Chewblacca: Puppies & Panties

Week Twelve Winner:

Holly, what a bad ass. She won by a landslide. 

And it is no surprise.

What an innocuous YET insidious subject ...

Good job Holly, that's what people like.

Here is your win (and because you are a bad ass—I made you a video too).

I have been a lover of panties almost as long as I have been a lover of dogs.

My affection for dogs was immediate ... my affliction with panties began around the age of fifteen when I got my first job (@Dunkin Donuts). 

As a wage earner, I could now afford luxury items. It didn't take long to find out that spending that cash on under things sent me over the moon.

Garter belts, thigh highs, brassieres, negligees, corsets ... I couldn't stop. 

But my main obsession—panties!

Panties pleased me. So be it.

I am a certified Victoria's Secret Angel. <----I made this up, but what it means is that I have spent a small fortune on V.S. panties—and I'm far from retired.

Unfortunately having a wealth of panties doesn't inherent a wealth of good sense and sometimes you do foolish things like leave your pantie$ on the floor. Oh, and I forgot to mention you have a puppy.

You may not have good sense, but your puppy definitely thinks you have good scents.

The proof is in the now crotchless style panties you never anticipated owning. Boys, puppies like your manties too. 

The bad news is—there is little that can be done about this habit. 

The good news is—they grow out of it.

I won't go on about the psychology behind it, because I am not qualified to do so ... but I heard you guys like videos. 

Framing the conversation: coolness is an optical illusion

week 11 winner

I always felt extremely fortunate to have perfect vision.  
You see*, there aren't many things I am good at. 
I don't wish to devalue myself. These are just the facts.

· I don't draw well
· I don't sing well
· I don't dance well
· I'm a woman so, of course, I can't drive well
· I'm not a very effective feminist ☝
· I don't take compliments well
· etcetera 

But I can burp at will and I can see perfectly, 20/20. 
Well, that is, I could see perfectly. 

This happened—March 19 2013

My vision declined rapidly and with seemingly little provocation. 

I remember it like it was six months ago, because it was six months ago. 
Spring semester, 2013. 

I was convinced that the projectors in my class rooms were out of focus. 
That's right. I convinced myself that multiple projectors were out of focus.
I would form my hands around my face in a vain attempt to refract my own light. I would even do this while watching TV. 
My boyfriend told me I needed glasses.
I said, "No way, that's silly. I have perfect vision". 

He would smile.

It started to really stress me out that I couldn't see. I did a myriad of web searches to sleuth out what disease I possibly had that was causing my blindness**. 
To no avail.
One day at school I had a full blown panic attack. 
I fell apart. I couldn't breath. I couldn't see. I could barely walk. 
I was scared.
I made an appointment with an optometrist.  

Once diagnosed with an astigmatism I had to wait several long weeks for my very expensive glasses. 
Once I received the glasses I had to find out all on my own what happens when you:
· open the dryer
· have a cup of hot tea
· are caught in the rain
· work in a restaurant 
· live in a humid climate
· go to hug people!
I mean, someone should've told me (srsly guys)!***

That is a lovely story Val, but aren't you supposed to write about wearing glasses without a prescription?

Yes. And here is my confession.

"These are cute. I wish I could wear glasses". 

These were the words I said [out loud] while I ogled my mother's glasses this past Winter break when she visited me.

I don't believe I invoked optical damage with this utterance …
but I do understand the visually gifted's eyewear envy. 
The glasses were cute in the same way someone else's child is … for a minute. 

Not knowing that desperate dependency to the glasses, I could adore them from a safe distance. 
In the same way that not having to take that child home [and keep him/her alive] defines a much different relationship.

I did my usual amount of research for this piece and I noticed a
unanimous outcry from the visually impaired who feel as though their handicap is being exploited for vanity. 
The comparison of using a walking cane when you do not need assistance walking was made often and there is much logic to this criticism. 
The idea that glasses are being elevated to chic, sexy, and stylish is of very little consolation. Most would trade this desired aesthetic for better vision any day. 
Counter arguments were made in the name of fashion owning that nothing is of limits when it comes to accessorizing; you don't have to be a ballerina to wear ballet flats, you don't have to be on a boat to wear a skipper's hat, and other bad examples. 

What I have learned is that I feel incredibly self conscious in my glasses.****
When people see me in my glasses I feel like they know that I have failed at something. 
Then I assume they know everything I have failed at. 

