Train Your Men

So I was paddling today with the guys as usual, I think it's the whole "femenine energy" and aura thing about the girls practice that I can't stand. But anyway, today's practice was pretty intense. I thought I did really well, and it seemed like the guys thought so too. Everyone did really well today.

So usually no one makes any comments or anything about me being a girl, they've even made comments about how I'm one of the boys. I like to think that I belong there with them, that I'm accepted by them as an equal.

So apperently there was a party at one of their places later in the evening. The Steersman in my boat was talking about how they had a hot tub and beer and everything, sounded pretty cool. But then he made a joke that luckly no one seemed to notice and no one laughed at. He said, "and Nicole's going to do the pole dancing."

WHATTHEHELL!! What was that! Where did that come from? I turned around and gave him a dirty look to let him know that I wasn't cool with that remark at all, but now that I'm cooled off a little bit, I'm thinking it was just a joke gone wrong. We all kill jokes, maybe he just accidentally murdered one.

But that's SUCH a girl thing to say, "oh maybe he just made a mistake." A guy would have turned around and either punched him or told him off if it really crossed a line, but I'm thinking a guy would have said something in an equally laughing tone that was also equally embarrasing. Here's a few things I came up with:

"Yeah it was HIS idea to have the party at a gay bar, but I talked him out of it. Next time man, it's okay."

Then again, if I wanted to turn the situation around in my favor, I could have said "does that mean I'm invited?" And he probably would have given me directions and everything and I probably would have had a good time and no one would have expected me to pole dance or anything crazy.

But I think I picked the worse of all the routes, I let it go. Note to girls who are trying to fit in with guys, you can't just let things like that go all the time. It's setting your place if you don't establish how you want to be treated, you don't want your place to be set for you, because it will be set very low. You definately don't want to get walked all over.

So train your men, but be sly about it. If you take offense to something, you can't just outright call them on it unless you're ready to fight, you have to show them how it made you feel in an equally illusive way, and chances are they won't do it again.

Memorial Day Weekend

I woke up at 5am, then again at 7, then once more at 8. I think of C a lot, alternately between daydreaming about a future together, and chastising myself for doing so. The weather is warm. My micro-suede comforter is sweating along with me. I motivate myself - rise quickly and suddenly, grab a notebook, jot down my hour to hour duties for the day. By 9am I’m at the Laundromat, by 11:30, my clothes are hung and I’m in the shower. By Noon I’m sauteing Portobello mushrooms and tossing them on a bed of string beans. By 1pm I’m on the BX15 to the end of the line, a pier at the head of the West Side Greenway. By 2:20, I’ve rollerskated from Harlem to Chelsea Piers, having passed several Memorial Day Weekend extravaganzas such as free kayaking, Fleet Week at the Intrepid, and rocking yachts at the boat basin - their masts bending dramatically before a benign Jersey skyline. I stop to grab a Vitamin Water from a cart vendor, then skate down to Christopher Street - passing a skate park, a trapeze training school, and some MTV event where a boat that looks like it was designed by H.R. Giger is framed by a dozen Dr. Pepper ads.

My nano is shuffling through the odd mix - Gorillaz, Beethovan, Miles Davis, Manu Chao - and before I can pride myself in having eclectic tastes, I have to remind myself that such tastes are fairly typical of my generation. Cochrane next to Osbourne, Wagner next to The Pussycat Dolls; singular inclinations are frowned upon by the under 40 set, and I’m wondering if I shouldn’t maintain a certain focus on one genre just to remain differentiated - assuming I ever was. Zhuangzi, I believe, was the Chinese Philosopher who said it was better to be an expert at one thing, than to skim the surface of many.

I’m wondering if that isn’t the problem with so many of us now days, all our cultural obsessions, our graphic-fueled fetishes, if it isn’t Anime, it’s Star Wars, if it isn’t Harry Potter, it’s iTunes, and don’t forget we have to keep track of the thirty TV shows with either a developing plotline, or the changed life of a winner. Then again, I deal in none of that. I’ve systematically designed my life to be free of obsessions. I chucked my television years ago. I refuse to see a movie based off a comic book or video game. Yet, I’m still a monkey brain, still scattered, still jumping wildly from one project to the next, skimming the surfaces of all. Maybe it’s always an issue with regular people, people who aren’t geniuses or workaholics, people who aren’t madly in love with their own damn visceral lives.

