Today, I found myself in the Court House of the City of Belle Meade for a second time in my life. I was so close to a year without a ticket, I thought to myself. Damn those expired tags! I know, I know. Totally my fault. I messed up.

Quite frankly, I'm surprised the State of Tennessee hasn't permanently revoked my license. And if they did, somehow, do so, I wouldn't blame them. I probably shouldn't be allowed on the road, I guess. It's not that I'm a crazy negligent driver. I just sometimes let the other stresses of my life cloud my ability to keep minor details in check.

I can only hope that should the State of Tennessee decide to permanently revoke my license, they provide a court ordered personal chauffeur.

'Tis the Season

"I can't believe you did this," I deadpanned.

"Brandi, don't you think you're being unreasonable?"

"No. Frankly, I can't believe you've ruined my childhood Christmas memories."

My mother stared at me incredulously. "Brandi!"

"Grinch!"

Let me tell you the story. When I was a young 'un, we couldn't afford to buy many movies. So many times, my parents would buy blank VHS tapes and record movies from TV. Unfortunately, this came with commercials and scenes would be cut out. By my teens, our "store-bought" movies had began to outnumber our "home made" movies, so mom began to replace the home made with their store bought counterparts and throw away the old ones.

Now, that being said. There was a tape. The tape was simply labled in mom's handwriting in 20 year old Sharpie "CHRISTMAS". This tape had Rudolph The Red Nose Reindeer, followed by A Charlie Brown Christmas, followed by A Garfield Christmas, followed by Twas The Night Before Christmas (the cutest Christmas show about mice you'll ever see). I watched this tape every year for 19 years. I had it memorized. I would sing along with the "If I Could Be Like Mike" Gatorade commercials, smile at Shaquille O'Neil as he suffered from Taco Neck Syndrome, and chuckle at the Coca Cola polar bears. I knew that after Rudolph ended I had ten minutes to run and grab eggnogg from the fridge because the first ten minutes of A Charlie Brown Christmas were static thanks to Mom's flimsy VCR.

Last year, I was at my friend Corey's house and he suggested watching Rudolph. I was all for it until halfway through his DVD, I realized there were two scenes I had never seen before. And I missed my commercials. But I sat politely. I planned to grab my mom's tape later, but forgot about it. This year, November 1st, I decided it was time to revive my tape.

But as I searched through the five cases of DVDs and VHSs, I couldn't find it. I finally asked Mom if she knew where it was. She rummaged for a minute and produced DVDs for Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, Garfield Holiday Celebrations, and Charlie Brown Holiday Celebrations. "Twas the Night Before Christmas hasn't been released on DVD yet," she shrugged.

"That's not my tape," I said, flatly.

"I know; I threw it out. This is better," she said, confused.

I still can not believe she said those words to me.

Sometimes, adults and kids don't necessarily agree with what is important about the holidays. Regarding cheesy holiday specials, it was simply important to mom that I had seen them. But it was the imperfections and the memorization of that particular tape that was special to me.

I am 21. I can't expect my mom to keep everything the same just to conform to what I want to revisit from my childhood. It would be nice if my mom's house looked and smelled the same 20 years from now as it did 20 years ago and I always had the same home base. It would be nice if the tape still existed and the same false tree was still being put up with the same ornaments as from when I was a kid. But that's unrealistic.

I suppose I can't expect all of her decisions to revolve around me.

I suppose I have to decide to be an adult about this.

Even if I still want my tape.

Witchy Woman

Growing up, my mother taught me that certain things were not appropriate that others find odd. For example, I was taught never to eat in front of someone who isn't eating, because for all you know they are hungry and don't have the money to eat and are too polite to say so. I was taught that when you spend the night at a friend's house, it looks bad if you are still asleep when everyone else in the house has woken up. I was taught to never, ever take second helpings even if there is plenty of food and seconds have been offered to you, lest someone think you are selfish or a pig. I was taught that since Thanksgiving is a holiday reserved for turkey, Christmas should be celebrated with a large ham.

Now, most of these things I agree with and still adhere to unless around very, very close friends. But there is one thing my mother tried to instill in my head that I still can't wrap around. "Halloween is about horror," Mom would say. "Costumes should be scary."

I tried in vein to be a princess, a ballerina, an Indian, a cheerleader. Halloween, I argued, was about fantasy and being anything you want. But no.

"What about a wearwolf?" I would try.

Mom would scrunch up her nose before saying tentatively, "That's more of a boy's costume. You're a girl."

