Welcome to my blah blah blah blog - the inspirational word vomit of a wanna-be, modern day poetic savant with daddy issues and a knack for using words right-ish.
STAR-MAPPED SELF: AN INNER REFLECTION
Each year my mother, innately maternal and nostalgic, recalls the story of my birth, a story I believed to have known from beginning to end. It wasn’t until I was eleven that she added in a sidebar comment that changed my belief system entirely. Beginning the same way the story always did was the fact that I was a pre-me. What followed was a sassy “And Thank God you weren’t born any earlier, because I sure as hell wasn’t about to have a Pisces baby.” Why was having a Pisces child so out of the question? I decided to investigate, only to find myself just as enthralled and enchanted with astrology as those who follow it religiously.
The term Astrology is derived from the ancient Greek word Astron, meaning star. It’s origin dates back to 4200 B.C., to Ancient Babylonians who utilized star patterns to predict seasons, hunting, agricultural patterns, as well as certain celestial events. The zodiac signs are comprised of twelve constellations categorized into four elements - Fire, Water, Air and Earth. A person’s zodiac sign is determined by where the planets and constellations are aligned at their time of birth, so everyone belongs to one of the twelve zodiac signs. And as someone cannot choose their birthday, they cannot choose their zodiac sign.
Having been practiced and followed by millions for over 60 centuries make it hard to deny at least some esteemed consideration for astrology. However, many skeptics criticize astrology as having no scientific evidence to prove it, but then again, I ask them: what religion or belief system does? The real question is, what is it about astrology that continues to lure millions worldwide to its continual pursuit and conviction?
Those who subscribe to the validity of astrology, use this cosmic information ritually in their day-to-day lives. In an interview I had with Rebecca Gordon*, a life-time Astrologer, author, and founder of the My Path Astrology School in New York, she describes, “The cosmos is like the weather- i.e.: it’s rainy, snowy, sunny, etc. If the forecast is cold I may wear a coat and in the same token if Pluto or Uranus is on my sun I may not take such a risk like skydiving or a financial venture. Or I may just be aware the influences are volatile so I will need to exercise extra caution.”
And she is not alone. In fact, in an article published by the Huffington Post, one-third of American women admit to believing in astrology, and “Nearly (37 percent) check horoscopes as they research personal health information (45 percent) on a monthly basis; While more than one-in-four (28 percent) say their horoscope can change their mood depending on what it says”. Simultaneously, world-renowned Astrologer, Susan Miller’s website, AstrologyZone.com, has over six million visitors each month.
Being born on March 26th makes me an undeniable Aries. When I began digging into the preconceived identifiers for a typical Aries, each characteristic seemed to be an integral part of my personality, as if I was checking off items on a grocery list. Adventurist? Yes. Competitive? Yes. As I was never raised with much religious direction, it seemed almost too opportune to not adopt astrology as my newfound faith. Since that day, I have developed an intrinsic sense of self, based on the representation of my zodiac sign, and have furthered my knowledge of all twelve signs and their distinguishing traits.
There is no denying that the presence of astrology in our culture is both ubiquitous and galvanizing. For example, who could forget the great debate of 2011 in regards to the introduction of Ophiuchus, the alleged 13th zodiac sign? Not only was this covered by media conglomerates like ABC, BBC, The Huffington Post and Washington Post, but generated thousands of conversations between believers and non-believers, skeptics and advocates. Even those willingly admitting indifference towards astrology confessed to reading their ‘new’ zodiac identity (not that they believed it or anything).
While I was exposed to Astrology at an early age, many true believers were not. Some people stumble upon it, some look for alternative belief systems when the ones they subscribe to fail them, along with millions of other methods of introduction to it. Gordon describes her clientele and their astrological pursuit as those in search for answers. “They are often seekers to some degree in spirituality and philosophy. Anybody who has at all researched astrology even in attempts to debunk it is often magnetized by its precision and mathematical component.”
At birth, the precise alignment of the Sun, all the planets in our solar system, and the surrounding constellations all contribute to one's ‘natal chart’, or the cosmic map of their life and character. “Our chart is the terrain that the soul chose this lifetime that can best support the karmic lessons we need. Sure there are people that skirt their lessons and may get the same ones time and time again,” Gordon asserts.
So when understanding our zodiac sign, there are countless factors we have to consider, the most important of which, is our karmic path. This is where people have the most trouble understanding astrology. They think they must adopt reincarnation and past life regressions into their belief systems, but what they disregard is the golden rule we’re all taught to live by in every single religion: Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. Isn’t that karma?