So many people I know get excited for a hot minute about some passion, then the details become a reality: the money involved, the time to make, the energy to drum. Three weeks later I ask how their dream project is going, and I get a barrage of excuses, sometimes defensive like I’m nagging at them, sometimes embarrassed as if I put them in a clown suit - mostly sad. I’m no different. I put up a good front, I do stuff and it gets done, but its all mediocre, half assed, useless - I might as well not have done it at all. What’s the point of doing anything if it’s not going to change the world? I’m working my ass off only for the effect.

At Christopher Street, I take off my skates. Woozy from two hours on wheels, tinted with sun, I cross West Side highway and stumble past a slight, bald man idly smoking a cigarette in the threshold of a S&M store. Next to him, a leather-and-studs masked mannequin with a zipper for a mouth poses seductively. I buy tickets to see Fay Grimm for me and a friend at the IFC center. With two hours to kill, I lease a table at the West 3rd sliver wood and plexiglass, J&B’s (their banner “Coffee, Tea, Snapple, Juice”). My cell phone at home, I have nothing to fiddle with, nothing to beat my thumbs against, so I ogle two lovers kissing in front of an open window. They are punk kids, skinny. The girl is wearing tiger-striped tights under paisley butt-shorts. Her black bob frames an eggshell face slashed by a bloody mouth. The boy looks like something Gus Van Sant would photograph beautifully: lanky, mop haired, angel-eyed, clearly hairless under a military tee. They hold hands like people only do in plays, her hand over his, clasping at the fingers, in the air between their bellies. They part and she runs towards Bleecker Bob’s, but I can’t tell if she’s going inside or not. Behind me, in the shop, eight Upper West Side moms compare stylists and reapply lipstick. They are fit and tanned, slightly muscular from their aerobic boxing workouts, highlighted hair slashed this way and that, perfectly applied Humectress.

I toss my Iced Coffee and follow the girl in the Bleecker Bob’s, but she is not there. I peruse the perversely unkempt record collection and daydream about the turntable I plan to buy when I move into my new apartment which does not yet exist.

After the movie, which was terrible, my friend and I dine outdoors on Macdougal Street. Our conversation is stilted, as it usually is, but not without warmth and affection of a twenty year history. I order a champagne and marvel at how European the city can look and feel like when it wants too.

And I wonder where the girl went.

Yet another hysterical moment as a Teacher.

As exhausting as it can be, I have to say my life as a school teacher is beyond rewarding if only for the giggles.

This past year I’ve had the pleasure of sharing a class of very brilliant eleven and twelve year old girls with a few other homeroom coordinators. Today, I was hanging around at dismissal, amusing myself with the kids. They can actually see the end of the year, and so can I, so I enjoy the hang time with them.

I asked how one of my puppies was: I like to see what’s up in their lives. The more I know about you, the better I can relate to you and teach you. So…anyway, said kid (a ravenous Yankees fan and absolute sweetheart) told me that she was really excited because certain players were batting well and one guy was “off the DL list.”

And I’m like, “DL?” thinking some Yankee player was on the down low and having some hot loving with another player? “What does it stand for?”

I’m already imaging the National Coming Out as a Gay Yankee Day…

“Guess, Ms. Sangrante.” Says my very cool student.

I’m, of course, totally terrorized by own dementia.

“Uh, I dunno, tell me?”

“The Disabled List, Ms. Sangrante.” She’s always real sympathetic when I start to get stupid on her. As I am prone to do when my brain gets rattled by these girls running around me like yapping puppies. I try and correct their grammar, then they correct mine.

I’m so way wrong sometimes it scares me, but it’s ok – they think I’m funny.

(But they’re WAY funnier and TONS more fun!)

