Month: January 2016

Why I Need Plastic Surgery

I have come to a grand realization today.  Apparently, my face is displeasing to some people.  Largely because, and pardon the pun, my nose is too large.

This isn’t the first time that I’ve heard this.  Once, while I was working at Starbucks, I took a man’s order and he asked “Are you Italian?”  I politely answered yes (because I was being paid to be polite, dammit) and he smugly said “I can see that.  It’s the nose.”

Why thank you, sir.  I needed you to point out one of my largest, again pardon the pun, insecurities.

Now today, I started my day with a similar message from a lovely gentleman* on my online dating app.  I use the term “gentleman” facetiously as he was rather egregiously NOT a gentleman.

::Pause for applause while I congratulate myself on those big girl words that I managed to squeeze into one sentence.  And the fact that I just rhymed the crap out of pause and applause.  I am on a roll!::

I would like to share the interaction with you.  I will be using the following abbreviations:

MF- stands for Mother-Fucker AKA the bastard who felt he had the nerve to insult me without due cause.

BB- stands for Beautiful Bitch AKA me when I’m pissed off.

Keep in mind that this is how the conversation begins.

MF- Decent bod but not feeling the nose. U got anymore pics (THIS WAS HIS OPENING LINE)

BB- Congratulations! You’re the biggest scumbag of the day!  Thanks for the degrading comments to start my morning.  Much appreciated.  Have a great day!

MF- Just being honest (WHO ASKED YOU??)

MF- I don’t like weird shaped noses ginabear (Ginabear?  Wtf?  Are we cool now?)

MF- Its too masculine for me (SO WHY DID YOU MESSAGE ME AT ALL??? Also, there should be a damn apostrophe in “it’s”- you moron.)

MF- Ya dig? (I don’t dig. I’m not a fucking miner).

BB- So here’s an idea, don’t message me.

MF- Good idea.  Because I don’t appreciate your tone/nose (I don’t appreciate you pretending that being a dick is the same thing as being “honest.”  Honest is if I had asked for your opinion of my nose and received the same response.  What you did, sir, is just plain imbecilic, demeaning and RUDE).

Well folks, I suppose that’s it.  Clearly it’s time for me to get a nose job.  I’m just offending people left and right with my hideously “masculine,” “Italian” features.  If my face isn’t making men happy, clearly I have to change it.  Right?  That’s what society tells us, no?

If you’re not pretty enough, get some work done!  Boobs too small?  We’ve got silicone for that!  Nose too big?  We’ve got a scalpel for that!  Stomach too big?  We’ve got lipo for that!

Why the hell can’t we stop putting so much pressure on ourselves to look perfect?  You’re not perfect.  I’m not perfect.  MF is not even CLOSE to being perfect.  So let’s just work on loving who we are for more than what’s on the outside.  We are all going to age- things will start to sag, skin will wrinkle, hair will fall out and plenty of other stuff that I’m not ready to think about yet- but a good person will always be a good person.

So no, while I’m sure that a nose job would make me look better than I do now- my intention is not to change my looks (especially not because of a disgusting excuse for a man), but to change my attitude.

Don’t get me wrong, I highly doubt my sass is going anywhere- but my outlook on physical perfection has got to get the boot.

I am tired of hearing men tell me that I’m not fit enough or that my nose is too big or that my boobs are too small.  It’s my body!  If I like it, that’s all that matters.  If you don’t like it, there are a million fish in the sea, sweetheart.

Go fish.

 

 

The Writer’s Curse

Maybe it’s just me (although I highly doubt it), but being a writer certainly has its downfalls.  My mind is constantly racing with outlandish scenarios, that are most definitely a cause and/or effect of my anxiety.  (Honestly, that’s like the chicken or the egg- which came first?)

Sure, this trait has always kept me fairly entertained in boring classrooms (and sometimes boardrooms) BUT it can lead to disaster upon disaster.  Allow me to set the scene:

You’re about 15.  You’re the good kid in class, super quiet, super nice, always getting good grades.  The kind of kid the teacher thinks of highly.  Unfortunately, this teacher has the public speaking ability of a broken radiator and you start to distract yourself.  You think up a brilliant story about a fallen soldier in ‘Nam and the platoon that must set out to find him- – wait, that’s “Saving Private Ryan”.  You start over… you begin outlining an epic love story in your History notebook (the NSFW kind) and then…

“Miss ____, did you hear me?  Can you please tell us the date on which the Boston Tea Party took place?”

Shit.  Why do I care about the Boston Tea Party when I am clearly in the middle of a lover’s quarrel with Joaquin and Lissette?

“I…I don’t know.”

“I’m very disappointed in you, Miss ____.”

Ah, I’m very disappointed in you.  That shit cuts a good kid in the heart deeper than any bayonet ever could.  And that’s how it all starts- the never ending cyle of story after story.  Sometimes they are as brilliant as epic lovers Joaquin and Lissette (stay tuned for my novel…) and sometimes you just imagine your own shortcomings.  Not sure what I mean?  Stick with me here…

I, almost always, picture myself tripping up a flight of steps before taking the first step.  I envision the embarrassing and most public tumble that leaves me with a split lip and scraped elbows and knees.  I can hear and see the stifled giggles and snide looks of my co-workers and of strangers.  ALL OF THIS BEFORE I MOVE A MUSCLE.

Still not getting the picture?

My poor, poor boyfriends have suffered most from my anxious, story driven mind.  (I’m just kidding- I suffer most from my anxious, story driven mind).

