Sometimes Bad is Good

In the aftermath of the past few months, I've learned a lot about the people closest to me, as well as people in general, really. It's no huge revelation that times of grief and struggle can bring out the best in people...and also the worst. I've seen some of my best friends behave more amazingly than I even thought possible, and some of my family members have saved me from going absolutely nuts in ways that I couldn't have guessed I would respond to/need.

However, inevitably, some people have also disappointed while wallowing in their own darkness. (This is not directed at anyone specifically, and certainly not anyone who reads my blog...that I know of. I'm trying to speak generally here for a reason. Finger-pointing does no good, in my opinion.)

But something that has dawned on me recently is that we should be thankful for these less-than-stellar people in our lives.

"Are you taking crazy pills?" you ask.

No. Hear me out...

If we didn't have the bad friends and bad family members, I don't think we'd ever quite appreciate the good ones. If you don't know any differently, how can you be expected to recognize the true greatness of with what you've been blessed?

Linguist Ferdinand de Saussure described language as a formal system of differential elements, basically indicating that we understand words and signs because they are not something else. I would argue that this is also how we form an understanding of human behavior: we assess one's character based on how they stack up next to our already-established network of relationships, good and bad.

For example, one may decide that a new romantic interest is very promising and possess positive qualities because they are comparing those qualities and behaviors to their own repertoire of good and bad, unique to the definition within sizing up a mate...and otherwise. One may conclude that Mr. AdorableAtTheMoment is worth shaving one's legs because he is not like Mr. PummeledMySelfConfidence in terms of making his feelings/intentions known, ability to hold down a job, lack of body odor, etc. (I would argue that many of the differentials made in the dating realm relate directly to sizing up how well one speaks your love language, but there are certainly many variables to consider.)

Getting back to my point... SQUIRREL!

Rather than curse your exes (friends and/or lovers) and/or spurned family members, allow yourself to go through the inevitable grieving period of losing that relationship (and with it a wee bit of your faith in humanity), then pray for them (and their sad, stupid hearts), and count your blessings for those still in your life with whom you can grab some bubbly and walk it out.

[Femme Writes] A woman's work is never done...

On the 5th of every month, bloggers from around the world are open to write about rights and issues concerning women. First started by Shine and Marie, we’re hoping to bring a variety of women’s issues to the forefront to make people aware of what’s going on. For the month of June, we’ve chosen to write about Women in the Workplace. Please join us in telling us your stories, thoughts, and ideas on a monthly basis. To read previous installments, click here.

So many of y'all know that I'm an actress and stuff. (Well, I'm on hiatus at the moment, so technically right now I'm...well, nothing.) And while this is an incredibly tough industry to break into, I was blessed with the best foundation one could ask for: entrepreneurial parents.

There is a lot to be said for growing up in a household in which my parents never stopped thinking about their careers and--because they were both self-employed--were never off the clock. Nor did they have benefits, vacation/sick time, or anyone else to blame if everything went to hell. Needless-to-say, I was more than prepared for the hustling and endless hours that go into cultivating my career as an actress, all thanks to good ol' Mom and Dad.

But here's the coolest part: my mom, Queen of Everything Awesome, was not only her own boss, but she was the owner and operator of a MACHINE SHOP. She'd wake up every morning, make breakfast for her kids before school, fix her immaculate mane and apply individual lashes to each eye (this was a friggin' science, let me tell you), stop by Starbucks (apple, tree) and the donut shop to pick up treats for every one of her employees, then arrive at work in time to cool the place down and start the coffee pot before anyone arrived. Then she'd throw on her welding helmet and get to work, only breaking for lunch and her mani/pedi appointments, which she kept every other week. At the end of the day she'd scrub up, make sure everything was put away and prepared for the next day (nary a stray metal shard in sight), and come home to make dinner and spend time with her family.

Not only was she an amazing mother to my brother and I (and whoever else needed some motherly guidance...or a warm meal), regularly attending PTA meetings and hauling around whatever crap we were hawking for school fundraisers, but she also ran a very successful business in an industry where men call the shots and women fetch the coffee. (Which, to be fair, she did...but as a gesture of appreciation for her employees' contributions.) She regularly dealt with dudes sauntering into the shop, thinking they were going to pull a fast one on this sweet little southern belle sporting an oil-covered apron. Oh Lord, you've never seen a jaw drop so quickly! She'd put them in their place, usually with a little sass and a smile, and watch the contracts pile up.