Day One! By Kara Buller

So this morning I was sitting in a café really angry that I don’t write. I was writing about being angry about not writing. (And now I am writing about writing about being angry about not being able to write!) Before this gets out of hand, let’s just present to you what I ended up writing, which is this little not-ready-for O magazine treatise on changed thinking. I entitle it “Day One.”

“Give me a child until he is seven and I will give you the man.” This is the provocative and somewhat odd statement made by a Jesuit priest which served as the premise for the landmark documentary series Seven Up! (I wonder if this statement also served as the premise for a series of a whole other kind, as the priest is sort of saying boys are just like men, but I’m going to have to give the old priest the benefit of the doubt and just thank him for prompting what is a basically delightful series about dreadfully boring British people. Really quiet a feat.) Less well known is my bold declaration, “Show me the employee on Day One, and I will tell you how she gets fired.” Day One, whether it starts a kindergarten year, a college class or a corporate career, contains within it the seeds of its own destruction--or success, if we are talking about lucky people. Like a federal investigator, or a steely-eyed and clench-jawed Jody Foster in an action flick, I like to look back upon all of my Day Ones and sort through the tiny actions to look for clues to the latest debacle. If you are well-situated, a yoga mat or bottle of Zoloft by your side, I encourage you to do the same. A review of my Day Ones, from pre-school to my first day on my last job, reveals a striking pattern.

1. We see a refusal to talk to others while simultaneously noting how terriby unfriendly everybody is. This is followed by a laborious comparison between me and everyone else present. Clothes, posture, speaking ability, complexion, hair care and style…all is carefully reviewed until I have determined who surpasses me on the attractiveness scale, and who trails behind. It’s important that this be continuously monitored, as ranking may change as the day passes.

2. Next we determine how exactly everyone in the room has it better than me, including the blind and mute burn victim in the wheelchair (usually these people are in remarkably good spirits given all things considered, and therefore, since we are weighing human happiness, they clearly have it far, far better. I don’t care if I can itch my eye, we’re talking about happiness, and last time I check, happiness is not itching your eye.)

3. Next I embark on my search for a loyal comrade, usually targeting the most unattractive and unstylish of the lot, in order to avoid any awkward refusals from the superiors of the group. Any unpleasantness or unpleasantries are to be avoided at all costs. I was raised Lutheran in a cold climate and not in the Mediterranean, Middle East or Long Island or wherever else it is that loud personalities come from, so this is how it is.

4. And finally, if you are like me and a sex and love addict, which honestly, I hope you are not, despite this thing we have in the programs where we say “Thank you God for making me a sex addict for it shows me a world I would have otherwise not known!”…but please. There comes with this addiction recovery thing a whole host of rituals, exercises, white-knuckling resistings and frantic running to phones to call sponsors whenever a trigger crosses your path, which is about as common as a pedestrian crossing the street, and which, come to think of it, in some cases is in fact a literal pedestrian crossing the street, and so you can see you are probably better off without this kind of to do list. But if you are a sex and love addict, you know that Day One also entails (or used to entail) a thorough assessing of the scene in order to ascertain who you would like to have sex with, who you might be able to have sex with and who you could definitely have sex with. What happens after that is very interesting, yes, but belongs in another personal essay, perhaps entitled, if I am at the top of my game, “Day Two.”

Day One involves such a tireless and anxious application of reviews, rankings, and re-rankings that it is entirely possible for the whole day to pass with me not actually attending Day One in any meaningful way at all. Day One is like the dropping of the frog into the boiling pot of water. Ask the frog about the cleanliness of the pot, the depth of the water, the view from inside, and he will look at you in wide frog-eyed wonder, if he is still alive. He was not in any condition to be taking notes. The wonderful difference between us human beings and the frog in this analogy is that while we can’t control the temperature of the water we are dropped into, we can control the temperature inside us. As I child, in my head there was a roaring, sweaty boil, a lid-shaking, boiling-over mess. Of course, now that I look back on it, it looks like I wasn’t dropped into boiling water at all, but rather a classroom full of nose-pickers and tattletales, pant-poopers and bed-wetters. And I’m talking about college. (Oh folks, that type of joke never grows old. I smile every time.) I’m able to look back and see that Day One was rendered a nightmare because of my hideously disfigured ideas about myself and the world. They include, but are not limited to, the following:

