Category Archives: Please Stop

I was going to be all censored and stuff…but then I wasn’t.

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So earlier today, Andy showed me this article about how someone or some group of people in Sweden “advertised for” Chris Brown’s upcoming tour by using pictures of Rihanna’s face. You know, the famous pictures of her, beaten by her boyfriend, to the point of being completely unrecognizable, from 2009.

While I’m not sure that was the best way to steer people clear of the tour (in favor of Rihanna’s privacy and whatnot), I feel the same way. It baffles me to no end that he still has fans, and especially female ones. I’ve been meaning to get this off my chest for some time now, and I really don’t know what I was waiting for in putting it off. So here it is. My short (sort of) and sweet (not even a little) rant on my absolute distaste for Chris Brown and everything he is and does:

I loathe Chris Brown. Not only did he beat the living hell out of a woman he claimed to “love” until she was literally unrecognizable, but when he came back into the public eye, a mere two years later, instead of having an attitude of humility and thankfulness that ANYONE was willing to listen to his music anymore, he had the disgusting attitude of, more or less, “EAT MY ASS, EVERYONE, cuz I can beat up a woman and she comes right back to me, and millions of women still love me!”

It disgusts me, as a survivor of abuse in two different relationships, and of sexual abuse in one of them, that the public has generally welcomed him back onto the A-list so warmly, and with arms wide open. I am appalled by the lack of self-worth that oozed from every tweet while he performed at the Grammys last year, things like, “I would let Chris Brown beat me all night long!”

As I watched the award show that night, I sat on the couch and chewed my cheeks until they bled, in utter rage, and I just wept that someone who could do that could be so warmly welcomed back to a show like that so quickly…or at all. The only way I could describe it to my husband, when he asked why it upset me SO BADLY, was that it was like seeing the “man” who used to hit ME, performing up on that stage, to the adoration of millions of girls who were…willing to let him beat them until they needed to be hospitalized?! WHERE IS THEIR SELF WORTH?!

And to anyone who argues, “Well, Rihanna found a way to forgive him…” um, yeah, that’s how the cycle of abuse works. I went crawling back to BOTH of the “men” who physically assaulted me. Multiple times. For years, my mother was a case worker for a domestic abuse prevention agency/safe house. Do you know what the recidivism rate if for abusers who seek treatment? Ninety-seven percent. That means that out of one hundred men who abuse their partners, and are then TREATED BY A PROFESSIONAL to stop the pattern, NINETY-SEVEN OF THAT ONE HUNDRED will go back to beating their significant others in future relationships.

I thought about censoring this, or trying to write it in a way that was a little more politically correct, but there is NOTHING about Chris Brown or his behavior that deserves any kind of justification or defense. Beating your significant other, whether you’re male or female, is not a DEFENDABLE ACT, and you CERTAINLY shouldn’t be lauded and drooled over and even WELCOMED to beat more women just because you can sing and dance.

And I am far from the only person who feels this way.

Miranda Lambert, for example, has my back, and once again, in their feud, Chris Brown shows how absolutely revolting he is, calling anyone who brings attention to the fact that he put a woman in the hospital “stuck in the past,” and implying he can do whatever he wants because he got a couple little golden statues.

Seth Rogen calls attention to the back-ass-ward-ness of it all when he hosts the Spirit Awards (starts at 5:30).

Robin Roberts addressed his past in a Good Morning America interview, and got this reaction:

You’d think he would learn that you don’t just beat the shit out of someone you’re dating and expect everyone to just forget it, but apparently, he’s too stupid for that, or something.

And this one is my absolute favorite. I can’t even add anything to what Andy Levy says about the atrocity that is Chris Brown’s acceptance back into the limelight, because it’s so perfect, and if I had the writing/delivery chops this guy does, I would have LOVED to be the one to give this apology to Chris Brown.

I’ve debated for a long time writing this post at all, because usually, I’m the one saying that to truly take away the power that people who annoy me (or anyone else) have, you should just ignore them. For instance, I despise the entire Kardashian clan with a passion, but you won’t hear me ranting about them, because that’s just giving them more of what they want – free, word-of-mouth publicity. Same with Charlie Sheen (for similar reasons to Chris Brown) and LeAnn Rimes (because she and her new husband cheated on their now-ex spouses to be together, and they want the world to adore them as a couple? Not going to happen). I wouldn’t rant about and protest these people because they just want the attention. Simply take away the attention, ignore them, and they lose their power.

