I’ll try being nicer if you try being smarter!

Archive for May, 2008

I have no excuse for this…..

It may come as a shock to all of you that I was not always the cool, calm, collected chick I am nowadays. No, there was a time when I was a total fucking loser. I refer to that time as my early teens.

Now, all teens are losers in one way or another….even the cool ones. I think the teen years are a horrible awful affliction that we must all travel through in order to appreciate the rest of life fully. The thing I am most grateful for when I look back at my teen years is that I had no idea at the time how truly horrid it all was. I knew it was lame, but I didn’t know HOW bad, cuz I didn’t know HOW GOOD it would get later on in life. I have no idea what people are talking about when they say those are the best years of your life. I can guarantee you they are most definitely not.

Teenage girls are interesting creatures indeed. Though I was one relatively recently in my life (shut up! it was recent, I’m only 25….oh GOD, when did I become 25??? Pardon me, I have to go put my head between my knees before I hyperventilate), I don’t have any explanations or insights into why they act the way that they do. Other than to say that they’re just teenage girls. Full of hormones, angst, insecurities. Being pounded by conflicting media messages on an hourly basis. Told to act like the girls they see on TV (aka, sluts), but not be sluts. Told that it’s good to be smart cuz that’ll get you into university, but nobody likes a smart girl. Worried about the dumbest shit EVER….like, if this shirt is too much like the shirt that that cool girl wore yesterday…cuz she wouldn’t want everyone to think she was trying to become cool…everyone knows you CAN’T become cool, that is decided on the first day of high school and if you fail, it’s over. Accept it and move on.


My particular embarassing and awful teenage obsession? Well. I’m about to reveal that to you.

Please, understand the strength it takes me to admit fully my utter and absolute retardedness and lameness. I am fully aware of how stupid I was, I assure you. I make no excuses. I accept that it is who I once was, and I ask you to understand that it no longer reflects in any way, shape or form who I am now. I now mock girls that are like what I used to be like. Mock and pity them. But in the midst of it all, I could not see the wrong in my ways. I was blinded by my teenaged outlook. In one way, I knew it was bad, because I kept it a secret from everyone. But I couldn’t help it. I was hopelessly addicted.


Folks…….I used to love Hanson. The band. Yes, the Mmmbop kids with the long hair.

I’ll give you a moment. I know laughing that hard can often cause dizziness and shortness of breath. Take your time.


The world ‘love’ doesn’t convey how bad it truly was. We’re talking BAD.

First, the worst thing was my age. I was in my teens. High school. Most of their fans were aged 6-11. I doubled most of them. I was 13+. This was bad. I hid this for all I was worth in high school, for if I was outed, then my social standing (as LOW as it was) would plummet even further. I wasn’t cool, but I at least flew under the radar and I did NOT need anybody suddenly noticing me. Oh no, I wanted to keep myself unknown to the cool kids.

Now, being their oldest fan on the planet, I was constantly plagued with the fear of a BIG what if…….WHAT IF Hanson came to old Saskatoon to perform? I stayed up many nights, staring at my Hanson-poster-plastered walls, wondering what I would do. Certainly, I couldn’t miss it. But I had nobody to go with. I couldn’t tell anybody I was going. Did I want to stand there in the crowd, amongst girls who had just lost their front teeth, petrified that a fellow teen had been forced to bring her little sister to the show and she’d see me and tell EVERYONE? I wasn’t sure how I’d make it through. Luckily I never had to make the choice. They never came.

My source of income at this time was babysitting. I didn’t like it. You all know I hate kids. BUT it meant money. And money meant….Tiger Beat. Tiger Beat meant posters, pictures and totally useless facts aplenty about Hanson. I would babysit, collect my money, wait until everyone was out of the house and speedwalk my ass over to Walmart. There, I would look around suspiciously and be sure nobody I knew was nearby. I’d make a beeline for the magazine aisle, grab the one with the most pics and promises of revealing information and try to hide my face from the cashier while I counted out my meager earnings. I’d race home and ogle the pictures. Then I would get to the important business of ripping them out and plastering them ALL OVER my bedroom.
No surface was uncovered, I’m not even exaggerating. This led to a particularly tricky moment that I recall from Grade 10. Two of my friends were over cuz we had to work on a project. I never had friends over…not because I had no friends, but because my mom was an unpredictable crazy person who I was not willing to expose others to. So when they came over, they wanted to see my room (since that’s a big deal to teen girls). I said no, it was messy. They insisted. I said no. They insisted. I said no. Before I knew it, one of them was up the stairs and in front of my door.
I about shit my pants. My entire social life, as fragmented and sad as it was, flashed before my eyes. If she opened that door, I was outed. I was done. I’d have to drop out and get home schooled. I had no choice. I grabbed her and ripped her the fuck away from my door. Violently. I’m pretty sure this scared them both, as they were both like, ‘Okay fine! Geez Talea!’ They left the topic of my room alone for the rest of the night.

