I’m skeptical when it comes to advice, I don’t give it and I rarely ask for it! Now…I’m certainly not an overblown “Jack of All Trades Master of None," I’m merely a brilliant genius that chooses to rely on my wits and refuse to let other people influence my belief systems. LOL!
Advice is two-fold. There’s a responsibility on the speaker to provide, non-biased accurate information, and a greater responsibility on the listener to decipher and either apply or dismiss what’s being said. Although simplistic, it’s a process that’s not easily grasped. Mindsets differ and I learned the hard way that too much dependency on outside parties equates to chaos. Although people have good intentions, they don’t always say the right thing. And more often than not, those alleged kind words are blurred with fear, sabotage and insecurities.
Trust your instincts, revisit your mistakes and move forward at your own pace. More importantly, don’t let anyone speak at a higher volume than your inner voice and certainly do NOT let anyone detour your course.
I’m a princess (read: Suburban Royalty) however, I didn’t fall for the lame on a horse. There was no fairytale love at first sight, Nessun Dorma (see below if you have no idea what I’m talking about) isn’t ringing in my ears and I’ve yet to figure out how to strut on a cloud. It took about 27 years but I’m finally experiencing my first (last and only) REAL love. A healthily flawed and obsessive love that consumes you encourages personal growth and breathes life into every crevice. The type of love that replays old voicemails cherishes ticket stubs and scribbles Mr. & Mrs. on notepads.
Although I resided in “perfect” suburbia, I had an altered perception of love and companionship. My grandparents separated before I slid down the canal, my parents divorced when I was two and my mother’s second marriage…YIKES! I began building my emotional brick wall at an early age. I didn’t understand boys and they had absolutely NOOOO desire to understand me. I was invisible and the little experience I did have was grim; my prom date dumped me for a crotch friendly classmate with an oral fixation a week before the dance. My second boyfriend (the term is used loosely) was a closeted chubby chaser and kept it platonic in the daylight.
Jaded by these earlier disappointments I was bitterly stewing in my own misery and had a massive chip weighing down my shoulders. I was unhappy with myself and assumed that conflict equated to a mismatch and bailed out when things got sticky…until December 21, 2004.
The day we met was a jaw-dropping experience. I was immediately captivated by his spirit and blown away at his physical stature. I really thought I was being punked. Don’t get wrong, I dibbled and dabbled over the years (come on now, i’m sooo not a pilgrim) however no one compared to his deliciously hot exterior. We chatted for a minute and I knew there was something different about him, but as usual, I stayed in my emotional rut (read: comfort zone).
Moving at a natural progression, the emotional barriers began to crumble and I not only saw him I was able to see myself. More importantly, I understood that those past hurts were only monumental in my sub-conscious and slowly started to let go. He helped me erase the pains of my past and held my hand while I re-wrote my life story. Even amidst conflict, he stood strong and refused to let me give up. He helped to realize that my grandparents and my mother’s failed relationships had everything to do with their personal choices.
We surpass the unnecessary labels of “boyfriend” and “girlfriend,” our connection is too strong for something so common. We’ve become more than best friends, more than life mates and more than kindred spirits. He’s my right side, my teacher and my gentle giant. He’s a beautiful human being and I love him for who he is and not what I’m hoping he’ll become.
I’ll never grow tired of loving him, fighting (read: making up) with him and especially growing with him. I no longer run from conflict, nor do I hide behind a brick wall. For the first time in my life, affections are met with open arms and every “I Love You” resonates with the same genuine inflections as the first time.
I’ve come to understand that although love hurts, it also heals. It has the capacity to do great things if you simply trust it without question. I kept my heart hidden for so long and now its not only beating its found a permanent resting place on his sleeve.
Do you ever catch a glimpse of yourself and chuckle? This morning as I ordered my Grande Soy Carmel Latte through the drive thru window at Starbuck’s in my imported luxury vehicle in a costly sub-section of a metropolitan city, it hit me…I’m a glorified cliché. Granted, this was a bit much to deal with so early in the morning…but I’m a neurotic, obsessive compulsive and my brain has a mind of its own.
Intrigued by this new found discovery, I pulled out my blackberry and googled cliché. According to Webster’s, a cliché is (1) a trite, stereotyped expression, usually expressing a popular or common thought or idea that has lost originality, ingenuity, and impact by long overuse; (2) a person or character whose behavior is predictable or superficial.
Common? Superficial? Lost originality? YIKES! Why are there so many negative connotations surrounding this harmless word? Better yet, where had I gone astray? I decided to dig deeper into my psyche and began to replay my life in my head.
