Every time you say, “If she wouldn’t have drank so much, this wouldn’t have happened,” you are part of the problem.
Every time you say, “She is probably just after his money,” you are part of the problem.
And believe it or not, every time you say, “He was never convicted, only accused,” you are part of the problem.
Please. Stop saying those things. Stop saying anything that justifies, explains or downplays rape and sexual assault. If you can’t understand how insensitive and borderline cruel it is to say these things to a woman, let me help you understand.
Understand that one out of every six American women are victims of an attempted or completed rape. Let’s say you’re on Twitter, and you have 300 female followers. And you send out a tweet that defends Jameis Winston’s actions by saying, “He was never convicted, so why should I believe he did it?” You potentially just painfully disrespected 50 of your followers. And this doesn’t even count the men and women who have watched a friend or loved one go through this. If one out of every six women are victims, you can imagine how many people have had to stand by, quietly, and witness the law protect the monsters who violated their daughter, sister, wife, girlfriend, friend, or mother.
Using less than 140 characters, you just broke more than 50 hearts and brought them back to a very dark time in their lives.
What seems like a logical and innocent statement to you, is actually a statement that packs an emotional punch that can knock women back into a time that they would LOVE to forget.
Understand that 68% of sexual assaults are never even reported to police.
Why? Because 98% of rapists will never spend a single day in jail, and women know that. Women know that their chances of putting a rapist behind bars is slim to none.
Women know that just because a man wasn’t convicted, does not, in ANY way, prove that he is innocent.
Period.
And yes, one in every six women have a hard time believing that any woman would voluntarily put herself through the bullying, harassment and ridicule that comes along with accusing a man of rape just to get a little money. Especially when it comes to accusing a beloved public figure.
So understand that when a woman doesn’t believe your theory of, “She’s just saying this to get money,” she doesn’t believe it for a very good reason. She doesn’t respect that statement because she knows you wouldn’t say it if you were aware of how painful the process is.
I’m not saying that there aren’t women who have falsely accused a man of rape. I’m sure there are, and shame on them. Because not only do those women try to ruin a man’s character, but they also feed into the public’s desire to point fingers at the accuser. And that does more damage than they can even imagine.
Understand that victims of sexual assault are three times more likely to suffer from depression. They are six times more likely to suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. They are 13 times more likely to abuse alcohol and 26 times more likely to abuse drugs.
And they are four times more likely to commit suicide.
Understand that every time you make statements downplaying sexual assault or shaming a victim or defending the accused, these are the kind of people you are hurting. Fragile people. People who have had something taken from them that they can’t get back. People who are forever burdened with heavy trust issues. People who replace relationships with substances and destroy their lives because they don’t want to feel the pain. People who suffer, quietly, with no justice ever served.
Please, be careful with your words. I’m not naive enough to believe that everyone who reads this will take it seriously, but I do have hope that a few people will think twice before they tell a woman that she’s wrong to give the victim the benefit of the doubt. Or that she’s wrong to not like an athlete because of rape accusations.
There are enough people in this country who will defend and even idolize the accused. And you wonder why 98% of them never step foot inside a cell . . .
So I will never, ever apologize for giving women the benefit of the doubt. I will never, ever apologize for standing up for women by letting people know how offensive it is to downplay rape and sexual assault.
And if you think that makes me wrong, then you are part of the problem.
I am Catholic.
My boyfriend is an atheist.
Do you have any idea the amount of stress this kind of difference puts on our relationship?
None. At all.
It’s not because we avoid talking about religion. We have never treated religion like it was a sensitive subject that would only cause arguments. We have spent hours discussing my religious beliefs and his evolutionary beliefs, and every discussion ended with smiles and a goodnight kiss.
Sometimes, I think we need to be reminded that just because someone has different beliefs, passions or opinions, it doesn’t mean that they’re wrong. It doesn’t mean that you’re wrong, either.
I think that one of the biggest mistakes we make is that we get so focused on trying to prove our point that we forget to listen to theirs. Or we just write theirs off as ‘wrong,’ and we resort to calling them names. We forget that we can learn from others if we would just get the hell out of our own way.
We forget to be respectful. We forget that they have just as much of a right to their beliefs as we do to ours.
You know what happens when we forget these things? We get mean. I’ve done it too. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t like being mean. It doesn’t feel good, does it?
I know, there are probably people reading this right now thinking “She’s just a wishy-washy, hipster-ish liberal who wants everyone to get along, BOO HOO.”
And that’s fine. I’ve shared enough pro-Obama memes and articles to earn the liberal title, I know. And you better believe that if Joe Biden runs for office, you’ll see a lot more of the same coming from me. But I feel confident that those who really know me, outside of Twitter or Facebook, know that my passions and beliefs come from a good place. They know that I have a good heart.
It’s not a big secret that this country is currently facing crippling division. In every way.
Conservatives vs. Liberals.
Whites vs. Blacks.
Christian Beliefs vs. Gay Rights
#BlackLivesMatter vs. #BlueLivesMatter
The list seems to be growing every day, guys. We are so consumed with identifying and declaring loyalties to specific sides that somehow we are forgetting that we all have one thing in common. And it’s the most IMPORTANT thing: We are all human beings. We all have an expiration date. Why are we wasting so much of our limited time here fighting? If we keep going at this pace, filled with this much hatred toward opposition, we are headed for complete chaos and inevitable disaster. We can’t keep doing this to each other.
It has become so divided that there is no middle ground. There is no room for those who try to empathize with both sides. And that’s terrifying.