Chris Brown, though…I’m sorry (no I’m not), but beating the person you’re dating is a whole other level of despicable.

There’s my soapbox.

Personal Space

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I’m about to share with you more about myself than you probably want to know. But seriously, if you’re not used to that by now, I don’t even know what to tell you.

When I started dancing competitively, around the age of seven, I found out the experience was actually more addicting than crack or meth or Cheetos Puffs. I didn’t care about the medals, the ribbons, or the statues; getting up on that stage, doing what I loved to do more than anything in the world, was reward enough for me (cheesy as that sounds). The behind-the-scenes part was just as good. The nervous, excited tension, the lipstick, hairspray, walking around decked out proudly in our studio’s windbreaker and tear-away pants…it was a drug. Our performing ensemble was energetic, close-knit, fun, and OMG were we so talented.

One staple of the competitive dance world is the art of the “quick-change.” The quick-change is when a dancer has an extremely limited amount of time to change costume/makeup/hair from one dance to her next dance.

When you begin competing, four numbers in between two of your pieces is a quick-change.

When you get to the point of competing and performing so much, you and your group get invited to a dance showcase in Germany (the point my ensemble was at by the time I was 14, and something I will never, ever stop bragging about), four dances is leisurely. You can eat, you can talk, you can almost relax between your dances. A quick-change at that point is one number in between. Two if you’re lucky.

Alright, picture it:

You run off stage from your first number. You have to get back to your dressing room, change your hair from a right-parted low ponytail to a left-parted, ballerina-perfect bun. Your tights have to change from pink to black. You need to change from red lipstick to burgundy. Your costume, of course, will be different, and there’s no telling how complicated it will be to get on. You also need different shoes.

You have to do all this and run backstage to your group and be ready to step on stage in roughly three minutes.

I thrived on quick-changes, both during recitals and at competitions, for YEARS. It was part of the drug that was the entire dance performance experience.

As a result of quick-changes, though, a lot of people saw me and my ensemble sisters naked. I mean, like, A WHOLE LOT. Because, you see, when I say “dressing room,” what I mean is, a banquet room at the Sheraton, where the doors open wide, exposing all within to the outside hallway, every thirty seconds or so, all day long. Those you are forced to share the space with are, thankfully, all female, but chances are, you only know a few of them, as all the other occupants are from different studios, and are, for the day, your enemies.

I’ve had my own mother strip tights off of me while I change my hair and makeup for my next performance. I’ve had friends, mothers of friends, and dance teachers do the same.

Ask any competitive dancer, and she’ll tell you, this is the norm. You know how it’s sort of expected that you’ll lose all sense of modesty when you’re in labor, and about to squeeze a living human out of your loins, and your sister-in-law-to-be gets up in your hoo-ha with a video camera while you’re pushing, but you don’t notice because you’re in too much pain and too emotional to deal with that kind of crap? Same with competitive dancers, minus the video camera in our vaginas, and the live births. We have absolutely zero modesty.

We’ve all seen each other change a thousand times to get our butts back on that stage in less than five minutes, and not a single one of us gives a crap.

And as a result of THAT, we basically had zero personal boundaries. We held hands backstage, waiting to go on, we stood extremely close when we talked to each other, we slapped each other’s hind ends in the hallways, we’d kiss each other’s cheeks to leave big, red lipstick prints we could wear onstage for awards ceremonies, we gave longer-than-normal hugs, we wiped lipstick off each other’s teeth, we fixed each other’s hair and makeup, and, on more occasions than I can remember, we’ve been known to adjust each others’…assets…once in costume. All of this just came with the territory.

For years, I thought I was just totally cool with human contact in general, even outside of dance. Hold my hand for no reason? Why not. Stand next to me with your arm draped over my shoulders for five minutes straight? Sure! Hug every time we see each other? But of course! Slap my butt when you pass me in the hallway (this only applied to girlfriends)? Oh, you’re so silly, I’ll get you next time!

