Al's Update

Hey, folks! While I don't write I.S.W.A.R. posts anymore, I'm still writing. 

Here's my blog: www.kellywolflovesdragons.com

Here I am on FB: www.facebook.com/kellywolflovesdragons

And I've published a couple of books:

Aret ~ goo.gl/A0Cn4H 

Toys of the Abradati (The Stories of Aret Book Two) ~ goo.gl/5QPyJE

They're about dragons. Like all good things.

:)

All Done!

I totally need this outfit

That's all, folks!  The I.S.W.A.R. blog has reached its end.  I've had a good time writing this silliness over the past few years, and now it's time to call it quits.

Here I am congratulating myself on a job well done

In truth, I didn't meet the goals I set forth at the advent of this blog.  My intentions were to stop talking to myself like a crazy person and increase my capacity for magnanimity.  Neither of those things happened.  But I did have a lot of fun, and that's important.  I think I'll make that my retroactive blog goal.  JUST HAVE FUN!  WHEE!

Many thanks to I.S.W.A.R. readers & supporters.  It's been very enjoyable overdosing y'all with absurd levels of merry snarkitude.

:)

Loving Kindness, My Ass

Last summer, my husband and I went to see the Dalai Lama open for the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

(Actually, RHCP's midday set was a complete surprise.  We'd heard there would be a musical guest after the Dalai Lama spoke, and it turned out to be everyone's favorite cock sock exhibitionists from the 1990s.)

For several hours before the Chili Peppers took the stage, thousands of us sat quietly, listening to His Holiness speak about compassion, loving kindness, and respecting all precious life.  The ideas are simple, ancient, and beautiful, and as I listened to his words and gazed around at a stadium full of seemingly thoughtful folks, their shoulders draped in white Tibetan khata, I momentarily allowed myself to think, Perhaps there is hope for humanity yet.

Such is the emotional whimsy of the closet idealist.  When I witness any little thing suggesting human goodness, I get swept up in a wave of hope.  But when it comes to feelings about humanity, my idealism pendulum is subject to wild swings.  It can go from "Yahoo, things are gonna get better!" to "All is lost.  These stupid fuckers will get exactly what they deserve," in a matter of moments, then back to "Look - someone did something not horrible!  Yay for humans!" before swinging right back to "Fuck the world.  We should just blow it up already."  And that can happen during the course of one half-hour reality tv show.  (One of the many reasons I don't watch tv.  Those pendulum swings are exhausting.)

So, in honor of my ever-swinging idealist pendulum, let us return to Dalai Lama Day and cue Total Jerkface (I'll call him TJ for short).

After the Dalai Lama's morning talk, we broke for lunch and returned for an afternoon panel discussion.  As we filed back into the stadium, several dozen of us got stuck behind a young man who was weaving back and forth across the staircase.  That would be TJ, and he was doing something very important:  updating his Facebook status on his phone.  The rest of us waited patiently as he mindlessly blocked our passage, lost in the virtual world of pretend celebrity and delusional self-importance that is American social media.

Pics or it didn't happen, right?  So here's a picture of my lunch!   
LIKE IT!  LOVE IT!!  TELL ME HOW DELICIOUS IT LOOKS!!!!

When TJ finally updated his stupid status, moved his ass up the stairs and arrived at his row, he found someone standing in his way.  After waiting for about half a second, TJ released a pained, exasperated sigh and yelled down the row to his friend, "I don't know what the fuck this guy is doing!"  He proceeded to shove past the guy and into the row.  The guy almost fell, but TJ didn't seem to notice.  Or maybe he did notice, but didn't care.

A graphic depiction of TJ's inner workings

And here is what happened in my brain when I saw TJ shove that guy:   

OF COURSE you're wearing your goddamn khata while you shove people out of your way, you stupid, selfish, row-blocking asshole!  Later on today, you'll probably have your buddy take a picture of you wearing it in a strip club and post it with the caption:  "OHM, BITCHES!"  You FUCKER.

But here's the thing I must force myself to remember when encountering the TJs of the world:  the guy probably isn't pure evil.  More likely, he was just having a dumb, thoughtless moment.  Sure, we'd been listening to a spiritual leader talk about mindfulness and compassion all morning, but whatever.  One shove to get back to his seat doesn't mean that he hadn't internalized, or didn't already believe, a single one of the Dalai Lama's teachings.  Maybe he had something of critical importance to say to his friend.  Probably not, but...maybe.

That sort of thing is very hard for me to admit, what with that swinging pendulum and all.  But realistically, the pendulum lies.  Its extremes are invalid.  What's true is that we all fuck up, we are all mindless sometimes, and most of us try not to be assholes, but with mixed results.  And while assuming best intention is hard for me, I must admit that I feel better when I look at people, and myself, through that lens.

I do.  Um...sort of.  Sometimes.

In honor of that lens, I'll rename TJ.  Instead of Total Jerkface, I'll call him Occasional Jerkface.  OJ for short.

That's better, right?