The other day I was talking to my dad about the Iran deal, and he said to me, “Bird . . . I feel sorry for the mess my generation is leaving yours. I don’t know how you guys can clean this up.”
And I don’t know how we can, either. But I do believe in baby steps.
I believe that if you enter into a conversation with someone who has different beliefs or opinions, you both should put your guards down. You’ll be amazed at what you can learn when you stop being defensive and start opening your mind.
I believe in being empathetic. Make an honest effort to put yourself in someone else’s shoes. Try to understand where they’re coming from instead of writing them off.
I believe in respect. Probably more than anything else. It’s OK to have a difference of opinion. It is not OK to belittle those who feel differently than you. Ever.
If nothing else, this generation seems to be pretty passionate. The thing about passion is that it can be used to create something beautiful or to destroy everything in its way. It’s an emotion that compels you. We need to learn how to guide it in a positive direction.
So about the Catholic and the atheist. . .
I’m pretty passionate about my faith.
He’s pretty passionate about evolution.
We discuss these topics openly, with respect.
We empathize without abandoning our beliefs.
We go to bed happy.
Loving those who are significantly different than you is as easy as you want it to be.
You just have to take the baby steps.
Dear Time Warner Cable,
I may be going out on a limb here in assuming that anyone in your customer service department is capable of reading since they clearly can’t listen or take direction, but I am livid, so it’s worth a shot.
In the past, I have heard only terrible things about your company, so I was pretty nervous about getting involved with you. However, when my new apartment complex sent us your information to get our cable and internet set up, it appeared I had no other choice.
Last Friday evening, I called you sign up for service. My boyfriend and I picked out the plan we wanted. It was listed at $89.99/month, and you very clearly told me that we can have that plan. Somehow, and I still haven’t figured out how, I ended up with a plan that was $126.99/month. I didn’t argue though because it included everything we want, (I think?) even though it was an additional $30/month. Then, you told me I had to pay a $50 security deposit along with the first month’s payment, and they were both due “right now.”
I did. I paid you $176.99 on Friday evening. With that plan, I was told that the installation fee is waived. And I reconfirmed that with one of your representatives three or four times, just to be safe.
We then set up a time for the cable and internet to be installed: Tuesday, between 9am and 10am.
On Saturday, we called to see if we could use my brother’s TWC equipment so that we can have internet before Tuesday. (He was moving into a place where he no longer needed it, so we thought it would be easier for EVERYONE to just hook that up to our new apartment.)
To our surprise, you said you could do that for us! We were so happy.
On Sunday, after we went to retrieve his TWC equipment, we called you to have it turned on.
You then said that you couldn’t do that because we were scheduled to have a technician come to our place on Tuesday morning, and that is when our billing statement begins.
At that point, you confirmed that someone was supposed to come out to install it. YOU. CONFIRMED. IT.
It is now 4pm on Tuesday. I still don’t have cable or internet installed. My boyfriend had to take the day off work so that he could be there when you came to install our equipment. After waiting for a few hours past the appointment time, he called, and you told him that there was no one coming. Instead, you said that the equipment was shipped and it was at our complex.
He checked with the office to see if anything had been delivered.
Nothing.
When he called you back to tell you that you lied, you said that the earliest you can send a technician out to fix YOUR MISTAKES is Thursday.
But that wasn’t even the most entertaining part of his conversation with you, was it? Do you remember what you said shortly after the ridiculous ‘Thursday’ comment?
You said that there is now an INSTALLATION FEE of almost $150.
Needless to say, he told you where to stick your imaginary installation fee.
Naturally, I took to Twitter to publicly embarrass you, and to NO ONE’S surprise, there seems to be an awful lot of unhappy TWC customers in this country.
Shocking, right?
The person running @TWC _Help was nice. I know he was only trying to save face during a brutal public attack, but at least he responded. When I told him that we are NOT going to take another day off work to accommodate you for YOUR screw up, he said you can send someone out on a day when we wouldn’t have to miss work.
I (not so) kindly explained that I was not waiting until Saturday to use the internet (that I already paid for) unless they were going to pay for the overages on my Verizon data plan.
No response.
So, let’s just to do a quick recap of all the things you managed to screw me on in only 4 days:
You gave me a more expensive plan that I didn’t want.
I paid everything, in full, to have it installed by Tuesday at 10am BY A TECHNICIAN.
I tried to make a situation easy for everyone by using TWC equipment after you told me that I could, and then you told me I couldn’t.
My boyfriend took the day off work to wait for a scheduled technician that never showed.
There was no technician scheduled to show, even though you told me twice that there was.
You said it was delivered for us to install it, even though that is NOT what we wanted.
You lied about the delivery.
You want one of us to take another day off work this week, missing 16+ hours of pay, because of your mistake(s).
Not only do you have ZERO intentions of reimbursing us for any part of this nightmare, but you also tried to charge an installation fee . . . for a plan that waives the installation fee.
Time Warner Cable,
Over and over again, you prove to everyone that you are completely incapable of doing anything right. If nothing else, I commend you for your consistency in doing everything you can to make everyone’s life more difficult whenever the opportunity arises. Your piss poor customer service is the exact reason why everyone is finding ways to get as far away from you as possible.
I have never met anyone who has had anything positive to say about you. Not one person. Ever.
So congratulations, Time Warner Cable.
I think I speak for a lot of people when I say that in a country filled with big, greedy businesses and horrific customer service, you stand alone in being the absolute worst of the worst.