And how many macabre costumes are there for little girls? Well, little girls whose parents live on fixed incomes in the 1990s? Or even better, how about little girls whose parents had very little imagination and were on fixed incomes in the 1990s? I will sum it up for you very simply.

When I was five, I was a witch. When I was six, seven, and eight, I was a witch. When I was nine, I used the same black costume and bought plastic fangs and was a vampiress. When I was ten, I was a witch. When I was eleven, I was a vampiress again. When I was twelve, I refused to go trick-or-treating, insisting I was too old.

This year, I decided to buy a costume. I found a Little Red Riding Hood costume I adore (especially since it's a pun on my name). There's a miniskirt and a corset involved. I showed the picture to my mom.

"It's awfully... slutty," Mom said.

I patiently explained to her that I was comfortable in my body enough to really wear something a little revealing, and as I was 21, I felt it was fine. She paused, taking that in. Then she looked at me, and in her classic whine stated, "But it's not scary."

No, Mom, it's not.

Maybe its the actor that's deep down inside me, but I still feel Halloween is about fantasy. And this year, I'm living out the fantasy for the little girl inside me who wanted to be Cinderella so bad she couldn't stand it.

The Holy Trinity of Coco, Louis, and Tiffany

"Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination." -Oscar Wilde

_______________________________


"Oh, my Lord, isn't that beautiful!" I cooed to Corey as we peered into the glass case at Tiffany & Co.

Corey looked at me and murmered a guessed price. Having looked at the same ring weeks prior, I murmered back. "You're close. Give or take a grand." We shared knowing smiles and walked on.

When my Corey come to town, we occasionally trip to Green Hills Mall, which in a town of malls (seriously, Nashville has like twenty malls) is the elite of the elite. Green Hills boasts a Tiffany's, a Louis Vuitton, and a Burberry, just to name a few. In a mall where money and status symbols reign, Corey and I love to just soak it in and pretend we belong there. (Ignoring the fact that two liberal wannabe hipsters probably will never belong in the Blue Blood Society, of course.)

"It's really not bad, considering that's like, what, a 2 carat diamond?" Corey asked. I nodded, Starbucks straw still in my mouth.

"You know, I pointed that ring out to John last time I was here," I commented. "Do you know what he said?"

Corey looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

"He said," I paused for emphasis, "that there was no way a ring should cost the same amount of money as the down payment on a home."

Corey gave me a look. Not meant for me, but for my poor boyfriend. The Look was the same Look the prom queen gives the valet. The Look said it simply: How could he possibly be so simple?

"Wow," Corey said. "He didn't Get It. It's Tiffany's."

"Exactly," I said, glad someone shared my shock, and personal sense of offense that someone could possibly accuse Tiffany's of being over priced. It was simply worth it, wasn't it?

"Well, when you and John are married, and I have a fabulous boyfriend, we will have to go shopping together and leave those nagging wives at home," Corey declared. With a rich Southern drawl, he added, "And when we are rich, we shall buy you two of those rings, dahling; one shall be in platinum and one in yellow gold so that you can tickle your fancy however the day carries you."

I grinned, happily. We walked around further, commenting on this or that, including the $895 pea coat and Burberry that Corey tried on and had to be persuaded to take off, commenting, "That price is very doable." We argued over what was made for a more prestigious and impressive pair of sunglasses, the Burberry or Louis Vuitton logo, who made a better men's wallet: Coach or Chanel, and bemoaned the lack of a Dolce and Gabbanna in town.

Later that night, I came home to my beat up car that I can't drive over 30 miles an hour, the empty refrigerator, and my too-small bed.

Yes, John is the dreamer in our relationship. Yes, most of the time he has to tell me to quit being so practical, when he talks about things to do and see and experience in our lives together and I ask how to arrange it around our jobs and responsibilities. But that day, I realized I'm more of a dreamer than I knew. It's just a different type of dream.

A Crashed Spirit

So, I feel the need to tell the virtual world about my day yesterday. It was, without a doubt, one of the worst days of my life.

I was housesitting for a friend, and I decided to leave and get myself some cold medicine. Driving down Granny White, the car in front of me slammed on its breaks. I slammed on my breaks, but didn't make it on time.

Everybody's okay, and the woman in the other car was really nice about it. At least I think she was. I couldn't stop crying, my nerves were shot so bad.

However. The hood of my car looks like an accordian.

I recogne that the car is running, the lights are working, and generally nothing seems to be wrong or smashed or leaking. I do a very quick glance over for cracks but it seems to be fine. So I start driving home, because at this point, my cell phone dies.

I forget about the hood of the car. Driving at 40 miles an hour on Charlotte, the hood of my car slams up and hits my windshield.