But I digress. To put together a comprehensive understanding of the zodiac would take years of research and reading, and may still result in unanswered questions. As a 26-year-old, astrology following female living in Manhattan, I find my own internal perception of the zodiac less complex. As a result of my personal investigation into astrology, I occasionally find myself putting those closest to me, into boxes in my head. My best and most loyal friend, Jessica? Oh, she’s a Taurus. My self-righteous, liberal younger brother? Duh. Sagittarius. My moody ex-boyfriend? Please, a true-blue Cancer. There’s no way of knowing if these people in my life have been born to a certain zodiac sign based on their karma, but I feel as if they truly embody the lifestyle and temperament of their signs. When I occasionally meet someone new who coincidentally subscribes to the same astrological interest as myself, they never seem surprised to find out I’m an Aries after meeting me. In fact, I’ve never once had someone say “Let me guess, you’re a Pisces”.
Which brings me back to the question, if I had been born just a few days earlier, would my demeanor and life path be completely different than what it is now? My mother seemed to think so, as do millions of other astrology believers worldwide. While I can play the ‘what if’ game for the rest of my days on Earth, I chose to have faith that there is a reason I exist in the world as I do. Whether it is karmic, cosmic, or mathematical, I believe that I am an Aries, and Jessica is a Taurus and everyone belongs to one of the twelve zodiac signs as a way to understand the world and learn from each other in an organized form of chaos. And if my horoscope tells me not to sign a contract on Monday the fourteenth, no questions asked, you bet your ass I’ll find a way to wait until the fifteenth to make any commitment.
* Rebecca Gordon is a long-term mentee of world-renowned Astrology, Susan Miller, and has been regarded by many as her up and coming legacy in the astrology world.
CALL IT MY SOCIAL EXPERIMENT OF THE SEMESTER
This week’s assignment: Try something you’ve never done before and write about it.
Well, might as well go for it I guess. The something I chose to try involves a popular social media dating app, a handful of “rules”, and a know-how of ‘how to play the game’. If I haven’t stopped you all in the hallway to brag about my brand new take on nightlife, here it is: Tinder.
Over the past few weeks, my 2 roommates haven’t stopped talking about what’s going on in their Tinder lives. It’s either ‘Bro, check out this chick’, or ‘Are you going to meet up with her?’, also ‘This broads cray”. Naturally, these comments immediately drew my attention. What exactly happens on Tinder? Isn’t the point of it to just find attractive people to have sex with? What if you like someone’s profile and they don’t like yours? All of my questions were answered when I enrolled in this humorous mobile dating world.
Well, partaking in the world of Tinder has been the most shallow endeavor I can’t pull myself away from… From a birdseye view, this is an application people use to find hot people to fuck. 100%. That’s really the only point of it! There is minimal conversation, you are matched with only those who find you just as attractive, and you’re on a first name basis (last names are excluded). Feeling ashamed to partake, I can’t seem to pull myself away from flipping through hundreds of boys in the surrounding area!
There is a small area to write whatever information you believe is important for other people to know, but honestly, most people leave it blank. It is literally a “next” system based on 4-5 pictures!
Day 1: Anyway, I signed up on a Sunday night. My roommate helped me choose my profile photos and modify my settings (boys within a 5 mile radius, ages 24-30), and that’s all she wrote. I must have spent an hour and a half flipping through countless pictures of boys. I was distracted and enthralled and feeling powerful all at once. I gave the thumbs up to about 5 out of the 200+ I browsed and called it a night.
Day 2: Early morning – 5 new matches. Yes, all 5 of my chosen golden men proved mutual matches, and there went the first hour of my morning. I investigated, took a good hard look at their profiles once again and felt very pleased with myself. Then I got out of bed and bragged to my roommates. They seemed impressed! Seeing how excited I had become with all of this attention, they sat me down to explain “The Rules of Tinder”. They are as follows:
1. Never chose a profile with less than 3 pictures.
2. Make sure you only approve those who you’d actually be interested in. There is no empathy on Tinder. There is no “sorry” on Tinder. And the less people you have to juggle, the better you can get to know them.