All men are assholes and all women are crazy, and that’s just how relationships work.
When I was in college, I used to listen to Colin Cowherd during my late morning/early afternoon breaks. While I disagreed with most of what he said (and still do), there were a few moments when he dropped little wisdom bombs that I still remember and respect.
One day, he went on a rant about the dynamics of relationships and what every man and woman can expect from his or her partner.
“Every woman has some crazy in her, even if it’s just a little bit, it’s there,” he said.
“And every man is just kind of an asshole,” he explained.
Now, I know that there are people out there thinking that they are the exception to this statement, but I’m sure you’re not. If there are exceptions to this statement, I have yet to meet one. I also know that feminists hate when women are called “crazy,” but I make no apologies for saying it. I highly doubt there are a lot of feminists reading my blog anyway. Judging by the feminists on my Facebook newsfeed, I have come to the conclusion that if an article isn’t about feminism, they’re not reading it.
Also, I don’t trust anything that ends in ‘–ism’ or ‘–ist.’ Generally, when people identify with any group that ends in ‘–ist’, they are scary, mean or arrogant. I’m sure that there are actual exceptions to that rule, but I’m not interested in hearing them because I don’t care.
Which brings me to my original point: Every woman is at least a little crazy.
I’m crazy because I start crying every time I see elderly people doing things in public. If they’re on a date, I cry. If they’re walking through a parking lot, I cry. If they ask me a question, I cry.
Another thing that makes me crazy: I think I’m right about everything. And if I discover that I’m wrong about something mid-way through an argument, I still won’t admit that I’m wrong.
“I didn’t say I was wrong . . . I said MAYBE I was wrong.” –The closest I have ever come to admitting my wrong-ness
But my crazy doesn’t stop there. Oh, no. It gets so much worse.
I have this particularly charming way of drawing my own conclusions about things based off my own opinions and delivering said conclusions as honest-to-God FACTS.
Example: Last night, I was talking to my boyfriend about . . . I don’t even know, honestly. But I TOLD him that his ex-girlfriends smell like patchouli, wear slouchy hats and listen to whiney Indy music. (I’ve never met any of them, by the way, so I can’t even make these assumptions).
I have also TOLD him that he will one day leave me for a freckled girl who likes art and has a gap in her front teeth. She’ll be named after whatever singer her mom idolized, but she won’t listen to said singer because she’s a sucker for irony (Is that irony? I don’t even know). And she’s going to be a “free-spirit” who has some weird, colorful hairstyle and doesn’t need makeup to be pretty, but she’s not all that pretty without it, anyway. She’ll wear red lipstick and take selfies that show her biting her bottom lip like she’s spectacular, or something. And she’s going to listen to obscure bands that no one really cares about other than her.
AND I BET SHE KNOWS WHAT REAL IRONY IS.
As you can see, I’ve really given a lot of thought as to what my boyfriend’s super-whorish mistress will be like. I have literally created an entire person based off . . .
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
It is all just a part of the weird, crazy gene that makes us who we are, ladies.
You know how I know I’m not that crazy though? Because I recognize my crazy. I own my crazy. I even LAUGH about my crazy. If you have a woman who KNOWS that she’s got a little crazy in her, you should keep her. Believe us when we tell you that there are women out there that are SO crazy that they think their crazy is normal.
They’re just out there in the world, stalking you like it’s part of their daily routine. They’re showing up to your house, uninvited, like they’re doing you a favor. They’re the kind that will creep into your work parking lot, bust your windows with a crowbar because you said something stupid last night and then stop at Wendy’s on the way home like nothing happened.
Those are the ones you have to watch out for. If a woman refuses to acknowledge her crazy, she is the craziest.
And ladies, if you expect him to deal with your crazy, you have to be willing to accept that the man you love is just kind of an asshole. He just is. Even the best men I know are assholes.
Don’t ask him if your butt looks big or if you look fat because he’ll be honest and you might not like it.
Don’t expect him to notice that you got your hair done. He probably won’t.
Expect him to gawk at other women, right in front of you, and then tell you why you shouldn’t be mad.
He will eventually forget a birthday. Or an anniversary. Or a romantic holiday.
If he does remember your birthday or anniversary or a romantic holiday, you can expect, at least once, that he will suggest something ridiculous like watching Scarface and getting KFC to celebrate.
Expect him to buy you something “practical” for a birthday. He’ll make that mistake once. Only once.
My boyfriend is, quite honestly, the sweetest man I have ever known. Truly. And even HE is an asshole.
Not to me, obviously, because my craziness FAR outweighs his asshole-ness.
It’s all about finding the crazy-asshole balance that works for you, people.
Because that’s what love is.
❤
So, I am kind of a bitch, I guess. I never really thought I identified with the bitches of the world, but after today, I am questioning everything I thought I knew about myself.
I’m not the type of bitch that will say things to intentionally hurt feelings, nor am I the type of bitch that is materialistic in any way. I don’t care about brands or money. Obviously.
I am Brittany Mollis: Queen of Struggle Island.
I concluded that my “bitch type” stems directly from my geography. I am not a bitch because I want to be, and I refuse to take blame for my bitch-ness.
I am a special kind of bitch. I am a Northern bitch.
I had a bit of an epiphany today while sitting in a Starbucks drive-thru. How appropriate, right? I always knew I would have some kind of revelation while waiting for a venti cinnamon dolce/mocha iced coffee. Statistically it was bound to happen since I spend about half of my life and ¾ of my paychecks doing coffee related things. (SIDENOTE: The other half of my life is spent looking for my debit card/license/car keys/pants).