1. I am inherently deeply inferior to all people. Except of course those who I am deeply superior to.

2. People will not like me unless I am just like them. This is why it’s so important to lie.

3. Everyone got together before today to discuss all they needed to know about the day, and to agree to exclude me.

4. There is nothing I have to offer here. I’m real lucky they’re even letting me stay here. I should probably go home.

Dear reader, I have to say that this is, yes, a comical exaggeration of my world view. However, my beliefs have not been held up to a fun-house mirror but rather it’s as if they have been broadcast on television and have merely gained ten pounds. I have essentially gone through life feeling the above, and knew it to be somewhat irrational, but was nevertheless unable to shake it. It has by and large made for an unpleasant experience on those first days and has created speedbumps, hurdles and in some cases, it closed entire wings of the museum, if you will. And yes, I have been fired, thanks to my misshapen notions. While managing an independent bookstore, a job that should have a stress level equal to that of a Vermont yarn shop owner, I approached it with the tenacity and desperation of a reality show contestent. I was crushed when a co-worker did not like me. He was French Canadian and I did not know then that French Canadians don’t like anybody. So I set out to destroy him, a mission I was alone on, much to my disappointment this was a tactic entirely overlooked by the One-Minute Manager books. The owners of the bookstore eventually caught on to my abuse of my underling and saw fit to fire me. I know that on my first day on the job, along with my carefully selected outfit and lucky pen, I also showed up with a desperation and a need to be loved, that years later would hijack my brain and cause me to act in less than rational and compassionate ways. I’m happy to say that with work, in the form of almost incessant (yes…addict-like) reading of self-help books and books on Buddhism, therapy and 12 step programs, my beliefs have changed. On a good day, after meditation, a deep breath and, as we say in my many programs, a little conscious contact with my higher power, I now approach Day One knowing in my heart the following to be unalterably, unshakably true:

1. I am. I just kind am. I am not worse and no better than anyone here. Even the hot guy in the corner with the tight-fitting Yale Crew Team shirt. Maybe he stole the shirt from someone and feels guilty about it and finds it creepy that he still wears it. And on Day One! How insecure am I?! he thinks to himself. Or maybe he was on the crew team. Point is: we just don’t know.

2. People will like me. Or they won’t. Either way, best just to be honest. I’m tired of saying I like David Byrne or French literature. Actually, I’m not really too familiar with David Byrne or French literature and I should just say that.

3. Nobody got together beforehand. And as for the discussion they had regarding me: I wish.

4. I do have something to offer here. It may be the experience and knowledge I have gained during my 30 years on this planet or it may be my new-found ability to sit, be open and listen. Either way, I am here, I deserve to be here and I should not go home.

My Day Ones can still be a source of anxiety, but now I am able to see that anxiety, smile at it, and let it go. I know I will not die (well, it’s not likely, and if I do, well little I can do really). I know that whatever happens, it will eventually pass. If I start a terrible job I can leave. If a therapist seems unhelpful I can stop seeing her. If I accidentally offend someone I can apologize. There is a myriad of things that could happen, and a number of ways they can be fixed. The only certain thing is that I will learn, and that I will have to do all of this good stuff all over again on Day Two.

Happy Mother's Day! A Day Late, Sorry...

Hey, to all the mother's and wanna-be mothers; to all the women who have pets and know that their dog and three cats (like yours truly) are their children; to everyone who considers themselves a mother - even if it's because you have a boyfriend or girlfriend who can't dress themselves and you feel like you have to do it for them...

I raise a hand and give you a high five, and wish you a Happy Mother's Day!

I would also like to wish my own Mom a Happy Mother's Day...we went out to the movies and had a groovy time. I wrote her a little special something over at VoodooJive.com, if you care to take a look-see over yonder...

