Aurora “Batman” Shooting: Processing Tragedy [Updated]

“There is a saying in Tibetan, ‘Tragedy should be utilized as a source of strength.’ No matter what sort of difficulties, how painful an experience is, if we lose our hope, that’s our real disaster.” ― Dalai Lama XIV

As you have all likely heard, a deranged young man opened fire on a theater full of innocent people at a midnight premiere of “The Dark Knight Rises” early yesterday morning in Aurora, Colorado. Living in big cities, I’ve been no stranger to local tragedies, but this one hit pretty close to home.

I’ve been a giant Batman nerd since I can remember. What’s not to love? He is a privileged man who understands that not everyone was dealt the same hand and uses his wealth for the betterment of society. He believes so strongly in humanity that he risks his life to save strangers and refuses to murder anyone. Plus, he doesn’t even have any actual superpowers—he’s just an incomparable badass with a slew of ridiculously cool gadgets. I’m getting off topic.

Anyone who really knows me assumed I’d be attending one of the midnight screenings of the newest film from our generation’s Scorsese—Christopher Nolan. The second July rolled around, I was bursting at the seams in anticipation, and by the night of the premiere, I was pee-my-pants excited. This week, I went online to purchase advance tickets for myself and five of my friends. Of course, all the IMAX showings were sold out, so I went to buy regular tickets at the theater close to my house. It was also sold out. Knowing I had to work in Aurora that night, the next theater I considered was the Century 16 theater where the shooting took place. It was perfect, because I didn’t get off work until 11pm, and I knew

people would be in line as early as 8pm, dressed to the nines as Batman and his villains, and I wanted to get to the theater as quickly as possible. I was frustrated when I didn’t find Century 16 in a list of available theaters near me, presumably because it, too, had sold out. I begrudgingly chose the downtown theater—the first one I could find that wasn’t sold out, and fretted all day about being late for the film because, for Christ’s sake, it was a half hour drive from work!

We loved the movie. It was everything I wanted it to be, and well-worth the obnoxious amount of anticipation I’d built around its four-years-in-the-making release. When we left the theater, we were all high on the impressiveness of it, feverishly discussing our favorite parts, what we predicted, didn’t see coming, didn’t like as much. Strangers stopped me to ask for my thoughts on it. I only barely noticed that there were about three policemen per half block surrounding the theater. Since I was walking back to my car alone and, in true Bailey fashion, wasn’t sure just exactly where I parked it, I only remember being subconsciously thankful for their unusual presence. As promised, I sent a text to a friend at work, who’d been jealous I was going and wanted to know RIGHT AWAY just how awesome the movie was. In response, she sent a fevered message that there’d been a horrible shooting in Aurora and instructed me to go directly home. She hadn’t mentioned that it took place in a theater showing the very movie my friends and I had just been gushing over, while we were enjoying it. The very theater I’d tried to buy tickets to, just a few days earlier. When I “Googled” the shooting and found out, I felt like throwing up.

I did, indeed, go straight home, and promptly sent a message to my parents letting them know the horrible news they’d be hearing when they woke up, that I’d been unable to get tickets to that theater, and that my friends and I were all just fine. But we weren’t, really. Those of us who found out right away didn’t sleep much. We still haven’t. We all woke up on Friday to a ridiculous, but comforting, amount of texts, voicemails, tweets and Facebook messages asking desperately, “Tell me you didn’t go to that theater!,” and “Are you okay?” One of my friends fell asleep with her phone on silent, and her parents were nervous wrecks when she finally got a hold of them. I don’t know that any of us had been so close to such an awful event that it would incite panic even in friends we hadn’t spoken to in over a year.

My coworkers offered sighs of relief, sympathy, and lots of questions when I reported to work the next day, greeted by enhanced security, police, road blocks, and the crime scene that is Holmes’ apartment right across the street. Another friend was evacuated from her workplace, because Holmes had access to those buildings less than a month ago. One student nurse was beside himself, saying things like “Man, that could’ve been you! Like, you could not be here right now!” When I talked about how guilty I would’ve felt dragging my friends there for the selfish reason of making my commute shorter, he replied, “You can’t feel guilt if you’re dead.”

Insensitive, yes. Big time. But also true. Slowly finding out that people we knew, friends of friends, and colleagues had been victims, or had been brought to our hospital—that we could see his apartment from our building—made the situation all the more surreal. A friend of a friend, whom I’d just seen the night before, was shot and in critical condition. We could have been—almost were—there in that theater, but these people—real people we knew, lived next to, interacted with—they were there. I don’t think any of us has wrapped our mind around how horrible and terrifying that experience could have been. How much those people’s lives will change, if they were lucky enough to make it through. How lucky we are that we didn’t go to my first choice theater.

Even people who hadn’t seen the movie were struggling with questions like, “why?” and “how?” This type of thing rattles the entire country, even the world. The makers of the film cancelled international openings and put out very tactful and empathetic statements about the situation, now being called the Aurora Theater Batman Shooting, or Dark Knight Rises Shooting. But for those of us who live here, who frequent that theater, who may have worked next to the victims or even the perpetrator, it just doesn’t seem real. People’s lives were ended or changed because they went about the simple task of seeing a movie. They went with probably as much excitement to see the film as I had. Some initially thought Holmes’ antics were a part of the show. People lived or died based on their choice of movie theater. It just doesn’t make any sense.

This post probably doesn’t serve as anything more than my own processing of a horrible tragedy that I almost was a part of, but wasn’t, but I hope what happened affects you. My mom says it was by the Grace of God that I wasn’t there. I don’t know how I feel about that—why, then, would God let it happen to everyone else? I normally believe in karma, but no one in that theater deserved that to happen. I normally believe that everything happens for a reason, but how can what happened possibly be made to seem reasonable? Jen, who was with me, probably said it best. “We just weren’t meant to be there. I was just so thankful waking up this morning…” She didn’t mean that anyone was meant to be there, just that we weren’t there and that, while we are horrified about what happened to those other people, we can and should feel blessed and humbled that it didn’t happen to us. Because it could have happened to us. It could have happened to anyone.