My point (other than once again regaling you with stories about my lovely ma, forgive the detour) is that most of us women will at some point be written off and taken for granted because we have the audacity (/sarc) to be smart, business-savvy, and lovely to look at, and more than likely this will manifest at work. But I think it's worthwhile to acknowledge the bias, laugh (because sometimes you just have to giggle at naivete), and know that you are about to knock the socks off of anyone with whom you interact: co-workers, managers/bosses, clients/vendors, your husbands/wives, children, and friends.

Oh, and wielding an iron mallet also helps drive your point home. Just in case you were wondering.

[Women's Writes] Hormones are no joke, y'all...

On the 5th of every month, bloggers from around the world are open to write about rights and issues concerning women. First started by Shine and Marie, we’re hoping to bring a variety of women’s issues to the forefront to make people aware of what’s going on. For the month of May, we’ve chosen to write about Women’s Reproductive Rights and Issues. Please join us in telling us your stories, thoughts, and ideas on a monthly basis. To read the first installment, click here.

This post is not going to be some diatribe about freaking the eff out on the boyfriend/husband/stranger on the bus because “he sniffed funny” in your general direction, and then blaming this behavior on the monthly cycle we ladies know and loathe. (Oh please, Gods of Foot-in-Mouth, don’t let anyone post about said bashed topic.)

Nay, I’d like to talk about the mother eff of a conundrum in which we ladies find ourselves when it comes to selecting a birth control method. I’d like to be PC and include the boys in this, but...well...y’all have the luxury of a fairly simple choice between one of a few birth control methods, none of which suck even an eighth as much as the choices with which we’re left. (Not hating on y’all. I speak the truf.)

It has been a while since Natty got her groove back, but after a few years (SHUT UP) of being pill-free, I am all sorts of pissed off about my options when it comes to keeping my body sans baby when the time does come to once again frolic among the birds and bees. Having been on the pill for almost ten years (stop doing the math...yes, I was young) when I discontinued, I didn’t realize how pervasive were the effects of those little bastards (God bless ‘em) on my body, my moods, my appetite, my sex drive, etc. It’s wacky, y’all! And after two years (and counting...) of being hormone-free (well, of artificial, elective ones, anyway), I’ve never felt better or more capable of keeping my shit in check. (Which is pretty huge considering my "mood moments" sometimes resulted in hurled books--preferably large hardbacks--and abusive behavior toward customer services reps at any given utility company. But seriously, aside from that, I was an absolute peach. Don’t know why things didn’t work out with the dude.) (/sarc)

See, most of the truly effective methods of birth control are as such because of hormones. (I’m not really including abstinence in my discussion of BCMs; though, obviously, I don’t discount that method. I mean, HELLO.) They alter the way our bodies work (by halting ovulation, thinning the lining of the uterus, thickening the cervical mucus...sexy, right?) to ensure that there aren't any unplanned, pigtailed, baby Hot Messes running amuck.

Moreover, I believe that many of the unpleasant side effects are intended to keep the sex from happening in the first place because, let's face it, folks, there is no better insurance against babies than proceeding sans sexing. (Unless you're the Virgin Mary, in which case hormones are likely the least of your worries, Mommy Jesus.) I mean, being an emotional A-bomb is a sure fire way to keep from getting pregnant seeing as how NO ONE WANTS TO BE NEAR YOU when you're vacillating between tears and rage every two minutes.* I swear, it's a conspiracy that the no-baby pill/device-makers have expertly designed, making us ladies look like total basket cases so that we (a) don't steal their jobs (which we could likely do with our eyes closed and in five-inch Christian Louboutins) and (b) don't call our boyfriends/husbands/friendboys on their idiotic behavior. Clearly, we're hysterical. (/sarc) (duh.)

What the hell was I talking about?

Oh yeah, so it totally sucks that in order to utilize safe, effective birth control, I pretty much have to sacrifice my sound mind and lovely countenance. OR! I could use one of those hormone-free contraptions and only risk sacrificing the walls of my uterus.

Oh, the joys of being a lady. (Do I even need to tag this?! Me thinks not.)

