So through circumstances completely unrelated to matters of the heart, I am once again residing in the solitary. No need to get into the why and how. Just know I’ve spent the better part of this fall pretending to prepare for a Telenovela audition. Spoiler alert: I’m still white.
For those of you unfamiliar with Single Lena, I am taking this blog post as opportunity to fill you in on the raw essence of lovely you will begin to come in contact with on the regular. When I lived with another, I went to bed at normal hours, always brushed my teeth, and occasionally took out the garbage. Now that I live alone, I have uninterrupted conversations with myself about the origins of the term “whoopsie daisy,” occasionally wear pajamas that resemble nudity, and learned to pee standing up. Only one of these things is a lie.
While in some ways my existence is improving, having attempted to make homemade cheerios and once again taken up the hobby of photographing my own breasts (only both of these things are true)…
I am still struggling with the acceptance of my unromantic status, as proven by the 53 episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond I’ve watched in the last week. But nevertheless, life is going on as if Breaking Bad and my relationship had never ended. I am back to my old unsettling ways and have already gone through a book of stamps, for all the letters I’ve been writing to prisoners. So I think I’m doing ok.
The girl whose probably under the influence of something special .
Organic pear and meth amphetamine…GRANOLA.
So, I’m alive.
I know. Thank God, right? The world stopped turning for awhile there, didn’t it subscribers and whoever recently googled “thegirlwiththeblog.com Lena”? Sorry to put you through that. Also, sorry for a boring intro. The original opening line for my “comeback” post was significantly better.
“My hair smells like mayonnaise.”
Which was true at one point this summer, but has since faded from relevancy, much like Miley Cyrus’ virginity.
I guess I owe you an explanation, both for my extensive absence and my mayonnaise hair. I’ll start with my absence.
In March of this year, I quit my job and ditched my apartment and traveled around the United States volunteering on organic farms. I started a new blog, “www.thisisablogaboutfarming.wordpress.com.” I wrote a farewell post on here and basically called it a day. I’ve been back since late May but didn’t care enough to tell you. And I know it’s been eating you all up inside.
Now for my mayonnaise hair. Since farming I have developed an entirely new approach to my health and beauty. I now eat 80% (ish) local and vegetarian and have made a serious effort to reduce the amount of toxins in my life. I know I sound all new age. You can punch me in the face if you want.
So since early June I have not shampooed my hair, used toothpaste, deodorant, hair products, perfume, some cosmetics, household cleaning products, etc. But I am squeaky clean and smell delicious. Here is how:
Hair: I don’t use shampoo. Eff that. I use a mixture of baking soda and water to wash my hair and a mixture of apple cider vinegar and water to condition. I don’t use hair products. I use a homemade hair gel made from organic flax seed, scented with essential oils. I also deep condition on occasion with eggs, coconut oil, or in some cases mayonnaise.
Deodorant/perfume: I still use deodorant. I lied for the added drama. But it is homemade, made out of coconut oil, arrowroot powder, and baking soda. And I still smell amazing, using perfume made from water, witch hazel, and sweet orange and lavender essential oil. According to my brother, I am almost a Wiccan. I take that as a compliment.
Toothpaste: I still brush my teeth obsessively. That will never change. Except now I use a mixture of coconut oil and baking soda with peppermint essential oil.
Makeup: My blush/lip color is made from a mixture of beet powder, cocoa powder, arrowroot powder, and sweet almond oil. My eye shadow is made from cocoa and arrowroot powder. Basically my face smells like a chocolate covered beet at all times.
Household products: Dish detergent from water and castille soap, laundry detergent from water, baking soda, castille soap, and salt, bathroom/kitchen cleaner from an orange peel/white vinegar concentrate.
If you got through all of that without calling me a hippie communist, you’re better than me.
But now that I am back and prepared to start blogging again (maybe) I realize I need to get caught up in the reality of the world around me. Like how we are almost at war with Syria and the word “twerk” exists. I don’t know how or why either of these things are happening, but I don’t like them. And I intend to blog about it…
The girl whose writing experience at Dunkin Donuts is much like the Breaking Bad episode about the fly, only far less symbolic and much more about an actual fly.
I’m either exceedingly arrogant or incredibly loyal, feeling the need to post a blog about my blog’s hiatus. But I’m doing this because I do feel a sense of obligation to this domain and to the reader friends I have made, so allow me to explain.
In the past month my life has endured mammoth change. I quit the job I have been having hemorrhoids over the decision to NOT write about, I moved out of my crack den apartment and temporarily back in with my mother as the able-bearded bodied man I recently began to live with and I planned a 3 month road trip around the United States.
We are leaving tomorrow.
I know I took a long time to tell you, but I’ve had
good reason. This trip took a lot of planning, mostly due to the semi unconventional way we are going about it. We are WWOOFing. For those unfamiliar, WWOOF stands for World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms, which is an organization that connects travelers with farms seeking volunteers in exchange for free room,board, and meals. This took some coordination but we’ve mostly established a trip using this organization. In some places we will be sleeping on couches, in others we will be camping in someone’s yard. Can you handle the badassness?