3. If you do end up matched, never be the first to initiate conversation.
4. Matches on average have about a 72-hour shelf life. After that, people lose interest.
5. Take some time between messages back and forth. You don’t want to seem desperate and/or creepy.
Day/Night 2: I learn the rules, I use them as guidelines, and I jump right into witty banter with all 5 boys. While out supporting a friend of mine who was singing at an Open Mic Night that night, I decide to get this show on the road and agree to meet up with Date #1, Ben. Ben looked exactly like his pictures, phew! A little dumb, actually, extremely dumb, but polite and friendly. We go out for a drink, and spend about 2 hours talking. As the bar began to clear out, I decided it was time to leave. Ben kissed me as I jumped in a cab to head home. Date #1 – Success. Of course as soon as I walked in my apartment and got ready for bed, I noticed some Tinder notifications I must have missed while on my date with Ben. I smile, respond to all, and call it a night.
Day 3: Wake up to a text from Ben. Actually a picture message – he had an emergency root canal this morning and somehow believed it was appropriate to send a picture he took of himself, gauze in mouth, double chin angle, clearly in a lot of pain. Okay… Unsure how to respond, I move on to bigger and better things – new Tinder messages. Well well well, a message from David. Double-check David’s profile pictures and HELLOOO DAVID! David wants to know what I’m doing tonight. I’m free! But I immediately reference Rule #5 and give it some time before I respond with “Not sure, you?”. Casual, mysterious, nonchalant. A few more messages are exchanged and David wants to meet for drinks. I agree and get ready for Date #2. After a series of time-delaying circumstances, I show up 45 minutes late to Blue Ribbon Street Bar in the West Village to find David is actually GORGEOUS. His pictures were attractive but face-to-face, this boy is out of my league. The voice inside my head keeps reminding me: Boys like girls with confidence. We have a drink, we talk like we’ve known each other forever, and sparks begin to fly. He tells me he works in some kind of financial/bond trading market and has to be up early for work. Eager to see what would happen next, I put on my coat while he picked up the tab and we walked out. He led me down the street to the corner where he leaned up against a wall under a streetlight and kissed me. HELLL YEAHHH. I kissed him back in the ever-memorable ‘Notebook’ fashion and that’s when things got heated. He invited me up to his apartment, which was conveniently located on the same block, and I had no choice but to engage in a hot make out session with an even hotter guy in his studio apartment. I went inside, we made out like high schoolers and I decided to end on a perfect note and leave. He asked me to stay but every girl knows you can never sleep over on the first date. As I left his apartment, I walked to the subway smiling ear to ear. That’s when I looked down at my phone and saw a message from Sam, my soon-to-be 3rd Tinder date.
Day 4: Wake up hoping for a text from David, but no dice. I’m not concerned, it’s only been about 10 hours. Brushing off the brushing off, I move onto Sam and re-read our conversation from the night before. Oh! A date? Why I’d love to! As irony would have it, right before I sent a message to Sam, he sends me one first. “So, we on for tonight?”. I pleasingly put down my phone and choose not to respond for at least 15 minutes (reference Rule #5 again). Now, my hubris kicks in and in my mind, I’ve got this boy in the palm of my hand. I get ready for the day and head to school to finish up some last minute homework before class. Before getting on the subway, I decide to confirm with Sam and head down the service-less dungeon stairs. F to York, head up the stairs and check my phone. Great. My confirmation “Yeah!” message to Sam went through 5 times. Now I look overly excited and I come back down from my cloud and feel slightly embarrassed. And no, Sam didn’t respond. Beginning to doubt my game, I put away my phone and continue with my day. Go to class, tempted to check my Tinder app throughout, and finish strong with no phone contact until I leave. And there it is – a message from Sam. He suggests a low-key East Village bar and we’re back on. Go home first, touch up my outfit and head over with the highest of hopes. When I arrive, a millisecond of hesitation. Sam’s already at the bar, and in person, he looks EXACTLY like one of my old boyfriends. I smile, introduce myself and play the cute-giggly card. He eats it up. A few drinks in, Sam begins to loosen up. We hit the dance floor. Nothing too flamboyant, but we gravitate towards each other to the smooth sounds of Paul Simon. He steps closer and smiles, I reciprocate. And as all Tinder dates have proven in the past, he leans in. He leans in, but doesn’t come towards to my lips the full 100%. He puts in about 80% distance, like he’s Will Smith in the movie Hitch. Caution to the wind, I finish the job and so begins another make out session. He cuts it short by fading into a smile and we both look at the ground. Adorable. We then proceed back to our seats at the bar and tell stories of our family, friends, and hobbies. Sam transforms into a happy-go-lucky kid in a candy store and I start to catch on to his methods. He’s doing the SAME thing I am doing – playing up the innocent lovable-lush-role. I know the part like I was born to play it. Do I call his bullshit or is really the kind of guy he is? Does it matter? He kisses me again and invites me back to his dorm. Yes, you heard me – DORM. Could be interesting, so I concur and we flag a cab and claim it as our 7 minutes in heaven closet. Get to the dorm, he signs me in. Most girls would be turned off by this, but I feel like guilty co-ed and befriend the security guard. We make our way to his room, he throws a pile of books off the bed and replaces them with my body. This is beginning to feel vaguely familiar, OH RIGHT – because I did this LAST night. Moment of clarity sets in, I give in but keep it short. Sam asks me to stay. Part of me actually wants to, but I remind myself that nobody wants to buy the cow if they can get the milk for free. “Can I see you again?” Without thinking, I reply “Really?!” We both look a little taken back at what I just said. “Please?”. I melt. I advise him to call me tomorrow and I sign out of the dorms as quickly as I signed in. WOW. Okay, grab a cab, head home, and see my Tinder profile has been getting a ton of action while I was living another fairytale. I take a look… JUST a look and exhaustion sets in. I’m beat. This is a lot of work! Mentally, physically, emotionally… I ignore all messages and head straight to bed. Well that was fun.