Sometimes women don't get credit when they should (from men & from other women), for raising kids. I know for a fact that my sister-in-law works her ASS off raising four children. Sure, someone could pipe up, "Well, who asked them to have so many kids?" okay...fine. Point for you. But, the fact is, they DID, and she does a damn good job raising those kids.

But then again...I am a little biased...lol

Hugs to one and all,

Billychic

Abingdon Theatre's The President & Her Mistress: Final Weekend! Go See It!

Rosie and I had a chance to go see The Abingdon Theatre Company's The President & Her Mistress recently, and it was a BLAST.

The time is 150 years into the future: women rule the world (dig it!). Men are considered a threat to civilization and have been imprisoned.

Rebecca Shine is the President of the World; an ex-country-western singer who has hired her family and lover as her Presidential aides and is having second thoughts about the fate of all those men...causing whispers of her impeachment on the horizon...and then there's the issue about the special injections that promise her a fountain of youth - but technology can always get you into trouble...

The set is FABulous - emphasis totally on the FAB. This is a play that doesn't take itself too seriously - and asks that that audience doesn't either. Rosie and I both loved it - and I saw many men in the theatre getting a kick out of it as well, so don't think that it was just a show for the ladies - although chicks will get an extra giggle out of it, no doubt.

Written by Jan Buttram (author of Texas Homos and The Parker Family Circus) and directed by Rob Urbinati, this play is just a hoot n' a half. An extra delight for me was seeing Buttram star in the show. Buttram plays the lead, Rebecca Shine, and does so with humor and grace, playing her character naturally and simply, allowing the script to take her places - not forcing it there. Her style grounds her character and allows the outrageousness of the other characters to run free. I know Jan and have never seen her act, and it was a delight. The show reminded me of Brazil meets Coal Miner's Daughter. lol

If you want an evening to just enjoy some zany theatre and laugh, then I really recommend The President and Her Mistress. This is the last weekend of the show - I meant to post this earlier and left my mind somewhere...so buy your tickets at Smarttix and go have some fun at the theatre! You'll be glad you did.

Redefining "Chick"

According to Wikipedia:

Chick may refer to one of these topics:

• A young bird (originally a dialectal form of chicken)
• Slang an attractive woman (the expression may be seen as derogatory)

Chick, Chica, Mamasita, they basically all mean the same in American Pop Culture. A Chick is a girl, not a woman, a girl. Chick is slightly less empowering than Bitch, almost as insulting, but can ironically double as a compliment. Whatever. But basically Chick is a girl.

Well me and my friends have redefined Chick. Here's what we've come up with:

A "chick" is any person, male or female, who doesn't shoot testosterone. My pals and I are all grapplers and martial artists, so we've been in quite a few athletic circles.

Take my friend Dave for example. Tall, solid, a neck like a gorilla and could probably eat a Russian wrestler for breakfast, plus he's a soldier. He owns a civilian model of an AK47 and almost got in trouble because he lent it to this guy who got arrested for running Hash. Definately NOT a Chick.

My friend Mike on the other hand, small, lean, skinny on the border of scrawny, knees the size of my elbows and elbows like knives, also fast as a whip and a basketball player. He can also do the greatest impression of a gay guy ever, and his sunglasses make him look totally metrosexual in Hollywood. I don't care what color his black belt is (oops) DEFINATELY Chick!

My friend Sid, Hockey player, Construction worker. Looks like kind of an average built guy, but he benches like 300lbs or something! He takes his kids paintballing every week, and ontop of that he used to be a Marine. Mark and I couldn't beat him up together at the same time! Not a chick, that guy definately has rocket fuel for breakfast and Testosterony with sauce for dinner.

Now, my friend Lynn, whose a mother of 2 and an elementary school teacher, lean, strong, former collegiate track star (who ran the freaking 400meter dash), not to mention she's a black belt. She tosses guys who are twice her size and still keeps her ghetto-fab feminine aire. NOT a Chick. That woman's a Man Eater!