This Is Why Sisters Are Awesome

Not these kinds of sisters

I recently completed a massive rewrite of one of my books, and throughout the editing process, I became increasingly embarrassed that I had allowed people to read the book's super crappy first draft.

When I communicated with my sister about this ongoing, shitty feeling, telling her that I wished I hadn't let her read the first draft because it was so terrible, this is how she responded:

"No, it wasn't!  It was fabulous!  Don't you say mean things about my sister's book!  I'll kick you in the nuts!"  

So it turns out my sister is actually Eric Cartman.  Who knew?

And that is why sisters are awesome.  It really doesn't matter if the first draft was shitty or not (it was, by the way, unbelievably, unconscionably shitty).  What matters is that her words made me laugh my head off, and laughter is a wonderful cure for scathing humiliation.

So thank you, dear sister, for making me laugh, and not kicking me in the nuts.  You are wonderful.

 

(Just as an aside, while searching Google Images for a good nun picture, I came across this line of calendars:

And yes, I would very much like one of those for Christmas.  Thank you.)

Repelling Females 101

During a mile-long walk earlier today, two different strangers saw fit to bless my passage by blasting their horns.  Unfortunately, these honks did not stem from benevolent honking intentions, such as: 

(a) Offering a warning (e.g., "An anvil is about to fall on your head!" or "You've wandered off the sidewalk and into oncoming traffic!  Correct your trajectory posthaste!")

(b) Calling attention to an unexpected friend sighting (e.g,, "Hey, I know you!  Look at us - you're walking and I'm driving!  Ha ha - whee!  Surprises are fun!")

No, these honks emanated from the Department of Hay, Bay-Bee!  If you exist on this planet, you are likely familiar with that type of honk.  The honker honks to attract a woman's attention, although it's unclear why, as the honker then whooshes by at top speed.  (But please don't think I'm suggesting it's a better idea to slow down and talk to the woman, even though that sometimes elicits hilarious results.  A friend of mine loves to tell a story about a guy who slowed his car to catcall her and, not watching where he was going, proceeded to drive straight into a pole.  She still cites that as one of the best days of her life.)

Today's honking experience made me think it's time for a tutorial about effective ways to make oneself utterly repellant to women.  Here are but a few.

#1 - Honking
 

...and females will think you're a douche.

When I'm strolling along peacefully and suddenly find myself attacked by an explosive blast of noise emanating from a nearby speeding vehicle, my heart jumps into my throat.  This experience is not intriguing; it's just really fucking alarming.  READ:  Not sexy.  Not fun.  ALARMING.

When a man honks at me & I turn to look at him, it's not to check him out.  Oh, no.  Not at all.  I'm not wondering whether or not he's good looking or has a snazzy car.  What I am thinking is more along the lines of:  "Many thanks, Sir Honks-A-Lot, for scaring the ever-loving shit out of me.  I hope you drive straight off a cliff."

#2 - Crude Commentary

Telling a woman that she has a "nice rack" falls nicely into this category.  (Surprisingly, I've actually been told this, even though what I've got is so miniscule it's hardly even a spice rack.)  Men will sometimes say this to women quite casually, as if it's completely normal to comment on strangers' body parts as they wander past you.  ("Hey, sweet ears!  I'll bet you can hear really well with those suckers!")

If you see a female and find yourself wanting to say, "Nice rack," do yourself a favor.  Lower your eyes to her feet and say, "Nice shoes."  I think you'll find this yields far better results.

#3 - The Long Stare

The long stare goes something like this.  A man and a woman walk towards each other, but instead of continuing on his path and walking past her as is customary, the man pulls to the side, stops, and watches her pass.  (Note:  for this act to be performed properly, the man should wear an extremely smarmy look on his face.)  

Blech.  Just blech.  And...ew.  Seriously.  Do not do this.  It is beyond creepy. 

The woman you're ogling is not going to ogle you back, nor is she flattered by said ogling.  At best, she thinks you're a jerk.  At worst, she's thinking about Ted Bundy and Arial Castro while trying to recall every man-destroying move she learned in self-defense class.

Here our trainers demonstrate a super-fun eye-gouging technique

That's all for now.  I believe, if we work together, we can build a future free from roadside terror, eye-gouging, and groin-smashing.  Doesn't that sound like a pleasant tomorrow?

Socks Are Wicked Important

I own a shit ton of socks.  When I moved to California in 1999, I decided to start collecting cool socks, thereby pigeonholing myself as a sock person.  That means I've received socks for pretty much every gift-giving event for the past 14 years, so I am now the proud owner of over 80 pairs of socks (that's over 160 individual socks, for those of you who are math challenged).

The other day I attended an Oktoberfest event while wearing the cute cat socks pictured above.  At one point, I heard some folks giggling behind me.  When I turned around to see what the fuck was so funny (and yes, that really is how my mind works), a young woman showed me her phone, which now featured a picture of my socks.  "Sorry," she told me.  "Hope that's okay.  I love your socks."