THE TIME I TRIED OUT FOR BAD GIRLS CLUB
2009 was a good year for me. I was a junior in college, I lived in Miami, and I had a tan that most middle-aged cougars would kill for. I became a regular at all the best night clubs and was on a first name basis with every bouncer, promoter, and DJ. Yes, it was everything a 21-year-old co-ed dreamed of.
But after 3 years of climbing the social ladder, the esteemed nightlife began to feel monotonous. Needless to say, I was begging for an outlet. A place where I could be outrageous without consequence. Which is exactly why I applied to be a contestant on the Oxygen hit reality series, The Bad Girls Club.
It was a Saturday afternoon in November when the network held the open casting call at a bar near my house. Now, I’m not sure if this is racist but it was no secret that I was the only white girl present. The cast of bad girls I was up against were mostly black, some Puerto Ricans, a few with children they had brought with them to avoid day care expenses, and me. For some reason they were all taller than I was too, which immediately gave me second thoughts about the whole thing. How could I fight girls with 5 inches on me and press-on nails that could take an eye out? As nervous as I had suddenly become, I still felt like I belonged at that audition.
It wasn’t long before the Casting Directors called us in to begin the group interview. “So, tell us why you think you’d be a good candidate for the show?” the panel asked aloud. “Well, Ima bad bitch and I love to get fucked up and cause a scene”, one girl to my left exclaimed. With my jaw dropped, another voice came from my right. “So? I get fucked up all the time!” She snapped her fingers in a sassy manner. “I like to get my party on and my drank on and erebody tell me Ima bad bitch. But I can be all chill too sometime. You know… ain’t that right, baby?” she questioned, petting her 4-year-old son on the head.
Ho-ly shit. What the fuck am I doing here? As the responses flooded in, each girl, speaking louder than the next to explain her value as a cast member, I decided to put in a little white girls 2 cents. “Well I think I could be an asset to the show too.” I could tell my comment had been lost in the clamor.
“Okay, okay, settle down everyone,” the panel announced. As they began to ask a series of questions, each girl was given 30 seconds to respond without being interrupted. Next up, Kira Pack
“Tell us about a time you were confronted by another female about sleeping with her man.” WHAT? Sleeping with her man? I’ve never slept with anybody’s man! And even if I did, I was too terrified of all the baby mama candidates in the room to justify such a response. Not wanting to sound like a whore, or a bore, I blurted out the first excuse I could think of that would get me off the hook. “I’m a virgin…”
“Any reason? Religious affiliations?” they asked. “umm… by choice?” I replied. “Oh, okay”.
As they continued questioning the rest of the girl, I wanted to punch myself in the face. You’re auditioning for the Bad Girls Club and you tell them you’re a virgin. Smooth, Kira.
Anyways, after the open casting call ended, I relentless checked my email every 5 seconds for the next 72 hours, with hopes to hear the Casting Directors feedback. Hour 73, and there it was. Inbox – Bad Girls Club Audition Call Back. A CALL BACK? I opened the email, read the invitation and instantaneously responded with an RSVP confirmation.
The second audition was held at the W Hotel on South Beach, an establishment I had recently been banned from for lewd behavior. But seeing as how I was invited, I decided to go anyway, wearing an oversized hat and sunglasses. When I arrived, I saw 2 other girls from my group, along with a handful of additional candidates sitting in the lobby.