So anyway, I am in line at the drive-thru. My boyfriend was sitting next to me. He was born and raised in a place called Davie County.
First time I knew I was a Northern Bitch: When I got irritated by the fact that people choose to identify with a county rather than a city. I have never said to somebody, “I am from Trumbull County,” because why would I when I can just say I am from Niles? (Or Youngstown because nobody outside of Northeast Ohio knows what a “Niles” is). When someone asks you where you are originally from, you don’t say “AMERICA.” You say a state. Cities make up counties. States make up America.
Southerners, please understand that I am not trying to be a bitch about this. I just don’t understand.
BACK TO STARBUCKS.
Three minutes had passed, and I didn’t even get to order my drink yet, and the SUV in front of me just turned his car off.
“Oh, that’s good,” I said once I saw the taillights shut off, “I don’t understand why it takes so long for people to do things down here.”
“People just like enjoying moments down here,” Justin said to me.
I like enjoying moments too, guys. I do. And you know what makes moments more enjoyable? Iced coffee. You know what makes moments even more enjoyable than iced coffees? Iced coffees that you don’t have to wait 15 minutes to enjoy.
I see the taillights turn on again, and it’s my turn to order.
And then, predictably, my gas light turns on.
“Of course,” I said. “I am going to be really pissed if my car stalls in a Starbucks drive-thru because these people don’t know how to be quick.”
Justin was quiet while I was ridiculously exaggerating the severity of everything in that moment. I took his silence as my queue to keep complaining and coming up with conspiracy theories.
“You know, in Ohio, if I had to wait this long to get my coffee, I would pull up to the window, and they would give me a gift card for a free drink the next time I came here. It would say, ‘Sorry for the wait, the next one is on us,’ but this is just everyday life for you people. I come here all the time, and it’s always the same thing. People pull up to the window, and they want to sit there and chit-chat, and they don’t think about the people behind them who are running late for everything because you people obviously don’t have anywhere to be.”
For the record: I didn’t have anywhere to be today. Nowhere. I was not running late for anything. I was totally aware that everything coming out of my mouth sounded horrible. I hate it when you can HEAR yourself being a bitch, but you have bitchy diarrhea mouth, and the bitchy words just keep flowing out uncontrollably.
“You know what it is?” I said, “They see my Ohio plates. That’s what it is. They see my plates, and they know I am in a hurry, so they just want to screw with me.”
“Yes, Brittany,” he said. “That’s very likely . . . considering the people in front of you can’t even see your plates.”
I was in no mood for logic.
After about three years, we made it up to the window. I turned to Justin.
“Let me show you how it’s done. It’ll be so quick, you won’t even know what happened.”
Here’s what happened: I waited. And waited. And waited some more.
“Wow,” he said. “That was lightning fast. I almost got whiplash trying to see it before it was too late.”
I am fighting a war that I cannot win, friends.
You know what the most terrifying part about this is?
I am mellow compared to other Northerners. My family calls ME their human Valium.
Ya. Let that sink in.
Northern Bitches aren’t just in a perpetual state of hurry. We also think that we are right and everyone else is wrong. It is not nice, and I apologize. It’s just a very hard habit to break.
I was telling Justin about the time I got pulled over down here.
“I saw the lights, and I was just like, ‘Oh, this can’t possibly be for me, so I am just going to switch lanes so he can pass,’” I said. “And then he followed me over to the other lane, and I’m like, what the hell is this?”
“You were probably like, ‘Me? Doing something WRONG? Oh my, what an idea! Ha!’,” he said.
Then he acted out his version of how my conversation with the police officer probably went:
“Miss, are you aware that you were going 52 in a 35?”
“Officer, are you aware that I was obviously in a hurry, and your speedometer is clearly broken? And are you aware that you were tailing me rather closely, and your lights are really quite distracting? Are you aware that I should be pulling YOU over? Are you aware that I was listening to Beyonce, and I was just drunk in love?”
I couldn’t even be mad at his version of the story because I could see myself saying, or at least thinking, all of those things.
I’ll never be a Southern belle. I’ll never speak the dialect. I’ll probably never taste a chicken stew. I’ll never go “muddin,’” and I’ll probably never care about college basketball the way you want me to.
But thank you for being you, North Carolina. Thank you for having people who aren’t always in a rush. Thank you for having people who greet strangers for no reason other than for the sake of being polite. Thank you for having people who call strangers “sweetie” or “honey.” Thank you for having sweet tea at places other than McDonalds. Thank you for Cook-Out. Thank you for slowing me down long enough to have hilarious conversations while waiting (too long) at a Starbucks drive-thru.
You’re beautiful. And your residents are some of the most beautiful people I have ever met, inside and out.
Now, excuse me, I have to hurry up and get to bed.
#NorthernBitchesAlwaysInAHurry
Dear Worm,
If you’re reading this, you already know.
Today is your birthday, and I hate that I can’t be home to spend your day with you. I hate that I can’t buy you the best presents or make today feel a little more special. I can go on and on about the things I hate or the things I wish I could do, or I could tell you that I’m blessed to have you as my brother and thank you for a couple of things . . .
Thank you for always sharing. We share a lot of things. We share an address, a last name, memories, parents, Alaina, peanut butter . . . this list can be a blog of its own, really. Your kindness never goes unnoticed, and over the past year, I have been lucky enough to witness your heart grow. Figuratively, obviously. If it literally grew, you would probably be dead. Also, you’re never allowed to die. Like, ever. Ever.
