You know how some people are completely anal retentive about their name? Like, if you spell Sarah with an h, but it’s actually Sara without an h and they totally lose their shit? Or how other people let someone continue to call them by the wrong name past the point when it’s socially acceptable to correct them? 

I’m in that latter group of people.

I honestly just don’t care. My name is Erin Faulk. It’s a pretty good name, except for when people don’t pronounce the l. That gets awkward, mostly for them. But other than that, I can’t complain. St. Patrick’s Day always feels like it belongs to me a little. And I don’t mind hearing the occasional “Faulk you.” My middle name is Marie, which is kind of boring, I guess. But better than Louise, which is what my parents wanted it to be until they realized my initials would be ELF.

People think that because I don’t have the same last name as Adam, I didn’t change it when we got married. That is incorrect. I did change it. I was 20, and getting married, and everybody said “But what about your kids? Don’t you want the same last name as your kids?”

Looking back, it’s hard to understand how that argument made any sense to anyone ever. Are these hypothetical children too stupid to know who their mother is unless they share a name? After birthing said hypothetical children, would I not feel any attachment to them unless we had the same last name? Also, did you know that you can name kids whatever you want when they’re born? (Except for dirty words and stuff - that’s illegal in some places). My hypothetical offspring could have my last name, how does that sound, I’m the one who GREW THEM IN MY BODY.

Most importantly, I’ve been married for ten years and this issue has yet to come up because the children are still hypothetical. So I changed my name back.

Which is not as easy as you might think.

Changing it the first time wasn’t so bad. Show the marriage certificate at the Social Security office, boom. New driver’s license, boom. New Erin. Changing back was a circus. I actually had to pay money to get my name back. My name, which is the first thing ever given to me as a little tiny human; my name that was mine for 20 years. And I had to pay with cash or check. 

I had to sit in a courtroom filled with other people who wanted to change their names, and watch them stand before the judge, one by one, and explain why. There was a judge, and his actual job that day was to be like, yeah, okay, that seems like a good reason to change your name. Aside from the one kid getting adopted, everyone’s reason was divorce - I had no less than three women ask me “How long were you married?” and I said “Oh, I still am,” which got me the stink eye, and a row of chairs all to myself.

When my name was finally called (which seems kind of mean, since they knew for a fact I was there because I didn’t want people to call me that anymore), I walked on up and stood before the judge.

“What is your legal name?”

“Erin Marie Critchlow.”

“And what would you like to change it to?”

“Erin Marie Faulk.”

“It says here the reason is marriage: is Faulk your husband’s name?”

“No, it’s my maiden name.”

“I see. You’re getting divorced?”

“No.”

“…”

“I still want to be married, I just want my name back.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s mine. I want it back.”

“Why did you change it then?”

“I don’t know, I felt like it.”

“But not anymore?”

“No, now I want my real name back.”

“Well…uh, okay then.”

My argument won him over. I had to swear that I wasn’t trying to avoid debt or outstanding warrants, and then the judge approved it and I paid my money with a check that no longer had my legal name on it and walked out the door. Then I had to go to the Social Security office and show them the document, and then the bank, and then my university, and then my health insurance company and my credit card companies and my cell phone company. Plus, they printed it in the local paper, because everyone has a right to know I changed my name, which led to numerous people telling my parents they were so sorry my marriage didn’t work out. The good news is, I think Erin Critchlow still had some unpaid fines at Blockbuster. Don’t tell the judge about that one.

But I got my name back. Because it’s a pretty good name. Now when I fill out forms, I have an alias that has to be listed. Which is kind of cool, like Critchlow was my spy name. I don’t think having my name back has caused much confusion (except for every elderly relative on both sides who send a birthday card to Mrs. Adam Critchlow every year - I’ll tell you right now, that person never did exist). People know Adam and I are married, and if they think we’re not, I could not care less. My hypothetical children are pretty smart, so I think they’ll continue to be well-adjusted and hypothetical. And some people still call me Erin Critchlow, which I respond to the same way I respond to Erin Faulk, e faulk, Erin Scafe, Erin’s Cafe, Anne, Ingrid, and yes last week I let someone call me Sarah for like an hour. Or Sara. Whatever.

Feel free to call me whatever you want. In the words of my late grandfather, Earl “Scotty” Douglas Swall, “Just don’t call me late for dinner.”

(J/k, have you met me? I’m always late for dinner.)

Today President Obama called Kamala Harris, Attorney General of the State of California, the “best-looking attorney general.”

Cue indignation.

Let’s set aside the fact that Obama was probably right. (No seriously, if he’s talking CA State Attorneys General, Harris wins. Tirey L. Ford is a close second. http://oag.ca.gov/history )

But nobody’s upset that Obama called a good-looking woman good-looking. What’s got everyone’s panties in a twist is the casual sexism the statement implies. That women should be pretty and men should be strong. The same sort of casual sexism implicit in the phrase don’t get your panties in a twist, am I right?

I don’t believe the President intended to offend the women of the world, but sure. It was a thoughtlessly shitty thing to say. What absolutely blows my mind is that anyone feels confident in calling the man out on it. Casting the first stone takes a lot of self-confidence, no? 