I owned all of their CDs, and to this day I still LOVE their Christmas CD. I owned their VHS tapes that they put out (it was before DVD’s). I listened and watched religiously. I had heart attacks each time their videos were on TV. If they were mentioned in the news, the family knew to be quiet so I could hear, or else I’d drop kick their asses. I was a crazy, teenaged girl. I taped their appearances on Oprah, Letterman and Leno.

I hung out on their website all the time. This was back in the day of chat rooms, and you’re damn right if you’re thinking I must have been a well-known regular. I most certainly was, thank you very fucking much.

I was glued to the TV the night that they were up for three Grammys. They didn’t win a one. I….sobbed.

Why am I telling you all of this? Well, because I fully realize the absolute comedy and pathetic quality of it and want to share it with you all. Embrace who you are and let it all hang out folks. I think it’s important to be open about yourself and laugh at yourself.

But some things are not to be laughed at. If you would have told 13-year-old-me that Taylor Hanson DIDN’T reciprocate my love, I would beaten you to a bloody pulp and spit on your open wounds. How dare you, bitch!

Now, to even make this post FUNNIER (and further humiliate myself for no good reason, except that I really do find this past secret hilarious), I will share with you a photo put together by my BFF, Emerald. The day she found this out, she posted this on Facebook. I love it. It’s often my profile pic.


Me and my boys, yo. Yeah, I’m 23 in that pic and they’re like, 12, 14 and 17. Whatevs. Now…..you TOTALLY have to spill one awful secret of your past in the comments section.


Sweet Dreams.

I had a dream last night that has made me feel completely secure and protected and happy inside all day long.

I’ve had a few of these dreams over the years and they are always the same. I remember that it was a dream with other characters and settings, but I don’t know what these were. All I remember is about one minute of it, and it’s always the same.

It’s black, everything, everywhere is black. My grandpa is a few feet away from me, and I am absolutely astonished to see him. I always run up to hug him, fearing that when I get to him, he will disappear into thin air and I will hug nothing but his memory, yet again. But he’s always there, always solid, always willing to return the hug.

He never says anything, but I know he’s there with me, he’s present. All I ever say is ‘I love you, I love you’ over and over again. The absolute euphoria I feel is nothing that I can get when I’m actually awake. I’m so intensely overjoyed and thankful and grateful to see him, to hug him, to let him know I miss him.

It ends as sudden as it starts, and that’s all it is. Nothing fancy, nobody else, no exotic locales, no familiar settings, no inane chatter.

I lost my grandpa in 2000. I had just moved to Ontario for university and his passing was sudden and shocking. It ripped me apart.

I had flown home for Thanksgiving (which in Canada, is in October) and he had come to Saskatoon with my grandma to see me, his oldest grandchild and the first one to leave the province. He ate dinner with us, my aunt and uncle and cousin, and we went about our visits as we always did. The time came for them to leave. For some reason (as I had NEVER done this before in my life), I became insistent that I get a picture of them before they left. I’d never taken a photo of my grandpa before in my life. I snapped the pic, accepted hugs from all, and went to the computer to finish an assignment for a class.

I sat at the computer and could hear their car start on the driveway just outside. I had this INSANE URGE to get up. Everything in my body was SCREAMING at me to get up, to go and wave while they drove down the driveway. I pushed the instinct down to finish my project, after all, Christmas was only two months away and I’d see them then.

The next morning as I was out the door to the airport, we got a call. He’d had a stroke. Everyone was confident he would push it through, as my grandpa was incredibly strong and still young at 65. They insisted I go back to school.

I did.

I wish to this day I didn’t. I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye, whereas all my cousins and relatives did. To this day I still blame myself. He was unconscious for days before he let go. I blame myself for not flying back sooner, since I am convinced that if he had heard my voice, felt my hand in his, he would have woken up.