“Hey!” I exclaimed as I approached the only empty seat available, squashed between Rue Paul and Trina wannabes. No response. Nice… This interview format was different than the former in where there were 3 Casting Directors in a room and they called us all in individually. My turn could not come soon enough. As they called my name, I jumped out of my seat and quickly approached the room. The first thing I noticed was a camera facing an empty chair next to a table hosting all 3 of the casting directors.
I greeted each one and assumed my seat. Camera rolling, the interview began with some basic questions. After getting through the initial BS, the Directors were naturally most interested to hear about how I, Kira Pack, felt about being a virgin. “It’s good…” I told them. They pushed for more. I told them that while I was a bad girl in regards to my nightlife routine and backstabbing capabilities, I wanted to highlight that I was a good girl as well! I do community service, I have a perfect attendance record at school, and I had gone to finishing school in my younger years.
Extremely fascinated, they stopped me mid-sentence and thanked me for my time. That’s it? Did I blow it? “Are you sure…?” I asked. “That’s it! Thanks, Kira!”
Oh. Well, okay… I gathered my things, and shook each ones hand before I exited the room. Feeling confused, I slowly walked back towards the lobby, where I was greeted by unwelcoming stares and an eye-roll. What a friendly bunch of girls!
Figuring all hope was lost, I spent the next few days getting back into my routine and erasing all bad girls club optimism from my brain. So you can understand my shock when exactly one week later, I received a call from Brandy, the Casting Director I had met with on my first initial interview. “We’d like to bring you in one more time for a final interview,” she informed me. “SERIOUSLY?!” I replied. “Yes, if you’re interested!”
HELL YEAH I WAS INTERESTED! “Absolutely. I’d love to!” I answered.
When I arrived at the final interview, I was immediately greeted by Brandy where she took me into an empty office to have a quick one-on-one. She told me this interview was going to be a webcast with the LA office and that it would only be her and I in the room. The webcast would be a fire-round of questions from the producers to gage my personality and response approach. “If you get stuck on a question, just ask them to come back to it later. These guys are super busy so we want to make sure you have time to showcase your personality. Also, don’t ask questions. Only answer them. I’ll answer all your questions afterwards. Okay. Are you ready?” She seemed more excited that I was! “I’m ready”, I told her with a smile.
She escorted me to the room where the webcast was held, and sat me down in a chair in the middle of the room. I handed her my keys, my phone and my purse to hold, as to not be cluttered or distracted. I could see on the giant screen in front of me that the Producers had been waiting and growing slightly impatient. “Hi everyone! My name is Kira Pack and…” Interrupted by a bald middle-aged man on screen, he cut me off with “You’re the virgin, right?”
“Yes, I’m the virgin”, I replied. “Why?” he spit back. I glanced over to Brandy, who was posted up in the corner of the room. She gestured for me to respond, and respond quickly. “Oh. By choice”, I told him. “Well will you have sex on the show?” Now, it was obviously a lie that I was a virgin, and who knows, maybe I would maybe I wouldn’t, but for some reason this question annoyed me. You can’t just ask a virgin to give up her V-Card on television. It’s a beautiful and personal experience. Not something you whore out just to be on TV. “Umm… probably not,” I answered with an irritated tone. “Okay, next!” he declared.
Offended by his tone and audacious behavior, I felt obligated to speak up. “You’re nexting me because I won’t have sex on the show.” I wanted to hear him say it. “NEXT” he repeated, vulgarly adamant. Enraged, I stood up, flipped him the bird, called him a pig and stormed out of the room. I could hear Brandy apologizing to the producers and thanking them for the 30 seconds they spent talking to me. But I didn’t feel bad. I felt angry. But I couldn’t do anything about it. Why? Because my purse, and keys, and phone were all in the room still and Brandy clearly wasn’t my biggest fan at the moment. Contemplating whether I should go back in or wait for Brandy to come out, I let my emotions make the call. Holding the door knob to the room, I took a few breaths and furiously stormed the room. Both Brandy and the Producers went silent as all eyes locked on my entrance.
“I just need my things,” I announced as I strutted across the room towards my belongings. An awkward silence broken by a bitter sigh from the screen. Aggressively snatching my things from Brandy’s corner, I belligerently marched back towards the door to make my second hostile exit. But the room was carpeted, which proved a nuisance in stilettos. It was then that my right heel caught the yarn and I disgracefully fell to the floor. An “oh my god,” came from both the screen and the room, as Brandy and the Producers looked disgustingly in my director. Embarrassed beyond belief, I quickly stood up, ripped my heel from the carpet and stumbled out of the room.