So gentlemen, before you rush to defend our honor, which annoys the ever-living fuck out of a lot of us, please make sure that you have never committed any of the following acts of benevolent sexism.

• Held the door open and announced “Ladies first!” as if having female parts is the equivalent of permanently calling shotgun.

• Told anyone “I would never hit a woman.” How about don’t hit people smaller than you? Or maybe just don’t hit people?

• Said anything like “women should be treated like princesses” or some such bullshit. Some women should be treated like horrible people because they are, in fact, horrible people. Or, if you’re nicer than I am, you could treat all the men you know like princesses too.

• Called a man’s wife his “better half.” *eye roll accompanied by jack-off hand motion*

• Insisted on carrying something for a woman even when it’s ridiculously light and she’s managing just fine without your clearly superior muscles. 

• Spent a holiday with your family and assumed that the women would make the dinner while you drank a beer and watched football.

• Watched Titanic and thought “I would never have gotten on to a boat until EVERY woman had been saved.”

• Said someone throws like a girl, or hits like a girl, or screams like a girl. Pretty much insert anything before the phrase like a girl.

• Described someone as a strong woman, or a powerful woman, as if that possibility isn’t contained in the word woman already. Can you even imagine if you said that about your male friends? “I just love how he he didn’t take any shit from them. He’s such a strong man.”

Have you done any of these things? I mean, honestly? Because every guy I know has. And I still like them. I might roll my eyes occasionally, but being condescended to is nothing new. And the vast majority of you don’t even mean it. Guess what? We get it. It’s how you were raised. It’s how I was raised too. It doesn’t mean it’s ideal; it just means it takes a little effort to undo those years of assuming we need your help, or your money, or even your praise. 

Does this make it awkward for you to tell us we’re pretty? Yeah, kind of. And I really can’t be bothered to care that much about it. That’s what happens when you try to fix shit that’s been wrong for thousands of years. So let’s make a deal: men, you try your best to recognize that not all compliments come across as such. In exchange, we’ll forgive you for trying to score political points by placing us on a pedestal.

@itstheannmarie is writing a paper about Twitter and parody, and asked if I would answer some questions. (Obviously, I am a leading thinker in the fields of funny and Twitter. Or more likely, Ann-Marie wants an excuse to tweet and call it research.) Either way, these answers were longer and less funny than I intended. But when I put this much time into writing something (like, 30 minutes), I make you guys read it too. You’re welcome.

Ann-Marie!

I turned 30 this weekend. I’ve known it was coming for a while (math is hard, but not that hard). Still, it surprised me a bit. I’ve never been nervous about turning 30. In fact, I’ve always suspected I’ll be much better at my 30’s than I was at my 20’s. (Considering I haven’t managed to take a shower today, I may have to reassess.) But for better or worse, it’s here. 30. 3-0. 

Not gonna lie, it feels the same.

I mean, obviously, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and change doesn’t happen overnight, and age is just a number, and other awful idioms. But it seriously feels just the same. Except for that number. That three makes a difference. Not because it makes me grown-up (it doesn’t), even though I used to think it would (I really did), but because it makes me think. 30. Maybe I am growing up, because that number makes me feel so utterly and enthusiastically grateful for those years. I have no clue how I got this lucky.

Did you know Biggie Smalls was 24 years old when he died? 24. I’ve had 6 more years of life than that, and they’ve been crazy full. Tupac was 25. Kurt Cobain and Janis Joplin both died when they were 27. Buddy Holly was 22. 

Clearly, the morbid point I am making is twofold: thank god I didn’t become a musician, because that doesn’t seem to end well; and every year we get to experience on this insane planet is a freaking gift from the universe that not everybody gets, and very few of us earn.

And along with those years have come an embarrassing number of other gifts. 

A Brief Sample of the Incredible Gifts 30 Birthdays Have Brought Me:

• My body still works. It takes direction well. I don’t always direct it, and it could stand to go on some more runs (especially since I signed up for the LA Marathon, like an idiot), but I can’t complain. It gets the job done, and then some.
• My passport is full of stamps. Plus, I had to get the extra pages, and those are full of stamps, too. I’ve traveled across this gorgeous country more than once. I’ve driven to Alaska. Btw, it looks a whole lot closer on maps. I’ve lived in Alabama and Tennessee and Austria and Washington and Utah and Saudi Arabia and Idaho and Morocco and now I wake up every day in a place where the streets are lined with palm trees.
• I got to be there for my best friend’s wedding this year. Even better than that, I have multiple best friends, and I’ve been to a lot of best friend weddings. They’re beautiful, and everyone who wants one should be able to have one. That’s happening, and it’s happening now, and it never ceases to amaze me.
• I have family. I have so much family. I have both my parents, and I know that’s no small thing. I have sisters and cousins and in-laws and grandparents and aunts and uncles and third cousins. I have a nephew and three nieces. They are these incredible tiny people who have crazy thoughts in their tiny people heads that make me laugh and want to be a better person all at the same time. I have a three-year-old brother, and yes, I know that’s weird, and yes, he’s amazing.
• I have friends. Good lord, do I have friends. I still have friends from middle school. I have friends from high school and college. I have friends from work and from traveling, friends from volunteering and friends I met through other friends and decided to keep. I have Twitter friends. Like, a LOT of Twitter friends. I have friends who feed me, and let me crash on their couch, and plan birthday adventures for me, and put up with my inability to stick to the plan/schedule. I’m pretty sure I have friends who would help me hide a body, as long as I had a fairly good reason.
• I have an Adam. He’s a lot of good things, but most importantly, he’s patient. The more I learn about myself, the more grateful I am for that. He’s been around for over a third of my life, and I hope he’s there for all the rest, because life’s more fun when he’s around. 