I thank whatever it was that made me take that picture every time I think of it. It meant so much to everyone to have a pic of him the day before it happened. It’s a perfect way to remember him.

These dreams that I have every so often make me realize that he doesn’t hold it against me for not making it back in time. I am of the belief that the dead can visit you in dreams. Mock me if you will, but you won’t change my mind. My grandpa pops in every so often to just let me know he’s good.

Thanks Grandpa. I’ll see you later.

You’ve loved me for a year

Folks, today is my blogoversary. One year ago, I started this blog. I started it due to boredom at work (which is SO not a problem anymore). I figured since I was spending all day reading other people’s opinions, I’d throw my hat into the ring.

I had huge dreams for my blog. Well, medium-sized dreams at least. I think in some ways, I’ve done it, but in other ways, this blog isn’t what I want it to be completely. There’s a huge part of me that I censor from this blog. The times when I disappear for a bit are the times when it’s that other part of me that’s at the forefront. I don’t let that part write on this blog. After a year, I think I just might. Who knows.

But for all of those who read this blog, a sincere thank you. I do it for many reasons at this point and I appreciate the input I get from others. Whether it’s those who support my innumerable pet peeves, or those who give me balanced and objective advice about hard decisions I’m hmmming and hawwwwing over. Thank you.

It’s been a blast and I’ve had more laughs reading all of your blogs than I would have thought. For those of you who have blogs that tend to make me think a bit more, I appreciate yours equally. I love a good think. The viewpoints and perspectives I’ve been able to look at the world through have been priceless.

I don’t know if I can keep this blog going for another year, but I’m gonna give it a shot. Sometimes I feel like all I do is write about things that piss me off, and while I am a highly irritable person, I don’t just spend my life walking around scowling and fuming. Though I LOOK like I do (again, hence the name of the blog). Though I find it odd that my complaining posts are the ones that get the biggest responses….hmmmm….maybe I should listen to what the people want.

And in honour of my one year blogoversary, I give you now more of what you want. Since you read my blog, you must love me (you certainly didn’t just stumble on this site, oh no, you must like me) and since you love me, I’m giving you a peek into the life of Talea.

Hold your cursor over each pic for an explanation. Enjoy.

Thanks guys!!!!!!

Elevator Mentality

I work on a middle floor of an office building. There’s no way for me to take the stairs up to my floor. I’m stuck with the old elevator. Several times a day, I go up and down, up and down. Elevators are a necessary evil in my life.

I spend a lot of time in the elevator, with many other people. I’ve had a lot of time to observe the human being in the elevatorial environment. It’s a strange place that seems to do strange things to people. Being in that tiny box, unaware of movement but going somewhere nonetheless brings forth odd behaviours in normal everday folk.

I have decided to document the most common and annoying elevator occurences for your reading pleasure. I will even try and give a reason for some of the behaviours, though I can’t be sure at all that they are right. They are, after all, totally made up bullshit from my cynical brain.

1) Super Nice Guy Who Winds Up Putting a Target On His Own Back. We’ll call him Frankie for short. Basically, Frankie’s a douchebag, but he really doesn’t mean to be and he really doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s the ‘hold the door for everyone’ guy. He’s the guy that stands in front of all the buttons and goes, ‘Oh!’ and slams the Door Open button every time there might be movement in the corner of his field of vision. He thinks he sees someone coming, so he holds the door open. No wait, that was just a janitor. Oh! Nope, wait, that person just walked right past the open doors. Oh! Is that the blurry figure of a human on the horizon? Better hold the door! Phew, it IS a human, with a limp and dragging a sackful of lead. Frankie’s just gonna hold the door til that guy makes it to the elevator. Meanwhile, the elevator is slowly filling up with smoke as it seeps out of everyone’s ears. Everyone hates you Frankie. People will have to catch their own elevators. We have places to go! LET GO OF THE BUTTON!!!!!