Thank you for always listening. I’ve had a few really bad days since I’ve been here. Just a few. The kind of days that bring tears to your eyes and make you fall to your knees and pray. You didn’t know I did that because I never did it in front of you. But even on my worst days, I never want to go back because I know I have a best friend here that I can always count on to make me feel better. You’re never too busy to listen. Thank you. So much.
Thank you for being my favorite comedian.
Whether you’re drawing pictures, singing songs, quoting shows, imitating me or getting stung by bees, you always know what to say or do to make me laugh until I can’t breathe . . . and then I start fanning myself with my hands like it will somehow make me breathe again.
Thank you for believing in me. I promise that one day, you and I will look back on “the struggle” and smile because we overcame it, and we’ll know that we’re better people because of it . . . and because we had each other.
Thank you for being not only my first best friend, but for being my very BEST best friend. You and I have lost and outgrown other “best friends,” but I promise we will never lose each other. Because, again, you are never allowed to die. Ever.
Thank you for helping me grow. Thank you for the advice. Thank you for being a word factory. Thank you for your patience. Thank you for making me watch Archer and for letting me watch “Straight A’s” whenever I have a bad day. Thank you for spilling your venti white Starbucks on that computer at the car place. Thank you for stopping 20 times during every roadtrip because I have to pee every 30 seconds. Thank you for Sibling Saturdays, No Shower Sundays, and every other day over the past year.
I wouldn’t have made it without you.
Thank you. For everything.
Happy Birthday and love you mean it!!!
FIRE N ICE.
A few weeks ago, I let a man drive my car. As he was driving, he noticed that the engine light was on. Then he noticed that another light was on. It’s an exclamation mark, and I think it has something to do with the tires, but I really have no idea.
I turned on my MP3 player, and he noticed that pieces of it were missing and the screen was starting to turn black.
I got my phone out of my purse, and he saw that a piece of my phone is missing as well.
“Honey,” he said. “Why is everything you own broken?”
I was confused by the question. I was even moderately offended by it, though I know he wasn’t trying to be mean. To most people, if something is missing parts or doesn’t look exactly how it should, they consider it broken.
To me, things aren’t broken until they stop working.
The lights on my dashboard have been on for years. My car still gets me from point A to point B.
My MP3 player was given to me in 2008. It looks busted and tired, but it still plays my music.
I dropped my cellphone last year and shattered parts of it. But it still makes phone calls.
I don’t believe in replacing things simply because they look tired, old or used. I believe that if you have something special, something that is important to you, you keep it and you work with it until that something can’t function anymore. You keep trying for it until it stops trying for you.
From my experience, people think that if you look a certain way, you are expected to act a certain way. If you look nice, people assume that you have nice things. When they discover that you don’t, they may think that there is something wrong with you. But really, I just don’t care about things too much. I don’t care about money that much, either.
If I ever have extra money, I would much rather use it to create memories than to upgrade “things.” I would rather plan a trip somewhere to see my family than to spend it on a new cell phone. I’ve had a giant dent in my car for about a year now that I’ll probably never get fixed because every time I look at it, I laugh because I remember when I backed into that telephone pole for no reason other than I’m kind of a buffoon.
I like my broken things because I understand that I am kind of broken too. I like my broken things because my broken things have a history. If things don’t come with problems or struggles, I don’t really know what to do with them because I’m just not interested in easy things.
Often times, I make jokes about “the struggle,” but if I am being honest, I am completely in love with the struggle. It’s the only thing I have, every day, that makes me feel something. Last week, I couldn’t laugh because my own laughter made me cry, and it’s all because of the struggle. It’s just as beautiful as it is difficult. And there are days, once in a while, when I feel like I can’t take it anymore, but the struggle teaches you everything that is and isn’t important.
You’ll never appreciate how beautiful the little things are until you don’t have them.
You’ll never appreciate the broken things if everything you have is new.
I treat things like I treat people: I won’t quit on you until you quit on me.
FIRST THINGS FIRST: STOP SHARING THE BOOB VIDEO ON FACEBOOK, YOU CREEPS. I am serious. Nobody wants to see that. I promise.
While we’re on the subject of BOOBS THAT PISS ME OFF, let’s talk about the World Cup, shall we?
I’m just kidding. No, but seriously.
I have recently received several requests to write a blog about why soccer sucks, and I was thinking about cleverly titling this blog “Why Soccer Sucks,” but I don’t particularly like the word “sucks.” Also, I don’t know if you are familiar with the temperament of a soccer fan, but I Googled them, and they seem to be the type of person that I don’t really want to insult.
It is not a well-kept secret that I am not a fan of the game. I have never played it. I have never been interested in it. I just don’t get it. The first soccer game I ever watched, from start to finish, was Sunday’s USA game vs. Portugal. I figured I would give into the hype, for once, and give soccer a legitimate chance. I mean, I love baseball. I like football and basketball. I don’t mind boxing. I’ll even watch tennis . . . and the last few laps of a NASCAR race (I’m sorry, Mom and Dad). So I figured that if I can love/like/watch/tolerate all of these other sports, I should be able to discover something that I can like about soccer.
For about a day or two after the soccer match/game/whatever you people call it, I thought I could like it or, at the very least, tolerate it. Mostly because I saw the Algerian soccer team first, and at least five of them looked like my dream man.
But I was wrong. Not about the dream man part though.
I have several issues with not only the World Cup, but also the entire game of soccer and everything that comes with it.