The glasses are meant to make me stronger, so I can see better. But when I wear them, I feel vulnerable. 

I know I am projecting these fears and I know it is nonsense to feel this way. 

My issue is that I haven't embraced my new identity, "needs glasses". 
I would still rather squint than admit I need help seeing, and this has been a running theme for me. 
The truth is, the ability to see confidently could, in fact, make me look confident. 

If people want to wear vanity frames, please, go ahead. 
Because even with a visual handicap — I can clearly see*^5 how little the fashion choices of other's matters. 

Srsly guys. *^6 

         Burberry Grace

      I take you out of your case

         I put you on my face

        And know I can see all over the place

*first and only pun
**I even peed on a stick
***I used internet shorthand! I'm all grown up now. Ew, I feel gross. I nd a shwr, brb. 
****Even though my boyfriend adores me in them
*****I lied, another pun
******srsly is seriously not a word, but I can clearly see how little the online/sms language choices of others matters. 

I srsly should not take credit for that poem, it's pretty lame.

Now Everyone Can Put It In My Mouth!

It has been ten weeks, you guys. You and I have been blogging together for ten beautiful weeks. 
Maybe I am getting ahead of myself but I think we are ready to share ourselves with more people.
More people, more ideas, more votes, more magic!

I am inviting you to like my Facebook page and to invite others to join.
All voting will occur on this page and now you will have the opportunity to get more votes for your suggestions. 

Did I mention how beautiful you and your suggestions are? 

Business as usual

• I post a request for topic ideas on the new Facebook page every Friday morning.
• You provide suggestions for the blog topic, if you are so inclined.
• Between Friday morning and Monday night you are also encouraged to vote for your favorite suggestions, this can include your own suggestion.
• The suggestion with the most votes Monday night will be the topic I write about.
• I will post the winner’s blog before the end of the day Friday.

This week's blog winner is: Matthew! 

You will see this winning blog posted to the site this Friday.

I totally had to wear prescription glasses to write this. 

Children Of The Corona Borealis

Congratulations Jeremy! 

What a mind blowing, vaginal numbing suggestion. 

Gross, I wish I hadn't said that. Too bad, I did.

When I think of space babies, and I sometimes do, I usually think along these lines: 

Jeremy's suggestion forced me to do some critical thinking about the topic, i.e. "googling". 

After a long afternoon of laying in bed watching the butt end of S1 Orange Is The New Black* I learned this; 

Jeremy will be devastated when I report to him that giving birth in space may not be a viable option. 

Childbirth is something I know very little about.  I saw a video of the aforementioned event early on in grade school and swore to never let that happen to me.  Instead I would adopt a baby boy, work shifts at McDonalds and dance ballet.  Laugh all you want, those were my goals when I was 6 (I have since met none of them).  I did make good on the "never let that happen to me" vow but only by way of an endocrine disease.   

 plie segue?

What I am saying is—childbirth in space? 

Unlikely. 

Even if two very patient people found a way to 

find 'the G' in zero G 

and their "John Travolta" successfully made it to someone's "Kirstie Allie". . .

I maintain that no women would be trusting enough to let someone perform an episiotomy while hurtling through space at an alarming rate. 

There are scientific implications that babies born in space may develop as fatheaded, off balance, weak, fragile, disproportionate (as we understand it to be), atrophied babies. 

That sounds like a lot of time in the NICU and the coffee is terrible there, boo to that.  

Enough nonsense.  It is still my self-prescribed job to satisfy Jeremy's curiosity. 

Launching: 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, you're supposed to click the video now. . .             

*Spoiler: Tan is the new Black

❮html❯ ❮body❯ ❮p❯do you like me? ❮ul❯ ❮li❯yes❮/li❯ ❮li❯no❮/li❯ ❮li❯maybe❮/li❯ ❮/ul❯ ❮/p❯ ❮/body❯ ❮/html❯

Congratulations on Kat's second win! This makes 2 weeks in a row Put It In My Mouth has experienced 2x wins. And what incredible suggestions this week. I can't wait for the next Stiff Competition Edition. 

It is my position that the desire to communicate with others, particularly friends, was never stronger for many of us than it was in grade school.  Perhaps that is because I believe those exchanges with our friends played such an integral role in defining who we were.  And perhaps that is because I believe that defining who we were as teenagers was one of the most vital and daunting of tasks for an adolescent. 
Some of us had jobs, hobbies, or passions at an early age that helped distinguish our character—but most of us just had friends.
And those friends meant everything.  