That day was the end of an era for 2009’s appalling creation of Kira Pack, bad girl diva. A day that will forever leave a revolting taste in my mouth, for not only the Oxygen network at a whole, but for 5 inch heels forever.
AND ODE TO KATE AND DR. S
Well today is your day, you made it - Congrats,
Your journey’s beginning in those cute Kate Spade flats.
You’ll take on the world cause it’s Tuesday again,
And you’re facing your future, and you look like a 10.
You don’t know where you’re going, but it’s somewhere up high,
Your feet on the ground while you reach for the sky.
And you’re young and you’re restless but you aim for success
Not sure where you’re going but you’re winning best dressed.
But some envy your spirit, your good fortune and drive,
They may try and stop you from winning that prize.
Cause they’re people out there who don’t like when you win,
Because they don’t have the courage to have gone where you’ve been.
They think it was easy for you, but they’re wrong!
You’ve been down a road that has made you this strong.
And you’ve grown and you’re learning to handle these folks,
So you’re humble and offer to show them the ropes.
But you really don’t know them as well as you think,
You’ve just always worn Kate and looked pretty in pink.
You’re still on your way and there’s so much to learn,
So you’re fierce and you’re daring and you face each wrong turn
With patience, audacious, and a killer blue dress,
And you’re back on your mission to achieving success.
Whatever it is, you’ll always know best,
And you’ll make it each time you face such a test.
So celebrate Tuesday as the day you began,
The first day of taking on just what you’ve planned.
Today is your day, you made it - Congrats,
Your journey’s beginning in those cute Kate Spade flats.
ONLINE DATING GOES FROM STIGMA TO ENIGMA, BUT WHO’S REALLY AT FAULT HERE?
It’s no secret; Americans are all too familiar with the dissemination of online dating. It injects itself into our social groups, our personal lives, and our interrupted television programs. Ultimately, it’s nearly impossible to avoid the chatter and conversation that surrounds it. There’s Match, EHarmony, okCupid, JDate, BlackPeopleMeet.com, Tinder, Hinge, and the list goes on and on, but how safe is the virtual dating revolution we’re all secretly a part of? True, there are thousands of success stories, vast accounts of love at first sight, immeasurable ‘instant connections’, but should these outweigh our inherent accord for common sense and personal safety? According to a recent NY Post article, it’s not always so black and white. According to sources, concerned neighbors of an unidentified California man were forced to call upon the Thousand Oaks Fire Department when they overheard screams coming from the man’s chimney next door. There, Rescuers uncovered 30 year old Genoveva Nunez-Figueroa, who had accidentally lodged herself partway down the chimney in attempts to break into the home of her recent online boyfriend. Captain Renne Ferguson of The Ventura County Sheriff’s Department commented “They used jackhammers to dismantle the chimney and lubricated her with soap to extricate her after about two hours”.
While no comments have been released on her behalf, her victim explained that he had met Nunez-Figueroa online and had taken her on a few dates, but recently ended their relationship. In hindsight, he made the right decision. But is online dating entirely responsible for this unfortunate misconduct? Should we all go home right now, change our names and delete our profiles?
The answer is no. While this is one (extremely bizarre) account of potential ‘fatal attraction’, it is a rare scenario. There are countless ways to safely protect yourself and make intelligent decisions regarding those you choose to connect with. For example, a basic Google search of a person can provide endless information. Unfortunately for one California man, these precautions were disregarded.
While the Nunez-Figueroa story may be unsettling, it is a rare scenario. At the end of the day, the happy endings resulting from online dating outnumber the horrendous ones. This is not to say bad things can’t happen on the world wide web of relationship building, but this instance should ultimately serve as a reminder that we’re individually responsible for our own decisions and level of personal safety. It truly boils down to investigating your matches before further engagement.
SO MUCH FOR GIRL POWER… DATA SHOWS EVEN MORE WOMEN PREFER MEN IN THE WORK PLACE
According to a recent Gallup poll released on October 15th, Americans claim they would rather have a male boss than a female boss. As is turns out, 39% of women support this claim, with only 25% responding they would prefer a female boss. For the men, 26% prefer a male boss, and a shocking 14% prefer a female. While the other 46% assert they have no preference, the majority do, and it’s in favor of the ego-driven, overvalued, and power hungry Y chromosome. While these numbers are a drastic improvement to the poll results from 1953 (with a 66% to 5% male to female preference), they are still a little unsettling. With female empowerment and higher education opportunities at all-time high for American women, one could assume that the women in the workplace would show more support for gender equality.