If you like soccer, please, do not continue reading this. I don’t need my car set on fire or tear gas sprayed in my eyes. The interwebs depict a rather unfavorable picture of you, SOCCER FAN. Control yourselves, you behemoths. (Just kidding . . . kind of).
My first issue with soccer, like most sports fans who don’t like soccer, is the fact that you can play it with no hands. I just don’t know how to feel about a sport when I consider the fact that these people can run around a field with a Starbucks in one hand and a cell phone in another, and still be able to play it. I can hear the soccer fan reading this and saying out loud, “BUT THE GOALIE USES HIS HANDS!”
I know. Chill out.
I don’t trust a sport that decides it is a smarter, more athletic decision to, literally, use your HEAD to pass a ball when you have two hands at your disposal. Think of all the things that you do that require hands. So why doesn’t soccer just join the hand movement? Are you better than hands, soccer? Would it make you less athletic if you incorporated hands just like they do in every other sport? I don’t get it.
Typically, when a non-soccer fan tells a soccer fan that they have a problem with the “LOOK MA, NO HANDS!” issue, soccer fan says, “But they’re the best athletes in the world! All they do is run!”
But that doesn’t make the game any less boring, soccer fan.
Bruce Jenner was a tremendous athlete, but a lot of people probably forgot about him until he became a Kardashian. You know why? Have you ever watched a Decathlon? Me neither, but I assume it’s probably kind of boring. You have, however, seen an episode of the Kardashians. Maybe it was on purpose, maybe it was because your lady made you, but you have because we are a culture primarily dominated by celebrity infatuation and constant entertainment.
Here’s the thing: I am completely American. I am 100% aware that some of the things I say sound ignorant, uncultured, arrogant and/or rude, but it is part of the American culture. It just is.
While other country’s “best” athletes play soccer, America’s “best” athletes play other sports.
When I say America’s “BEST,” I am not talking about the most well-conditioned athletes. I am talking about the most captivating and entertaining athletes. That’s the difference of America and everyone else, and that is also the reason why soccer will never be as nationally popular as football, basketball or baseball. Our best athletes play our most popular sports.
Imagine our best athletes on the soccer field. Imagine how awesome it would be to see Dwight Howard at goalie instead of Tim Howard. Picture LeBron, Kobe and Kevin Durant running around that field. How cool would it be watching Tom Brady or Mike Trout (you’re welcome, Dad.) score a goal? THAT is the kind of team that would captivate us.
Now, I know that anyone who knows me is thinking, “What does this broad know about athletes? Her favorite athletes are chubby Hispanics and mediocre goofballs like Drew Gooden.”
I don’t really have a defense for that attack. I would obviously pay to see Miguel Cabrera or Victor Martinez run down a soccer field before they both inevitably collapsed at the halfway point, and I had to rush onto the field to resuscitate them. But who would I save first?
I don’t even know where I was going with this.
OH YA! SOCCER FAN!
So this is usually the point where soccer fan says, “But soccer is the most popular sport in the WORLD. It’s America that’s wrong!”
Well, go live somewhere else then, right? I mean, I don’t really know what to tell you. America is just different, I guess. Muhammad is the most popular name in the world, isn’t it? But how many people do you know who are named Muhammad? America just rolls differently than the world.
While I was watching the USA game, I noticed a few things that really grinded my gears about the actual “process” of soccer and the crowd reaction to some of it.
For example, every time a player would get within “scoring” distance, the crowd went bonkers. I just feel like that is unnecessary because, from what I can tell, “scoring” distance rarely ends with an actual goal. Soccer fans are constantly setting themselves up for disappointment, and who wants to live that way? I was sitting on the couch, watching the USA team try to kick the ball into the net, and as soon as they kicked it, I knew that it wasn’t going in, but soccer fans get all fired up about it, like “OH MY GOD IT WAS SO CLOSE!”
Meanwhile, I am sitting there like, “Oh, word? Are we talking about the goal attempt that concluded with the ball soaring over the net and into the stands? That was close, I guess?”
Imagine if you were watching a baseball game, and every time a batter made contact with the ball, everyone in the crowd assumed it was a home run. You would only be right MAYBE once or twice a game. That’s soccer. And it’s emotionally exhausting.
I don’t think I can respect a game that not only CAN end in a tie, but, from what I can gather, usually DOES end in a tie. There are winners, and there are losers. This goes out to you too, hockey fan.
My friend was on his way to work yesterday after watching the USA game. He was really excited for the game earlier, so when I found out they lost, I texted him “I’m sorry ” because I assumed that LOSING means that the journey is over. Because, you know, LOSING IS LOSING. He responded with “It’s OK. They still advance.”
Oh, my bad. How did I not know that losing meant advancement? Silly me, right?
Baseball has extra innings to declare a winner and a loser. Basketball has overtime to declare a WINNER and a LOSER.
I know that football CAN end in a tie, and the only reason I know that is because Donovan McNabb didn’t know that. And neither did I. BUT STILL. It rarely happens, so let’s move on.
Also, soccer fan, I refuse to call it football or “futbol.” It won’t ever happen. It’s like coming up to me with a banana in your hand and telling me to call it a pineapple. It’s not a pineapple because a pineapple is already a thing, and it is a separate entity than a banana. It’s a GOT DAMN BANANA. SOCCER IS A BANANA. FOOTBALL IS A PINEAPPLE.
…And don’t even get me STARTED on the flopping.