Looking back, it’s been a jam-packed 30 years. Looking forward…well, a friend recently reminded me of that part in Saving Private Ryan - which is a great film and if you don’t agree you should probably never admit that to anyone - that part where *SPOILER ALERT* Tom Hanks is dying, and he grabs Matt Damon’s jacket, leans in close to his ear and says “Earn this. Earn it.” And I really hope I get 60 or so more years. I’ve got a lot to earn.

My friend asked on Facebook why anyone would vote for Obama, because she truly does not understand. I like her, and I happen to have voted for Obama, so I decided to write a serious answer.

K,

I know you don’t mean to offend - and I’m certainly not offended. I think it’s crazy that so many people truly don’t understand why more than half the country supported Obama, but I’m guessing part of that comes from where you live and who you talk to. Utah went for Romney by over two-thirds, I think. 

I think one of the biggest blind spots conservatives had in this election was marriage equality. I know a LOT of people who turned out to vote on a civil rights issue. I think there are people who don’t feel like they understand the economic issues, even people who don’t understand the differences between views on healthcare, or defense, or any of number of things, but who feel completely confident in their assessment that rights are rights and fair is fair. 

In states where marriage equality has passed, little has changed in the lives of hetero couples. It’s not the big scary thing it was 10 years ago. Voters have rapidly changed their minds on this issue, and young voters, who turned out in record numbers again, are fiercely supportive of marriage equality.

For a lot of people, even people who feel that same-sex relationships are immoral, this is simply a civil rights issue. The courts are reinforcing this belief. And most importantly, the single greatest factor in your support for marriage equality is having an LGBT person as a close friend or family member. It’s one thing to say that in general, you don’t think gay marriage is right; it’s another to tell someone you know that they shouldn’t be able to make critical medical decisions for their life partner, or provide health benefits for the person they have chosen to spend their life with. And it’s another thing entirely to say you think the other issues in this election are more important than somebody’s rights.

To a lot of people, when the Republican Party’s platform snubbed LGBT Americans, voting for Romney became the equivalent of voting against basic civil rights. The Democrats doubled down on that, and their inclusion of marriage equality in the party platform became a huge benefit for them.

On top of that, the general Republican strategy seemed one of exclusion: ignore the people that didn’t agree, and instead focus on energizing voters who shared their ideals. It was a huge flaw in their campaign strategy. Gallup overestimated the number of White voters by 6% - a huge margin. They ignored issues important to Non-White voters: the Dream Act, Obamacare, and let’s be honest, food stamps. Poor Americans are overwhelmingly Non-White. In the US Census, less than 10 percent of White Americans live below the poverty line; that number is near 30 percent for Hispanic and Black Americans. These Americans are also traditionally underrepresented in elections, and the Obama campaign reached out to and registered record numbers.

To top it off, the world increasingly favors universal healthcare, and demonizing Obamacare was, I think, a GOP misstep. We spend twice what other first world nations spend on healthcare, while still managing to have millions uninsured. When Americans hear that citizens of Canada and Australia and the UK don’t have to be afraid to walk into an ER and ask for care, it very quickly makes up a lot of minds. I am uninsured, and have a single basic medication that costs me $98 a month. With insurance, it costs $7. That’s a frustrating gap, especially considering I am essentially uninsurable due to preexisting conditions.

Add to that the fact that the recent rape gaffes made a huge impression on female voters. I think they were stupid, overblown mistakes, BUT I also don’t think the GOP correctly assessed the impact it had on female voters - 52% of the electorate this time around. It showed that the Republican Party endorsed candidates out of touch with voters and unsympathetic to women’s issues. 

While I am personally pro-life, I tend to vote pro-choice because the right has somehow managed to make this an issue about women choosing “convenience” over life, rather than the difficult choices that have gone into every abortion I’ve ever known about. It is remarkable that a party with such a solid claim to respect for life has managed to let the narrative become negative, rather than uplifting. This respect for life is also undermined in the eyes of voters by the insistent GOP support of the death penalty, which I find mind-boggling. We don’t tend to like our country to be compared to Yemen, the Sudan, Saudi Arabia, etc.

I think the biggest problem of all was a general feeling that the GOP viewed a large number of Americans with contempt and disdain. And as someone on the left who doesn’t go to church, I’m going to tell you right now that even Democrats have read Matthew 25:40. Compassion is no longer a word conservatives like to use; it seems they place more importance on fighting entitlement, even at the expense of the truly needy. 