I hope that all this makes people think—really think about how they live their lives, how they treat people, and what they take for granted. I didn’t cry until I was on my way home from work last night. It just came over me, and for the half-hour drive, I was an inconsolable mess. I don’t know if I’ve said “I love you” or talked to as many old friends in one day as I did when I finally came out of my half-sleep, half-dream haze on Friday morning. Maybe we should all do those things a little more often. Maybe we should all stop living like we’re entitled to another day and remember how short and unpredictable life is. I hope people are reminded of the value and fleetingness of life and learn to be more appreciative of what they have. I hope we all stop worrying about petty things, like how long it will take to get to the movie theater, because maybe those little inconveniences, like mine, are blessings in disguise. I hope people live.  I hope people give blood, go to candlelight vigils, and offer whatever support they can, even if it’s just prayer, thoughts, kind words, or being respectful and quietly understanding of the grief in our community.

What I hope people stop doing is immediately politicizing or piously analyzing the situation or why it may have happened. We don’t know why it happened. You all likely know how my “hippie-pacifist-ass” feels about violence and guns, and you know how unapologetically opinionated I am. But now is not the time. We don’t know how we would have reacted to the situation, or if it was possible to stop it. I hope we all really think about that. I hope the rumors aren’t true, and Westboro Baptist Church realizes how ungodly, un-Christian, and

inhuman it is to protest the memorial services for the victims of the situation. If they fail to accept this, as they so often do, I hope the better people of the world will again show up to outnumber them and support the victims’ families. I hope people who use nothing but Facebook as a soap box or their efforts to “enact change” stop posting those insensitive photos of a man with a gun in his pants saying, “One guy in the crowd could have saved everyone last night.” It’s as sick as it is ignorant. There was a guy with a gun, and he murdered and injured damn near 100 people.

You weren’t there. By chance, neither was I. We don’t know what we would have done, even if we had a gun. We don’t know that some people in that theater didn’t make some heroic attempt to save another person, or if it would have even been possible. We also don’t know what drove Holmes to do this, or whether gun control would have stopped him. We are in no position to make judgments or pose “what-ifs” that do nothing but pour salt in already blistering emotional wounds.  We have no idea, and we have no right to spout off our cocky opinions from our safe little seats on the other side. These people experienced real tragedy first-hand.

This isn’t about politics. It’s not about Republicans and Democrats, or who’s right. Not now. This isn’t about you. This isn’t about me and my friends, or the people who could’ve been there, and it isn’t about religion. It’s bigger than that. This is about the people in that theater whose lives either ended or changed forever. It’s about their families and their shock, agony, and confusion over what happened. This is about the family of James Holmes—a grown, independent man who acted of his own accord, and the hurt they’ll nonetheless have to deal with over what their troubled son has done. Can’t we at least wait for the whole story, for them to bury the dead and to cope?

In a few days, or several, we can talk about gun control or the nature of our country. We can and should work together to look at solutions to problems like this, as long as we look at real solutions over taking political sides. But that horrible day, today, and the next few should be reserved for grieving, understanding and support. That should be our first response, and politics second. Today should be about community and Holmes’ trial and making sense of what happened. Because that’s just it—we still don’t have all our questions answered, and some of them probably never will be. We don’t know what happened or why, and until we do, even the experts are in no position to analyze the overarching problems and possible solutions. And we, my friends, are no experts. So please, just show some compassion for the people connected to this awful tragedy and save the politics, the arguing, and the stubborn opinions for later. If you feel, as I do, totally helpless, that there’s nothing you can do to help, remember, you can keep your political opinions to yourself. You can quietly show solidarity and support. You can do that.

UPDATE: The Westboro Baptist Church has officially added tonight’s memorial service to their schedule. They are set to “protest” from 5pm-7pm, but we will not let them be seen by the families of the theater shooting victims. We will stand between them starting at 5pm. You can join us here (this event is expected to be huge, so please carpool):

Aurora Municipal Center – West Side Steps
15151 E. Alameda Parkway, Aurora, CO 80012

It is IMPERATIVE that we all remember this is a memorial service. We are all still reeling and hurting from what happened, and the families deserve respect. We will simply be forming a wall around the vigil, facing away from the WBC protesters. PLEASE do not protest, speak to, gesture at, or in ANY way engage or enable the protesters. (NO SIGNS). Not only is it disrespectful to the already grieving families, but it’s counteractive to what we are trying to do, because you’re giving them exactly what they want. We are going to keep them out and to show the families our strong, SILENT support. Nothing more.

I Climbed a Mountain, and Other Things.

Ya’hearrrrd me. I climbed a 14,110ft mountain this weekend with pals M&M and B. The adventure started with a drunken plan hatched by M&M and I about a week ago, and B decided to drive down from the bustling metropolis of Denver to join in on the fun. After watching our Hawks dominate, hatching a devious plan to make Pikes Peak our bitch, and playing a lively game of Naked Photo Hunt, we got after it. We planned on taking off around sunrise, which is about 7am. Right.

Awful morning person that I am (as in, don’t talk to me if you’d like to keep your fingers), I got myself out of bed after five or fewer hours of sleep and started getting ready. I went to the nearest 24-hour Wal-mart after work the night before to get a new backpack and some super-attractive men’s hiking boots. I looked gooood, if you’re the Brawny Man. I received a text from B the next morning saying that she hadn’t gotten to sleep until 3am (silly girls stayed up watching Something Borrowed—of course they couldn’t sleep! Nightmare!) and she was having second thoughts about climbing a fourteener (that’s a 14,000+ foot mountain, for those of you less rugged and outdoorsy than we are) after so little rest. So we agreed we’d all go back to bed until 8am, and they’d be at my place around 9am.

So, the girls got to my place around 10am. We didn’t start the hike until 11am. Not a brilliant idea. We started off pretty awesome actually—hiking two miles up a mountain in less than an hour. After lunch, though, we got into the more scenic areas of the rock, and of course had to stop and take a picture or hundreds. It was pretty amazing trekking on and looking back to see how far we’d come… unfortunately, when we got above the ridgeline, it was easier to see how far we had left to go. By the way, B had NEVER been on a real hike before in her life—grrrl’s either crazy or BA. Or both. (:

The stretch right before Devil’s Playground was pretty tough. The steep incline was intense and there were no rocks or any other form of traction. There was also a stretch of trail that literally dropped off within two feet—one misstep and you meet your rocky death in a 127 hour-style bloodbath. I’m just saying. Anywho, after Devil’s Playground it got all boulder-y and stuff and we ran into a nice young couple (I don’t know if the two dudes were actually a couple, but they are for this story) that began commiserating with B, who had started second-guessing her life choices. Conversation:

1^st half of Cute Asian Couple: How are you guys in such good shape? This sucks.
B: I’m literally contemplating suicide!
Bai: Well, I feel like that’s maybe a little dramatic.
B: No it’s not! I’M SERIOUS!