*I realize that not everyone experiences the emotional ups-and-downs (to put it really effing mildly) that I did while on the pill, but none of the side effects are generally enjoyable. Except for the bigger boobs. Which I never got. Sonofa.

Jet Setter

You'd probably imagine I'm a bit high-maintenance given my penchant for pretty things, bubble baths, and Starbucks (in excess). (Did you catch the Oxford comma there? Yeah, good stuff.)

But you'd be wrong.

Well, kinda.

When it comes to packing for a trip, I am the most low maintenance gal you've ever seen. (Well, unless you've watched a lady hippie pack for a trip. She probably wins. But her idea of traveling is likely hitchhiking. And that involves nary more than a knapsack. And a knapsack? Not really something that is packed. Zing! I win again.)

I have a dinky carry-on roller that I've used for about a decade now, and I have mastered the art of filling this puppy to the brim with the bare essentials. I have survived five-day trips with one tiny rolling suitcase about the length of a standard pillow.

But how do I do this, you ask? I mean, I am the Queen of Beauty Products. My daily regimen alone should warrant half a traditional suitcase, yes?

No. My secret: sample sizes.

I also apply this basic principals of Tetris to packing, which makes the whole deal more efficient and fun. (Stop shaking your head at me. I'm awesome.)

This would probably be a good time to mention that if I am traveling, it is generally for a shoot, which means that my hair and makeup (and possibly wardrobe) will be provided by someone on set. All I have to do is show up looking clean, rested, and manicured.

But for a chronic insomniac whole tends to bite her cuticles and forgets about her eyebrows until they've reached Muppet status, that's asking a lot.

This Old Broad

I went out with three of my favorite girlfriends on Friday night for dinner and drinks in downtown Fort Worth. Sundance Square is especially festive this time of year, which made it the perfect destination for our Girls' Nite Out. It didn't dawn on me, however, until after we were parked and headed to our dining destination that this part of town tends to draw the college crowd away from the local university campus.

Upon walking into a popular collegiate watering hole, we found ourselves shocked at how old we all felt in such an environment. Long gone are the days of bar hopping on a regular basis and getting so hammered that we could barely recall our names, much less our decision to stop sleeping with anything that resembled Orlando Bloom (a net cast much too far when Beer Goggles were involved).

There were a few observations in particular that really made us feel like Golden Girls...

1. Young chicks are, apparently, impervious to temperature. Not one of the pathetic-excuse-for-a-dress-wearing girls had a jacket with them, despite the thirty-five degree weather that night. We, on the other hand, had to remove our coats, gloves, and scarves before we even made our way to the bar, unaware of the uncoolness of season-appropriate attire.

2. As we enjoyed our respective beers of choice, we noticed glass after glass of cherry vodka nightmare being thrown back by the young 'ens. I learned years ago that anything with a straw was a bad choice as far as bar drinks went, unless, of course, twisting your ankle on the walk home and runny mascara is your idea of a good time.

3. Flirtatious hair tosses are wasted on no one when you're twelve (actual age: twenty). A half-decade of time would teach these girls that you don't have to listen to every ounce of B.S. hurdled your way as Nickelback drones on in the background. It's OK to say, "Thanks, but no thanks," walk away, and take comfort in the fact that you can afford your own drink and a quiet inch of bar space to yourself. She will revel in this freedom. Eventually.

The lights came up at 2am and the bartenders took to shouting at the oblivious kids draped over the bar and making out in the corner. (Laughing and dancing aside, there really are some things that you shouldn't do as though no one were watching.) We put out our cigarettes, drained the last of our beers, layered ourselves back up in our winter garb, and headed out into the night. Laughing as we embraced our "old" age, we returned to Di's fancy new ride, a few of us passed out from exhaustion, and then parted ways to resume our respective, grown-up lives.

College life is a blast, no doubt. And the carefree nature that typifies our early-twenties is truly something special, not to be taken for granted. But by the end of our second decade on this planet, we should be thankful for the lessons we've learned, the memories we've made, and the friendships we've forged that allow us to retain that wonderful spark of youth without the abundance of bad decisions.

Well, less at least.

Platonic, My Ass

Ok, so I alluded to this topic in my last blog, and I feel it's only fair to elaborate on my feelings about "platonic" relationships...especially since a few of you insisted on it. (Have I told you lately that I love you?)