There is one thing I do appreciate about the World Cup, and while my interest in the event only lasted one game/match/whatever, I always like the patriotic sentiment. It is always nice to see people excited about this country, even if it is just for soccer. I don’t want to get all mushy and gross, but America is a beautiful place, and any time we have an opportunity to show our pride, I like it.
I also appreciate Tim Howard’s beard. And really, just Tim Howard in general.
GOD BLESS ‘MERICA.
You ever have one of those days? Like, the kind of day that just comes out of nowhere and says, “I am going to set you up to fail today, in every way possible, and it is going to be hilarious”?
I heard my alarm go off at 5:50 this morning.
I jumped out of bed at 7:30. I ran into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, threw on some powder, and I put a headband on the rats nest that was my hair. I flew into my closet, grabbed a shirt, jumped into some pants, and I was ready. I looked at myself in the mirror, and I said, “Well . . . I tried.”
But I didn’t really try, did I? It wasn’t until about noon that I realized I probably forgot to put on deodorant. And by “probably” I mean . . . definitely.
I had to leave the apartment at 7:50 because my gas tank, as usual, was on empty because on my way home from dinner last night, I thought to myself, “Oh, well I see that you are running on fumes right now, CAR, but instead of stopping at one of the 20 gas stations I will pass on my way home, I will just wait until I am running late in the morning to stop and put $10 in you.”
So I did that. And if I were going to sit through a press conference that early in the morning, I needed an iced coffee.
RANDOM BIRD RULE: It doesn’t matter how late I am running for anything, I always have time for an iced coffee. (RELATED BIRD RULE: It also doesn’t matter how broke I am, I always have enough money for an iced coffee. Even when I don’t.)
So I tell my phone, “Navigate to 100 Moore something-or-other, TOBACCOVILLE.”
My phone, predictably, comes back at me with “Sorry. That cannot be recognized,” BECAUSE WHY WOULD A GPS RECOGNIZE AN ADDRESS, RIGHT?
I threw my car in park at some Chinese place, and searched for ANYTHING in the lovely city of Tobaccoville that might get me close to where I needed to be.
Did I mention that I was going to a press conference where the governor was speaking? Because I think that’s an important detail when you are trying to imagine me running around looking like a police sketch of a homeless, bag lady.
Once I finally get to the real city of TOBACCOVILLE, I pull up to the security gate. And this when everything STARTS to go downhill.
I roll down my window, and I say to the security guard, “Hi, I’m Brittany from YES! Weekly, and I’m here for the press conference.”
Security man responds with, “Hi Brittany. Do you have a business card?”
I show him my press pass. He insists on the business card.
“Well, I have business cards . . . in my trunk.”
Just for the record, I don’t have a legitimate reason for why I have business cards in the trunk of my car instead of somewhere useful, but that’s just the story of me, I guess.
He looked just as confused as I did embarrassed, so I smiled at him. He told me to get a business card out of my trunk.
Mind you, there are about 6 cars waiting behind me, all thrilled about my antics, I’m sure.
Once I hand him the business card, he gives me a set of COMPLICATED (simple) directions to the media parking lot, and I remember shaking my head and saying “OK” a lot like I was paying attention, but I wasn’t.
I later found out that this campus is 2-million square feet, and I am prone to getting lost, so I really should have been paying attention to the security man.
I drove for a while. I ended up by some semis next to a sign that read “receiving,” and I concluded that I probably wasn’t supposed to be there. I then did what everyone does when they are lost . . . started following other cars.
I eventually found the parking lot, and as I pulled into a spot, led by another security man, I noticed cones on either side of the spots.
“Well, this will be fun getting out of.”
I then pulled into the spot, hit the curb, and did not even bother to reverse it a few inches.
“F*ck it,” I said out loud, to myself.
I get out of the car, and a gentleman walks over to me and says, “Are you from Trumbull County?”
Suddenly, I start to wonder how this stranger knew this information. I wonder how long he has been watching all of my buffoonery to be able to conclude that I am, in fact, from Trumbull County. Then I just assume it is because my hair looks like it hasn’t been washed since ‘Nam.
I looked like Trumbull County.
An outdated yet still realistic photo of Trumbull County.
“Ya . . . I am from Trumbull County.”
He smiled. Thank God.
For those who don’t know, apparently the “78” on your Ohio license plate signifies Trumbull County. You’re welcome.
Anyway, I went to the press conference, tweeted it, and at the very end, I put my phone in the governor’s face to take a picture of him:
My closeness probably made him feel uncomfortable, so being the gentleman he is, he politely said “hello,” and I said “Hi.”
A tall gentleman followed me out the door, and started talking to me. I thought he was just being nice, but he was actually sent to escort me back to the parking lot. Which, shockingly, IS the first time I have ever been escorted out of a building to a parking lot.
“It’s a big campus, so it’s easy to get lost,” tall man said.
“Funny story,” I said. “I actually got lost coming in, so I already know.”
I get to my car, and I see this nonsense is still happening:
OF COURSE I Instagrammed a picture of it because I knew DAMN WELL what was about to happen.
FLASHBACK TO MY DRIVING TEST AT AGE 18:
The instructor and I get into the car for the maneuverability portion of the test. I start backing out. All I can remember is a lot of “crunch” noises.
There were no surviving orange cones that day.
Driving instructor turns to me and said, “So. . . next week?”
“Yep.”
So, I go to back out.
Ahh, the crunch sound got me feeling all nostalgic.
The security man had to come rescue the cone. I rolled down my window and said, “It’s nice to relive my driving test.”