I was stuck halfway between where I was going and where I was coming from. I had no way to get ahold of anyone to help me. So, a woman has to do what she has to do. I dried my tears and tried to keep my hands from shaking. I slammed the hood down to the best of my ability, put my hazard lights on and drove the rest of the way at a steady speed of 15 miles an hour.

Long story short, when I finally got home I poured a hot bath and cried in the water for an hour.

And the moral of the story?

Always make sure your cell phone is charged before you leave the house.

Salmonella and Other Diseases

Yesterday, my mother walked into the living room, where I sat.

"If you're afraid to eat the eggs, that's ok," she announced. "But I just cracked two into the brownie batter and I'm eating brownies."

As she walked out, I thought very briefly about my options.

This doesn't surprise me at all. A few months ago, Tennessee was warned against eating Romaine lettuce due to E Coli. When I was 8, the news was lit up with the outbreak of Hepatitis A found in strawberries. And let's not forget Mad Cow disease. Not one of these things actually changed my mother's diet whatsoever. Be it ignorance or a joie de vivre I do not know.

In the end, true as my mother's child, I ate the brownies.

This morning I woke up early, having promised my loving boyfriend french toast. It wasn't until midway through that I remembered the salmonella outbreak. Fuck, I thought. I reasoned with myself. If I threw away the french toast, I would talk Boy into going to fast food breakfast. And since I'm never awake early anough for fast food breakfast, I can never resist one of my favorite fast food specialties, the Burger King Ham Egg and Cheese Crosson'wich. And if I'm going to get salmonella from eggs, I might as well eat 'em at home instead of hauling my lazy ass to Burger King to pay for them.

And maybe one day, I will be one of those women who throws out the three dollars of eggs at first notice.

But the fact of the matter is, 30 people die of salmonella every year in the United States. And this outbreak simply means that the number has doubled.

60 out of the 390 million people. I have a better odd of winning the lottery!

And who knows? I'm not invincible. Maybe one day I will contract some food outbroken disease. But I'll deal with it til it comes.

But until then, the odds of me enjoying my french toast are 100%.

And I like those odds.

One Man's Trash

One man's trash is my boyfriend's treasure.

Seriously. No matter where we are, he picks up random stuff of the side of the road, in the parking lot, from the top of someone's trash. A long rod, some electronic device, a shoe...

"What are you going to do with that?" I demand.

He always shrugs. He'll fix it, he'll use it for something, he always insists. Especially if it's electronic. It baffles me that he honestly thinks he can fix anything. And maybe he can. But really, is it worth buying the wires and reconnecting and conjoining a personal CD player and spending weeks tinkering with it when one can just go to Target and spend the 20 bucks on it?

As I watch the walls of his room get cluttered with stuff, I am reminded of my friend's referral of the basement as her husband's "man cave". I think to myself, horrified, that maybe if my boy and I get married, we'll have to set up a basement, attic, and spare bedroom for him to tinker in.

Now, I'm not 100% immune. I had a phase, when I was 10 or 12 years old, where I kind of did the same. But I wanted to cut up everything, glue it to a posterboard, and call it "abstract art". It only took me a year to realize it was just crap.

Also, since I began designing jewelry, I keep coming up with outlandish ideas. My best friend has Bonnaroo bracelets from the last five years and I keep taking about cutting them up, and sewing them together with beads and hemp to make a kickass neckace. I want my nephew to write his name on a scrap of paper, so that I can roll the paper up and glue it to an acryic charm for a pendant. But the problem is, none of these ideas actually come to fruition. Either I get lazy or my visual images get fuzzy and it actually never really works out or I just don't get to it.

So maybe, just maybe, when my beloved starts enthusiastically rambling about how easy it is to refurbish that old electronic I would rather just throw away, maybe I should just smile instead of staring at him as if he's just grown another head. We have different ways of seeing things, and maybe if I encourage him, he'll encourage me to actually work with my hands a little more too.

The Frog Prince and Other Fairy Tales

For the upteenth time, my three year old nephew brought me the book The Cat in the Hat and began to crawl in my lap.

"Really?" I asked. "This again?"

"Read," he commanded.

I sighed, and as I turned the pages, I told my own story. "So, these little white kids basically ostracize the black cat because of his unwillingness to participate in their prim and proper society. But you know what? It's the creative juices that the cat demonstrated that sparked many literary and creative movements, so in the end the little kids suck."

"BRANDI!" shrieked my mother, who had just walked in the room. "Read it right!"