Disclaimer: I am very well aware that most hangups when it comes to relationships, romantic or...otherwise, are a product of the opinion-former's experiences. I have to agree with this and am quite certain an understanding of my history would inspire anyone to cast aside my stance as a reaction to having been burned by The Lie. But I have tried very diligently to employ the scientific method when developing this theory, and I still conclude I am correct.*

My theory: there is no such thing as a close, platonic relationship between a heterosexual man and a heterosexual woman (who are not related, though let's hope that is assumed).

"But Natalie," you say, "I have a guy friend who has been there for me for years and years and has never tried anything. My husband/boyfriend/current loser has met him and everything."

My reply: "He's secretly in love with you, dear, pining away while you carry on with Mr. Semi-Wonderful."

First of all, calm down. Put down the torches, dear villagers.

Second, think about it. Just for a second. I am not necessarily saying that all guy-girl friendships harbor a watch-the-kids-grow-old-together kind of affection, but I do think this arrangement can be very dangerous. I think any time a man/woman is close with a member of the opposite sex, they leave that unspoken door open to all sorts of mixed emotions and bad decisions. It seems that one person in the relationship inevitably feels more than the other. It could simply be a misguided "I've never been able to communicate with someone of the opposite sex before, ergo we have to get married" situation, but there's an inequality there nonetheless. An ulterior motive is present which will undoubtedly taint every action and/or piece of advice coming from this cherished friend. And, generally speaking, these feelings are unknown to the unsuspecting friend, which is where things go from subtly complicated to total disaster.

Please keep in mind, this theory is specific to close relationships. Catching up via Facebook with the cutie you sat next to in high school? Not a big deal (...for now). Having coffee with your long-time BBF (best boy friend) because you and your current flame got into another argument? Oh nelly...

I once heard on a radio station that some chef (citation is for shame, Nat) said that cheating is anything that dilutes the relationship. I couldn't agree with this more, and it really captures the spirit of my theory. If you have such a close bond with someone outside of your relationship or marriage, I think it is very easy to lean too heavily on that other person when the going gets tough, which it often will if you're doing it right. (This also goes for activities or social commitments that take away from QT, but that's another blog, too...)

Now, I am definitely a firm believer in same-sex close friendships and bouncing ideas off people, so I don't advocate enduring in silence until your partner can handle a good heart-to-heart. (I would have already been institutionalized had it not been for my amazing girlfriends.) But talking to someone of the opposite sex--whom you already deeply care for and trust--when you are vulnerable, sad, less-than-satisfied with your current mate (or just life in general) is a recipe for disaster and regret.

Since I wholeheartedly enjoy playing Devil's Advocate, I can acknowledge that sometimes the best relationships grow out of such troublesome circumstances. But go through the proper checks and balances before flipping the switch. If your mate isn't meeting your needs, give it an honest try so as to avoid nagging regret, maybe even seek counseling (nothing like an expensive, objective dose of reality), and if it's still a hot mess, be brave, know that you deserve better, and move on. Then, maybe you and your BBF can see if you are MFEO. But on your terms, in your time, and only because you can't imagine going through your current predicament without them, not just without someone. It's OK to be alone for a while. Because even if you're "alone," i.e. without a significant other, you're not really alone. If you don't have any one to call but your BBF, fix that. Don't be with someone by default. Everyone deserves the divine gift that is choice.

OK, I am sure that is enough babbling to effectively piss off everyone who read this. But I stand by my theory. I have observed it and experienced it sufficiently to hold strong to it. If you've been fortunate enough to have a successful BBF (or BGF, for you gents) relationship, my hat goes off to you and I would certainly love to hear how you've managed. But I do believe you and your friend would be the exception, not the rule. A beautiful exception, for sure, but an exception nonetheless.

*Though, who doesn't think they're correct? Being right is just more fun, yes?

Writing Like It's My Job or In Which I Build My Case for Landing a Literary Agent, Dammit

Ok, so lately I have been a little writing machine. It seems that every time someone "outs" me as a writer, I'm suddenly inundated with tasks that call for such talents. (And, as y'all well know, there is a hell of a lot more to writing than simply stringing together coherent sentences, though that is a battle in-and-of-itself for some. Comma splice.* That's all I have to say about that.)