But I’ve been out of the competitive dance game for a few years now, and I’m starting to realize something…

I don’t like being touched anymore. Pretty much ever. At all. I don’t even like sitting or standing very close to people when they talk to me. Sometimes I can’t even make eye contact.

If you want to hold my hand, we’d better be married or about to face our deaths together.

If you want to put your arm around my shoulders, I better have known you for at least a decade, and you better not keep it there for more than fifteen seconds.

If you want a hug every time you see me, it better be because we only see each other once a year or less often. [Note: this, strangely, does not carry over to my dance sisters; I expect a hug every time I see them, and every time I leave their presence.]

If you want to kiss my cheek, you had better be related to me by birth, blood, or marriage. I will likely not kiss you back.

If you want to slap my butt when I walk by, you better be insanely drunk and not know better or married to me. And even the married thing is sometimes pushing it.

I have friends who want to stand close to me, or hold my arm during scary movies, or play with my hair, or just rub my shoulders while they talk to me, and I don’t think I’ve ever said anything before, because I’m a wiener like that and I feel like if I say something about not wanting anyone else’s hands on me, I’ll hurt their feelings.

I tell my own son not to touch my face or my hair. I can’t walk for more than a block or two holding Andy’s hand, and if he starts messing with my hair or touching my neck in public, I dodge him like cracked out cat.

Seriously, am I the only person who just doesn’t like being touched? Am I missing some basic, essential human sensitivity gene that allows me to enjoy contact with other people?

What do you think, guys? Is there something wrong with me? Is there anyone out there who doesn’t like being touched as much as I don’t like it?

And now, my official anthem.

Kristen Interprets Lyrics: I’m probably the only one who cares about this one

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Now that I’m finally back to writing about something other than my bottomless depression and crushing anxiety, I’ve got a real treat planned for you guys: something I’m not sure a single one of you will even care about. But I do care about it. So I’m writing about it.

For the record, I’m not usually one to make a HUGE stink about a single little picture that’s just meant to be funny, or a satirical political commentary thing (okay, maybe I kind of am that person), but this one irritated me JUST enough so that I had something to say about it, and also, it totally goes with my totally useless talent, and it all just came to me at once, and in the end, the decision was made that I had to share it with you guys.

Let’s get to it: about a week ago, I saw a picture meme thing on one of those websites where I get my funny pictures for Pinterest (and I forgot to save it, and I’ve since gone back and scoured Google for it, kind of, but then I got bored, or hungry, or Logan got scratched by the cat again, or something took my attention away from my search…anyway, bottom line, I can’t find the original picture thing). It was one of those split-screen deals, and on one site there was a picture of John Lennon, sort of like this:

All zenned out, and basically looking like a peaceful stoner, right? Classic Lennon. Imposed over the picture, in bold block letters, was the infamous quote, from “Imagine”:

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world…

On the opposite side of the meme thing, there was a picture of Travie McCoy, about like this:

Looking like a punk, maybe kind of high, but not like Lennon, because Lennon was a Beatle, and Beatles are supposed to get high, because then they write amazing stuff, and people think it’s cute and legendary and metaphorical or something when Beatles get high. But a twenty-something in the present day and age, getting stoned? DELINQUENT! And with those tattoos? Self-absorbed drug addict!

Under his picture was this quote:

I wanna be a billionaire so f***ing bad
Buy all of the things I never had…

Which is super dumb, because it’s not even Travie McCoy who sings that part; it’s Bruno Mars, but this was before everybody (and by everybody, I mean I) knew who he was, and they (and by they, I mean I) just assumed Travie McCoy did the both the singing and the rapping.

Stop judging me.

The caption was something like “Music Then vs. Now” or whatever, making it seem like everyone (or at least John Lennon) back in the 1970s was super nice, and selfless, and shared everything, and they were all philosophical, and had the perfect ideals or something.

I may be over-stating that.

Anyway, so obviously, 70′s people were totally selfless and saintly, while today, all us young people care about is making more money than pretty much everyone else on the planet, and acquiring material items that we think will make us feel better or look cooler or whatever, and we’re super self-absorbed, and we are absolutely egocentric and don’t care about the anyone’s lives but our own.

Enraging, right? I mean, the Beatles…they knew what was up. They knew how to live, and how to share, and how to be humble. They were TOTALLY better people than any pop or rock stars nowadays, obviously.