I'd be willing to bet that, within ten minutes of the picture being taken, my socks were featured on the girl's Facebook page and had about 50 likes, plus umpteen comments featuring pithy observations such as:  "OMG!  Cat socks!  LOL!"

And do you want to know why?  Because socks are important to people.  Much like alcohol.  If you post a picture of alcohol on Facebook with the label:  "ALCOHOL!  YAY!" everyone will love it.  You'll be getting notifications all day long.  People you haven't heard from since sixth grade will write paragraph-long responses explaining why they, too, think alcohol is totally yay-worthy.

So yes, socks & alcohol are excellent ways to bond with your friends on Facebook.  The same may not be true if you choose to post something about an international crisis or social justice calamity.  Those topics are simply not as yay-worthy, as they may stimulate painfully uncomfortable debates that pit your Facebook friends against one another in disastrous, fury-fueled exchanges between total strangers who have quickly and resolutely determined that they absolutely fucking hate one another.

On the other hand, you'll find no room for debate when it comes to people identifying as alcoholic sock whores.  Go figure.  But I suppose that's precisely what makes something like a pair of cute socks so damn important.  

(And awesome.)

(I love my socks.) 

(I have sock monkey socks, too.)

I was searching for a picture of sock monkey socks, but I found this instead.  
I think I'm in love.

Even Snuggliness Has Its Limits

During a recent visit to Seattle, a friend introduced me to a phenomenon with which I was previously unfamiliar:  The Seattle Freeze.  Most of you probably know what that is, but I'd never heard of it.  Basically it means that it's hard to make friends in Seattle.  The people are friendly enough; they just have enough fucking friends already and don't have time in their lives for any additions.

In Asheville, North Carolina, I've experienced a very different phenomenon.  I'm going to go ahead and call it The Asheville Snuggle.

 
The people of Asheville have been unbelievably welcoming and lovely since my husband and I arrived a few weeks ago.  New friends have offered us food, drinks, personal tours of the town, and invitations to countless outings.  People on hiking trails stop to tell us about other wilderness areas we should explore.  A young man bagging our groceries sprinted across the store to fetch us samples of food he thought we'd like.  After showing us a potential rental, the landlady invited us over to her house for a beer.  When a worker at the PODS warehouse saw our car was packed full, he offered to loan us his truck to get more stuff home.  This afternoon, a neighbor knocked on our door and asked if we'd be okay with him filling in a hole in our driveway.  Seriously.  The list goes on and on. 

This whole experience has been somewhat baffling to a Massachusite and a New Mexican, but definitely in a good way.

It feels kinda like this...except not scary or culty

The one area where I have not experienced Asheville's snuggliness has been in my search for employment.  While part of me wishes I could just ignore that whole thing and spend all my time wandering around being treated with unbelievable kindness, the more practical part of me realizes that employment is the key to some important things such as housing, health insurance, and eating.  Unfortunately, my job search thus far has felt very much like this:

Thankfully, Craigslist offers many opportunities to escape from the feelings of depression and futility that accompany job searching.  Here are some examples of the comic relief postings I've seen:

"I'm looking for three people."  
I'm thinking you should try a little harder.  Maybe step outside and look around.  Craigslist seems like the wrong avenue to fill this need.

"Women to walk on a person."  
Um...what?  I mean, I could walk on you, but what the fuck?

"DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO MAKE A LOT OF MONEY???"  
If history tells me anything, the answer to this one is a resounding NO.

"Seeking heroes!"
That one was for a sales position.  Come on, now.  I believe one needs to get killed in combat (even via friendly fire, mind you) to earn that coveted title.

"THIS IS NOT A SCAM!"
= surefire way to know something is a scam. 

Riiiiiight.

But I've got to say, this one was by far the best of all the Craigslist postings I've seen:

Immediate need - this evening. Banjo player 4 front porch entertainment.

One banjo player desired for live music during front porch sitting of 3 lovely ladies.
$25-30 plus potential for tips.
- Chips included, canned Cheerwine, scenic lakefront view to be enjoyed.
- Not obligated, but possible make-out potential with 1-3 ladies for a cute enough, suave enough, debonaire enough, intriguing enough banjo player.  Purely PG.

(This was a real posting - I swear.)

I'm thinkin' this is NOT what those ladies had in mind.

Through Craigslist, I have also learned several abbreviations for jobs for which I have neither a single qualification nor interest, such as FOH, BOH, MIT, CNC, SMH & WTF.

As a long-time social service worker, it comes as no surprise that the kinds of jobs with which I'm most familiar have descriptions of about 20,000 words (detailing super-human responsibilities and expectations), require Master's Degrees and several years of experience, offer 2 weeks of vacation per year, and pay just above poverty wages.  Because, really, doing that kind of work is reward enough in itself, right?

Um, yes.  That's exactly right.

And since Asheville has been so snuggly with me so far, as I plow forward with my job search, I'm going to offer up this little prayer:

Dear Asheville:

Please save me from the kind of work

for which I am most qualified.

Amen.