My best sparring partner is a guy who is 18 years old, about 5'9-5'10 somewhere around there and 150lbs. He's wirey and squirly and exactly my size and strength, when we grapple we're like the energizer bunny, we just keep going and going and going and it'll take forever before he finally gets me (I tapped him once though!!!). C'mon, most definately a chick.

My friend Tyler though, wrestler, grappler, skater, gamer, definately a chick. Why? Because when he wrestles he wrestles "like whatever" as if he's half asleep and somehow ends up winning purely by accident! WTF lol. His hair is long, he's anorexic (he's a wrestler), he has more shoes than me, he's a complete Divo, knows the world revolves around his left foot. Yup, Chick!

And me, I guess I'm a chick too, as hard as it is to admit (Dammit, I benched 190lbs the other day and my arms are still as scragly as sticks). I'm a walking coat hanger who trips over absolutely nothing because I'm so dang tall. I'm ectomorphic and wirey and slip when I'm trying to act tough and love baby animals. Oh fine, I'm a chick.

Like I said, definition of Chick: Anyone who doesn't shoot testosterone. :)

Nutrisystem: My New Salvation

Okay, some of you know that in March I finally got fed up with the weight I had gained after being sick so long with Benign Positional Vertigo and Vestibular Migraines - two things that combined, made me just sit and eat and not move too much, lest the whole room be in a tailspin.

Oh, yeah - and there was that tragic accident with the Swiss Colony catalogue and all the food that found its way into my apartment during that time...I was eating cheese logs and brownies, hitting the remote control, and making Jabba the Hutt look like Twiggy. I had cheesecake crumbs everywhere and boxes of chocolates that originally I meant to give as gifts that made their way to my ass instead.

But I digress...

So, in the middle of March I ordered and received the Nutrisystem diet. Being the web rat and internet junkie that I am, you can rest assured the author was online checking out chat rooms and other venues of reliable *cough* sources of information to get an idea of what others thought of this diet. More people than not totally trashed it.

"Man, the food totally sucked. It tasted like cardboard."
"I didn't lose nearly as much weight as I thought I would."
"Man, the food totally sucked. It tasted like cardboard." (uh...did I mention that one already?)

So, although I was considering getting it, I was prepared for it to arrive and totally taste like ass.

But, I was also fully aware that a lot of these people were comparing a diet that is mostly meals that are based around convenience (almost all the dinners are microwaveable) and low cal (small portions) to what they were already eating...which, if they were anything like me, meant that they were a bunch of fat bastards chowing down on pizza and the Swiss Colony catalogue, and how the hell do you compare with that????



There were also a lot of success stories. And to be honest, I needed help. ANY help, and with that, and a few greenbacks, I made my first order - which arrived pretty quick.

I was like a kid at Christmas, opening the box of dinners, lunches, breakfasts - and dig it: desserts. Dude. I totally get to eat chocolate every single night if I want to. Megatron super yum chocolate, too - not some nasty fake stuff.

And check it out: the food tastes great. You add a protein and fruit or vegetable to almost every meal, so it's also getting me to eat healthier again. I eat lasagna, stir-fry, mac n' cheese (I dig on that big time)...when you add the meals they give you with the proteins (yogurt/milk/cottage cheese, etc) and veggies, you're totally full. I am eating and happy and groovy.

Let the results speak for themselves: I have lost 17 pounds so far in less than 2 months (combined with going back to the gym again like three-five days a week) and I'm eternally stoked. I feel healthier and happier than I have in months and months. And do I look better?

Uh, jah.

Before, you could have balanced a six-pack on my ass along with an ashtray and an hors d'oeuvres tray...maybe could have even squeezed in Hervé Villechaize along for the ride.



Now, I'm gettin' the PR Pimp Booty back...and diggin' it.

So, if you want to lose some weight and get a little healthier, I recommend: get thyself to the gym and order some Nutrisystem. It's working for me...

Feminists Don't Like Nicole, but She Says Hi Anyway

Hello World. Welcome to MY World. My name is Nicole, and I'll be invading your local blogosphere. Put your hands together and welcome me to Ornery Women or else!