However, since the chances of them reading this blog are slim to none, I am safe to apologize publicly- My apologies to all of my exes for my crazy but brilliant* mind.  Allow me to set the scene again:

The phone rings.

Him: “Babe, we have to talk.  It’s nothing to worry about but I want to say it in person.”

Oh god.  He’s cheating on me.  Her name is probably Amber.  She’s probably a blonde, size 0 with double D’s.  I hate Amber.  I hate him.

Oh god. He’s breaking up with me.  He’s running away to Rio with Joaquin.  God, I can’t believe he’s gay.  How didn’t I see this before?  Why??

Oh god.  He’s on drugs.  He has an addiction problem.  It’s ok.  I’ll get him help.  We can go to counseling.  We’ll get through this.

Oh god. He’s dying.  He just went to the doctor a few days ago.  He has cancer.  Oh my god.  WHY CAN’T YOU JUST TELL ME NOW??  WHO CARES IF IT’S OVER THE PHONE??

Reality- We meet up and he gives me a beautiful necklace and tells me that he loves me.

Aw, I’m so glad he didn’t tell me over the phone.

Or worse yet, I tend to write romantic comedies- it’s kind of my thing, SO that being said, I tend to have high expectations.  When they aren’t met, I get very disappointed even though those poor boys tried so hard.  (To the future boyfriends who may be reading this, I PROMISE that I am working on it.  Kinda.  Sorta.  Maybe. Bear with me).

Him: “Babe, I’m really excited for Valentine’s Day.  I promise it’s going to be awesome.”

Oh my god.  Maybe he rented a hotel suite.  There will be rose petals everywhere and a bubble bath and room service.  He knows that I love stuffed animals so I’m sure that he bought one just to be sweet.  Maybe I’ll get a nice massage too….  He’s so good to me.

Reality: We go to a fancy restaurant for dinner.  I get a very sweet card and a box of chocolates.

That’s it?!

(THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH THIS SCENARIO, but because it’s not what I’ve built up in my mind, I get upset).

Sometimes these stories provide simple entertainment, sometimes they provide all-consuming anxiety, and sometimes they end up in a blog online or a script in pre-production (stay tuned for my next short film…).

Some days, being a writer is great!  It’s such a fulfilling feeling to know that you have completed something.  You have put your thoughts to paper.

Some days, being a writer is hell on earth.  It’s a terrible feeling to think that none of what you’ve written is half as good as it sounded in your head.

Some days, it’s both.  But most days…

It’s hell on earth.

*I am the antithesis of conceited, so just assume that whenever I compliment myself that it is pure, unadulterated sarcasm.

Go To Bed with Gilda, Wake Up With Me

Rita Hayworth once said that “Every man I knew, went to bed with Gilda and woke up with me.”  Gilda was her most famous (and most sexually desired) character.

Shamefully, the only reason I know this quote is the classic Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts’ rom-com, “Notting Hill.”  (If you haven’t seen Notting Hill, go watch it right now.  Stop reading this silly blog and enjoy the glorious flowing man-locks of 90’s Hugh Grant).  Actually, forget that.  Go watch “Gilda.”

I mention this quote because it is so indicative of the way we view women today and it resonated with me.  No, no, I’m not implying that I am in anyway as fantastic as Rita Hayworth, but…

Wait.  Yes, I am implying just that.  I am implying that all women are as absolutely beautiful and feisty and smart and sexual as the ravishing Rita Hayworth.

Society tells women that we must be beautiful, sexual, brilliant, thin, talented, soft spoken, and all around perfect in order to be considered desirable.  Who can live up to those standards?

In the past, I have found myself buying into that theory- placing far too much emphasis on my physical appearance- to ensure that I too might be desirable.  But even Rita Hayworth, lauded as one of the most beautiful women in the world, took off her make-up at the end of the day.  She ceased to be what she allowed the public to see and went to bed as just…Rita.

 

We all wear a mask throughout our day.  We hide behind make-up, behind sarcasm, behind professionalism, and whatever other wall of choice.  We have a public persona that we choose to let others see, and only a select few special people get to know the real us.

I’ve stopped wearing make-up on a daily basis.  I didn’t want to hide behind a mask.  Do I feel prettier when I wear make-up?  Absolutely.  Do I feel less desirable without make-up?  Shamefully, yes.  Sometimes I need to get all gussied up to remind myself that I am desirable and for that, I get upset with myself.  I do not want to need that kind of validation.

The truth is- anybody looks good after hours of hair and make-up.  ANYBODY.  Just scroll up and see the proof.  Beauty is skin deep.  Your personality, your thoughts, your beliefs, your sense of humor, your intelligence and your attitude are what make you who you are.  You are only as desirable as you believe, and I mean that in more ways than one.

We are what we choose to be.

Do you want that job?  BELIEVE that you deserve it.  Do you want to feel pretty?  BELIEVE that you are pretty (because you are, dammit)!  Do you want that promotion?  BELIEVE that you will get it.  Do you want to be sexy?  BELIEVE that you are sexy.

I know that it can sound silly, but it’s true.  Confidence makes all the difference.  You are not the mask you wear.  Take off the make-up (figuratively or literally, you get to choose!) and be confident in who you are.

rita quote

Rita struggled to feel loved for who she was and perhaps my analogy is extreme (We can’t all be rich and successful, world famous actors purporting to be the image of perfection) BUT I stand by the sentiment.  We don’t always show our true self to the world and that’s okay, but make sure to let your guard down and show yourself, without the mask, to those who really count.

Everyone wants to be loved for who they really are, so take the time to take off the mask and figure out who that is.  Then you can choose who sees the mask, and who doesn’t.

❤ G