Romney’s 47% comment hit home with people because it feels as if the Republican Party doesn’t care about half the country. The overwhelming feeling among Democrats is that Republicans don’t like Mexicans, or poor people, or women who work or people who recycle. I don’t think it’s 100% true, but I will tell you that I have been met with enough personal contempt from conservatives that it isn’t 100% not true. I’m not big on feelings, so this isn’t generally what influences my vote, but the vitriol of many right-wing pundits is devastating for the future of the Republican Party. Somehow, the GOP thought fighting “Hope” with “Don’t be an idiot” was a winning campaign strategy. I think it’s always a harder battle to get people to fight against something than for something. The Republican Party used to be incredibly patriotic; this election cycle, they seemed to be defensively so.

You’ll notice I didn’t mention economics. This was a factor in my voting, and far and away the thing voters claimed most influenced their voting choices. But I believe numbers can lie. I think a lot of people were satisfied with the explanation that Obama wanted to tax rich people and Romney didn’t. I think that accounted for some votes. 

But more importantly, the country is doing better than it was 4 years ago. You can say it’s not doing as well as it should be, and I think everyone will agree. I think Democrats will also jump too quickly to blame Congress (which deserves a decent amount of blame.) But things are better. This is not the apocalyptic future predicted by some conservatives four years ago, and that makes it pretty hard to believe we’ll finally get around to that apocalyptic future in another four years. 

Jobs are historically created faster under Democrats. In the latter part of Bush’s second term, the US economy was losing an average of 417,000 jobs a month. In the latter part of Obama’s first term, we’ve gained an average of 155,000 jobs a month. Is it good enough? No. But it’s a hell of a lot better than where we were four years ago. And I don’t think it was actually the most important factor that influenced voters once they stepped into a polling booth.

I think you know this entire post is out of character for me. I don’t mind talking politics, but I hate doing it on Facebook. I’m also much more likely to crack a joke, or post a funny picture than to get up on a soapbox. But you’ve said you truly wanted to know why people voted for Obama, and I like you. I think you deserve a straight answer. People voted for Obama because nobody likes to show up to a party that they weren’t invited to. Republicans failed to build bridges, they failed to change minds, and they failed to win the election.

And I hope to god they try to do those things in the next four years. A Democrat in the White House and Democratic majorities in both the House and the Senate sounds like a dream come true for half the country, and in some ways I’m sure it would be. But opposition in government is important, if for no other reason than to prevent laziness and complacency. Governing should be hard, it should be time-consuming, and it should require compromise. If it doesn’t, you’re doing it wrong. 

You ask why so many people voted for Obama? Because he gave them reasons to. The Republican Party focused on giving Americans reasons to not vote for Obama. It’s a subtle, and important difference. Pro tip: in four years, try inviting people to the party.

A few weeks ago, I got tickets to see Scarface at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. Right next to Paramount Studios, Hollywood Forever is the final resting place for lots of famous people who built Hollywood and whose names we kind of recognize. During the summer, they project films onto the wall of one of the buildings for a crowd of 3,000 drunk and unruly individuals. Seriously. It’s like a gathering of the worst people in the world.

I made Adam and Hassan go to this because a) it was Scarface b) we live in LA and never do any local stuff and c) it was Scarface. Young Pacino is really hot. The only other time I’d been was last year with my friend Rachel to see Edward Scissorhands. Either it wasn’t nearly as awful last year, or the body not remembering pain extends to emotional pain as well. Because this was bad.

We got there over an hour before the film started, mostly because I didn’t look at the time on the tickets. There isn’t any reserved seating, so everyone brings their camping chairs and blankets and stakes out their little plot on the lawn. Pun intended. (There are several cemetery puns buried in this post. That was another one. I am not ashamed.) We picked a spot next to Arthur Jay Waters (1871-1923) and Charlotte Miller Waters (1877-1928). It also happened to be next to the handicapped section, which was outlined in bright orange tape, and manned by what appeared to be a 12-year-old boy.

The boy was attempting to inform the never-ending procession of idiots trying to sit there that it was for handicapped individuals and their guests only. Adam pointed out that a sign could have gone a long way to helping the kid out. As we sat there, we witnessed the worst people in the world being awful. Kid: I’m sorry, this is the handicapped section. You can’t sit here. Awful Person: Well, what constitutes handicapped? Other Awful Person: My friend’s a cripple. (points at friend who rolled his ankle playing basketball) Even More Awful Person: Are you kidding me? They don’t need all this room. Right before the film started, the kid lost his hard-fought battle against idiocy and the section was flooded by lazy people and those who came late. RIP, kid. You did what you could.

Then the film started.

Which was difficult to tell, actually, because no one stopped talking. The couple behind us, clearly on a first date, continued sharing their life stories with one another. At full volume. Aided by liquor. ( I hope they genuinely liked each other, because I highly doubt they were making good choices by the end of the 3-hour film.)

A man in front of us, sitting in the handicapped section with his very pregnant wife/girlfriend/date, kept taking pictures of the screen. On his iPhone. By holding his arms straight in the air above his head, thus blocking our view of the screen and making him look like he was calling a touchdown for Pacino. Or dancing to YMCA. It was obnoxious. Especially because we could see what he was getting a picture of. A dark screen on a dark night, without even zooming in. Hassan decided there must exist a Facebook album that consists solely of blurry, dark, far away shots from that night.