So for this reason I am taking a hiatus from The Girl With The Blog. Not because I have stopped being a girl with a blog, but because I have become a girl with two blogs. Righteous right?
For those who have been loyal followers, fear not I will return. In the meantime, please check out my NEW blog where we hope to document the entire trip.
For those of you too uninterested in my existence to check it out, no hard feelings (JK, you blow). I’ll see you in June! 🙂
The girl with a blog about farming
When I was 8 years old I went to Washington D.C. for the first time. My only memories of the trip were $3 bottles of water, huge Lincoln knees, and first-time thigh chafing. Obviously, it made quite the impact.
Despite my love/hate relationship with politics I have never returned to D.C. as an adult. This weekend I have a great reason.
Sunday, February 17, 2013 will be the largest climate rally in history. Thousands of protesters around the country are joining together in downtown Washington to protest the Keystone XL Pipeline currently awaiting final legislation from President Obama. The Keystone XL Pipeline is a project designed by Trans-Canada to transfer crude oil throughout Canada and the United States all the way down to the Southern border. This damages the global environment not only by the increased use of oil, but it will threaten the very need and development of renewable clean energy that could help reduce green house gasses and global warming. But on a local level it is equally frightening, with water sources poisoned during pipe leaks, causing disease and death in thousands of individuals affected by the seizing of land by government and private corporations to force this project through.
But rather than preach to you about the pros and cons of the pipeline, I invite you to read up on it, learn about it, and decide for yourself what to believe. Should you determine for yourself that corporate interests are not worth continued destruction of the environment join me at the rally! I will be there with my able-bearded bodied man along with thousands of other people. If you are so inclined, send me an email email@example.com
The girl who hopes to see you there
Links to check out!
“All I get are dicks. Nobody needs this many dicks in their life.”
-This is something I just said out loud. A nice reminder that the world is better when not taken literally.
Today while at work I reviewed the contents of two 5 year old flashdrives and one 4 year old external hard drive. Because I need something to do between people hanging up on me and hexing my first born. Along with a plethora of rhyme-heavy wrist-cutting poetry, pictures of Penelope Cruz (?), and tear-filled letters to my ex-husband I found three photographs that perfectly depict my clumsy transition into adulthood, ages 16-18.
1. (age 16, summer before senior year)
I was very into looking homeless, when I was in high school.
Like a homeless hunchbacked hippy.
With a huge rack.
2. Age 17 (Senior week, Ocean City, MD)
I…I can’t even talk about this.
3. 18 (Alternative Spring Break – Assateague Island, Maryland)
This is how I spent my freshman spring break. While my peers were doing body shots off of each other’s herpes scabs, I was logrolling down a sand dune. That’s me in the green. Don’t worry. I’m not pregnant. I just look that way sometimes.
That’s all I have to offer you right now. I’m in a funk de misery (not real French) with zero energy or desire to do anything but sit and stew in my own lack of motivation. It could have something to do with the mammoth storm pummeling the east coast and the fact that I work at the only school in a 4,000 mile radius of the storm that isn’t closing (not real figures). Or maybe that for the first time in my life, I referred to someone younger than me as “dear” during a phone call.
Either way I’m getting old. So old. We all are. All of us 80’s babies. These pictures coupled with this pop culture conversation prove how irrelevent we all are:
Me: But you do know who the Spice Girls are, right?
Him: Yeah. Beyonce and those two other chicks.
Even our memories are going. It’s sad. So so sad.
The girl no one believes when she tells them about her rape whistle. But it’s real. Very, very real.
After 3 hours of Intervention, half of The Big Lebowski, and 2 more hours of Intervention, I fell asleep last night at 10:30, face down in the free Red Cross t-shirt I got for attempting to donate blood they ultimately rejected, as my able-bearded bodied man (who desperately needs a nickname less than 7 syllables) sat alone in the other room, likely asking himself why he ever bothered to move in. I personally believe he did, so I could have early morning conversations like this:
Me: (waking up, panicked) What time is it?
Him: (startled, disoriented) It’s 4 hours for each plant.
Me: (checks phone) It’s 6:53
I definitely find this funnier than it actually is.
Kind of like how he feels about The Big Lebowski.
The girl with the Dragon Tales tattoo
Dear erratic possibly-possessed, asshole who called me today at work just to scream at me for 20 minutes (also known as Tom Johnston),
Thank you. I have been waiting for a reason to cry at work for months now, but I could never find one. I don’t know what I would have had to do if you hadn’t been transferred to my desk to interrupt my pleasant mood with your ill-conceived attempt at being a human being. Thrown myself down a flight of stairs? Stapled my face? Nope. Didn’t have to. Your phone call made tears possible without self-mutilation, and I thank you for that.
I want you to know, that I appreciate all that you bring to the world. Your problems are my fault, really. I’m sorry I ever doubted the role I played in your 46 years of misery on this planet. Clearly if I could sacrifice my entire existence for one moment of your happiness, I would, but I am certain it would never be enough. So I’d like to apologize to you for your life.
