I am not one of these people who take Pinterest quizzes. I am not new-agey. I don’t like a whole bunch of fuss. I’m not sentimental. I don’t have a spirit animal. I am the most pragmatic person I know. Ironically, I would never read a post called “Why You Should Have a Life Philosophy.”
The whole idea summons images of inspirational print art, t-shirts claiming my heritage as a mermaid or unicorn, and Tony Robbins… then they get all blurred together as a mental picture of Tony Robbins having sex with a mermaid with a scrawly script above it that says “Everyday is a good day when you’re fucking a mermaid!”
But having a life philosophy is not about higher thinking or spiritual fulfillment or having sex with mermaids.
I always loved the movies where the sexy detective has a bad day because the man who murdered his wife six years ago is killing again, so he goes home to his overly large industrial loft, takes his shirt off, pours a scotch and starts punching a punching bag. Then he takes a cold shower and has a serious think in a leather armchair.
This is not what I do when I have a bad day. When I have a bad day I watch Bridezillas, eat something called “Oreo whip” (a birthday party staple for the ten-and-under crowd concocted at my local grocer), and lay on the couch in my underwear and a t shirt inexplicably covered in peanut butter.
At least that’s what happens with some of my bad days. Other times, my negative emotions turn into exactly what I want them to: diligent sexy productivity.
I’ve always loved this idea of my day going completely to shit and being like, “I just need to exercise, drink responsibly, then brood like a badass adult.”
Luckily, I have implemented a system of retraining not my emotions but my reactions to them so I can be more the sexy detective than the slovenly child. I want to share this system to those of you who also struggle with controlling the actions of your naughty personas.
Do you ever get the feeling that when it comes to blogging, there is something that people aren’t telling you? You see these blogs with thousands of followers, and you read their blogging tips and it’s, “Use good photos!” “It takes time!” and “Get a Twitter account!” and you’re like… okayyyy…
I don’t know if I should be telling you this but you are right. There is something they aren’t telling you. So Damn, Girl, you know I am going to spill the secret blogging beans!
DGGYST gets hundreds of requests for blogging tips and then refers to herself in the third person like an asshole because people are amazed that she has hit 5,000 followers just in time for her one-year blogiversary.
There isn’t going to be any “inspiration crap” in this post; this is a straight-up manual you can use to grow your readership and reprogram your DVR.
I don’t remember much about my dad. I know that all the stories my mom tells me about their time together end with “…and then your dad stabbed him so we had to get the hell out of there.”
My most vivid memory of my dad was his knife coming through the roof of the van we lived in. I can still hear my mom screaming, “Run for your life!” while I tried to super-speed activate my stubby toddler legs. It turned out my great escape wasn’t necessary; they reconciled and went on to have more children. It’s the rom-com you never knew would scare you.
They did eventually part ways. My dad got out of the van to take a leak one hot summer night and my mom just sped away. She traded the van for a trailer, the alcoholic schizophrenic for a heroin addict, and we never heard from my dad again.
Until this month. A few days before my 30th birthday.
I have been thinking a lot about class lately. My thirtieth birthday is right around the corner and I have really been trying to hone my style. I’ve always been horrified by my mother’s butterfly bedazzled bell bottoms and the ever presence of “big gulps, tractors, and pink camo” in my sordid memory bank. But what makes someone classy? The internet has nearly convinced me that the whole of classiness is kept in the human cuticles and if they aren’t on point, I should just hang myself with a length of the Confederate flag while standing on a crate of Pabst.
Not one to believe everything the internet tells me, I thought about real life. Who was the classiest person I know?
For me, that person is my dear friend Betty. Betty is a landscaper and ironically has the most mangled cuticles I have ever seen. When she comes by my place, covered in dirt, cursing up a storm, she brings with her an armload of dahlia bulbs or a length of hose for my yard. She clasps my face with both of her hands and tells me how beautiful I look that day. She tells me that my orchid is too dark green and will be happier in a sunny spot. She exudes a level of class that I strive for. Intelligence, warmth, openness. She is just so damn classy.
What can I say about Leo, mi amore? He is the best bad cat ever. That’s not to be confused with the best cat ever. There is a very important distinction.