There are millions of reasons, each one unique to every individual, which probably explain their rationale for these responses, but the overall message is clear: It is 2014. We have a black president. Gay marriage is becoming more and more acceptable. And women still maintain to prefer male bosses to female.
Could it be possible, that one underlying and subliminal opinion has been programmed into the brains of both males and females in the workplace? Perhaps it is not so subliminal. In fact, it could be as black and white as early Charlie Chapman films. In today’s world, women are paid 70 cents to every dollar than men are paid.
This disturbing reality is indisputable. Society views women 70% as worthy as men for their equal work, education, and accomplishments. And while this could be viewed as a positive thing (if you worked or lived in the early 1950s), it still creates a stigma for women in high power, high workload environments. The poll notes, “In June, Fortune reported that the number of female CEOs of Fortune 500 companies had reached a historic high, yet only 4.8% of this elite group are women.”
These shocking numbers further reaffirm gender inequality in the workplace. The dogma established in American society remains partial, and the worst part is, the majority of women are supporters of it!
This is a crucial moment in history when women have the opportunity to support their gender, their rights, their ‘girl power’ movement, and have sat on the sidelines, refusing to step up to the plate. This speaks even higher volumes towards hard workingwomen, who deserve the be promoted, who do the work of 10 men and are mildly recognized for their efforts. Put yourself in their shoes. Assume they have done the work, put in the time, and are ultimately promoted. Wouldn’t you want to work for an individual who conquered the stereotype and forge ahead in a man-to-man business world? It’s disappointing to see the data point to no.
Unfortunately, the number of Americans who prefer a female boss over the past 20 years have more or less plateaued (ranging between 16 and 22%). It is up to us as women, as American women, to invest in our sisters, mothers, friends, peers, coworkers, employers and fellow human beings, to embrace the opportunities we’ve been given and support womankind every chance we get.
I’M JUST SAYING WHAT EVERYONE ELSE IS THINKING
There are very few things that really piss me off. Recently, one of them has really taken the cake, and that is…. Really drunk girls at bars. Usually, I try not to judge these inebriated women, but after Halloween weekend living on the Lower East Side, I have no patience whatsoever. So here is all I have to say:
Dear Drunk Girls,
I understand you want to ‘go out and have a good time’, pretty much every night of the week. I understand you work at a very demanding and unappreciative job and your only coping mechanism is alcohol. I totally get it when you spill your drink ‘by accident’ because you decided to wear heels even know you really should know better. I totally get it… but PLEASE. For the LOVE OF GOD… get it together! You need to stop screaming every time you hear the song “Levels”. It’s been around for a few years and it’s extremely accessible on YouTube and Spotify- so there is no need to scream at the top of your lungs when this overplayed radio hit comes on at a bar. With that said, you also don’t need to push to get to the bar when your cranberry vodka is either diluted or has been rapidly consumed. Just wait your turn like the rest of us, and you’ll get your drink in good time. On that note, this is a warning to all pushy drunk girls at bars: If you push me, I will push you back. That’s how it works in the real world, and that’s just how I roll. Additionally, if I push you in response to a former push, I advise you to walk away. If you’re not one of the pushers, thank you for your basic human decency. It’s appreciated. Lastly, drunk girls… there is no need for drunk tears and drama if a boy at the bar isn’t that into you. He is most likely not looking to find the girl of his dreams slurring her words while fist pumping to Avicii. Also, in the event he does seem really into you, he’s probably looking for a one-night-stand. In all the cases I have seen, serious relationships rarely begin with “I met her drunk at a bar and she slept with me on the first night”. There are endless comments and suggestions I could rant about in regards to the drunk girl dilemma, but the above addressed topics are the general ones I believe to share with pretty much the rest of the world. So all in all, drunk girls, please mind your manners and know you’re better than this. I have faith that if you met your drunk self at a bar, you’d agree that this is not ladylike behavior. Thank you for your time and cooperation.
Sincerely, Kira Pack
QUOTING MYSELF QUOTING LEWIS CARROL QUOTING MYSELF.
“Why do you weep, girl? Is it because you are sad, or hurt, or unhappy? The bad news is... it is normal. It is life. And life is hard. But the good news is... it simply cannot last forever. It is impossible. Because while life is hard. It is short. So, chin up my love, it will all be over before you know it.” - I made up this quote but I feel like it should be referenced in a Lewis Carroll novel. Yes, I'm that good.
O!