I have spent the last few days working on the layout and text for a sample newsletter for our cosmetic dermatology clients (day job), as well as generating and editing the homepage text for a friend's business website. Now don't get me wrong: I absolutely love doing stuff like this. I'm in my element and simultaneously justifying the $50,000 my mother very generously forked over for me to go attend a New York City art school to study writing. (Hey, no one said a penchant for perfect grammar and voracious consumption of books is cost-effective.)

Quick interjection: I do realize the irony of blogging about writing. Thanks.

It occurred to me today that writing has been one of the few consistent passions in my life, right up there with acting. And french fries.* I've talked many times about writing a book and going after a literary agent with unyielding focus, most notably a few months ago (see over-zealous Facebook announcements). And I still plan to do that.

I mean, I'm a literary agent's dream:

Exhibit A - I love deadlines! They're like little To-Do lists you are required to complete on a regular basis. And you get paid for doing them, not to mention the priceless satisfaction one experiences with such closure. (Just nod and smile.)

Exhibit B - I think in written text. My thoughts are organized into precise little paragraphs. I swear, sometimes I hear the "Bing!" of a typewriter when I'm thinking. There's a thesaurus somewhere up there too. So writing is not exactly a stretch, especially if I can write in my own goofy voice. Which brings us to...

Exhibit C - I think I have a unique perspective. My voice isn't necessarily exceptional (as I know many notable bloggers and writers who have similar styles and outlooks), but I think my experiences are novel and amusing. That's a start, at least. In college I always had the technicalities down, but sucked (you won't see that on a Hit Parade, my friends) when it came to content. Now I've at least got some interesting stories to relay or from which to build.

A wise** professor once told me that a big step toward becoming a successful writer is accepting one's identity as a writer.*** I think we have to embrace that we look at the world far differently than, say, a painter or an engineer. We process thoughts and feelings through words. I know I'm preaching to the choir, but I should remind y'all that not everyone behaves this way. This is what makes you and me who we are, just as much as the people by whom we were raised (for better or for worse).

But, for what it's worth, this is something of our own. Something we can hold on to and know that we belong to a very sacred sect of people. Some of us write for fun, some to keep record, and some to make money. But regardless of our motivation, we are writers. In our hearts and souls.*

I don't know about you, but I can think of a worse fate.

*In my blog, I am allowed to use all the fragment sentences I want. Just so ya know.
**Who says adults can't be wise while sporting pigtails?!
***She also said to avoid using "one('s)" wherever possible, but I play by my rules on my damn blog. Capishe?

Why Edward Cullen is bad news...

I know the title of this post must come as a shock given my recent obsession with Twilight and, most notably, Edward Cullen. However, upon reflection, I’ve realized that all the same reasons I salivate every time his beautiful, pale mug comes on screen are the same reasons that I continue to be disappointed by guys.

(I am sure the villagers have become restless and are likely lighting the torches as I type this, but let me explain…)

Edward is beautiful. He is brooding, self-loathing and morose. He is well-read, well-spoken, well-dressed and well-mannered. His hair is perfection. And he plays the piano and sings in a manner that melts my innards. What’s not to like, right? OK…the whole vampire thing. Which, honestly, I’m not even going to hold against him because–let’s face it–vampires are hot and sexy. They always have been. (You saw Interview with a Vampire and we’ve all watched at least one episode of Buffy, intentionally or not.) So let me put my concerns with Edward in more general, relatable terms: he is the unattainable, emotionally-unavailable creature with which the masochistic girl within is irrevocably (nudge, nudge) bewitched.

Now, this would be a good time to mention that I have not finished the books and likely don’t know/understand a lot of the backstory when it comes to Mr. Cullen. So my analysis is based solely on the film and my interpretation of it. So there.

That having been said, I was one of those girls in high school who became hopelessly infatuated with any lost soul with great hair and an inkling of artistic ability. I would, willingly and repeatedly, blow off any sweet, well-adjusted, “normal” guy who was stupid enough to pay me any attention because he wasn’t interesting enough to me. As an adult I have turned down quite a few awesome, handsome guys because they “didn’t have a passion for anything” or they “didn’t seem to have a personality,” both statements that really boiled down to a lack of mystery because the poor fools were stupid enough to be open with their feelings for me. As much as I hate to say it, there really is something to the chase that builds the attraction. Not knowing where you stand, stealing glances at said guy and feeling the rush of catching his eye, imagining what the conversation will go like when you finally find yourselves face-to-face…that’s the stuff of fantasy and passion. Enter Edward.