2) Classic Small Talker. Small Talker isn’t confined solely to the elevator, but the elevator is their favourite habitat. Their prey can’t run. They also can’t snap back at them. I dont know about you, but I’m not about to lose my shit in a small space on someone I don’t know. They could be batshit crazy and then I’m really in trouble. The Small Talker likes to make obvious statements, usually regarding the weather. “Hot enough for you?” “Cold enough for you?” “Man, looks like it’s going to rain/snow/be a nice one out there!” There’s nothing for you to do but give them a quarter-smile and continue staring ahead. This won’t dampen their enthusiasm. They’re then likely to comment on you. “Gee, why do you look so happy?” “Going down for a lunch break?” “Nice sweater!” Again….acknowledge, but ignore. It’s subtle. What you must remember is, the Small Talker doesn’t really care about your replies. They just want to hear their own voice. When you get off the elevator, let them leave first. See what way they go, then either go the other way or give them a few step lead. If you walk with them, they’ll assume an elevator friendship has formed and you’ll never shake them.

3) Post-Smoke Break Bitches. This is usually a group of women (3 or 4, on average) who would normally never be friends with each other. But they’ve formed a small bond over the fact that they are nicotine addicted monkeys with poorly-aged skin, yellow teeth and the inability to function for more than 2 hours without a cancer stick. They’ll meander into the elevator, talking raspily about stuff nobody cares about. Whatevs, I don’t care. But, they fucking SMELL. Bitches, you stink, get off the elevator! I’m in a confined space, with limited air flow and you don’t have the goddamned common courtesy to air yourselves out first? I propose that we have smoking areas in buildings. And at the doors to those smoking areas, we have motion triggered body spray applicators. When someone comes in from their smoke break, they are hosed down with no-name Gardenia scented perfume. It’d smell a helluva lot better than their cigarettes. Or we could have a five minute ‘air out’ tank. Kind of like a drunk tank, but for smelly smokers.
I have no advice on how to deal with the Post Smoke Break Bitches. I guess you could feign an asthma attack and shove them off before the door closes, blaming your cursed health. I wouldn’t try it, but if you’re feeling feisty, it’d probably be hilarious….

4) Guy Co-Workers Who Insist on Having Pissing Contests When In the Vicinity of Females: For short, we shall refer to them as Wanker 1, Wanker 2 and Wanker 3. These guys tend to somehow be on the elevator when you get on, you always (if you’re a chick) walk into their conversation. Silence befalls, and then suddenly, the pissing contest erupts. It will usually be between Wanker 1 and 2, while Wanker 3 stands silent and presumably embarassed by his friends actions. They’ll start talking loudly about some situation where they ‘brought the smack down’, or about some ‘hot babe’ who was totally throwing herself at them, or some recent showdown with their boss where they saved the company from sure bankruptcy. They try to one up each other and shiftily check your reaction, while they jostle about, rearranging the ‘boys’ and laughing in that retarded moron way only guys can.
Resist the urge to point and laugh while screaming, ‘You loser! Do you think this impresses me?? Ahhhhahahahaha!’ Also, try to contain the puke in your mouth. If you engage them in conversation or give them anything to comment on, they might get very excited and wet themselves. You don’t want to be a part of that.

5) Button Panel Blocker: This person pushes their way to the front of the elevator line, boards said elevator and then immediately slots themselves in front of the button panel. If you want to get where you’re going, you’ve got to push the button for the floor. This forces you to become a sexual predator. There’s no way around it, you’re going to fondle them. And it’s nasty. You could elbow them out of the way first, but then you’ll get charged with a violent act. Better to go down a lover, not a fighter.
You can always try to ask them to hit the button for you. You could also carry a button-pushing stick, that can squeeze between their boobs/flab/gut/moobs (man boobs, if it’s a guy who has them) without resulting in person to person contact, but you’d look like a total weirdo. Your call, I guess.

6) The Confused Tourist Door Blocker: This person is akin to the tourists who walk around on Queen Street West in Toronto. They exit the elevator, take a step out into the hall and come to a dead fucking stop. This means that if you too wanted to get off on that floor, you’re trapped in the elevator, while they gawk around trying to orient themselves. They have no common sense or common courtesy.
There’s only one thing to do here. Kick their ass out of the way. If you don’t, you’re going to miss your floor or have the elevator try and close, but be forced open when it hits you in the rump. Be sure to give the person a nasty glare after you’ve moved them from your path.

7) Kids: Self explanatory.

8.) Stinky McStinkerson: These people aren’t grouped into the smoker group, since their smell is entirely different. The smokers just need to be hosed down with Eau de Rose Garden, but the Stinky McStinkerson’s need some medical attention. They just SMELL. Of what? You name it.
There’s no way around this one. Everyone knows you can’t just tell someone they smell. They might rub up against you and spread the stink. Again, you don’t want to be a part of that.