I laughed. He didn’t.
After all of this nonsense, I had to drive to Greensboro to interview a man who sells CHI hair products at hair shows all over the country as well as on QVC. It was on my way there that I realized I forgot deodorant, and I remembered what my hair looked like.
My day ended with me, sitting on a bench in downtown Winston-Salem, trying to find a building, when a homeless man with a plastic bag sat down next to me.
“You know anyone that wears a size 14 shoe?”
I hear him pull something out of the bag, and I didn’t want to look, but how was I supposed to resist?
A pair of giant, white sneakers. Scuffed with brown marks.
“Nope.”
“If you said that digging ditches for the rest of your life is what will make you happiest, we would buy you the shovel.” –My wonderful mother.
I have learned a lot over the past nine months. I have learned that breaking free from a comfort zone is just as beautiful as it is terrifying. In May of last year, I came to the realization that I needed to try something before I got too comfortable with the people and places I attached myself to. I felt like I had spent 20 years of my life climbing up a mountain with everyone I love a few steps behind me. I didn’t know what I was climbing for, really, but I knew there would come a time when the mountain couldn’t keep me. Last year, I reached that point. I ran out of breath and land.
It was me at the top of that mountain, with everyone I loved behind me. I had to decide if I wanted to stay on that mountain with my familiar faces or jump off and hope for the best.
So I jumped. But it wasn’t hope that I relied on to keep me alive. It wasn’t hope that got me a job. It wasn’t hope that paid my bills. It wasn’t hope that kept me from regretting my choice at something new when the something comfortable would have been a lot easier.
It was strength. It was confidence in myself. It was the support of my family.
I had something to prove to myself and to others.
I used to get so mad when people would call me “spoiled.”
Spoiled implies that you have been pampered. It implies that you do not appreciate things. To be spoiled is to be constantly on the receiving end of kindness without ever saying “thank you.” To be spoiled is to feel a sense of entitlement without going out in the world and earning your keep.
I was never any of that, but because my parents brought me coffee to work or let me stay at their home rent free, people assumed I was.
In reality, my parents just liked me. I know, that’s strange isn’t it? They just liked my company. I never went through a phase during my teen years when I viewed my parents as some sort of “fun Gestapo” out to destroy my social life and question my every move. They weren’t like that. They weren’t carefree hippies, either. They cared about my well-being and my education. They wanted to know who I was hanging out with or what I was doing. I even had a curfew. I think?
The point is that I was never spoiled. Anything that they have done, are doing, or will do for me is appreciated 100% of the time.
Even if what they are doing for me is simply listening to me.
I have learned that life’s problems tend to pile up, and if you don’t allow yourself to be vulnerable about your problems, they suffocate you.
Allow me to explain in a physical way.
Plug your nose. Open your mouth and inhale a tiny, little breath. Hold it for a second. Open your mouth again, and inhale a little breath again. Don’t exhale. Keep breathing in, a little bit at a time just with your mouth. Don’t exhale yet. Keep taking small breaths in.
Do it until your lungs are so filled, that another breath just isn’t possible.
That’s what problems feel like.
Now, exhale.
That’s what problems feel like when you have someone to talk to about them.
Like breaths, problems will be there until you die. Problems will still be there once you talk to someone about them, but it won’t feel like they’re killing you anymore.
You need people. And you can spend every hour of every day talking about how independent you are or how you can do everything by your damn self, but you absolutely, 100% need people. There is no way around that.
You may not need people financially. But contrary to popular belief, life isn’t all about money.
You may not need people romantically. But really, you want it. Even the most stubborn men and women who say “I love being single” are lying to some extent. Being single is fun sometimes because you don’t have to answer to people about your actions. You don’t have to consider feelings of someone else. But people have a natural longing to feel connected to something. Someone.
People need people.
I have learned that everything is temporary. And I know that seems like a very obvious statement, but people get so caught up in moments and feelings that they forget that it will inevitably end.
Your sadness will end as abruptly as your happiness did.
Relationships will end as strangely as they started.
Jobs will end. Feelings will end.
Everything ends, except for one thing.
Love. Real love.
Not the kind of love where you say “Oh, I love you,” but then two months later you’re down in Florida blocking his number from calling you and erasing him from social media because you ended it and didn’t want it turning into a big “thing” where he might tell you what a bitch you are. That’s not love. It never was.
Real love isn’t pretty. It doesn’t come with candlelight dinners or walks on the beach. That’s romance. That’s the stuff you do before you get to real love.
Real love is looking at somebody fall apart and wanting, more than anything, to help build them back up. Real love happens in private. It is screaming at somebody at the top of your lungs and having them scream back at you. But once the screaming stops, you both realize that whatever it was that you were fighting about wasn’t worth losing each other over.
Real love is putting someone else first and having that someone put you first. Not on a list of priorities, but on a list of “whose happiness matters.” If you both put each other first, then neither one of you will ever feel like runner-up in your relationship.
Real love doesn’t end. The relationship may end, but a part of you will always feel love toward a person. Someone may pass away, but that doesn’t mean your love dies with them.
If it’s real love, you’ll always feel it.
Real love is hearing my parents tell me that if I decided I want to dig ditches for a living, they will buy me a shovel.
I reached the top of another mountain today, and I had a choice to make.
I could have stayed on the mountain because I was proud to be there even though it was draining me both physically and mentally.
Or I could jump again and “find a way to make it work” with something else.
So of course I jumped. And if my history tells me anything, it is that I will be just fine.
brittanymollis 