He is my fantasy. There. I said it. When my mom watched the film with me last weekend, the very first words out of her mouth upon seeing Edward were, “Now I see why you keep watching this movie.” He’s my ultimate. (Don’t call the attendants just yet…I do realize he’s a fictional character.) But he, and all his baggage, represent exactly why I can’t seem to settle into a marriage, or even a healthy relationship for that matter. I don’t want Mike Newton. I don’t want the amiable, sweet-natured guy who plans innovative, romantic dates. I want the dude who I’ve somehow managed to dazzle into liking me, even for a fleeting second. And when you do finally land a guy like that, you want to shout it from the roof tops. But don’t even think about it…unless you are prepared for the barrage of naysayers and discouragers waiting to give you (what is really very sound) advice against being with him.

I guess this whole derranged stream of thought was sparked by the scene in which [SPOILER ALERT!] Edward and Bella pass by their high school peers leaving the diner, happy and carefree, as Bella flees for her life, having just about wrecked her father, because of her involvement with Edward. The impetus for this blog is pretty obvious in light of that scene, but I guess I just worry about the younger girls who watch Twilight and don’t understand what you’re getting into when you fall for a “real” Edward…not that I think guys like that really exist outside of our crafty little heads. I remember feeling the same way when I saw Baz Lurmann’s Romeo + Juliet and thinking, ‘I want a beautiful languisher like Romeo who is just all sorts of wrong for me.’ And though my desires haven’t changed (but rather shifted to a new, paler version of this beauty), I at least have the maturity (ahem) to know full-well what I am getting into when I start daydreaming about some new, beautiful disaster.

We females really are loony. Sorry.

The Organic Self

Though it would be appropriate given that it is Earth Day today, I don’t use “organic” to indicate the self is lacking in pesticides. Because…well…that would be a very strange dialectic. And I’m not high.

Do you ever take note of an interest, behavior or personality trait of yours and wonder, ‘Where did that come from?’ There seems to always be a few (if not many) personal characteristics that cannot be explained away by how one was raised or with whom one surrounds himself/herself. These are the facets of a person that really interest me because they seem to belong solely and unconditionally to that individual, which, in the cynical world in which I inhabit, is nothing short of amazing. True individuality and “spirit” are alive and well!

For example…

If you knew me in elementary school, I don’t have to explain to you that I was a geek. Chief among my unintentionally-humorous attributes were my choices in “fashion.” Much of this can be chalked up to the fact that it was the late-80s/early-90s, for which we should all be afforded some grace. But I wasn’t just your run of the mill scrunchy-sock-wearing, florescent-color-loving, side-ponytail-sporting kid…I was on a mission. I was going to save the world. I used to wear (quite regularly, if you want to know the truth) a bright red T-shirt on which my mother had so obligingly ironed on a montage of animals in a lush forest, resting beneath large letters that read, “SAVE THE RAINFOREST.” This (among other things) earned me the nickname “Rainforest Girl” from schoolmate Danny Zavala, who may some day choke on the plastic six-pack rings that I used to chase down and cut up with a fury. I’m just saying.

The whole point of this self-deprecating anecdote is to lay the groundwork for one of my own little idiosyncrasies: a life-long commitment to choices that improve my planet. I have maintained less ostentatious displays (thankfully!) of my desire to help the earth ever since then. But this “hang up” is all mine. Don’t get me wrong: my parents don’t go around dumping oil in oceans or mowing down rainforests. But I cultivated this little corner all by myself, all for myself. I am thankful to have found friends throughout the years who share my interest in the environment, and even the folks have listened to me rant a time or two about livestock conditions or side effects of global warming. Perhaps my interest is simply a side-effect of growing up in a small beach town with great schools and lots of funding for education programs with real-life implications. Who knows the reason? But that’s my point: for whatever rhyme or reason, some things stick and become part of who we are. We embrace them and incorporate them into our identity, no questions asked.

…But I still maintain that whales are scary as hell and shouldn’t be trusted.