Like most people, the cause (and cure) of my problems has everything to do with my childhood; so of course that was the first (and only) stop. My formative years were spent in “perfect” suburbia filled with cul-de-sacs, PTA meetings, dance classes, church revivals, fancy socials and family sing-a-longs. (Yes, family sing-a-longs!) Everyone wore pastels, smiled with an eerie tight grin and had a drink in their hand Monday - Saturday and armed with the “Holy Word“ on Sunday. And to add insult to injury, my mother was homecoming court royalty, my sister weighed 98lbs and I was the fat kid (read: full-bodied introvert). They all seemed to move in a heavily clichéd scripted manner and I swore once I ventured outside of the white picket fence everything would change. I’d not only carve my own niche, I’d make my own choices and become an authentic individual.
From my perspective, clichés are nothing more than judgments and labels hidden behind a cute little mask. And as long as a group of people are operating at the same level of awareness, its ok. But if someone comes along with a different temperament, then it’s a problem. Granted, some people are heavily clichéd sheep, but the passion behind their decision making process makes them unique and their choices shouldn‘t be discredited or scoffed. The societal elite (read: White Wigs, according to my friend Kim) are so quick to compose nit picky diatribes passing judgment. Little do they know, no one is authentic…especially in 2008. We are all predictable, blurred interpretations of one another. Which is hysterical because I too, passed judgment on my family and our social circle (and if they're reading, please forgive me); only to move across the country to another “perfect” suburbia.
At that moment of epiphany I laughed, reached for my designer caffeine, threw on my oversized shades and headed home.
Ok…so I skimmed through my rule book of life and I can’t seem to find the Customer Service Right Hand to God Section! Is it me, or do the vast majority (read: 98%) have a pseudo-superiority complex and take pleasure in making our lives a living hell?
Not to disrespect the profession but how difficult is it to SIT, actively LISTEN and effectively ATTEND to our situations? DUDE (and DUDETTE) IT’S CALLED CUSTOMER SERVICE FOR A REASON! You’re paid to service the customer! You’re paid to answer our questions! You’re paid to offer detailed information! It’s not my fault you’re stuck in cubicle, nursing a headset migraine, breathing stale air all day. Get over yourselves!
Better yet, if you’re that unhappy with your life and/or job DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT! And if your ego is stroked by smacking your lips while giving unfounded NO’s and being an asshole (read: Kelly - Customer Service Manager, Ikea Atlanta)…well I have a special message for you, however the FCC won’t allow me to speak that freely.
And before anyone jumps to conclusions, I‘m not the token crazy customer that loves to call in and complain! I’m really not! I have better things to do with my time than be subjected to a sarcas-shtick phone jockey with a crappy attitude! I haaaaaaate talking on the phone, I’m sooooo not a chatter! I only use it, when necessary for business meetings and brief (read: 30 seconds or less) chats. My preferred forms of communication are text messages, emails and instant messenger…believe it or not, I’m a glorified introvert. LOL!
I am the Queen of Colloquialisms, however I've exhausted myself trying to come up with something witty and/or thought provoking for my blog. I swear I’ve spent the past three days in a cerebral twilight zone. I’m literally seconds away from having a temper tantrum and throwing my laptop down the garbage chute. Well, not really.
I think I'll zone out to Kenna's, "Make Sure They Can See My Face," and try again tomorrow.
Beauty fades and thighs spread but wit, ahh wit, that delicious spitfire nestled deep within, transcends beauty and superficial characteristics. Not to be confused with the bitterly sarcastic (read: meanies), the witted are harmless angles armed with intellectual humorous interjections. It’s what made Dorothy’s character stand out, keeps Judy on the air and led me to change my career.
WittyCotton tees are special little treats that are guaranteed to strike up a conversation or bring one to a screeching halt. My intent in not to offend, it’s to properly outfit and loosen up the masses…in a non-laxative way, of course. I’ve been told that life depicted through my vivid observation’s is quite entertaining, so I said, “What the hell!” I’m a witty girl (with a compassionate dark side) and everyone wears cotton so it’s an ideal match.
I’m a tactfully straightforward seasoned smart ass. I don’t take life or myself seriously, unless it’s white after labor day, hair decisions involving jheri curl kits and/or curl activator or cheap shoes. Those are deal breakers and I’m liable to foam at the mouth and hurt feelings. Seriously! Everyday is 24 hours for me to screw up, make amends, have a laugh and a cocktail (or three) and move on.
I’m currently working on additional products and hope to include the boys in the near future. If you have any questions (or complaints) please forward them to following email address, info@wittycotton.com.
Oh! And for the Eager Quality Assurance Engineers (read: Haters) let me save you the trouble of ripping me to shreds. This blog contains grammatical and/or syntax errors and an occasional typo. So you’re more than welcome to click that big red X in the upper right hand corner (or is the left?) corner and mosey on your way. But I know that you won’t because…hello! I make your life interesting. LOL!
