If there was ever a reason for navel gazing, this is it:

My 10 year class reunion is in two months.

I’ve gone back and forth on whether or not I’m attending. On one hand, I haven’t seen my mom in six months. On the other, well, I’m not sure what exactly is on the other hand - but I’m really having a hard time getting excited about the idea of going.

Now before the Internet leaps up to pronounce in one loud, unified and oh so understand voice that they too dreaded going to their highschool reunions because OMG you hated highschool anyway and have no fucking interest in seeing those people ever… I should tell you, I harbor no bitterness towards my highschool years.

I mean, sure, I was awkward and “misunderstood” and there were some really, really painful times - especially during my sophomore year. But I had a pretty good time in highschool. I was in cheerleading and speech and drama and track (until everyone outgrew my stunted ass). I wasn’t on the Homecoming Court or included in The In Crowd, but I went to football games and dances and parties just like everyone else. I wasn’t considered a Hot Girl, but I had boyfriends and dates and… ahem… things.

In other words, Molly Ringwald and I could have been fucking soul mates.

Going back to small town Iowa (do you see that? do you see how I didn’t call it “home”??) for my highschool reunion shouldn’t be a big deal. Really.

And yet, I can feel myself avoiding it. I’m one emergency operation away from making up an excuse not to get back that weekend.

“Aren’t you excited to see everyone?” my mom asked.

Actually, no. I’m not. Not even a little bit. Because I’m fairly certain that none of us will be seeing each other anyway. Not really.

What we’ll see instead are the remnants of 18 year old kids wandering around in our parents’ clothes, updated only with name tags and labels that report Married or Still Single. Kids or No Kids. Job or Career. Money or No Money. Success or Failure. And regardless of what my name tag says, I no longer have any interest in being seen that way.

“But won’t this be a great time to go back? You’ve moved away, you’re doing great. Isn’t that the perfect time to go back home?” a friend of mine said.

I suppose he’s right in theory. I’m proud of what I’ve spent the last ten years of my life doing. I’m proud of the life I’ve built for myself. I’m proud of who I am now. I’m comfortable in my own skin and, for the most part, I like me.

I’m just not so sure anyone else will see that. And quite frankly, I have absolutely no desire to go back and “show off” to ensure that they do. Blech. That makes me nauseous just thinking about it. That whole idea is so phony and insincere and puke, puke, puke, no thank you.

But still…

I’m afraid to go back and be squeezed into a box that no longer fits me. I’m afraid people who don’t know me won’t “get me”, and that will make me question what I know about myself. Because these aren’t strangers not getting me - these are people who are pretty sure they do “know” me. These are people who have the power to humble the shit out of me, simply by looking through me.

Why in the hell would I willingly put myself in that position?

And is my ego really so freaking fragile that one night with a room full of old classmates will make me question who I am?

And if it is, what does a crazy ass narcissistic ego-maniac wear to such an occasion that says “Screw you. I am fucking awesome.”? Open toes? Pumps?

Am I making any sense at all here?

Did you go to your last highschool reunion? Why, or why not?

Updated to Add: If I was still living in Small Town, Iowa - this would be a no brainer for me. I’d go and have fun and have no expectations. But I now live 1400 miles away. To go would mean spending about $1200 to fly back and be in town for about 36 hours.

I’m sure you are all sick of hearing about my trip to New York City (especially if you follow me on Twitter too) - and we still have over a month of this crap to go.

But… er… I haven’t got a good excuse for talking about it again. I will, however, promise to write about something universally interesting tomorrow. Which you just know means the only thing I’m going to be able to come up with is Vaginas or Bad Cooking. Universal.

ANYway - here are the details you need to know:

I will be flying in via JetBlue on Friday June 27th. I’m staying in Midtown near Times Square and 5th Avenue - and so far someone is probably sleeping in a bathtub. We’re going to call it adventurous.

I’m in The City until late Sunday night.

The rest? Is still up in the air. I’m going to be running around like a crazy woman trying to soak up as much as I possibly can in 48 hours. That means subways and buses and walking and touristy shit and street food and museums and ferry rides and lots and lots of wandering around insisting that “I totally know where we’re going! Really!” Because that is how one sees The City, I’m sure.