"Fight the oppression, gramma," chimed in my nephew (except in his cute little voice, it sounded like "Ight the Pression").

My mother rolled her eyes and let out a heavy angry sigh.

Who knows? One day, if I have children of my own, I may stick to my guns and fill my child's bookshelves with Heather Has Two Mommies, Why Mommy Votes Democrat, and The Different Dragon (if you haven't heard of that last one, it's about a dragon who isn't mean, scary, and manly enough, and wants to play with princesses instead). Maybe I will throw all out books that I feel carry a racist, sexist, or oppressive undertone.

Or, maybe, instead, I'll say forget it. And I'll want my child to be innocent and free and grow up with the stuff I grew up with.

I shut the book, and the child scampered off with it. He came back with another. Cinderella.

"Really? Really?" I said exasperated. "Because a woman's only goal in life is to wait for a man to rescue her."

He looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

"Read it, Brandi."

I opened the book. Before I opened my mouth, he interrupted.

"Read it right!"

Sometimes you can't win for nothing.

True Love Waits

Once upon a time, a girl and a boy went ring shopping in the bridal department of WalMart.

Now, this story doesn't go the way some may think. The girl was in a commited relationship with another boy, and although no one fully knew it yet, the boy was ogling boys himself.

And although this ring was not a sign of commitment in the martimonial fashion, it was a sign of commitment, love, and truth.

The girl placed her plastic card on the glass counter and slipped the titanium wedding band on the boy's thumb ring, and they commited themselves as non-sexual life partners.

It has been a while since that boy and girl traveled to WalMart. And they did stick together through thick and thin, including (the total hypothetical situations of) raod trips, mental breakdowns, many many car problems, and dramatic fights and arguments.

Through the last six months, however, things have changed. The once a day hangouts became once a month hangouts. The girl got into a very serious relationship. The boy became more comfortable with himself and others and blossomed into a social butterfly. Both of their priorities changed, despite the fact that they still cared about each other very much.

And now, I realize that my Corey is going to University of Tennessee in Chattanooga in a few weeks. I regret our drifting apart more than ever as I realize we won't be as readily available to each other as we are used to. I have ignored it for most of the summer. However, the last week has been what we consider our last hurrah and it makes me more and more sad.

That being said, this girl is going to miss that boy. She realizes they are going to only grow more and more apart as they grow up without each other. And yet, she knows that they will remain best friends despite what the future brings. Because, like what that ring meant years ago, she still puts her faith in the love and friendship they have always had for each other, and the fact that it will always prevail.

Plastic Surgery: Before and After

I turned 13 in 2002. Where teenagers in the past could ignore their imperfections or develop an eating disorder, my generation came to age in an era where plastic surgery was a very real, obtainable possibility. A friend of mine's mother, who would never admit it, has a nose significantly smaller than in her wedding pictures. Our favorite starlets were getting breat augmentations constantly. And the internet filled in any gaps we wanted to know about.

"You know, I read on the internet that liposuction is 7000 bucks," one chubby little girl would tell another behind the gym bleachers skipping gym (in no way are these two chubby little girls supposed to represent me and Cherish).

"You know, I read on the internet a nose job usually averages about 5000 bucks," I said to my boyfriend, the other night in his car, as I examined my nose in his rearview mirror. "I just want it thinned out a little bit; it's so big. It's huge. And fat and squishy. I want a pointy thin ski jump nose. And I can come up with that in about a year. Which means I can get it done by the time I'm 23 if I really try to save."

My boyfriend rolled his eyes.

"And my lips are so ficken thin!" I complained. "Lip injections are around 500 dollars, which would be one pay check. But I don't know if I want collagen or restylane. Just to make them fuller and more attractive."

"Shouldn't you be happy with your body?" he asked wryly.

"Exactly," I said, confused. "People should be free to do whatever they have to in order to be happy with their bodies."

"No," he said. "You don't get it. I love your body."

"So? I'm not doing this for you. I want to do this for me!"

After a look of frustration and disgust, he finally looked at me and deadpanned, "Do you know what we could spend 5500 dollars on instead? That could be a deposit on a brand new car, or that condo you want for us so bad."

I must admit, he has a damn good point.

Unfortunately, my nose may not.

You, Tarzan. Me, Brandi

"What do men have in common with mascara?" a friend asked over a margarita the other day, letting out a few preemptive giggles before the punchline. I raised an eyebrow for the answer. She smiled and triumphantly announced, "They both run at the first sign of emotion!" When I nodded, unimpressed, she tried again. "Why did God create man before woman? You need a rough draft before the final copy."