At one point, the kids next to us (who seemed to be healthy, able-bodied boys in the handicapped section) asked us for a lighter. When we said no, they kept asking everyone around us until they found one. At which point, they lit up a joint. Come to think of it, maybe they were in the handicapped section due to cataracts? 

By the second hour, the aggressive picture-taking had me at my breaking point. Adam just kept drinking beers and muttering about hating people. Hassan quietly glared at the man.

Adam: It’s a good thing that man’s taking pictures. I bet there are no pictures anywhere on the internet of any of the scenes in Scarface.

Hassan: I will buy that man the DVD if he just stops. Just stop.

Random woman next to us: I have some pita chips you can throw at him.

Me: NO ONE CAN SEE WHEN YOU DO THAT.

Man with Camera: Just a second.

No, seriously. He told me just a second and kept taking the picture. Then took more. It was amazing. Soon after, he got up to escort his wife to the bathroom. We enjoyed 15 blissful minutes in which we could see the screen, almost hear the dialogue, and unsuccessfully try to decipher what was happening in the film. We finally decided we should probably just leave and beat the traffic. Actually, Adam mostly decided. He won me over by saying “We can watch Scarface at home, whenever you want. Just please, can we leave?”

As fate would have it, we waited just long enough for picture man to return from the bathroom. He helped his wife/girlfriend/date into her chair, then proceeded to clumsily fall into his own chair, flipping it over and dumping him out onto the grass. On his head. I cannot remember the last time I laughed that hard. We had to run away to the car, because we could not stop laughing, and, you know, people were trying to watch a movie.

As we fled, Hassan snapped a picture of the guy flailing around on the ground (see above). As he noted, IT LOOKS LIKE EVERY PICTURE THAT MAN TOOK THAT NIGHT. For those of you who are on Facebook, feel free to tag it Worst Person in the World and add it to the Blurry Dark Far Away Shots of Scarface Album.

I always hate this day. That’s kind of a stupid thing to say, I suppose. No one likes it. There are plenty of people in the world with more reason to hate this day than I have. But still. I’m never ready for it. It always sneaks up on me, somehow. Which is weird, because it’s not like I’ve forgotten. Nobody who saw it 11 years ago has forgotten. Every time I see the words “never forget,” I think, right. Like that’s possible.

I was 18 years old 11 years ago. I was a college freshman, living in a dorm at BYU. Three weeks into the semester, I think I had finally figured out where all my classes were. I hadn’t called my mom nearly enough, and I’d called my boyfriend far too much. I was used to moving, and being on my own. I had been to boarding school. I was feeling free, and self-sufficient, and like I totally knew what I was doing and where I was going. And then the rules changed.

I heard from my roommate, who I didn’t particularly like. She tended to be overly dramatic, so I didn’t believe her at first. Then everyone was talking about it, and you could barely see any of the TVs on campus. I always forget that I did see the news that day. I saw them replay the second plane hitting, and I turned and walked away. I didn’t see any more footage from that day until a year later.

I grabbed my bag and walked to class. Three people were there for the first ten minutes. When they realized no one was coming, they left. I sat there until class was over, then went to my next class. I was the only one. I went to all my classes that day, then went back to my room and tried to get some news from the internet. I think I talked to my mom. I think I talked to Adam. I refreshed CNN.com at least a thousand times.

I woke up that morning with a solid understanding of how the world worked. And every time I got a new piece of news that day, I thought, oh. Okay. This is how it is now. It’s terrorists. Okay. Thousands of people are dead. Okay. The Pentagon, too. Okay. And nobody could tell me when it was going to be over, and when I could stop saying okay and start becoming accustomed to this new world with its new rules. I spent the day waiting for the other shoe to drop, and then the other, and then the other. I had no idea when it was going to stop, so I kept waiting.

11 years later, I’m still waiting. I kind of feel like I’m constantly steeling myself. Waiting for the next thing. Every piece of bad news, I just add to that ever-shifting world view. The one in which there aren’t any rules, and anything could happen. I hope it was the worst day of my life, but I’m ready for it not to be. It’s a shitty way to come of age. There’s no forgetting. I’ve never voted in an election that wasn’t colored by that day. Every time US soldiers die overseas, I scan the names online because I have friends out there. I used to sleep on planes, but I don’t now.

I went to a memorial on the first anniversary, where they showed a documentary special. I saw for the first time a lot of the news footage everyone else had watched for weeks after it happened. I didn’t watch it all. It was too soon. 11 years later, it’s still too soon. I’m pretty sure that means it will never not be too soon. So yeah. I didn’t watch a TV special today, or attend a memorial, or read articles online. I didn’t spend the day in service to my community. I should have. I know that. I’m really good at avoidance. This year, I wrote all these words down. Give me another 11 years, and maybe I’ll do better. In the meantime, I promise you, there is no possible way I could ever forget.