There’s many more types of wonderful elevator riding folks out there that I could mock, but this post is getting long enough. Feel free to share your own elevator profiling in the comments. Cuz everybody likes to hate on everybody else. And it’s so easy to do in a small, inescapable box.

Green Thumb Talea

I love flowers. Not just love, I LURRRRVE flowers. Even just plain old vegetation. It doesn’t even have to flower. Vegetation and foliage of any sort.

When I am surrounded by plants and trees, a different part of my brain turns on. I am in my happy place. I come from a long line of gardeners, women who took their gardens seriously. My family farm is still producing blooms from flowers my great-grandma planted decades ago.

Being around greenery soothes my mind. It just puts me into a happier, quieter, simpler frame of mind. I care for nothing but the shades of green, the perfect little buds and the amazing amazing colours only nature can produce in flowers. Watching bees do their thing is fascinating. Digging in the dirt and yanking out weeds is so stress relieving to me. I cannot walk past any little shop selling cut flowers without slowing significantly and examining them all. Walking down a residential street in downtown Toronto with me requires amazing and endless patience. I have to stop and admire each and every little front yard garden. I insist on pointing out my favourites to those walking with me, and if I know the latin name, I have to show off by reciting it and ensuring they know I was speaking Latin.

Thanks to my job a few years back at a flower farm, I know a multitude of plants by their latin names. Saying these names makes me feel really smart. At the farm, I got to talk to hundreds of people about their gardens. I got to design gardens solely comprised of different ornamental grasses, I got to help people design gardens meant to attract butterflies and songbirds, I tried to help pick out flowers more deer-resistant than typical plants, I got to design woodland gardens (my favourites) and help people who had fought against their clay soils for years.

I loved this job. When I wasn’t designing gardens with other people’s money, I was maintaining gardens that I couldn’t possibly afford to create or have on my own. I was putzing around in a greenhouse, inhaling the smells of moist soil, moss and brand new greenery. I was in my heaven. I was set to be promoted the next year, and due to circumstances out of my control, I wasn’t able to take the job.

That was it for me when it came to gardening. I live in downtown Toronto and don’t have a clod of dirt to my name. I can’t grow anything on my balcony, since it’s covered and very dark. I don’t live close enough to any urban gardens, where you can rent a plot of land to grow whatever you please, and plus they all have huge long waiting lists for other land-starved urbanites such as myself. I went from acres of land with dozens of display gardens and cutting gardens to not even a potted plant in sight.

Now, it may come as a shock to you all, but sometimes I get a wee bit worked up. I know, right? So having something so effective at reducing my stress was really beneficial and always very convenient. I grew up with a huge back yard, I had a job that allowed me to garden my little heart out, and then it as all yanked out from under me. I even did my third year undergrad thesis on native plant gardening.

All I have now is a plant I stole from work. It grows quite happily on top of my wine bar, but it’s really lame and (don’t tell it I said so), I don’t love it very much at all. It doesn’t fulfill my green thumbery needs.

So imagine folks, my joy, when I was asked to help fix up a friend’s yard. Oh, I was so there. I went over (AT 10 AM ON A SUNDAY!!!!), all geared up and ready to go. Me and her 7 year old son were impatiently nagging her, asking if we could go outside yet, while she got everything ready for our super yummy lunch in a few hours. Eventually I couldn’t handle it and just ran outside into the great blue yonder. They followed me eventually.

I got to weed!! I got to dig around in the dirt! I got to play with snails and yucky insects and smell the earth!!!

After weeding and eating scrumptious broccoli soup and yummy Greek honey dessert things and two (and a half) glasses of wine, I got to drunkenly garden. Imagine my drunken glee when my friend told me, as I was asking her where she wanted her new plants arranged, that IT WAS UP TO ME!!!!! Oh happy day.

Folks, I have an adopted plot of land now. Sure, it’s far away and it involves taking the Dufferin bus (if you’re a Torontonian, you KNOW what that means), but I have been told I have free reign on it! I’m allowed to buy plants and bring them to her house and insert them into the ground there!

This is gonna be the Best. Summer. Ever. Little does she know, she’s never getting rid of me until it snows. Throughout the summer, I’ll snap some pics and share my gardening pizzazz with you all.