In her defense, we had hit another patch of incline that made our quads burn worse than a scenario in a bad romance novel, and the Peak looked pretty far away. As we continued our journey to the top, B continued to mutter hilarious one-liners about how this was the worst idea she ever had, she was going to die on the mountain, vultures were circling, etc. But haters be damed! Homegirl made it all the way to the top without becoming vulture-food—I did not have to climb back down and get her and she even beat the cute Asian man-couple who had supposedly climbed 11 fourteeners. Mmmhmmm. I should mention that 2^nd half thought there were mountains in Iowa. So….. grain of salt.

After climbing through rocks with no trail and nothing to guide us but stacked rocks called “cairns,” I finally saw a guard rail. We made it! M asked if I was close enough to hit it with a snowball. I said if I was Brian Wilson, I could. When the rocks ended, I was so excited I scurried up the mud-sand Exorcist-style and collapsed to the ground when I realized we still had a ways to go. Sometimes I’m a little too optimistic for my own good. But, tired and covered in mud, we indeed conquered the Peak. We were all pretty proud of ourselves for defeating our first fourteener on a very warm October Sunday. I mean, we climbed a mother-effing mountain!! Warning: it’s actually super-duper addictive. I cannot wait to do it again, but since it’s already snowy, thunderstorm-y, and freezing cold on top of most of the mountains, that will have to wait until another year.

In other news… that isn’t the only awesome thing about life lately. I found a j-o-b! I start working at the kiddie-hospital next week, and I think it’s going to feel pretty good to do something that’s actually directly helping someone for once. The only school option I’ve considered other than law school has been getting my masters in international health, so perhaps this will help me make my decision. Pretty effing stoked, y’all.

So that was numero uno on my get-your-shit together list. I’ve been working—and running—towards number two and I signed up for my first 5k Halloween weekend! Of course, remembering that Halloween is my favorite holiday EVAH and that weekend will likely be an epic boozefest, I wouldn’t expect records, but IT STILL COUNTS. I also bought some CrossFit classes on Living Social because they were super cheap and I apparently enjoy extreme physical pain and public humiliation. I’ll keep you posted.

I also de-cluttered and deep-cleaned my apartment and hosted my first party (during which we drank spiked slushies and watched the disappointing shit-show that was the Glee premiere)—I even got rid of my ancient mattress! I recycled it! It was only supposed to cost $10, but a funny thing happened: I put it on my porch and made an appointment for the dude to pick it up and collect the cash from me, but I woke up in the morning and it had magically disappeared! Translation: dude felt so bad that I’d been sleeping on a pile of springs like a homeless person that he decided to trash it fo’ free.

Also, I removed “move to Denver” from my list for now. I love my apartment—it’s cheap and it’s perfect for me, plus I’d miss the mountains and hiking in the mornings and finding bears in my trees. Instead, I’ve added the goal to give up soda! Okay, cut back on soda. But I’m keeping my morning coffee. If I quit that shit cold-turkey AND gave up caffeine altogether, I would kill everyone. Annnd I am working with a couple of friends to start a new young-professionals group (round two) and make Colorado Springs a little more fun for those of us who aren’t all Bible-thumpy.

In short, I’ve already got my list about half-way done and it’s only been a week! I mean, I’m getting back into shape, I’ve stopped being a twitchy, caffeine-addicted hoarder, and I climbed a fucking MOUNTAIN. October’s such a busy month that I may just lose my shit all over again, but for the time being I’ve got it together and I’m one of those assholes that loves her life and can’t stop smiling about it. Suck it, Mr. Krabs!

Now please excuse me while I drink Bailey’s and coffee and watch Tangled at an obscene volume. I’m trying to vindicate my neighbors’ suspicions that I’m crazy. PEACE.

Get Your Shit Together!

“It’s never too late–in fiction or in life–to revise.” -Nancy Thayer

Ok, I get it. I suck. I admit I suck. The first step is admitting the problem right? It’s been, like, four months since my last confession. A lot has happened since then, hence my lack of posts. I’m busy!

I have officially been in the CO for a year now, and aside from the purpose of this post, I couldn’t be happier. I got a couple of pretty good jobs in my area of study right after graduation, and I should probably have been more grateful for that since I know a lot of friends and classmates who weren’t so lucky. Alas, the ever restless nomad that I am left the second big-kid job (the reasons for which will get their own post soon enough) and came to a startling realization: I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE FUCK I WANT TO DO WITH MY LIFE!! (Help?)

I didn’t want to rush into things, so in true Bailey fashion, I spent my entire summer dicking around and enjoying myself instead of, oh, I don’t know, applying for jobs or schools. Among other things, I traveled all over the state of Colorado, road-tripped home to Iowa, jetted off to Chicago for Lollapalooza (uh-friggin-mazing BTW) and took camping and festival trips. I went white-water rafting and entertained visitors. I felt an earthquake. I saw a wild bear—in person. I checked 30 Seconds to Mars, Incubus at Red Rocks, Coldplay, Foo Fighters, Bright Eyes, and a handful of others off my musical bucket list. I conquered the Manitou Incline and stood at Pikes Peak.

And you know what? I wouldn’t trade all the road trips I took, amazing experiences I had, or friends I made for any job in the world (I should add that I DO have a serving job that easily pays the bills—I’m not THAT irresponsible!). But, when summer ended, again, in true Bailey fashion, I maybe panicked a little. Or maybe I freaked the fuck out.

Why didn’t I look for a job? I know everyone jokes about what a hippie I am, but when did I get so irresponsible? Should I go to law school? I’d love it, I’d do well, but what if I don’t like being a lawyer? Should I still join the Peace Corps? Should I try something completely different and get a job in PR or communications? Study social justice? Should I finally just buckle and sell my soul to Wells Fargo for good benefits and clinical depression? I know it sounds like I’m on crack, but try being inside my head for five minutes. You’ll be crying and rocking back and forth in the shower in two.