There’s not much I hate more than having to ask people for money. It’s always awkward for everyone involved. The person asking feels embarrassed and nervous. The person being asked feels put on the the spot. That’s the single greatest benefit I can see of being crazy rich: you don’t have to ask people for money anymore. You do what you want. 

As it turns out, I’m not crazy rich. And I’ve been in a ridiculous number of situations in which I’ve had to ask people for money. Some of these situations have been totally worth it; the vast majority, however, have not. I give you:

A Sampling of Situations in Which I Have Had to Ask People for Money and the Ensuing Awkwardness:

• Elementary School Trinket-Peddling: Remember that? Going door-to-door, selling all kinds of useless crap nobody needs/wants, just because you wanted to sell enough merchandise to get a free slap bracelet? Or a radio? What the hell was that? I can truly say, I don’t even know what that money was going toward. Not to mention, who ever thought it was a good idea to send kids door-to-door? STRANGER DANGER. Anyone who buys scented candles from an 8-year-old on a stoop is not to be trusted.

• High School Candy Bars: This was a step up - at least people like candy bars. But considering how awkward it was for a 15-year-old to talk to strangers about anything, let alone make a sales pitch in support of their Odyssey of the Mind Team (don’t judge), this mostly turned into all of us consuming roughly 20-40 candy bars each during the course of the fundraiser. Which our parents paid for. And we wonder why there’s an obesity epidemic in this country. 

• College: Yeah, that’s right. I’m pretty sure I was an essay contest slut. I would write an essay about anything, for anyone, anywhere if there was a scholarship prize attached. Calgon Take Me Away? Check. Wonder Bread? Check. Duck Brand Duct Tape Stuck at Prom Contest, in which you had to make a prom dress out of duct tape for a chance to win a scholarship? Ugh. Yes, fine, why not. Nothing like starting out your academic life whoring for every namebrand on the planet.

• On-Campus Job: I managed to snag a sweet student job making phone calls for the university fundraising department. At least, it seemed like a sweet job. Making phone calls for $12 an hour, plus bonuses if you managed to get  large donations. Oddly enough, people don’t like to be asked for money over the phone. Especially not by the college they spent a significant amount of money to attend. And definitely not during dinner. The real low point came when I called and asked for a woman who a) was a former university basketball coach and b) had been fired from her position at said university for sleeping with one of her female players which c) ended her marriage and d) the husband had kept the house and phone number. He was not interested in donating.

• Awful Real-Life Job: I read somewhere that the vast majority of people only get raises because they ask for them. That you have to be proactive, confident, and willing to politely request the raise you deserve. So I did that a few years ago at my grown-up job, thinking, hey, I’ve been here for a full year, I work hard, I’m reliable. I’m worth it. Aaaand my boss informed me he’d be happy to write me a glowing recommendation if I needed to look for a position with another company. Which I did, and it paid better, so there. But leading up to that conversation, in which I had to outline my value and ask for corresponding  compensation, I couldn’t help but think it was the worst thing I had ever had to do. 

The point of all of this, is that I hate asking people for money. It’s the worst. And I’m sure you’ve heard by now that I have a Kickstarter, in which I am voluntarily putting myself through the misery of asking people for money every day for 30 days. I feel like this deserves an explanation, so here it is:

I believe you should make the art you want to see in the world. I’m not a fan of complainers who don’t bother helping to create. You don’t like all the inane shows on television? Then make a better one. And I don’t mean write a script and hire actors and buy a camera - although, if that’s your dream, then go for it - I mean do what YOU can do to make that happen. Watch the good shows. Talk about the good shows. Throw a fit when they fire Dan Harmon. And put your money where your mouth is. When you see someone working to make something you’d like to watch, and they ask you for a few bucks, throw them a few bucks. I’ve done it, and I’ve never missed that $5 bill.

A very smart lady once told me, “You’ll never regret the money you spend on art or books.” Clearly, this was before Fifty Shades of Grey happened to us. But I think she was mostly right. It’s a gift to live in a place and time that we can create art that makes us laugh and think and talk and argue. And I will never regret cutting back on my Starbucks spending for a few days in order help make that art happen.

Yes, I have a Kickstarter. I’m asking you to give me some money. If you click on the link, and watch the trailer we’ve created, and think “This is the absolute worst thing I have ever watched, oh god, my eyes, MY EYES” - don’t give us any money. I mean, SERIOUSLY - don’t give us any money. We’re clearly doing something wrong, and should come up with a better idea. We can handle it. But if you click on that and think “Hey, that wasn’t half bad, I wouldn’t mind watching that film” - throw us a few bucks. We’ll do everything in our power to make something worth watching. Because, honestly, there’s no way in hell I would go through the torture of asking all of you for money if I wasn’t desperately trying to create the art that I want to see in the world.

Thanks, and here’s the link:

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1020889969/follow-friday-the-film

Okay, you guys. It’s time to talk mommy porn. (Mom, I’m sorry for using that phrase, but I didn’t make it up.) In case you’ve been living under a rock for the past month or so, allow me to explain.