I’m sorry. Truly I am. I am sorry that a GED has only earned you $150,000 working on Wall Street, (although a terrible fate for a high school drop-out, this could explain a lot about the downfall of the American economy). I am sorry that your son, the consumer of my company’s product, could not talk to you openly about his decision to purchase it. You are after all, such a warm and sensitive man. Any child would be poorly lacking without you in their life.
But mostly, sir, I feel sorry for you. There, I said it. Because after I stopped crying and your intrusive phone call stopped replaying in my head, I went back to being me, and you are stuck being you, an overpaid, nasty, rapid baboon of a person, whose personal life is so out of reach your only solace is to interject 20 minutes of unprecedented rudeness into another person’s life, via telephone calls. I may make a quarter of what you make, with double the education, but I’m far better off than you’ll ever be.
Plus you’re a raging c***.
The girl too stubborn to hang up, too sensitive to brush it off
WordPress is giving me grief. It has deleted my most recent post and replaced it with my initial draft. I will not be posting until I figure this out. For those of you who have read the article I previously posted about Saudi Arabia, I apologize for any confusion.
The human race either needs to evolve or die off entirely.
I know. Good morning to you, too.
I guess I should forwarn regular readers of my blog, that this entry is going to be about as funny as Carrot Top, so don’t expect to laugh . It is topical and current and will leave you feeling there is no hope left in the world. Or simply indifferent, as the title would suggest.
Now, typically when I write topical blog posts, I do so the moment I begin to feel a tremor of interest in a topic, before I decide how I truly feel about it, and before I know if I have any facts straight. You know. Like cable news. So this time I decided to give myself 24 hours to ferment in anger and all around disgust before sharing my thoughts. But when I woke up this morning I was angry, which isn’t a good look for me and decided for the sake of my appearance, I would withold my feelings no more.
Which brings me back to my initial statement. The human race either needs to evolve or die off entirely. I’m not bitter, just realistic, and there are plenty of examples of why what I say is true; school shootings, American politics, the popularity of Honey Boo Boo, etc. But in this case, I am referring to the dangerous combination of headline news and Internet anonymity.
Yesterday the Internet was all a-twitter with a news story regarding a 70 year old man in Saudi Arabia, marrying a 15 year old girl who he purchased from her family for a US monetary equivalent of $20,000. The story become international news when the man contacted authorities about being “ripped off” when the girl ran away. I thought it was a given that this is a completely disgusting, tragic event, not only because of age difference but the very fact that human trafficking and slavery exists so openly in undeveloped parts of the world, never mind existing quietly in Western culture. However it wasn’t the headline that shocked me, but the reader comments.
Although a healthy majority of reader comments were aimed at the sadness of this situation, there was also a disturbingly large amount of people making jokes, calling it a scam on the old man, defending the practice as “heritage” or “culture,” and generally spouting indifference. Here are a few examples:
Again, these are only selected comments I have copied from a few different articles. I am not arguing that this is in any way a reflection of the majority of people in Western society. However the stark lack of empathy demonstrated in these comments says a lot about who and what we breed in our “first world.”
Many people argue that this issue is an example of “heritage” “culture” and “religion,” and that is partially true. It is a tradition of humanity to enslave miniorities, and particularly women, as seen in most cultures at some point in history. However if the excuse we are making for this man, the girls’ parents, and millions of others who have participated in human trafficking, is that it is part of their culture, what excuse do we have for the people above who have had the presumed benefit of Western education and upbringing?
The truth is, there is not much we can do as individuals to actually provoke change in other cultures. But we can control how we react to it and the example we choose to set in our own. Several of the people above as well as people I did not quote proudly profess their indifference.
“I don’t even know that girl so I feel sorry for no one”
“Get over it, that’s the way it is in that country. Not our business”
Am I unevolved if my first reaction is to beat these bitches down? Yes, probably. But I truly can’t understand the argument that it is not our business to care.
It is not our business to have any sort of empathy or interest or sickened gut-wrenching feelings about something like child rape and human trafficking. How disconnected from humanity must people get to not only not care, but to tell others that it is not their business to care either? And where does this indifference end, if it does at all? Catholic church, Boy Scouts, Penn State Summer Camps? Down the street? When does it become our business to care?
I look at the people who make these comments, primarily Americans, and I think to myself, how lucky you are to live in a society so far removed from the horrors of third world human conditions, that you have the liberty to joke about them and mock their importance. Your essence, or soul, or whatever you refer to it as, could have just as easily been born into a body in Saudi Arabia as it was here. How arrogant to act as though it is wrong to care about what happens to the people who are born somewhere else, victims to a world that is either oppressing them or indifferent to their oppression.
Human enslavement is a human rights issue, not a cultural practice. Whether you believe Western culture should intervene in these practices is one thing, but trivializing the pain and suffering of oppressed people is a slipperly slope to becoming one of the oppressors.
Be the change you wish to see in the world.
And for the love of God, make it your business to care.
The girl with the monogramed soapbox