One of my best friends, who shall remain nameless (you know who you are… JJ), was talking to me about it over the phone, and he said something like “Jesus, Bai, get your shit together already!” I retorted something like “Dude, I love you, but fuck you!” Actually, he’s sorta right. But, as with all arguments, there is another side to be considered. Many—and I mean MANY—of my friends are having the same problem. A couple of us frequently joke about our lives being in shambles, particularly when we’re hungover at 8:00 on a Sunday night and none of us have showered.

I’m 23. We’re all in our early twenties. We have no kids, no mortgage, no credit card debt—I don’t even have a car payment, yet. What better time is there for us to NOT have our shit together? In fact, you know what? Maybe it’s THEIR fault. Maybe they send us to college too early (or, as Matthew Inman/The Oatmeal would say, they start by teaching us the wrong things in high school). For Christ’s sake, I started undergrad thinking I was going to be a rock writer. Like, for Revolver or Rolling Stone. REALLY?!?

I changed my major 346 times. I graduated with 30-odd extra credits. I should have known I still had some thinking to do. And we’re all struggling with that—we’re out of college, some of us found good jobs, some of us didn’t. But we’ve all stopped and looked around and discovered… older, wiser, and a little worse for wear, we still don’t know what to do next. Some of us are working for The Man against our better judgment, some of us are working for very little pay, and at least half of us are considering hitting the books for one more round. In this economy, beggars can’t be choosers, but the nice thing about The Man is that he doesn’t give a shit about you—so it’s okay to use him for financial security until you find something you really want to do.

My point is, I’ll bet most of you reading this are in the same boat. Either you’re treading water with no idea which way to look for shore, or, like me, you thought you landed your dream first job and found it wasn’t what you hoped it would be. My point is, you’re not alone. My point is, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone talks about finding themselves during their college years, but as liberating as college can be, there are still a lot of restrictions. If you want to have x major, you have to take x, y, and z classes. At the same time, when everyone’s telling you the sky is the limit, there are too many options to narrow it down, and let’s be honest, you were just as worried about extracurriculars and, ahem, social activities as you were about finding your calling. Not to mention all the small-town bullshit you were dealing with if you went to a school as small as mine.

This is me not worried about it.

Maybe NOW is the time to figure it all out. Maybe you can’t actually find the right answer until you’ve tried enough wrong ones. I may have been treating the past year as the spring break I never had, but I’ve still learned a lot. I’ve learned it’s really disappointing when you think you’ve got it all figured out but you don’t, but it opens your eyes to a lot of opportunities you didn’t know existed. That it doesn’t serve anyone to be a Debbie Downer, even when life throws you shitballz. That women are taught by society to compete against each other, and they need to knock that shit off. That we are not still in college, and our bodies know it. That your friends were right about your ex. That you really do find out who your friends are, and there are plenty more to be made. That life goes on, and in the grand scheme of things, it’s been pretty good to me. That “shit” is my favorite word. I could go on for days, but let’s cut to the chase.

I do so enjoy being young, learning life lessons and throwing caution to the wind, and I refuse to switch to full-on adult mode. But I’ll concede, it may be time to consider growing up, so I’m going to start being a leeetle more responsible. I hereby resolve to:

1.)   Actively apply for jobs in a variety of fields of interest. And land one.
2.)   Run at least two 5k’s. (And get back in shape so I don’t embarrass myself )
3.)   Finish my reading list. (I’d add the AFI’s top 100, but it’s Oscar season…)
4.)   Move to Denver!
5.)   Study for the LSAT, but research other programs I might be good at.
6.)   Write more (and using the blog to update you on these goals will allow you all to hold me accountable by yelling swear words at me via the comments section. Or you could try nice, motivational things. Whatever.)
7.)   Be nicer to myself. I.e. forget the past and the people in it; Relax more; etc. : )
8.)   Find a husband. Just kidding. How about de-cluttering my life? Yes.
9.)   Join more clubs of some sort and branch out my social circle.
10.) Stop taking JJ’s advice.

What about you, fellow non-shit-together-havers? Any advice? Words of wisdom? Goals of your own? Get at me. We’re in this shit together. Pun intended.

And if you need motivation from people who think you should get it together right meow, read this lovely post from Thought Catalog: Ten Reasons Why You Should Get Your Shit Together

“You can grow up anytime you want. You can do it at 20, 25, or 40. It doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with age. Growing up just means deleting things and people who are bad for you. It means taking care of business, taking care of yourself, and not repeating the same mistakes. Everyone has their own growing up to do. It does not mean you have to drink Earl Grey every night, get a cat and be in bed by 11. Jesus, that would suck.”

Relationshits: On Being Single

There is love, of course. And then there’s life, its enemy. ~ Jean Anouilh

All my single ladies: Listen up. Yeah, you. With the Disney movies, and the comfort food, and the self-loathing. Your Sally-Sad-Sac Facebook statuses are depressing me, and I’m tired of you selling yourself short. Turn off The Bachelor, put down—scratch that, burn—that well-worn copy of He’s Just not that Into You and take heed: It is more than okay to be single, you will not die of loneliness, and there is nothing wrong with you. (I mean, I’m not a psychiatrist, there might be something wrong with you, but most likely there isn’t.)

I know it’s easy to get down on yourself these days. Maybe it’s a Midwest thing, but while national statistics show that couples are waiting longer to get married, reality shows us that our friends are dropping like flies. We not only know people who are engaged, married or pregnant, but we know LOTS of people who are engaged, married, or pregnant, and we’re still in our early 20’s. And we’re happy for them, we really are. It’s just starting to seem like maybe you got skipped during that last game of pass-the-Kool-Aid, or maybe you just don’t listen to enough Beyonce.

It also doesn’t help that while I’m telling you it’s okay to be single, people like Tracy McMillan are telling women everywhere that if they’re single, it’s because they’re one of six things: A bitch, a shallow bitch, a slut, a liar, a selfish bitch, or a bitch who’s wallowing in self-pity. [I would just like to nonchalantly mention that Ms. McMillan has been divorced three times and thinks one of the fundamental aspects of marriage is the ability to fart in front of your significant other.] McMillan is not only making herself sound like a desperate moron, she’s also perpetuating a sentiment that is both categorically untrue and so fucking stupid it makes me want to punch kittens in the face: If you’re still single, there is clearly something wrong with you.