I remember [not clearly] countless days in which my sole motivation for going to school was to see and talk to friends.  You did not need to have a lot of friends, just the ones worth talking to, listening to, and sharing everything with.  I was lucky enough to have those friends.  

If you completed your grade school career before the mass diffusion of PDA's, pagers, mobile phones, laptops, and tablets then you remember how limited that vital communication with your peers could be. 
Beyond the brief respite between classes, the sometimes desolate lunch period, or the oscillating car or bus ride—face time with friends was also limited [this is long before FaceTime®—that was shit only the Jetsons were doing].

So you pass notes! Tons and tons of fµ©$ing notes! 

Sometimes whole notebooks full of notes. You develop up an uncanny ability to fold paper into tiny shapes that no human has ever thought of [without seeing one single origami video on YouTube®, because wtf is a YouTube?]. 
The notes would get intercepted by teachers or worse. . . the boy/girl you liked. . . even though there were specific instructions written on the front in seven different shades of pastel pen,
"For Robin's Eyes ONLY"!!!!!!!!!
What, are they stupid? 

If you are like me—you consequently find yourself with boxes of these "mementos of teenage angst", as Kat fairly describes them.  If you are like my little [awesome] sister then you consequently find yourself deciding it is time to get rid of these mementos, but not before skimming them all for reminders of how completely stupid teenagers are [as she fairly describes it]. 

As a result of this behavior it would be fair to say that myself and others romanticize this note-passing period in our timeline of communication, that we are nostalgic for this tactile form of expression. 
. . .the idea that the thoughts that are in our head can literally be put into the hands of another person. . .  
Well of course thats romantic, and us romantics still participate in this behavior. . . but come on. . . we finally get to be the Jetsons!* 

I admit that adopting this sentiment about living in the digital age while holding on to my analog past happened forcibly and just a couple of years ago.  I was making a film for class and my shot list designated that Madison was to despondently flip through a photo album. This made no sense to someone (a younger peer) and it was only then that I realized. . . nobody [young] keeps photo albums and they especially don't understand the (albeit emo) habit of digging them out and obsessively pouring over them. 
So I rewrote the scene to have Madison clicking through her facebook photos and even as a romantic it was hard to capture her despondence without tangible evidence like a photo album. 

See for yourself. [shameless effort to make you watch my shameful student film]

The teenage angst that Kat wrote of in her winning suggestion, well I am sure it still exists.  But [as a romantic**] I wish to believe it has lessened.  Teenage angst is often related to the frustration of not clearly recognizing your personal identity.  Many of us suffer this for a long time and we are always susceptible to encountering such a feeling again.  
In the digital age teenagers today can construct their identity in a collage of pictures, emoticons, and snarky status updates. They can express who they are by listing the bands, movies, books, and television programs they like.  They can be cool by association by disclosing who they are with and where they are at. They can endow themselves with just about anything they want. 
Teenagers can fully contrive an identity and more significantly
they can edit it when necessary.

Am I saying that social media is the answer to teenage angst? 
No.
Certainly not [although there is nothing angsty about 5 dozen selfies].
But as powerful [and potentially harmful] that these digital tools are, perhaps they can wield some good. Suppose wrestling with your identity crisis by way of an accessible CMS could give these youths some amount of ease, if only temporary. 
Teenagers today can hoard their angsty emotions in an online archive for anyone to see, or to pour over later if they so decide. 
But if we are lucky most of them will opt into the "never have to relive this moment again" electronic communication facilitated by snapchat.
Because I'll be real, unless today's teenagers can pull off some classy John Hughes shit, I don't want to stumble upon their angsty mementos while searching for online porn. ***

In case you were wondering, my teenage angst looked a lot like this:

talk hard

Well, perhaps I just imagined it that way. 

I believe it probably looked a lot more like this: 

exactly like this



Thank you to my beautiful friend Alissa for taking the time out of her busy back to school schedule to confirm Kat's suspicion that teenagers no longer pass notes.
RIP 
Notes
then-now

* We only passed notes because we didn't have electronic devices.  
** Let's be honest. I'm very much a cynic too. 
*** I don't really feel that way. That's a little dramatic. Probably just some residual teen angst.