The best cat ever might not tip over their litter box, kick all the litter into the space between the washer and dryer, then crap in the empty box.
The best cat ever might not tear the shower caddy off the wall and eat ¾ of a bar of oatmeal soap and throw up bubbles for two days.
The best cat ever might not knock over a $30 canister of leg wax , step in it, become adhered to the carpet, and then howl like a crazy person at 4 o’clock in the morning, not because he is stuck, but because he was planning on getting stuck in the cords to the blinds like some horrifying cat-marionette and wasn’t planning on getting stuck to the carpet till next week.
But the best bad cat ever totally would.
Leo, the bunny king, the pleasure pig, the bad little cat man… he cracks me up every single day.
I say that Leo is the best bad cat ever because he is still alive in my heart. I should say that Leo was the best bad cat ever. He died this week.
My heart aches. My home feels strange and empty. I keep going to feed him and have to stifle calling for him. Creatures of habit and all…
I have to believe there is a lesson of great value to learn with all heartaches, with all pains. And as blurry-eyed, as I am, I want to do the most loving thing I can for you and yours. And for me, because I am really writing this one for myself.
I felt so guilty putting my beloved bad kitty down. There was the pressure from the vet and an entire lack of support to be found anywhere, not in real life, not online. So today, I wanted to give you something I didn’t get:
Today, I am giving you permission to put your pet to sleep.
Here are five obstacles you may be trying to overcome:
I think we all have those things we really want in our lives and appreciate while simultaneously having no interest in learning how to make them happen. Maybe it’s how to do a classic updo, how to rock an Instagram eyeshadow look, change a tire, or cook a souffle. For me, that thing is interior design.
I really appreciate a well-appointed room. I find them comforting and luxurious and soothing and amazing. I think having a polished and beautiful home is totally worth having. But when I start to read articles about “layers” and “textures” and “complementary colors,” it makes me want to tear my own arm off and then use it as a conversational piece on my coffee table. “Oh yes, I made it myself,” I will tell my impressed house guests.
But here is the thing about “adulting:” you should learn how to bring the things you want into your life, regardless of whether you have a natural talent for it.
Home cooked meals are worth eating, being able to pull yourself together for a classy event or meeting is important, being able to change your tire is important and having your home serve and suit you is important.
So here are the DG tips for those of you who have no attention span for interior design:
Yaa Yaa over at Scribbles and Tostitos has got the scoop on Damn, Girl! So thrilled to do this interview about everything from my blogging advice, personal life, and the DG army. Give it a read if you want to know more and be sure to follow and support the wonderful girls behind thepagesofpaige.com and scribblesandtostitos.com!
Kick off your shoes and relax your feet. Read on below to hear from Tiara, the girl behind Damn Girl. Get Your Shit Together.
DGGYST has been pretty heavy on the girl power lately. With “The Power of Female Economy“, and “So, You Want a Blogging Tip…“, not to mention the sidebar featuring specifically female bloggers, I have to address something that comes up every time I (or any one else for that matter) discuss supporting female industry. This sentiment:
“But I don’t like other women.”
I notoriously love the women. I was a labrador retriever in my last four lives and just assume everyone is my friend and they want to feed me biscuits.
Not that I haven’t not liked some women. There’ve been a few where I’m like, “You are not my kind of lady. Now give me a biscuit and get the hell out of here, bark bark bark bark bark!” So I respect that you may have had bad experiences that are skewed to the female gender.
Perhaps you have found other women to be largely competitive, shallow, two-faced, and smelly. I would never tell you that I know your experiences better than you do, and this post is not about bashing women who don’t like women. But I will tell you that not liking other women shouldn’t matter when it comes to throwing your unbridled support at them.
“Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it.” – Charles R. Swindoll
Charles is treading dangerously close to republican waters, which is actually a frozen lake where if you fall in, you are fucked. But Damn, Girl is going there.
The fact of the matter is it’s hard not to let the shit that happens to you and the shit that has happened to you affect your decisions for the worse.
There, there. Mama understands. Life is hard. We’re all getting beaten with shovels and felt up in cars and miss the semi annual sale at Victoria’s Secret. Life is just traumatizing AF. But this blog is about activating and harnessing your power, and to do that, there’s some shit you are going to have to let go.