I've decided I'm over the difference between men and women. Really. And it may be because all of my friends are sexually ambiguous. But you can't tell me men and women are so different.

We all breathe. We all put on our pants one leg at a time (except for some overachievers). We are all blessed with the ability to cry, laugh, smile, love, and feel proud or inadequate. We all are living with goals and interact with people the same way. Our bodies and thought processes are similar.

Generally, I know more women than men who are sex-obsessed. I also know more men than women who are at home in the kitchen and are excellent cooks (and many women who can burn water). I know more women than men who can change their tire. I know more men than women who know the best way to dress a pear shaped body versus an apple shaped body.

Frankly, in 11 months of dating, my boyfriend has cried just as often, if not more, than I have. So much for "running at the first sign of emotion". And I'll have it known that after the women's struggle to be equal, I find it disgusting that so many women now feel the need to make men feel inferior.

And as far as mascara goes, try L'Oreal Waterproof Voluminious Mascara. It don't run for shit, ladies (or men... because I know a few guys who wear it. yeaaaahh, I'm talkin' about you!).

Be vewy vewy quiet... I'm hunting jobs..

Yes, my friends. The job hunt it on.

I woke up this morning two and a half hours early. I put on my nicest piece of jewlery and a cute flattering skirt. I put on enough makeup to make myself look more appealing and shoes that didn't fit quite right (my feet are impossible to shop for and therefore must spread themselves out in the few dress shoes I own so that the backs don't slip off the feel). I hauled my cute butt into a car with less than a quarter of a tank of gas and an orange light alerting me of low coolant and prayed it would take me to Vanderbilt.

I even left an hour early in anticipation, which is lucky because I did cruise around Music Row until I turned around in the right direction, all while praying my car didn't run out of gas until I got home. And then I walked in to talk to a man who will inevitably call me in 3 to 5 days to tell me they "went in a different direction". In other words, I am one of thirty becuase jobs are hard to come by, friends, and every twenty something ladder climber knows it.

If this were a movie, my actor-husband would tell me not to worry and that I should take this opportunity and fufill my dreams. My actor-children would jump up and down and squeal that they are right behind me. And somehow, without a job, I would miraculously be approved for a loan to open my own restaurant or something. And the whole family would be right behind me. There'd even be a camera shot of my two year old clumsily and endearingly attempting to sweep my restaurant with an oversized broom.

But this isn't a movie. In real life, my boyfriend smiles tightly when I complain that I'm tired of date night consisting of a movie and my parents' couch. In real life, my mother's tone rings in my head from when she told me that I could live with her as long as I had a job. In real life, I am faced with the fact that this is the first time in five years I've gone more than two weeks without a job.

Although I have five years of customer service and excellent references, I am an Undesirable. At least that's what has been the result of the last seven job interiews in the last two weeks.

Boys will be boys... and girls... well, that's a different story

I just got back from Centennial Park where I watched my boyfriend and my male best friend goof around trying to climb a tree.

I saw a flower on a high branch and teased them that the first one to get it would "win my affection" and in true testosterone form, they both began to climb the tree while I sat with a snow cone on the grass to watch. It made me think.

Gender roles are placed from birth. We're all aware of this. Blue is for boys, pink is for girls. Little boys play "let's blow shit up" and little girls play "mommy for baby dolls". But. Our society is changing. Women are doctors, mathematicians, electrical engineers... Men are now fashion designers, stay at home dads, and teachers. I'd like to think our world is becoming less misogynistic. I complained when my best friend donned her baby boy in blue, telling her she's just following the mold and psychologically fucking with him.

And yet..... I found myself watching the boys climb to win me a flower.

I did not climb. I did not get rough. I just sat pretty and cheered them on.

Maybe my role as a woman is more genetically engrained than I suspect.

Or maybe I didn't want my skirt to fly up and expose my thong clad ass cheeks.

Either way, I didn't get my flower. I guess my demands were too high.

Intro

So, at the moment, I am currently jobless. So, I am not successful. I am overweight. So, I'm not thin. And because I am unsuccessful and overweight, I am not fabulous.

This blog will chronicle my efforts to conquer these three things. In the end I should have a better understanding of what truly makes a person happy. I think.

By the way, my blog title is a play on the quote from The Green Mile. I have an odd sense of humor and every time I read the title it makes me laugh. No one else will laugh. But that's the definition of marching to the beat of one's own drum, I guess.

Or. That's the definition of a crazy person.

Seriously? Someone who laughs at their own unfunny jokes? Maybe I should divulge into that issue as well while I'm self exploring.