I tell you all this for two reasons.

One - if you’d like to join me, please do. Whether you live in the area or have always wanted to see The Big Apple yourself, I’d love to share it with you. Please understand I am a cheap bitch and you will therefore have to endure me bitching about prices and doing absolutely insane and sometimes only slightly illegal shit to save a buck. If you’re not above slumming (and really, you’re here - aren’t you?), we’d love to have you join the Sweet Sweet Posse. You can share a cup of coffee or a meal, hit us up for late night partying, or scramble from landmark to landmark with us. The only thing you can’t do is share my hotel room - the bathtub is already taken.

If, however, you can’t make it into New York that reason because you hate cities or the economy just fucking blows right now or oh my God I am some strange girl from the Internet - that’s cool. But I want you to join me anyway. I mean, kind of. In “spirit”, so to speak.

You see, New York City has been my dream for a long, long time. And I’m making a commitment to myself to experience it, even if it’s only for two days over the last weekend of June. And I have a few really amazing people from the Internet to thank for the push I needed to just get off my ass and do it already.

Please - allow me to push you in the ass.

I mean… er… pay it forward.

Look, I know this sounds corny and cheesy and really, really hippy dippy. But if you have even the smallest twinge that there is something out there waiting for you, I want to encourage you to have it. Even if it’s in some small way. Don’t put it off anymore. Don’t make another excuse. Just… do it.

And do it the last weekend in June so you can use one of these kick ass graphics Cissa made for us.

I’m not leaving my husband.

I feel like I need to make that clear after Friday’s post.

And while I’m clearing things up…

This blog is a miraculous place for me. When my head is tangled up - in a big way or a small, temporary way - I can come to this space and sort it out. Anymore, I have to come to this space to get things straight. It’s the one fool proof way I’ve found to get out of my head and off of the mental merry-go-round I so easily find myself lost in. My attempts to make things clear for you inevitably makes life more understandable for me.

The clarity starts in the writing. It continues for me as I read the comments and the emails. Whether you’re way off base on where my head is really at, or exactly on target with your suggestions and advice - seeing my thoughts through your perspective always helps me to better define my own.

I’m trying desperately to explain to you that Friday’s post was not intended to be a Dear John letter to My Life. It was, however, just what I needed to regain my balance. It confirmed for me what I value you, who I am, and how I need to live my life.

First of all - I am hugely grateful for my family. As difficult as being a mother and wife can be sometimes… as much as I want to shake the shit out of my husband some days… as fun as it is to fantasize about having no responsibilities… I wouldn’t be who I am without Jared, Devin and Emma. I love who I am because of them. And more than that, I am amazed at who they are. Even Jared. :-)

It is because of my love for them that I absolutely refuse to “wait until the kids grow up”. I don’t want to put my life on hold until my children grow up and move away. That’s not fair to them, or me. They are my life, right here - right now. They are not a temporary setback or a sentence to endure. I’m afraid that if I accept that mindset that I will miss out on what is wonderful about these years because I am waiting for them to pass by.

I needed to be reminded of that.

I also needed to remember that I am in charge of my happiness. Not the kids. And not even Jared. Friday’s post wasn’t meant to be a condemnation of him, but I noticed that it came off that way to at least a few people. I’m lucky that Jared remains wildly supportive of me. He may not notice when I’m falling apart or be able to “fix it” when I’m flailing about for answers. But he always allows me the space I need to figure it out on my own. And he believes in my ability to do so.

I hope I can learn to return the favor.

And one final thing that I think needs to be clarified: I don’t believe in “sucking it up”. My mom has always told me that we were given the desires of our heart for a reason - and not to be tortured with longing and resentment. I know the difference between the stress and bad days that comes from Real Life - and the restlessness in your soul that refuses to be ignored. I know the difference between creating your life and letting it happen to you, resigning yourself to the idea that it’s “just how things are”.

Wanting more is not the result of a bad attitude. It’s a reminder to get off your ass and make your life happen for you.