I'm just kidding. Glad to be here. Hey, guess what happened to me today...!

So I went rowing today. I'm on an Outrigger Canoe team, we paddle the long 6-seat canoes in the open ocean. Today was the mens practice. I paddled yesterday too, but yesterday was the women's practice, which was hard in it's own way I guess.

Last night the girls workout was 16x5minute pieces, but we only got 10 of them done by 8pm (we started at 6:30pm). That practice was okay I guess, the 6-man team I was with stayed in front the entire practice. My forearms were pretty shot, but I guess anyone's would be after pulling the entire boat for an hour because you are the strongest one there.

Tonight's workout was supposedly the same thing, 16x5min pieces. The only difference is that when the guys say they're doing 16 sets, they're doing 16 sets, and they're getting them all done by 7:30 in time to get home for dinner, period.

They were technically seat-races to see who would sit where during races. We paddled out parallel to the surf for a while towards Malibu, and then they switched me into another boat. I sat seat 2 in that boat, which means that my job was to watch the Stroker in seat 1 who set the pace, and then set the pace for my side of the boat according to him. Our first set back with me in that boat, we flew! We beat out the other 2 boats by almost a full boat length. Then we did it again the next set. And the next set!

So then our head coach paddles over to our boat in his 1-man and says with a big smile "hey Nicole, why don't you forget about the girls team and just stay with us from now on okay." All the guys started laughing and saying "yeah she's one of the boys now." Coach added faciteously "of course I'll probably be the first coach in history to have his team DQ'd for having a girl in the boat." I knew it was all a joke of course, but it was a really good joke.

I'm not the only girl that goes out to the men's practice though. Sometimes a veteran girl will grab a seat in a boat with the guys or follow in a 1man, but that's usually when they miss a practice with the girls. The thing about them is that they always ask if they can come first and thank the guys for letting them paddle with them when they leave. Me, one time I came late for practice and had to go out in a 1-man because the boats already left. Another vet girl grabbed a spot with the dudes and when everyone got back, they all said "Hey Nicole, someone took your spot today."...My spot. I belong there.

People sometimes ask me why I'll opt to train with the men instead of the women. I usually try to say something vague along the lines of "eh, cuz" as if I don't really know, when really I know exactly why.

In my opinion, anything with the word "Women" before it should be systematically removed from our civilization (along with the movie "The Departed" which should be burned it's most atrocious ending). Womens Sports, Womens Lib, Womens Underwear, Womens Rights, all gotta go. Most feminists need to pretty much be lumped into the same category as Eco-terrorists, extremists, and Zealots seeing as they seem to have forgotten what they are fighting for.

Here's what I don't understand. We as women want equal rights, equal pay, equal freedom, but yet we want to be treated as completely seperate and as unequal as possible to men? Therefore we have "Women's Sports" and "Women's Studies" because we supposedly can't hit it up with the men, seperate everything as if men and women were completely different animals.

You know what, Seperate but Equal is UNCONSTITUTIONAL.

Therefore, "Powerpuff Football" is the biggest insult ever to hit the face of the planet and the Women's Olympic Hockey Team got beat by a high school boys team. All I know is that the women's rowing team and the mens rowing team have the same workout, yet the mens practice is always more intense and more organized. My question: Why don't the girls go hit it up with the guys? The real reason I train with the mens team: The best girl is the worse guy, so I don't want to be the "best girl."

I want more. I want other women to want more. I want other women to work for more. I want other women to WANT to work for more. But instead, feminists fight for lower standards in the workplace which is the real reason why women make 85 cents to a mans dollar...they don't work as much! Feminists seem to think that they have a right to not have to work as much or as hard, that some innate weakness prevents them from it. I call BULLSHIT.