Come along, shall we, and take a look at those lyrics, and you’ll see what I mean…

I wanna be a billionaire so f***ing bad
Buy all of the things I never had
I wanna be on the cover of Forbes Magazine
Smiling next to Oprah and the Queen
Every time I close my eyes
I see my name in shining lights
A different city every night
Oh, I swear, the world better prepare
For when I’m a billionaire!

How self-glorifying can you even GET? I mean, clearly, Travie McCoy…eherm…I mean, Bruno Mars…? cares about nothing at all but himself and his fame and fortune. This is really making me upset now; I don’t respect people who are completely stuck on themselves (said the girl who has an entire website dedicated to talking about herself). Let’s keep going and see where he goes now…

Yeah, I would have a show like Oprah, I would be the host of
Every day Christmas, give Travie your wish list

Wait a minute…me, give my wish list to him? Like, maybe he’ll get me something?

I’d probably pull an Angelina and Brad Pitt
And adopt a bunch of babies that ain’t never had s***

Okay, well, he’s cussing and using terrible grammar while talking about adopting babies, so that one’s a wash.

Give away a few Mercedes, like, “Here, lady, have this”
And last but not least, grant somebody their last wish

Oh. Well, hurm. This is awkward. But like he said, “last but not least,” so obviously he’s going to back to totally proving my point: nobody in our generation cares about anyone but themselves.

It’s been a couple months that I been single, so
You can call me Travie Claus, minus the ho-hos
Get it?

Ugh. Yes, Travie, we get it. And obviously, we’re back to being all about you and your coolness. John Lennon was totally a way better person than you.

I’d probably visit where Katrina hit
And damn sure do a lot more than FEMA did

A crack at a government agency. What a rebellious punk-ass! The Beatles never rebelled against The Man, EVER!  They NEVER questioned authority! You may be saying you’re gonna help people, but you’re still a moral wretch compared to John Lennon.

Yeah, can’t forget about me, stupid
Everywhere I go, I’ma have my own theme music
Oh, every time I close my eyes
I see my name in shining lights
A different city every night
Oh, I swear, the world better prepare
For when I’m a billionaire!

SEE?! He just can’t get over himself! What an egotistical jerk!

I’ll be playing basketball with the President
Dunkin’ on his delegates
Then I’ll compliment him on his political etiquette

Wait…he wants to play basketball with Obama? Dude, I’m not even really a supporter of Obama, and even I think that would be cool. Also, I’m strangely impressed at hearing the words “political etiquette” in a rap. Color me intrigued, and maybe a little less offended.

Toss a milli in the air, just for the heck of it
But keep the fives, twenties, hiz and biz completely separate

…so…right. Um…I’m really not sure…uh…so hiz and biz are, uh…but he’s still talking about wasting a million dollars, so I’m back off this bandwagon.

And yeah, I’ll be in a whole new tax bracket
We in recession, but let me take a crack at it

Oh, here he goes again, just bragging about himself, using terrible grammar, and boasting that HE’S gonna fix something because he thinks he’s better than everyone else.

I’ll probably take whatever’s left and just split it up
So everybody that I love can have a couple bucks

Um…so I was just kidding about that last thing, Travie, buddy. You know that, right?

And not a single tummy around me
Would know what hungry was
Eating good, sleeping soundly

Well, great. Now I just feel like a huge butthole. He wants to end hunger and stuff, and he even used the word “tummy,” just like I do with Logan. I’m a little bit more mushy now.

I know we all have a similar dream
Go in your pocket, pull out your wallet
Put it in the air and sing,
I wanna be a billionaire so f***ing bad…

There you have it - Travie McCoy/Bruno Mars is/are totally (a) selfish dill hole(s) who do(es)n’t care about anyone but himself, and is/are probably (a) big pothead(s).

I mean, John Lennon probably kind of was, too, but like…he was a Beatle, so he was supposed to be a stoner. Because the potheads in the 60s and 70s were brilliant and forward-thinking and revolutionary, and potheads today are just lazy idiots with the munchies. Right?

If you’re still with me at this point, you get a cookie. Good for you.

Ta-da!

You can’t be in our club!