Anyway. I tell you all that to tell you this:

I am going to New York City at the end of June. My kids will be visiting their grandparents and I can get there from here at a pretty reasonable price. I’ve always wanted to go, and so I’m going to. It sounds so simple now and I can’t believe how long it took me to figure that out.

It’s not another “carrot”. It’s not a temporary escape from Real Life. But it absolutely is an integral part of me being true to who I am and consciously living my life the way I need to.

And you? Are all invited.

Sorry, can’t blog now.

Too busy planning the Next Big Adventure.

Who wants in?

“it all depends on what you want out of life and the attitude at which you look at your current situation. from my eyes it would seem that you have it all: a gorgeous and supportive husband who truly loves you enough to move away from everything he ever knew, gorgeous and intelligent children, your biggest cheerleader in a mom who sees the spectacular woman you are even when you don’t see it yourself, a good paying job for a company that is owned by one of your best friends, a big house, a car that i would kill for, etc.

so i will ask you, what do you feel that are you being held back from? what is it that you desire that you feel that you can’t have by being married to jared and being mom to your children? are you sure that you really are being held back and not simply afraid to try certain things?”

I received this in an email from a brilliant friend of mine yesterday. She was responding to an email from me in which I basically asked her if she regretted any part of her life as a single woman and confessed to her that I was struggling to appreciate my own.

I have a habit of doing that. I look at people like Dave2 who get to travel the world, meeting new people and doing exciting things - and the jealousy eats me up. I watch my friends who don’t have children and can get in the car and take off for a long weekend without a second thought to child care, and the envy seethes from me.

I even find myself being jealous of my mother - who is living on her own for the first time in 28 years. And I know first hand the pain she’s been through to get to where she’s at right now.

In it’s worst form, my jealousy manifests itself in resentment. In those ugliest of moments, I resent my family like hell - including my children.

I will kindly ask that no one reminds me of that on Mother’s Day.

And yet, I know that my dear friend is right. I know, in my head, that I have a great life. I know, in my heart, that I absolutely adore my children. And my husband.

And still… I am restless. The world is flying by outside without me, while I go to work and make dinner and ignore th laundry. My children’s childhood is racing past me and I have to force myself to keep my focus there, even though I am longing to pack a bag and take off for a new adventure.

Yes, I know. It’s selfish. It’s immature. It’s an “always chasing the carrot” mentality. I know. OK, Mom? I know.

But still… I am restless.

“so i will ask you, what do you feel that are you being held back from? what is it that you desire that you feel that you can’t have by being married to jared and being mom to your children? are you sure that you really are being held back and not simply afraid to try certain things?”

What I desire…

Is to travel the world. I have never seen New York City - and it calls to me in a very sick, eerie way, I’m sure. I’ve never been to Germany or France or Spain. I want to show someone else what I loved about Italy. I want to live some place long enough that I am forced to learn their language.

What I desire…

Is to live spontaneously. I want to pick up and go when I’m ready to go. I want to stop and relax when it’s time to relax. I want to read when the mood strikes and drive absolutely nowhere just because.

What I desire…

Is to be alive. To breathe and breathe deeply. To not be so God damned tired. To laugh and to cry and to feel it in every cell in my body. To wring every glorious thing possible out of every moment of life until I am spent and there is no more to do.

That is what I desire.

Is that asking too much?

I think it was about 11:00am yesterday morning when it happened.

Everyone on twitter was talking about how they couldn’t WAIT to get to Philadelphia on FRIDAY. I was busy sitting in my office, stewing about the fact that Avitable and I weren’t getting into town until Saturday afternoon.

I cannot stand the idea of missing out on something. Especially a pre-party to THE Party of the Season - TequilaCon ‘08!

“Adam, you stupid son of a bitch, why did you schedule us on a flight for Saturday?”

“Because you said Jared had to work Friday and you wouldn’t have anyone to watch the kids.”

“Bullshit. Don’t blame this on me.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I suck. How can I make it up to you?”

“Call the airline. Tell them I’ve changed my mind and we’re leaving Friday instead.”