There’s a book called Fifty Shades of Grey. It’s written by a British woman named Erika Leonard, whose pen name is E. L. James. I don’t see the point in a pen name if you tell everyone your real name, but whatever. Least of my concerns. The book was originally fan fiction based on the characters of Bella and Edward from the Twilight series. At that point, the author’s pen name was Snowqueens Icedragon. I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. Bear with me. (Almost wrote bare with me. Should have. Tasteless puns are what this book deserves.)

Fifty Shades of Grey is the first in a trilogy, which has sold more than 3 million copies worldwide, mostly to middle-aged moms (if the media coverage is to be believed.) As it is an erotic novel, someone dubbed it “mommy porn,” and then people couldn’t stop saying mommy porn and suddenly everyone in the country has heard/used the phrase mommy porn. This has effectively ruined both the words mommy and porn for everyone, everywhere.

I read the mommy porn. Don’t ask why, and also stop judging me. But I did. And I did it so that you don’t have to. You’re welcome. But now you have to deal with the fallout, which is that I have so many issues with this book that have been bottled up inside for days now, and I have to let it out. This is going to be intense, so if at any time it’s too much for you, please remember that the safe word is popsicle.

Some of My Issues With Fifty Shades of Grey but not All of Them Because I Have Fifty Shades of Issues With It and it Would Take Years of Therapy to Explore Them All:

• It appears that Ms. Icedragon has never been to Washington State and never actually heard an American speak. To use her own words, Ms. Icedragon is “crap at” American English. We’re not “keen” to do much of anything, at least not since Nancy Drew was in her heyday. Also, we don’t “fetch” things. Dogs fetch things. And “collecting” things. We don’t really do that either, unless it’s baseball cards, or pretty much anything on an episode of Hoarders. We don’t drop on by to collect the car keys - we pick them up. And nobody says “I’ll take Interstate 5.” It’s the 5. Or at least the I-5. And how her editor let her get away with having every character use the word “shall” is beyond me. AND, I know this is super nit picky of me, but I don’t care - you can’t take $50 out of an ATM, lady. It has to be in multiples of $20.
• Why is it that in both this book and the Twilight series, every outfit that is supposed to be “super cute” sounds like a 45-year-old’s memory of her Freshman year of high school? Matching plum-colored pumps? Half your hair up in a comb? And what’s with the phrase “sensible shoes?” Why do these girls have to wear sensible shoes all the time? It makes them seem frumpy, and haggard. Enough already. When all else fails, ladies, put the girl in jeans and a t-shirt and stop using any further descriptive language.
• Ms. Icequeen’s idea of how college students live is inaccurate. Ana’s roommate Kate owns an apartment in Vancouver, WA that they both live in until graduation? What? Why does she own an apartment? Yes, her parents bought it, but come on. If her parents are buying her apartments, she can probably afford to go to a school that’s not a WSU satellite campus no one’s ever heard of. When the girls move to Seattle after graduation, Kate’s parents buy them an apartment above Pike Place Market, no big deal. AND, when Ana gets to Seattle she immediately interviews at two, TWO, publishing companies and lands a paid internship at the one she wants. PAID INTERNSHIP. Without any connections. Those are like…unicorns. Also, if anything really bothered me in this book, it’s the number of times Ana drank tea out of a teacup with a saucer in her own college-student apartment. WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT. College students drink out of mugs. Free mugs. Novelty mugs. But mugs, nonetheless. They’re also great as cereal bowls.
• ANA APPEARS TO HAVE BEEN RAISED BY WOLVES OR AT THE VERY LEAST IN AN AMISH COMMUNITY. She is a college student, in this decade, who does not have a cell phone, computer, or EVEN AN EMAIL ADDRESS WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT ALL COLLEGE STUDENTS HAVE MANDATORY EMAIL ADDRESSES. I’m really sorry for the caps there, but my brain is exploding. Christian loans her all of this technology, which she begrudgingly uses, because 22-year-olds hate having new MacBooks and Blackberries and EMAIL ADDRESSES forced on them. I’m sorry, but can you even imagine her two interviews for those internships? “We’ll let you know, Ms. Steele.” “Thank you so much - feel free to contact me via USPS or carrier pigeon. My address is at the bottom of my handwritten resume as I have no access to a word processor or printer.” 
• All the men are written like women, so it’s kind of like reading a lesbian romance. Ana’s best friend, Jose, says something his dad did was “kinda cute.” Cute? Jose’s dad was being kinda cute? Totes. Jose sounds like a 14-year-old girl. The men are also suspiciously well-manicured and really into clothes. I’m not saying there aren’t men like this, but the sameness of the characters started to get a little creepy. When Ana started wearing Christian’s clothes, I thought yeah, well, that was bound to happen.
• Ana is also a 22-year-old virgin. I’m not saying there aren’t girls like that, but here are the facts: she is not religious, she has no problem having sex for the first time with someone she isn’t even actually dating, and her friends are all sexually active. But we’re supposed to believe that she just hasn’t felt any desire to date, and then in walks in Christian, the dashing older sadist, and she thinks yeah, sign me up for that. (And by older, I mean he is a 27-year-old billionaire. And by sadist, I mean, you know.) You don’t just go from virgin to BDSM overnight. Not in any healthy way. Also, what is the deal with having a female protagonist who is unaware of her dazzling beauty and personality? These girls don’t exist. Maybe she didn’t have access to a mirror growing up either and is truly surprised that every male character in the book is attracted to her.
• All day long, Ana and Christian email each other, even though they both appear to have jobs. I understand that when you first get email, like when I was in middle school, you spend a lot of time on it because it’s exciting and new. I get it, Ana. But also, you should be fired from your “paid internship.”
• It is impressive to me that in nearly 400 pages, NOTHING happened. If I had to explain the story to you, it would go as follows: boy meets girl. Boy invites girl over. Boy asks girl to engage in kinky sex. Girl agrees. Kinky sex happens. A lot. And some more. Girl ignores all job duties because of all the sex. Some more sex. Please buy book two for more sex. In the kinky sex they discuss hard limits, or things that are not okay to do in the bedroom (or playroom, as it’s called.) For me, no story line is kind of a hard limit.