As a girl who is happily single and not sure she ever wants to get married, I think I’m entitled to say “Fuck you, McMillan. My un-married, un-divorced ass says you’re missing something.” So let me reiterate: there is nothing wrong with you. You’re not single because you aren’t pretty enough, or smart enough, or good enough. Sure, some asshole with small-man syndrome and mommy issues may have dumped you for those reasons, but that is not why you’re single. In fact, it may be quite the opposite. I think the biggest mistake we make is entertaining that stereotypical idea that perfect, beautiful women can have whatever they want. Wrong. We could all be gorgeous, smart, independent, driven, funny, strong, and sexy—hell, we could even love to drink beer and watch sports—and still be single.

Contrary to popular belief, all of those qualities don’t make one a boy’s biggest fantasy, but rather his worst nightmare. Show me one amazing woman, and I’ll show you one hundred silly little boys sprinting in the other direction; from what I can tell, nothing scares a boy more than a woman who doesn’t need him. (Note: I said “boy” and not “man.”) I mean, hello? Jennifer Aniston? Homegirl’s had more breakups than Joan Rivers has had surgeries, and she’s one of the hottest, smartest, and, most importantly, happiest bitches in Hollywood. I’m just saying, it’s harder for Angie to run away when she’s already produced or purchased 35 of Brad’s kids.

So now that the myth has been debunked, I know what you’re thinking. “Ok, genius, then why the fuck am I single?” And you know what? I have no idea. Maybe it’s because you’re so concerned about being single that you’re not living your life. Maybe it’s because you’re surrounding yourself with assholes. Maybe it’s because you’re an asshole. Or maybe it’s because you just haven’t met the right person yet. Like this CNN blogger points out in her response to McMillan, life has a funny way of ruining your plans. So in the grand scheme of things, the real question is, “Who the hell cares?”

Again, I’m no psychiatrist, but I firmly believe that the only reason the women around me are so fucking miserable about not finding their soul mate is because people tell them they should be. But think about your life, and I’m sure you’ll find plenty of reasons to love it. I mean, I’m thinking about mine. I love my job, I live in a beautiful place, and I can do whatever I want without feeling guilty or worrying about someone else’s plans. I have friends to go to movies with, run with, or shop with, and I don’t have to explain or worry about someone’s feelings when I just need some time to myself.

Writing this on a Friday night. Who you callin' slutty?

It’s easy to say that girls who like being single are bitter or slutty, but I’m not. I’ve been single most of my life, and it wasn’t for lack of opportunity, that’s for damn sure (and not all of the “opportunities” were douche-canoes). I look back on the happiest times of my life—my trip to Africa, my dream internship in DC, the year I turned 21 and destroyed my GPA, the present—and they all have one thing in common: I was single. And I wasn’t worried that I was single. I mean, isn’t that amazing? I haven’t met the man of my dreams and I can still be happy? Shut the front door!!

So, are you with me? Are you willing to quit holding yourself back and accept that sometime’s you’re single and that’s okay? Then take one last longing look at your friends’ engagement photos and give yourself a good, mental bitch slap. Realize that you are good enough to wait for the dude who really gets you. Who doesn’t cheat or lie or make you feel like you’re settling. Go have fun. Sleep with that pretty guy with his own name tattooed on his arm because he’s too dumb to spell it. Chase your dream career. Value your friends, family, and yourself, and live your life! Someone who really digs you for you will be drawn to it. Just promise you’ll stop with the self-loathing, and enjoy being young and carefree–don’t apologize, just own it. Let yourself be happy, and I promise you, you will be.

Hey, I’ll even start: I’m a messy, sarcastic, chick-flick-hating bachelorette who swears like a sailor and drinks wine straight from the bottle. You can call me a selfish, shallow, slutty, lying bitch but I’ll be damned if you catch me wallowing in self pity. I have goals, and I plan to reach them. I’m sorry I’m not sorry. If you don’t like it, you are more than welcome to go fuck yourself.

And seriously, enough with the Facebook statuses…

Far too many people are looking for the right person, instead of trying to be the right person. ~ Gloria Steinem

Sundance–A Love Story

So, this may end up being the longest post of all time, but it’s worth it for all the humor and name-dropping, so bear with me okay? Being the giant film nerd that I am (seriously—ask me anything), attending the Sundance Film Festival has long been a dream of mine. This past weekend, I finally crossed it off my bucket list, and it turned out to be one of the best weekends of my entire life.

The films were amazing. The atmosphere was fantastic—beautiful street decorations, beautiful people, beautiful mountains, beautiful music… I could go on forever. We ended up missing two of our five scheduled films (go figure) one because we didn’t want to get out of bed and the other because old man winter decided to take a huge dump on Park City and getting stranded at Sundance Resort didn’t seem worth missing a Saturday night on the town.

We ended up seeing The Ledge, In a Better World, and Incendies, all of which were absolutely brilliant films. The latter two have been nominated for the Academy Award for best foreign film, and both The Ledge & Incendies featured Q & A’s from the director following the screening. If you get a chance to see any of the films, I highly recommend it, particularly In a Better World (already a Golden Globe winner). The entire screening room was in tears by the end—even me.

While the films were by far the best part of the trip, the crazy stories come, of course, from our nights on the town in Park City. We enjoyed some great food and wine, hot-tubbing and cooking in our condo, and exploring the city, and during our feast at the Sundance Resort, I decided to ask advice on what to do in the evenings. The waiter suggested we just venture up and down Main Street, so we grabbed a free shuttle downtown Friday night, and that’s what we did. Bestie E, who I’ve mentioned before, was my partner for the trip, and her boss had suggested we check out the Microsoft party. Yeah right, we thought. Bill Gates had helped open the festival, the party would be invite only, and we knew there was little to no chance of us getting in. So anyway, we’re wandering up Main Street when we spot a bar, called Bing, surrounded by a crowd of people, including about six secret-service wannabe’s with black suits and ear pieces. We knew there had to be someone important inside.

So we walk up to the bouncer, who, with his pudgy stature and giant faux-fur cap could easily pass for a member of the Russian mafia, and E says “Um, can we get in?” He asks how many. I shrug, give him a nonchalant smile and say “Just us two.” Go ahead, he says. That’s it. Not, “Are you on the list?” or “Sure. Cover is $50,000 and your first-born child.” Not even an “ID’s, please.” But who are we to question authority? We waltzed in like we owned the place, before he could change his mind.

