The brave ones

Sometimes I get so wrapped up in the maddening minutiae of everyday life, so consumed by petty frustrations and deep-seated dissatisfactions, I have to take a minute to reflect and laugh. I mean, come on. I lead a charmed life. I have a crazy, loving family, wonderful friends, the cutest dog that ever lived, a safe place to sleep at night, and enough money to live comfortably. I'm healthy and have all my limbs, my eyesight (thank you, contacts and glasses!), my hearing, my sense of smell. So what do I have to complain about?

It's a valuable lesson, each and every time I learn it. Make a conscious effort to be thankful for the gifts you've been given. Be present. Don't take things for granted. Enjoy the good, and let the bad wash away. It's not always easy, but it's essential.

Certain things help me gain perspective when I'm feeling a little sorry for myself. There are people like Jana, whose words are as beautiful as her spirit, despite the challenges life throws at her. There's Molly, who lost her sense of smell in a horrific accident and has written about her experiences and her gradual recovery with astonishing grace. There are stories of atrocities and triumphs that are beyond my comprehension. I'm overwhelmed by the immensity of the human experience and the minuscule part I play. It makes me feel insignificant, happily so.

Lately, I've been increasingly fascinated by how brave people can be. How that bravery takes shape in the most surprising ways; how fluid the concept of bravery is. It can be sharing your dreams and disappointments with strangers, even if you remain anonymous. It can be quitting your job; standing up for an injustice; just getting out of bed in the morning. Often, I wish I were bolder, braver. I wish I had the courage to take risks. I wish I could quit my job, move across the country, open my own business. But week after month after year, I smother my ambitions with fear and doubt. I wish I were brave. I wish I were more like El.

See, my best friend, El, is one of the bravest people I've ever met, in so many spectacular ways. I'm still in awe of her, ten years after we met (ten years!). Yesterday, she called me from Africa, where's she's on a solo (!!) five-week vacation, spanning several countries on that continent. She's gone on safari, seen elephants and lions and hyenas and zebras and wildebeests, gone bungee jumping, white water rafting, and quad biking, made friends with just about everyone she's met, and documented the whole thing via pictures and diary entries. She also got into a car accident the other day that fractured her skull. Now, if this were me, I'd get on the first flight home, then huddle in bed for a month feeling sorry for myself. Not El. She's already out of the hospital, upbeat, finalizing the details for the last leg of her trip. She refuses to let that experience derail her trip. Ever since I've known her, she's been fearless -- she faces challenges like she's already conquered them. I wish I were like that. I want to be brave.

But for now, I'll just focus on being grateful. It's enough.

Attention: fruit sticker manufacturers

Dear fruit sticker manufacturers of America:

I applaud your efforts to help a clueless populace correctly identify produce - for all I know, this is boosting fresh fruit and vegetable consumption all across the land, and that's truly commendable. But MUST YOU make stickers that leave sticky residue behind, tear off precious fruit skin, and get under my fingernails every time? See, I happen to really like plum skin, and I've yet to encounter a sticker that peels off easily without taking a chunk of yummy fruit with it. What gives?

love,
me

Party observations

I have 15 mosquito bites on my feet. I don't have mosquito bites anywhere but my feet. This perplexes me.

Raw chicken sitting in the sink for almost 24 hours will produce a most unpleasant odor.

When one hosts one's family, one should not expect to step in blue gum the next morning.

Good friends will talk to your drunk, hopelessly lost brother for 20 minutes to guide him back to your house.

Sometimes, the quiet, conservative one will surprise you by smoking the hookah.

Good music unites. Drunk freestyle rap divides.

Fresh dog shit will end a game of frisbee in a hurry.

A diatribe regarding concert etiquette

Look, I think it's great that people still lose their minds over Led Zeppelin's music. The fact that a band like Zoso can pack the House of Blues and elicit screams of adoration from 10-year-olds and 60-year-olds alike speaks volumes about the impact Led Zeppelin has made on the world. I couldn't be more thrilled to be part of a shared experience built on my favorite band's legacy. I even love the ringing in my ears, the pain in my feet and calves, the exhaustion of standing for over 5 hours just for the chance to hear these legendary songs live. (You can sense a 'but' coming, can't you?)