“What about Jared?”

“Who?”

“Never mind. What about your children?”

“What about you stop changing the subject and go DO WHAT YOU’RE TOLD, BOY!”

And so…

I’m on a plane to Philly today. I’ll be back with pictures and stories and tequila soaked videos on Monday.

Unless… I change my mind again.

(You can keep up with the party LIVE on Twitter - just follow me here.)

Do you ever notice that when you talk about rape or abuse or sexual assault, people come out in droves to tell you that they’ve been through something similar?

And no one is surprised.

And why should they be? We’ve all heard the statistics. 1 in 6 women (and 1 in 33 men) will be sexually assaulted. 60% are not reported to the police. Every 2 minutes, someone in the US is sexually assaulted. Approximately 73% of rape victims know their assailants.

It is alarming how often women are used and abused, seen as nothing more than a means to an end. Or at least, it sure as hell should be alarming.

Although, if you turn on the TV or sit through a modern day film, you’re probably not at all surprised to see women exploited and objectified over and over again. Hell, you may not even notice it anymore.

So, what do we do?

We can donate money. We can counsel survivors. We can listen to people tell their stories and we can even try and tell our own. We can do everything we can to help these victims heal and get on with their lives.

After the fact.

But is that enough? Shouldn’t we be trying to prevent this from happening in the first place?

I thought about this on Wednesday as I watched the comments come in. I watched as person after person shared that they knew the pain intimately, and I wished that it wasn’t so easy for so many people to relate. I wondered what we could do to make a difference - what could I do to stop this from happening over and over again?

We can teach our daughters about safety. We can talk about dangerous situations and teach them self defense. We can build them up so that they know they deserve better than that. And to some degree, I think that helps.

Except for the 73% of rape victims who are attacked by someone they know, and in most cases trust.

It occurred to me that perhaps the fatal flaw in our efforts is in our focus on the women who so rightly evoke our compassion and sympathy.

The problem is not inherent in the victims and would-be victims. The problem is inherent in the attackers and would-be rapists. The problem is in the men and boys who grow up seeing women as objects to be controlled and dominated.

In as much as it is our daughters who are most likely to become victims, it is our sons who are most likely to become victimizers.

And that’s who needs to hear your story.

Your brothers. Your friends. Your nephews. And especially, your sons.

They need to know that “boys will be boys” is not an excuse. They need to hear that the same morals and ethics and sexual standards that we apply to our daughters apply to our sons. They need to know that every woman they encounter, no matter how she’s dressed or how she dances or how much she has had to drink, is someone’s daughter. Or sister. Or mother.

They need to know that you don’t have to be better than a woman to be a real man.

They need to be told that “you’re such a girl” is not an acceptable insult.

They need to be taught that it is not tolerable to leer at a woman and strip away her humanity so that you can get a better view of her tits and ass, simply because you don’t know her.

And they need to hear it from us. They need to hear when we shut off the radio and turn the channel on the TV as a reminder that exploitation is never “normal”. They need to hear it from their fathers who refrain from objectifying women in the name of male bonding.

If the statistics and climate of sexual assault is going to change, it is our sons as much as our daughters who need to hear our stories. And they need to hear it from you.

My dear, sweet, wonderful, brilliant readers…

Have I told you how pretty you look today? And that your ass looks amazing in those pants? No? Well you do. And it does.

Oh, and, by the way, I have a favor to ask of you.

AND IT REQUIRES NO MONEY! Not a dime this time! I swear!!

Now, back to this favor.

My dear, sweet, wonderful, brilliant reader - I have a dream. A dream that can only come true with a little bit of help from you. Well, a little more than a little bit of help. Mediocre help, really. Mediocre.

Shit. This is hard.

OK, here it is: I really want to go to BlogHer in San Francisco.

There, I said it. I know it sounds dorky and I should absolutely be too cool to want this. But? Well, we all know I’m not cool.

Did you also know I am not above groveling?

>Here is where the favor comes in<

John Wiley & Sons (that would be a publishing company) is sponsoring a BlogHero Contest. The grand prize is a free trip to BlogHer.