I’ve also heard rumours of the back yard being converted to a vegetable garden. Oh, tomatoes, potatoes, peas and beans, here I come babies!!! I may have to bully her into planting peas just so I can eat them raw when the time comes. And for some reason, my mom always planted gladiolas in our vegetable garden. I can probably convince her to do that too. Though my efforts at being sneaky won’t work, cuz I know she reads this here blog. Of course, I can’t really turn it into what I want it to be, cuz…in the end, it’s NOT my yard. But at least I can play in it. I’ve often considered playing in other people’s yards, but those fantasies usually end with me being hauled away in a cop car, screaming about how I just really love green things.

I’m SO damn excited.

Poor, poor teen pop princess. You may be rich, but at least I got to be stupid.

So there’s this girl who’s been around a lot lately. All the time, I turn around and she’s there. People are always talking about her and though I try to ignore her, it’s all in vain, as she is apparently unbeatable and ubiquitous.

Her name is Miley Cyrus. Spawn of the infamous Billy Ray Cyrus. We all remember him, don’t we? Now, I’m a girl who loves her country music, but never EVER was Achey Breaky Heart a good song. Who sings about their own heart blowing up in their tragic death??? And that dance that went along with it? I was like, less than 10 when it came out, but I still remember and shudder at it.

Well, somebody slept with Mr. Cyrus and poof, they popped out baby Cyrus. I have no idea if Miley is her real name. Her paternal unit is named Billy Ray, so I guess Miley isn’t totally out there. I find that white trash likes names that end in ‘ey’. Bethany, Destiny, Tiffany, Bailey, Britney, Candi, Bambi, you get the idea. Miley mixes right in there, all comfy-like.

Anyways, who IS this chick? I hear her name everywhere and only yesterday realized that a song on my internet radio was being sung by this girl. I listened to the words. I gasped and cringed. This BABY is a WHORE. She’s fifteen (15!) years old.

She sings like she knows shit, like she can decipher her hormone-controlled emotions and like she’s had time to reflect on things, make sense of them and grow from them already. At the ripe old age of fifteen. She sings about looking into some guys eyes, and then drops her voice into a sultry-esque tone (or rather, the computer she’s pretending to be is programmed to a lower note……there’s no way that’s an actual voice) and proclaims, “I can’t wait to see you again”

When you are fifteen, you should only be saying that with such intensity to your puppy dog. You’ll really miss your puppy when you go over to your friend’s house for a sleepover. She’s 15!!!! What was she doing that requires such a sultry voice? I find it conflicts nicely with her squeaky clean little image. Didn’t she flash her boobies recently? Well, not that she HAS boobs, but you know…..her nipples?

At 15, you should be wearing ill fitting bras, venturing to the mall with your friends and giggling as you go to buy underwear, wearing poorly coordinated makeup, changing your braces colours to match the seasons, cheering on your grade 9 teams and only just starting to venture into the middle of the gym at the school dances……a drastic change from the dances a few years earlier where the two genders ignored each other.

I feel sorry for this girl.

I feel sorry for all child singers/actors. They’re so fucking weird (Dakota Fanning anybody??) but when they talk, you can tell that they actually think they’re adults. They take themselves so seriously. I recently read Miss Cyrus saying that she’s just too darned busy for a relationship! No guy would want to put up with her fame and she doesn’t have time to drag him around with her anyways. What?! You’re not supposed to be in relationships at 15!! Why are you thinking about this? You’re supposed to have experienced spin the bottle, and a couple of awkward makeout sessions on your friends basement couch which were quickly interrupted by their suspecting parents.

Little Miley won’t ever have that. Every move she makes will be tracked. All awkward first dates will be documented. Her trip to the drugstore to buy her first confusing box of pads or tampons will be all over the papers. She’ll be over by 22. She’ll probably be pregnant by 22 too, if she follows in the footsteps of her female pop star predecessors. Her life is a game of pretend and she may not know it.

She pretends to have a female body. She pretends to have life experience. She pretends that she doesn’t have the unavoidable complexion of a 15 year old. She pretends not to be a depressed, confused, angry, up and down teenager. She pretends her life is the ideal.