But.

I do not appreciate people acting like lunatic assholes with a collective sense of entitlement. I don't like being shoved, grabbed, jostled, elbowed, and physically displaced. I don't like beer being spilled on my feet. I don't like the creepy stares of sleazy men. I don't think that going to a concert means I should expect to endure the jackass behavior of a bunch of rude, drunk, poorly behaved miscreants. Why is it considered the norm these days to experience physical and verbal abuse, a shower of questionable fluids, and fratty obnoxiousness at every concert you attend? What happened to people enjoying the music without actively trying to ruin the experiences of every other concertgoer? Is it really so difficult to respect other people's space, even in a crowded venue? Dozens of people around us seemed to manage just fine. In fact, if it weren't for the few cool people who just wanted to hear the music without accosting anyone else, I would have considered leaving.

And now for a few dedications:

To the guy in the red shirt who shoved his way to the front of the stage between sets: No, I don't want you to buy me a drink. Neither does your slutty girlfriend. Oh, and thanks for inviting the neverending chorus line of faux-lesbian tranny hookers to the party. They added so much to my concertgoing experience. You're truly a class act, sir.

To the guy at the end of the night: stumbling drunkenly into me as you lurch away from the bar is not an open invitation to further physical contact. Specifically, you don't have license to grab my crotch. Consider yourself lucky not to have a footprint in yours.

To the two middle-aged whores whose pitiful attempt to shove their way past us was thwarted by the 5 cool people at the concert: you are actually going to try to justify your shitty behavior? Seriously? Because you paid for a ticket, too? Well, clearly the hundreds of people behind you got in for free, right? You want to stand up front? GET HERE EARLIER. That's the way it works. Oh, and I'm pretty sure one of you is a man.

To the guy who's way too old to pull off the ironic hipster Buddy Holly glasses: stop it with the creepy grin. It does not make you look charming or interesting. It makes you look deranged, and like you have a secret dungeon in your house to which you lure unsuspecting victims.

To the SMU fucktards who predictably lost their shit when "Stairway to Heaven" started: I see you're toasting to the onset of puberty with your very first beers! How very exciting for you. I'm sad for every desperate, self-loathing girl who lowers her expectations enough to sleep with you.

And finally, to Zoso: you deserved better than the Future Frat Boys of America and Trannies on Parade. You were brilliant. If I ever get a chance to see you again, I'm there. With mace.

Observations

To the lady gardening at 8pm on a Sunday: if you're going to bend over like that, maybe next time you should rethink wearing the see-through thong under your mom jeans. Mmmkay?

There's a car parked on my walking route that has "I [Heart] U" painted on the inside of the driver's window. Every time I pass by, I simultaneously fight the urge to retch and feel a little pang of loneliness.

I sunburned my knees today.

I keep missing the Old 97's when they come through Dallas. It bums me out.

However, next Saturday, I'm going to see Zoso: A Tribute to Led Zeppelin. That more than makes up for missing the Old 97's. Sorry, Old 97's, but Zeppelin wins every time.

The fabulous (newly engaged!) Carley will be bringing her charm, wit, and smartass sense of humor to Dallas this week. And I get an excuse to be all kinds of girly with her. Score!

My brain age is 24. Suck it, other nerds!

The Lost finale last week blew my mind 18 separate times.

We sold all our Bonnaroo tickets. I'm glad we sold them, and I'm happy to get some money back, but I'm still a little upset at the way things turned out. It would have been a fantastic trip.

Jay and I roasted coffee last weekend. From green coffee beans. On the stovetop. And we kicked ass.

I mowed the lawn last weekend, and I neither passed out nor hurled. In fact, I did a pretty damn good job. This shouldn't be newsworthy, but for my out of shape ass, it was a major accomplishment. Even though it's eleventy million degrees outside, I vow to get back in shape this summer. Who's with me?