Okay. I feel better about all of this. Just getting it off my chest is good. I would feel bad about the spoilers, but I don’t think you can technically spoil something that was bad to begin with. If this blog post prevents even one person from spending $10 on this book, I’ve done my job. The bottom line is that the extreme sex is probably the most realistic part of Fifty Shades of Grey. Ms. Icedragon has said it’s just all her sexual fantasies, put to paper. I bet her kids are mortified. And I hope someone teaches them about email.

I got a hipster haircut today from a barber named Jim. I adore him and I’ll never go anywhere else ever again, even if I ended up with a haircut that’s way too hip for my own good. And bangs. Good lord, do I have bangs. 

I think I’ve finally reached a point where bangs don’t remind me of the awkward middle school version of myself (as opposed to the awkward very late 20’s version of myself). When I see myself with bangs, I think I look like my mom. And also my grandmother. And I’m okay with that. I realized a long time ago that I was going to turn into my mother one day. I just thought I would be older when it happened.

So in honor of Mothers’ Day coming up, and my mother, and my grandmother:

Ways in Which I Have Already Become My Mother Before I’ve Even Turned 30:

• I can never find my keys. Or my phone. Or my wallet. It’s a serious issue. You would think it could be solved by carrying a purse, or always putting these things in the same place when I get home. It doesn’t help. I give up. It’s simply genetic. My mom will never remember that her glasses are on top of her head, and I will always have to chant the mantra “phone, keys, wallet” before I leave anywhere. And odds are I’ll still forget one of the three items. The good news is, I now know you can board a domestic flight without any form of identification other than an Entertainment Weekly with your name on it. 
• I can’t stop feeding people. Mind you, I don’t cook. Not if I can help it. But I have this crazy need to make sure anyone who comes over has a beverage in their hand and some food in front of them. If someone starts crying, I just want to make them a sandwich. Thanks to my mother, any time someone dies, I feel like I should make a casserole to take to their family. It’s just what you do. I am a firm believer in funeral potatoes.
• I have to read before I can go to sleep. I’m almost certain my mother falls asleep with a book on her chest every night. Actually, it’s probably her Kindle now. I read on my iPad. And I have nearly broken my nose with it by falling asleep reading. On more than one occasion. 
• I have a casual relationship with time. That’s all I really want to say about that. (Don’t deny it, Mom - I remember sitting outside the school waiting to be picked up. And also, I wouldn’t have been any better at it if I was the one driving.)
• I eat mayonnaise on artichokes. I know, it’s gross. I wasn’t even going to write that one down, because I know it’s gross. But it’s also delicious, and it’s my mom’s fault that I even know that. 
• I can’t help taking in strays. My dog was found in an alley behind a shoe store where my mother was shopping. She obviously brought him home and I obviously wanted to keep him and Adam is a saint for letting it happen. There is usually a foster child or two staying at my parents’ house. When I lived in Morocco, I hosted over 40 couch surfers one month. It was often crazy and always hilarious and I just can’t help it - I like making sure people have a place to crash.
• I can’t say no. It’s a serious problem. My entire childhood was spent watching my mom say yes to anything anyone ever asked her to do. She was making costumes and baking cookies and driving kids all over town. And now I find that I have this irrepressible urge to be helpful when anyone asks me to do something. Even if I gripe and complain about it later (which I will) my gut reaction is to say yes. This might also be a side effect of too many improv classes, in which you are taught to always say “yes, and.” 
• My hair is turning grey, and I’m not nearly old enough for that. Okay, I’m the only one who can see the grey hairs, but I know they’re real. My mom says she was grey by the time she was 30 or so, which means I have to keep dyeing my hair forever because I just don’t want to know. The good news is, my mom used to tell me that I had caused her grey hairs, and I now know that was a complete fabrication. It turns out not having children does not keep you from aging.

So there it is. I am my mother. And it didn’t even take that long. I suppose it was inevitable. Since the age of 15 or so, I haven’t even been worried about it. I knew it was coming. I’ve never seen the point in getting anxious over it. The women who do that always remind me of a Cathy cartoon. Who does that? People with horrible moms, I guess. Mine’s a good one. And maybe that’s why I don’t mind. (Thanks, Mom.)