Naturally, first order of business was to order drinks, and when I gave him a credit card, the bartender waved the card away. Free drinks in Des Moines or even Denver is one thing, but I had a feeling at Sundance we weren’t quite that special. I was right. When I asked if they only took cash, he looked at me like I was fresh off the short-bus and told me everything was free. That’s when my supposedly technology-savvy brain realized that I was actually a big dumbass and that Bing is a Microsoft company. This was the Bill Gates/Microsoft party. It’s also when we started to act like little school girls who had just seen Justin Bieber for the first time. I was suddenly very aware of my second-hand Target dress and cheap boots. Normally, I consider thrifting environmentally friendly and anti-consumerist. Right then, I considered it a big sign that says “I’m soooo gonna be that girl who pees her $3 tights over a celeb-sighting.”

Relax. I made it through the weekend accident free, but not without some awkward and embarrassing moments. The first night was wicked fun, but not terribly crowded. We did see Christopher McDonald and Maria Menounos right away, and upon unsuccessfully trying to peek over the tall dividers to the VIP section, we finally caught wind that it was Oprah and Ryan Seacrest on the other side. Unless you like humpback whales (Dane Cook reference—not a fat joke) or closeted gay men who are famous for being obnoxious, it isn’t exactly an asthma-attack moment. But that was Friday night.

Saturday was a different story. After shamelessly flirting with some locals, and even more shamelessly asking one of them the next day if he could get us on the list, we made it back into the party. Thank Allah we didn’t take our chances at batting our eyelashes to get in the second night. There were so many people on the street outside that bar, I could have gone crowd-surfing, and cops and security guards were yelling at people to get off the street, so we had to be taken around back to be let in.

We’d seen 50 Cent walk out of the bar earlier that night, and after seeing him thank and grab the hand of the 40-year-old cougar unashamedly yelling “Curtis, I LOVE YOU,” I gained a little respect for the guy. I mean, mo’fo’s been shot so many times he’s a metal detector’s worst nightmare, so you have to give him props for being friendly. We’d also caught wind that he and Florence + The Machine were playing there that night, which probably explained the cluster fuck at the front door. Anywho, after seeing him, I’d nonchalantly mentioned to E that he’s supposedly dating Chelsea Handler, which made it all the more appropriate that after checking our coats, she was the first person we saw. Chelsea mother-effing Handler. Unapologetic bitch and probably the funniest female comedian there is. Obviously a hero of mine.

So we go upstairs and get our party on. We’d also seen Paul Giamatti and Amy Ryan at a café that day, and after I explained to our local friend, whom I like to call Babyface, that I have mad respect for Paul G, he laughed and informed me that he totally doesn’t get star-struck, like, ever. This is exactly how the conversation went:

“I mean, I don’t get the big deal about celebrities, I guess. They’re just peop—Holy shit! That’s Shaun WHITE!” He then proceeded to ask Mr. White if he could buy him a drink. At an open bar. It was brilliant to watch. He also was visibly trying to hide his excitement when he told me that “my boy Paul” was there. Yep. Paul Giamatti was right behind us. This is where Bailey “Awkward” Harris (oh, just an old nickname coined after my propensity for getting into shady situations) made a comeback of epic proportions.

After creepily trailing behind him and waiting for him to stop, I finally got the balls to approach him, and just as I tapped his shoulder I realized I had no idea what to call him. I mean, can I call him by his first name? Christ. So clearly, I went with “Mr. Giamatti.” Like he was my high school track coach. What a fucktard. I powered through and asked for a photo, to which he replied “sure,” snapped a quick one that looks uncomfortable on so many levels, told him I was a big fan, to which he replied “thanks,” and watched in awe as he entered the VIP section. Yes, I learned something about myself at this party: I am, in fact, that lame. I mean, it’s one thing to see idiots who are famous for, well, being idiots, and looking good doing it. It’s quite another to be in the indie-film realm where people are famous because they’re actually hella talented. He may as well have been in a boy-band.

Look at that FACE!

After checking out the VIP section, E notices that the back-drop for the interview area has My Idiot Brother written on it, which just so happens to be Paul Rudd’s film. I. LOVE. Paul Rudd. Love. We walked over to the bar to get another drink, and by the time we got back near the VIP, flashbulbs were going off like crazy. I looked around the corner and squeaked out something like “OHMYGODITSHIM,” and tried my best not to act like the fat guy at an all-you-can-eat buffet. I may not have been successful. We took a few sniper shots, passed him in the hallway and exchanged smiles, and listened to him chatting nicely with us mere mortals in the hallway, but never actually got a photo. Ah, regrets. Still, it gets better.

We sit down on a couch and calm ourselves down until I see Hugh Dancy wandering around the room adorably lost, as if the giant group of cameras wasn’t evidence enough that he was supposed to be on the other side of the rope, separated from the commoners. I practically slapped E to get her attention. What can I say, I have a thing for the Brits. Then I notice some skinny dude staring at me intensely from across the room. I kept looking down to avoid eye-contact, but finally gave him a big smile and realized that he wasn’t really staring so much as spacing hardcore—probably because he snorted enough coke to send Charlie Sheen into a coma, but hey, who am I to judge?

(Update: I’d like to note that I clearly posted this before Mr. Sheen was hospitalized after partying with 5 extra hookers. No hard feelings, Chuck.)

Upon making eye-contact, I also realized it was Anton Yelchin, a pretty unknown actor to most. But he’s in one of my favorite films (Charlie

Hillary's keepin' it PG

Bartlett—with Robert Downy, Jr., sexiest man alive), so naturally I had to say hello. At this point, I’m three sheets to the wind, so I march right up to him and his friends and say “hey,” and to my surprise, he actually asks for my name, introduces me to his friends, and chats for a bit. He also opted for a photo featuring a dirty magazine he found next to the couch. Class, class, class. Word to the wise: C-list celebrities are the best. They’re not famous enough to resent you yet, and they likely just appreciate being recognized. That was probably my favorite exchange of the night, especially since we later shared the dance floor with them and showcased our humiliating white-people moves. Also on the dance floor, E and I decided we’d finally had enough drinks to get a photo with Ms. Handler, which she was surprisingly cool about.

(Update: So, E and I saw Chelsea making out with some tall dark handsome dude that wasn’t 50 Cent, and just thought “You Go Grrrl!” But apparently we could have made mad cash for snapping photos and  selling them to the tabloids. BUSTED!)