I say let's stop letting Feminazis tell us that we're scientifically inferior to men, that we need accomodation, that we need to be treated "Seperate but Equal," and that studies prove it. Shit, no one ever did a study on me, was I supposed to show up for something? Must have missed the memo. I'm sick of women telling me I'm weak while men tell me I'm strong, and then women saying that men are holding us down! Let's stop letting "women's libbers" slash our pay by lowering standards in the workplace. We can carry our own weight just fine thank you. Don't forget who ran the factories in WWII when the men went off to war. YOU'RE NOT HELPING!

"Oh but there's no way a woman could make it in a man's world without help, all the discrimination, the harasment, the lack of support, men would never accept women as equals." Funny, the guys on my rowing team might disagree. I know there've been a lot of books written on the subject of how to suceed in a men's world. I'll save you some money and tell you the secret: Show up, pull your weight, leave the attitude at home. Do this young grasshopper, and you will be accepted.

Feminism, in my ever so humle opinion, lost its use after women could vote. Now society is pretty much mad at us because everything we want now is accomodations and not "rights." IMO, Screw Women's Rights, I want Equal Rights, and I CAN work just as hard as the boys aight!

So say it loud, say it proud, and mean what you say when you say "GIRL POWER!"

NAMI WALK pt. 2

It never even crossed my mind to give much detail on what this cause about and how it affects me personally. I frequently overlook the most obvious...thanks Billychic for pointing it out for me....so, here goes.

I am a 27 year old, single woman, with no children. Last year, I was diagnosed with ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder), Depression, OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder), and Anxiety & Panic Disorder. Yup, I am a handful, lol!!!
When some people listen to my run down, they tend to feel sorry for me...PLEASE DON'T!!! I don't need sympathy...I need to create awareness!
Ever since I can remember, I have had issues with concentration, crying a lot, repeating things over and over to assure myself I did what I was thinking but can never remember if I did, being panicky and extremely anxious which includes waking up in the middle of the night in a sweat and crying.
After I was diagnosed, I felt like a huge weight was lifted off of my shoulders. I finally knew what was "special" about me! Most people, with a mental illness, have always known there was something wrong, but they didn't know what it was. And, with all of the stigma's surrounding mental illness, most people are afraid, even embarrassed, to seek professional help.
Me, I'm the type of person that I just needs it fixed "by any means necessary"! Therapy and/meds, if your saying it's going to help me, I'm in!!!
My conclusion...I take five different medications. If I'm on them 100%...they work like a miracle...off of them, well, let's just say you'd probably be better just sending me an email because there is no real way of knowing what kind of day I'm having.

My experience has lead me to advocacy.....

NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) is a mental health organization that is dedicated to improving the lives of persons living with a serious mental illness. Through national organizations in every state and local communities across the country, they join together to meet the NAMI mission through advocacy, research, support, and education.

Through my experiences, in recent months, I found that most people are ignorant to the definition of mental illness. Ignorance isn't always bliss, i.e.. the Virginia Tech scenario. So, I vowed to tell everyone I know and be very open about my journey. I didn't contract this illness...I was given a gift through birth. And, If you do your research, you'll find that a lot famous, rich, & successful people have a mental illness of some sort. Many people become very successful once they have done the research, got diagnosed, received treatment, and learned how to manage whichever disease they have.

One thing I know I can do, off hand, is advocacy...which is one of the reasons I chose to walk with NAMI with my family and friends! If you are in NYC, I'd love for you to join us, if not...please do some research, and make a donation .

Here are a couple of things to think about;

*There is a statistic that says every 3 out of 4 people have some sort of mental illness. It could be you, your spouse, sibling, parent, best friend...wouldn't you want to do something to help support the one you love?

*If we diagnose children, prior to being a teenager, or even prior to becoming an adult, and make them comfortable with themselves, give them the proper education, support, and teach them how to manage their lives...could we prevent a Virginia Tech situation, Columbine situation...or could we have a higher graduating rate, and even have more students attending college...and excelling?

For everyone that has taken the time to either read this post, donate, read my blog... Inside of Me...Under Construction , friends, and those people that have been by my side throughout this interesting journey, without judgement, I want to thank you...I am truly blessed to have you as a part of my life...even if it is through the blogosphere!!!