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I was an incredible dork in elementary school. If you watch Modern Family, I was like Alex.

I was a brown-noser, a district spelling bee champ, a “gifted student”…I was amazingly cool.

I had a fairly steady, small group of friends throughout elementary school. One of the things I remember most about that era is that we were always trying to start “clubs.”

Do you remember those days?

When you and your friends were so cool that you knew you deserved an exclusive meeting place, and membership cards, and t-shirts, and you should probably make up your own language because the matters you and your fellow club members would be discussing were so important, you’d be bugged or end up with a mole or something.

Don’t even lie, you remember those days.

My friends and I staked out one piece of playground equipment and claimed it for our “club.” I don’t remember what we talked about or what we did, but I remember we were all about exclusivity.

I mean, not that anyone really wanted to join. I don’t think we ever had to tell anyone to get lost or that they couldn’t be a part of our club, but if anyone had asked, we probably would have said no. Unless they asked really nicely, or were cooler than us. Which was true of just about everyone at that point in my life.

So I thought that as we grew older and learned about equality and acceptance and political correctness (okay, granted, I pretty much ignore that last one), blah, blah, blah, we left that kind of thinking behind.

About a week ago, however, I was shown there are at least half a dozen people who missed that memo.

I hate Facebook fights. They’re dumb. They’re absolutely useless. They’re usually about something ideology-related, and nobody’s belief system is going to be overhauled by an internet debate.

At least mine never will be.

So I got added to one of those “secret,” invitation-only Facebook groups. It doesn’t matter which one it was, but I will say it was a parenting group, and it was a group promoting a very specific parenting style.

I made the awful, horrible, no good, very bad decision to ask what the term that they used for their parenting style meant.

And then the internet exploded.

I was suddenly being interrogated; why was I a part of this group when I didn’t know what the term meant? Who had added me? Why did I feel I had the right to participate in their discussions?

Let me stop right here, because I had been joining in their discussions for days, and everyone seemed to enjoy what I was saying. I actually fit right in with their group.

Was I trying to infiltrate their group to take screen shots of their discussions, so that I could then paste them on my own parenting page, where everyone holds the exact opposite ideals as this page, and then everyone on my own page can just trash everyone on this page and call them names and internet-punish them?

Again, stopping, because you don’t even want to know what traumatic incident in their past they were referring to. Also, let’s PLEASE be real about this: what can someone who you have never met (and likely never will) do to punish you over the internet. Seriously.

Why was I using “such a tone”?

Stopping ONE MORE TIME, because it’s the internet, and unless you’re a wizard, you don’t know my tone of voice; you can only infer it. And FOR THE RECORD, I was being totally calm and even-tempered, even though I was being insulted by at least six of their 95 members, literally every thirty seconds or less, FOR AN HOUR AND A HALF. They also claimed, in their “About,” to be nonjudgmental, supportive, and fun-loving.

Why was I being so passive-aggressive with my smiley faces?

WITH MY SMILEY FACES, YOU GUYS.

Over and over, I heard the same things.

I told them, Hey guys, I don’t mean any harm. Seriously. Check me out with [person who added me], I’m chill. I believe the same things as you guys. Check out Silky Mamas; I’m an admin there, and our basic philosophy is very similar to yours.

And then I got yelled at for “whoring out my own page” (which I wasn’t, and it’s not even my page; I was super excited to be added as one of six administrators about ten weeks ago).

My favorite part, though, was when I was told that I should feel “incredibly honored” that I was even invited to join such a private group, full of such sensitive information and such personal stories.

And suddenly, I was eight years old again. I was never told I couldn’t be in anyone’s club (of course, I never told anyone they couldn’t be in my club, either), but I figured this was probably what it was like.

I may or may not have made a mildly rude remark about how anyone with the desire to do so could just make a page for a private group and only invite and/or add the people they chose, and that I had been added out of nowhere, asked a simple question, and then treated like garbage by women who prided themselves on being “supportive and nonjudgmental.”

I was promptly removed from the group. Ahem.

Occasionally, I find that the more I interact with the general public on social media, the less I want to interact with the general public on social media.

For the record, you’re all invited to be in my club. We’ll make t-shirts and come up with cool, slightly offensive sayings to write on them in glitter glue.