Finally, toward the end of the night, one of the security guys asks me if we want to get under the rope. DUH. So, E and I enter the VIP section with Hugh, Paul, and new edition Elizabeth Banks. Here comes my favorite part of the night: Elizabeth walks past us and shoots us a smile, and E is actually paying attention and makes eye contact. Clearly not knowing what to say, she blurts out, “Hiiiiiiiiiiii! We LOVE you!” and does a little giddy jump thing. Hilarious. One, E doesn’t even really know who this chick is. Two…. I mean, you heard the girl. Hey, it was our first time. E-Banks shoots back the fakest of smiles and says in the most patronizing tone, “Hiiii. Thaaaanks.” And walks away.

Dear Elizabeth Banks (because you’re clearly reading my blog),

 

I know it sucks being a B-list celebrity. I mean, all that money and TV exposure, and you still don’t get the attention your famous co-stars, like Paul and Zooey, get, and you always get stuck in a table instead of a booth at those 5-star restaurants. Life must be really fucking hard. I feel for you. But here’s a thought: If you want to gain more fame and fortune (which usually happens by, I don’t know, getting people to like you), maybe don’t be such a giant bitch next time.

 

Sincerely,

B

Anyway, E’s embarrassment was easily overshadowed by the fact that we were partying in the VIP section of the Microsoft bar with some of my favorite Hollywood-ans. And drinking for free. And makin’ friends. It must have been 3am when they finally kicked everyone out (none of us seem to remember the exact time—weird) and we took a few detours back to our place. Needless to say, we spent hours pinching ourselves the next morning, recounting the night, and staring at our photos—still in disbelief over how fucking ridiculous it was.

Not to mention the fact that we had seen three brilliant films followed by Q & A’s with amazing directors, eaten fantastic food, spent way less money than we planned, and been in the same resort as THEE Robert Redford. Even just being there with all those people who appreciate films as much as I do, and taking in the beautiful ambiance of a surprisingly heavenly little Utah mountain town was enough that I could get hit by a bus and die happy. I’m just saying—top card, Sundance. Top. Fucking. Card.

NOTE: I’m already looking forward to Sundance 2012, and learned many a lesson this year that will help me make next year even better. Probably.

1.)    Don’t be afraid to walk into an invite-only party. Especially if you have ladyparts.

2.)    Make besties with the locals. Even the ski bums have mad connections.

3.)    Try and buy advance tickets. The wait-list lines suuuuuuck.

4.)    Who cares if you don’t get the films you originally wanted? Thousands of films are submitted, and something like 200 actually get accepted—by the giants of film who genuinely know greatness when they see it. If it’s been selected, it will be fantastic.

5.)    Some celebrities are just assholes. If you see someone you really love, you may want to stay away. It just might shatter your illusions and dreams.

6.)    DO NOT SCHEDULE A FILM BEFORE 11AM. You have two options: Sleeping through it, or being that girl/guy rocking back and forth and crying in her/his seat because this hangover is the equivalent of being beaten with a hammer. I mean, that’s what I heard…

7.)    Stay for at least three days and see as many films as humanly possible.

8.)    Make reservations, unless you want to enjoy your meal sandwiched between a wine cupboard and a table full of creepy middle-aged men.

9.)    Parking is not as bad as they claim, but car rental companies are the devil.

10.) Celebs really are just people. Try not to act like a moron around them.

Now taking RSVP’s for next year’s trip. I’m totally serious.

23 Lessons | In 23 Years

I’ve seen this done a few times, and with my birthday coming up in the year of “me,” I decided to jump on the bandwagon. Where I used to fear getting older, I now have feelings of gratitude and accomplishment for surviving another year. Yeah, that means I AM getting old. But, I’m rather giddy where I am today, and so I’ve decided to impart a few lessons I’ve learned (probably the hard way) that helped me get here over the past 23 years (or, you know, however long it’s been since I could talk and pee in a toilet).

23.) Force yourself out of your comfort zone. You’ll be amazed how much you learn.

22.) Money is a necessary evil, but there are more important things. Save a little for a rainy day, and spend the rest on experiences instead of possessions. I promise you’ll remember your impromptu road trip more than that unreasonably priced dress you wore on your birthday three years ago.

21.) Never let anyone take you for granted. If they don’t appreciate you, they don’t deserve to be in your life.

20.) You should, in fact, give a shit what’s going on around you. Read the news, and volunteer once in a while. It’s not going to kill you, but it may just save someone else.

19.) If you mean it, say it.

18.) Winning and losing are often simply matters of perspective. Actually, a lot of things are.

17.) You will never learn more about yourself and what you want than when you have to walk alone for a little while. Never let anyone else define who you are—and never let them make you forget it.

16.) “No one is irreplaceable” = bullshit. Some bridges are worth rebuilding. You’ll know when the other person is willing to meet you halfway.

15.) It’s all right to remain a “kid at heart”—in fact, I encourage it. But you have to learn to be a grown-up when it really counts.

14.) Beer and pizza with a great friend is the best therapy there is.

13.) Music—tangible evidence that someone, somewhere, sometime felt exactly as you’re feeling, and lived to tell the tale—can be as comforting as any religion.

12.) The most important, loveable, and inspirational things about the people who surround us are the things that make them different. Respect that. Appreciate that.

11.) Look on the bright side, and laugh at yourself. No matter what happens or how low you get—never lose your sense of humor.

10.) Everyone deserves another chance. Forgiveness is difficult, but liberating—the mark of a strong person. Grudges are easy, but heavy—they’ll only leave you cold.

9.) There are so many things about life over which we have no control. The past can’t be changed, nor the future certain. Only when you recognize and accept this can you actually live your life for all it’s worth.

8.) There isn’t just one person on this earth who is meant for you; be happy there are many. Love is not what Disney says it is, and often it isn’t enough. The white picket fence isn’t worth the torture of staying in a toxic relationship.

7.) Nobody’s indestructible. Be there for other people, but don’t forget to let them be there for you.

6.) Never regret anything. Make as many mistakes as possible, learn from them, let go, move on, repeat.

5.) Trust your instincts and don’t fear spontaneity. Some of my craziest decisions were the best I’ve ever made.

4.) There are no inherently bad people; only bad choices and bad circumstances. Everyone in this world does the best they can with the cards they’re dealt, and we all lose our way once in a while. Don’t be so quick to judge.

3.) You can’t please everyone—caring about what other people think of you is a horrible waste of time. Be good, but be yourself—and own it. If they don’t like it, fuck ‘em.