To be honest, winning a trip is the only way I’m getting to San Francisco this year.

And all you have to do is convince a panel of judges that I am some kind of rock star hero! See? Mediocre favor.

Oh. And. By the way. “Rock star hero” has some relatively specific pesky little guidelines. According to the good people at John Wiley & Sons, a BlogHer Hero is someone who “demonstrates Passion, Innovation, and the Ability to Inspire A Community”.

Heh. Like I said, mediocre favor.

Now, I’ve been digging around in my archives for five minutes forever in an effort to find some handy examples you could reference when demonstrating my Passion, Innovation and Ability to Inspire A Community. I may, in fact, be quite fucked.

Unless, of course, someone at John Wiley & Sons is Inspired by my Passion for Prince Sweat. And my ability to spearhead a beer fund. Which, I suppose, is totally plausible In My Own Head. (Totally unrelated aside: I wonder if sodomizing the rules of the English Language is considered innovative…)

Do you suppose I could be the first person (and therefore the innovator) to do really poorly executed Photo Essays? Surely I am the first person to struggle with homemade guacamole. Right?

ANYway. Where was I?

Ah yes - you were about to do me a favor.

Could you, if you feel so moved, run on over here and nominate me?

And. Um. Could you also maybe give your fellow Miss Britt readers some ideas in the comments section? Because seriously - this is going to take a frickin’ miracle.

Wait! No! I mean… uh…

Anything is possible if you believe! Together we can make this happen! A few minutes out of your day could change one woman’s life FOREVER!

(That was inspiring, right?)

If you missed the Democratic debate last night, let me bring you up to speed.

First half hour: total bullshit

Second half hour: total bullshit

Oh, wait… was that an issue in there?

Nope. Sorry. That was a commercial break.

George Stephanopoulos should be ashamed of himself. ABC should be ashamed of themselves.

First, ABC turned a political debate into a “TV Show” and aired the debate on a TIME DELAY for the West Coast. Apparently it was important to get as much rating juice out of the coverage as possible. Never mind pretending like the media is still interested in public access.

George Stephanopoulos was one of the “moderators” of the debate. He’s an educated, experienced political correspondent.

Or at least, he usually is.

Last night he was a talk show host who seemed to be taking cues from a producer about which buttons to push to get the crowd riled up. I was waiting for a demand for a DNA test and a surprise ex-stripper lover.

The first half of the debate was spent discussing crap that has absolutely nothing to do with anything that matters.

THIS is what is wrong with politics today. THIS is why people stop voting.

Was there or wasn’t there sniper fire? Is your ex pastor a jerk or not?

Who the hell CARES?

Let me be clear: I’m supporting Obama.

Because I am opposed to “mandated” health care.
Because I think we need to get out of Iraq.
Because I believe in his economic plan.
Because I think we need a changing of the old guard.
Because I believe that he has common sense and brains and integrity.

NONE of which was discussed last night.

ARggggghhghghghghghgh

You all doubted me, didn’t you?

There’s no sense in denying it, I know it’s true. You read my very well thought out proposal to the marketing gurus and you scoffed. You laughed! You called me a whore!

Well, well, well. Whose the whore now my pretties?

I am. HA! That’s right. I am officially being courted.

I’ll let you wallow in your envy for a moment before we get dirty with the details…

It wasn’t but 12 hours after I hit publish on my Marketing Manifesto that I received my first email. “Campaigns Awaiting Your Review”. The floodgates were trembling. I could feel it.

I opened the email and found that I needed to click on a few links to find out more. Apparently, there were quite a few companies that were suddenly clamoring for my attention. Pick me! Pick me! They were desperate for me to notice them.

I kept my cool, of course, as I’m certain that’s what we Influential Bloggers are supposed to do in these situations. I scanned the list of possible opportunities as if I spent every day deciding who would be allowed to woo me next. I may have even turned my nose up a little as I did it, just for effect.

And then I saw it. The company that I was destined to partner with. The marketing relationship that was absolutely PERFECT for me. The organization that I could sense was most in tune with my needs and my power in the market place.

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