Last night, I found out my best friend Maddie's father passed away. 2 months before her wedding. Her Mother died a couple of years ago as well, so when I heard the news, I began to write. And without re-reading this once, I feel the need to share it. I'm not used to writing down my personal feelings but here goes: I'm Sorry, Maddie.
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Life is a catch 22. To live is to experience. But to experience or perceive to experience, is the flaw of the individually subjectivity both granted and deprived by human nature as a limited functioning organism. To react to what our prime sensorial reactors signal to our vacant perception of existence. To assume we know truth. It is a beautiful ignorance so sheltered by our physical design. How can we be so naïve to assume that a doomed species comprehends meaning?
According to the laws of metaphysics, energy is neither lost nor created, but simply transferred. Therefore, nothing can ever be truly lost. It is simply in a different place.
A place we cannot see, or have not found yet. And because our bodies limit us in dimension, thought, and time, these things to us seem hopelessly lost. Ultimately and definitively. But this is not true. The things that we have lost are just the opposite. They are transferred and transformed and out of sight, but they not lost.
And over time, as our lost items remain that way over time, we may begin to lose the memory of the details which made that thing so unique. And the most frustrating part about memory is its tricky nature, which leaves us only with glimpses of a moment. Memory is a fleeting mistress who takes with her all that we wish to hold on to. The details. The experience of exactly what something felt like in our soft hands. The way it smelled. The way it played against the patterns of our mind in the seasons of moments lost and distracted.
As memory fails to describe to us the most beautiful and haunting details of the human experience, she protects with her life the ones that matter most. She seals in her underground bunker that moment that if forgotten, strips away pieces of us, which craft our perception of the world. And the thing we assumed we had lost. She cannot fast forward, but only rewind. And allow us double, triple, or infinite viewings of moments, which felt complete. And the film never gets old. However, it becomes redundant and we skip over the parts we already know all the words to. They are no longer scenes but nostalgia at work. And they play over and over as our senses commit us to pieces of it, which make it unique. However, the film always feels incomplete. It shows us what we know, what we had, that we no longer can tangibly call our own. And the bitch of it is, we can taste it, smell it, visualize it, dream about it, but it’s never the same. And we ponder, and feel irrationally cheated, questioning the loss of the item altogether.
And we can go over and over in our minds how we last remember it. And how certain we were that it would always be in that exact place where we last saw it. Every detail which made it so uniquely ours will haunt us, and we will reminisce of how extraordinary it was and how lucky we were to have ever had it in the first place. But there is no need to fret. For nothing is ever lost. It is simply in a different place. And as the ultimate laws of nature and time have never let us down yet, we will one day, find it again. And it will be more beautiful than we remember. It will be waiting for us. As it has been since that day you both had last met.
I FEEL LIKE I’M TAKING CRAZY PILLS
Dear filthy, messy, 26-year-old man-child roommate,
It’s me, Kira, the girl you share a wall with. While I appreciate your witty sense of humor, your occasional fatherly advice, and your extensive knowledge of scholarly trivia, you’re lack of basic human decency to clean up after yourself is driving me to the point of insanity. It’s not enough that you have your bros over 5 nights a week to ‘pregame’ for a night out that will ultimately result in you coming home trashed at 4am, but you insist on leaving a multitude of empty cups, beer cans, pizza boxes, and Seamless remnants all over our apartment. I mean… why are you smearing ketchup on the walls? Why do you break a glass and leave sharp pieces of glass on the floor? Were you raised by wolves? I can’t take it anymore! You’re a dirty, foul man, Mr. Roommate. You defile a place that Andy (our other roommate) and I call home. A place that is supposed to be comfy, and cozy, and clean. But you defile it regularly, which is inconsiderate! At first, it was a nuisance to always have to play Mommy Maid and follow you around with a garbage bag, but it’s come to the point now where all I want to do now is curl up in a ball and die. Die in a dirty, filthy, dumpster of an apartment. Now, I could understand if you were continuously busy, or had somewhere to rush off to, but you don’t. You sit on the couch ALL DAY and create piles and piles of miscellaneous garbage, which you leave on the table and watch decay before your eyes. What is the problem??? If there is a dish in the sink, clean it! It’s most likely yours anyway. If you see me passive aggressively sigh while sweeping the kitchen floor, offer to lend a hand! The sheer fact that you stir up conversation while I slave to keep our apartment tidy after a mess that YOU made, makes me want to scream, and I can’t take it anymore! So again, for the thousandth time, please, please, please, please, please, clean up after yourself.
Sincerely, your roommate,
Kira Pack