2.) There is a difference between compromise and sacrifice.  Never.  Ever.  Settle.

1.) Life really is short. Live accordingly. When we lose someone we love, we realize how much we allow ourselves to worry about trivial things. Always remind yourself what’s truly important and what won’t really matter in the end.

Well? Agree, disagree? Anything to add?

So This is the New Year?

“So this is the New Year… and I have no resolutions. No self-assigned penance… for problems with easy solutions.” -Death Cab for Cutie

I love that line. I realize that a new year is the epitome of a fresh start—a chance to get your ass in gear and turn things around. But why is it that we wait until January to make ridiculous once-a-year resolutions that were made for breaking? Why don’t we just look our shortcomings in the face as soon as we realize them and do something about it?

So 2010 sucked. I mean really blew. I’ll be the first one to tell you that. I don’t have to tell you why—you can read my previous posts and find out for yourself. But it wasn’t just me. I had plenty of family members, friends, and even minor acquaintances coming to me for help or advice because they, too, had one of the shittiest years of their lives, and I was almost at a loss to help them because I wanted it to end just as much as they did! Not to mention it was the year of the homo-hating tea party, natural disasters, celebrity deaths, the return of Jersey Shore, economic failure, and the craziest “politicians” since Palin herself (saying the craziest shit that’s ever been uttered in public).

I could go on forever, but I think you get the idea. On a scale of one to ten, 2010 was a 25 on the shitstorm spectrum. And just imagine how much worse it would have been if we’d all waited until the first of the year to “resolve” to fix it. But I didn’t, and so 2010 had its good moments, too, however delayed or outnumbered. I did, after all, escape the Midwest and find a job I love with a lovely title in a place I thoroughly enjoy. I also made some important cuts in my entourage (see: bitches n’ assho’s). People have healthcare, including the 9/11 first responders that most deserve it. Don’t Ask Don’t Tell was finally slaughtered. Babies were born. I’m sure Snooki took a few punches. My point is, it wasn’t a total loss. My other point is, you shouldn’t be waiting for a landmark like the New Year to make changes; you should make them as you go along, but that doesn’t mean it’s not as good a time as any to start reevaluating your goals and priorities.

(If you thought your year was bad, read this post, feel better, and learn to fucking laugh about it :: FUCK YOU, 2010)

So let’s just talk about the whole resolution thing for a second. The reason I think it’s so silly is because people often resolve to reach the most futile, self-deprecating, and narrow-minded goals. For example “I wanna look like Natalie Portman, so I resolve to pick up a spinning class and an eating disorder,” or “People don’t seem to like me, I’m going to find a new crowd and be more of an ass-kissing fake.” The most popular resolutions are to lose weight or make/save more money, and there’s nothing wrong with that in theory, but so many people do it for the wrong reasons in the wrong ways—if they actually stick with it at all.

How about something less superficial and more logical, like, “If I die of a heart attack because I’ve clogged all major arteries with mounds of salt, my children won’t have a mother.”? Or, “I’m kind of a huge dick. I should probably knock it the fuck off.” I’m just saying, I think we’d all be more successful if we made these goals for better reasons—like being better people—rather than trying to convince the world you can totally shed fifty pounds and buy sweet rims for the Honda this year, just because it’s what they expect.

In one of my yoga classes this week, the instructor was doing her usual touchy-feely psycho babble bullshit: blah, blah, lightness within, ponies and rainbows (I know, I’m the worst yogi ever), but she did say one thing that hit home. She said that she, in agreement with me and this post, didn’t necessarily think narrow resolutions were the best way to start the year. Instead, she said, she’s chosen a word to carve her year with—a word that will remind her every day to pinpoint what she’s missing and go after it. She chose the cheesy word “delight,” to encourage herself to do more things that make her happy, but I agree with her overarching theme. Choosing my word was easy… “ME.”

It may make me sound selfish, but I don’t care. I don’t want to make any resolutions to get in better shape or save more money. Yeah, I could stand to get up earlier, relax more, and maybe date guys that can spell, but I should be doing those things anyway. All of the time. Not just when everyone else is making their goals for the year. Besides, if I do it right, all those things become extensions of my “word.” I’m resolving to take the year as it comes, like I usually do, with the recognition that there’s only so much I can control about life and all that comes with it, but to remind myself that I matter, too, dammit. I don’t mind being the helpful one, the “bleeding heart” as my family and friends call it, but it’s about time I realize I can’t please everyone and focus on myself for awhile. Selfish or not, it’s a necessary endeavor, and therefore, I have declared 2011 the year of ME. My year. My only resolution is to do whatever the fuck I want for once in my life.

Though I’m not the most organized person and I hate making long-term plans, I often worry too much about money, or where I’m going to go when I inevitably become bored with where I am now. Too often, some of us put other people’s problems ahead of our own. I’m sure to not make decisions without considering how they’ll affect other people. Not this year. As long as I still behave like a somewhat responsible adult and ensure the bills are paid, the rest is fair game. Every month, I’ll do something I’ve never done. If I want to go to a film or music festival, I’ll buy tickets. If I want to take off for Vegas, or Malawi, I’ll go. If I want to jump out of an airplane, you bet your ass I’m going to jump. If I want to date three guys at once, of course I will. I’ll wear what I want, sleep where I want, act how I want, and enjoy my life without fear of consequence. And anyone wearing judging eyes right now can kiss my ass.

I’m not saying I won’t still be here when my friends and family need help or advice, and I still want to spend time with all of them. But I am saying I’m going to stop letting all of it consume my life. It’s great to be the person who’s there for other people, but when you let other people’s problems become yours, you no longer have the objective outsider’s perspective and advice they were looking for in the first place. I’m saying that this overachieving booknerd is going to throw caution to the wind and be a careless, self-involved asshole while she still can—before she has too much responsibility. And I don’t care who knows it. For the next year, it’s all about me, ME, meeeeeeeeeeeeee!!! And I. Can’t. Fucking. Wait. Oh, that’s right. I don’t have to. It starts right now and ends when I say it does. I look forward to telling you all about it. Happy New Year, bitches.

NOTE: If you’re coming up with excuses about how you don’t have the time or energy to try some new things this year, read these posts and reconsider (they don’t just apply to writing)::

Copywriting 101: What’s Your Excuse for Not Achieving Your Goals?

RedHead Writing: Going Mobile: On Movement

So… What’s your word? What will you do that might actually make this year better than the last?