Imagine what she’s doing to 8 year olds? Especially since she does have this squeaky clean image and parents probably aren’t limiting their children’s exposure to her. These girls grow up thinking zits don’t exist…Miley doesn’t have any (Miley has an army of makeup artists). They see that the only hair you should have is freakishly straight…..no famous singers or pretty girls have curly hair, that’s absurd (Miley has an army of hair stylists). They think clothes have to be perfect, expensive and figure hugging (Miley has several personal shoppers and stylists, no doubt). They should look at boys as things they are trying to impress at all times (Miley sings about how she’ll make it up to the guy for being so shy last time, you know, when she sees him again). They learn that you should always be upbeat and full of energy (ever seen a frowning Miley? ever seen a tired Miley? ever seen a Miley who didn’t see the silver lining?). These girls are being told that they should be someone that isn’t real.

I understand I”m not the first one to make this shocking observation. But for some reason, she really gets to me. It’s her age. 15. She can’t drive, she can’t drink, she can’t buy smokes, she can’t vote….she’s a minor! Why do we glorify this? Why do we sexy this up?

Why does she go along with it? Why is she allowing herself to be a brand? A commodity? A puppet? A robot with no real life save for an overbloated schedule? A marionette singing about things she couldn’t possibly know of or fully understand?

Who’s to blame here? Who’s to laugh at? Is she being used or is she using the people managing her? Who’s coming out on top here? Is she smarter than all of us or can she really not see what she looks like from outside to anybody over the age of 16? Where’s ol’ Billy Ray?

Maybe I’ve proven my own damned point. I’ve given her attention. I’ve driven her google hits. I’ve upped her stock. She’s still rich and doesn’t give a damn about me.

Maybe I’m the idiot, who knows. But at least I’m the idiot who did dumb embarassing 15 year old stuff, along with dumb embarassing 16 and 17 year old stuff. I think I’m the one with the last laugh for that. I don’t buy that whole ‘money can’t buy happiness’……..I think it could make a decent shot at it. However, all the fame and fortune in the world can’t buy you your teenage years back. Or your dignity.

Regurgitation……but it’s funny!

So I was looking at my stats this morning and saw that someone read a post that I wrote back in September titled, ‘The Art of the “You’re Invisible to Me” Act’. I had forgotten I’d even written it, but I remembered it was a favorite of mine.
Since nobody even read my blog all the way back in September, I thought I’d be super fucking lame and repost it.
Personally, I find it to be comedic gold. You may differ in your opinion, but you’d be wrong.
This isn’t something I’m going to do all the time, don’t fret, I won’t just repost old crap……..but as I read this, I realized I was seriously on my game that day and this needed to be shared, now that people actually read this thing.
I present to you…….”The Art of the ‘You’re Invisible To Me’ Act”


Yes, we’ve all done it. More than once. I did it twice in just 24 hours, prompting me to write about it. Where you see that person, but go to extreme lengths to pretend they aren’t there.

Last night at 11, and this morning around 8ish, I saw people I knew on the subway. Now, I use the term ‘knew’ quite loosely, cuz that’s pretty much as far as the relationship goes. Two of them, I probably can’t even name (maybe it has something to do with their names being 18 letters long, while only containing one vowel, but that’s beside the point), and the other I simply don’t care about either way.

Now, it seems that most people I know fall into this category. The ‘I know you, but really couldn’t care less about your existence, let alone your thoughts on the latest happenings with the local sports team, or what grade your niece/nephew is in’ category.

I have a serious contempt towards small talk. It’s actually gotten me in trouble more times than I can count. I’ve been informed that my attitude is not welcome in a certain establishment, I’ve been told I make terrible first impressions, I’ve been told I wasn’t the first choice for hiring because I come off as cold, the boyfriend’s dad actually refused to let me into his house for a short while, because I refused to play the ‘Hiiiiiiiiiii!’ game every time I saw him, no matter if this was 63 times in an hour. This would be easy enough to change all of this, no? Just say hello, Talea; comment on the weather; pretend to smile when people talk about the new kind of trail mix they found at the grocery store this weekend, how hard is that?? It’s TOO HARD. I simply CANNOT do it. It makes me want to punch people in the face, or inflict violence upon myself with rusty implements. I seem to have been overlooked when they were handing out the ‘care about others mundane lives’ gene. Ha, the irony is, I write a blog about my own mundane life and expect others to read it with religious regularity. Oh well. I’ve never claimed I wasn’t a hypocrite.

What the hell was I talking about? Sorry, it’s just that my blind hatred for small talk runs so very deep I just get worked up a bit.

So anywho…..the art of pretending to not see somebody that you know is there is actually fairly tricky. There are several things to consider when trying to make yourself appear invisible to the other person, so that they don’t come up and bore you to tears with their stupid conversations.

1) To pull off this tricky social anti-interaction, try to always leave the house with some sort of emergy diversion feature. This could be a book, your iPod, your dayplanner, a bottle of nail polish, a snack, unfinished knitting, a stack of envelopes that need to be paired up with a stack of stamps……..the possibilities are truly endless. Try to always have ‘busy work’ on your person. This will make it much easier to fool the other person into thinking that you don’t see them. Once you see them, immediately launch into full blown occupied mode. Read your book, close your eyes and sway to your iPod a la Ray Charles, throw yourself in eating, whatever. You will be so damned engrossed in whatever it is you’re doing, you’ll appear to be simply too ‘in the zone’ to notice them. You cannot be blamed for being focused. It’s a highly admirable trait.

2) Okay, so you’ve failed to follow rule number one. Here’s where it gets a little sticky. Now, presumably you’ve noticed this person out of the corner of your eye, very quickly. You probably then snapped your head back to facing forward, to avoid them seeing YOU, but by doing this, you’ve lost the chance to find out where they’ve wound up. For example, if you’re on the subway, did they go to the back of the car? Are they sitting facing you? Are they pretending to be busy also? YOU DON’T KNOW. So, your best bet is to become enamored with somebody else. There’s almost always some kind of freak nearby. Locate them and start staring.

3.) Okay, so there’s no freak. Don’t panic. For the moment, pretend that you have just discovered your fingernails for the first time. Use this temporary diversion to think things through. Note your surroundings. Are there ads that you can pretend are amazing? Can you pretend to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations? Is there a discarded newspaper nearby that you can grab? A window you can gaze out of? You must be discreet about looking for these things. It is vital. Whipping your head around will only draw attention to you. Remember, mammals are attracted to movement. Make small movements and utilize your eyeball movement range as much as you can, to remain undetected.

4.) Okay, you’re shit out of luck. There’s nothing around. Don’t worry. Launch into depression mode. Here’s how: Pick a spot on the floor just ahead of you, and slightly away from the person you’re trying to avoid. Now, stare. Get lost in your terribly dark thoughts. Be sure to display a full, but not overblown, range of sad/upset/preoccupied emotions. Furrow your brow, bite your lip, sigh, rest your head on your hand. You might be being watched. You’re not sure, and you can’t check, cuz checking might lead to eye contact, which might encourage them to come over. Reminder: This Is Bad. Don’t flip through the emotions too quickly, then you’ll blow your cover. But if you do this right, they’ll leave you be. Nobody wants to disturb a potentially suicidal person. It’s like waking up a sleepwalker. It’s a stupid bet.

5.) Above all else, do NOT turn to face them. This is the stupidest thing you can do. Breaking out into song would be wiser, as it would intimidate them. Obviously it’s unnatural to only turn your head one way, so you have to be sure to look their way at least once or twice. Only a bit though! If you’re feeling brave and in control, then you can turn your head completely…..but overshoot a bit. And look beyond them. This will give you an out if they call you on the ‘you’re not there’ act. ‘Oh! I must have looked RIGHT at you and not even SEEN you! I don’t know where my head is some days! Tsk tsk tsk!’ Laugh on the inside a bit at this point.

6.) Despite my guidance, they might be super eager and not take the hint that you are clearly trying to ignore them. They might come over to see you. If they do, don’t jump up or turn around as soon as they say the first syllable of your name. This will give you away. Wait until they say it completely, then casually turn around, give it a millisecond and put on that fake surprised humbleness!  ‘Oh, Joan! Heeeeey! How ARE you? I didn’t even see you, were you there that whole time?’

Obviously, I don’t have to follow any of these. At least, not consciously. I’m a fucking superstar at ignoring people. Plus, I look angry a lot, so they tend to not be inclined to bug me. This morning I stood right in front of two of them on the way to work and totally didn’t get roped into even a stilted hello. Don’t attempt this yet. That’s just brazen rudeness and it probably isn’t what you’re going for.

Feel free to print out the instructions. And remember, ignoring somebody isn’t rude. Not ignoring them, getting into a useless conversation and screaming at them while threatening bodily harm is rude. Really, you have the good of humankind in mind while doing it. If only they’d understand….

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