Tonight for some reason I am hit with all my insecurities. I am not what I would call an overall insecure person, but every now and then I have a hard time dealing with my physical appearance. That’s pretty much the only thing that I ever really get insecure about, at least regarding just myself. (Relationships are a whole different story.)

Maybe it’s because I don’t doubt myself in other arenas that I “must” be plagued by my appearance. Maybe it’s because I’ve just asked myself to have an incredible amount of confidence in myself — enough to literally impoverish myself, to quit my job, to put all my eggs in one basket: writing. Maybe it’s because I’ve been brainwashed by society or my parents or whoever else is available to blame. Maybe it’s because I really am not all that pretty.

Does it even matter why?

[sigh]

I’m sure I’ll regret posting this tomorrow, but tonight, I just need to get it off my chest.

I want to be beautiful. I want to be sexy. I want to be well-dressed. I want great legs, a toned stomach, and a nice butt. I want a stronger jawline. I want men to stop when they see me. I want women to be jealous. I don’t want to wonder if I’m one of the best-looking people in a room; I want to know that I am.

And I don’t want to have to put much effort into any of it.

Hahaha, I’m so reasonable, right?

I don’t know where all these desires came from, or when, or why. When I was younger, I wasn’t really concerned about this stuff. I may even have been a little vain. Every boy I liked eventually liked me back (although usually not at the same time). All my family friends said I was pretty, and you could tell that they meant it. I ate anything and everything, and I never gained a pound. I guess I thought it would always come that easy.

Actually no. It wasn’t always easy. In middle school, I swore not to shave my legs until high school, because some guy had made fun of my friend for her leg hair, and I was determined to prove that he was wrong. In high school, I refused to see a dermatologist, because I wanted to prove that I was stronger than my pimples, that I would always be more than just a face, pretty or not. In college, I took pictures of myself mostly naked to get more comfortable with my body. Even today, I sometimes catch myself thinking I should skip a meal to lose some weight, and then I kind of mentally slap myself because I know starvation is not the path to happiness. (Quite the opposite, in fact.)

Just so no one thinks I’m a horrible or delusional person, I’ll say that I am well-aware that I’m fairly lucky. I have good genes and decent metabolism, and I’m not ugly. I know that. But sometimes, like tonight, it’s not enough.

Nights like these, I try to remember the few really good moments that I have and hold on to. Like that time on the bus when those two girls asked that guy who he thought was pretty, and they pointed to themselves and he said no, and they pointed to a couple other girls and he said no, and then they pointed to me, and he paused, and he whispered, Yes. Or that time my friend told me she kind of hated how no matter what I wear, I manage to look cute. Or that time he looked at me and told me I was a goddess.

I don’t have a good memory, but I remember these things.

But the times I have felt truly beautiful have been few and far between, and often things happen later to color those memories, to make me feel like maybe my self-perception was wrong. Like someone telling me my makeup looked trashy. Or someone telling me the top I was wearing makes my boobs look saggy. Or someone telling me I have a big butt.

I don’t have a good memory, but I remember these things.

I guess ultimately the problem resides within myself. Oh sure, the people whose opinions matter most to me could probably do a lot to help me stay strong, but the truth is, beauty is subjective, and apparently I don’t meet my own criteria. How do I change that? How do I look at myself through the same eyes as those I set upon other people? Or is it that I should be looking at myself with different eyes?

How do you change your definition of beauty to necessarily include yourself?

If anyone has the answers, I’m all ears.

The decor8 post that I quoted on Tuesday also contained this little nugget:

We tend to judge others for the roles that they take on as adults, [but] it is not up to us to direct the life of another person. We can only be a good example and be the change we want to see, not force others into a role we think is best for them.

I started to write this big long post about judging and being judged and all the issues I’ve had with both of those things in the past. But then I realized, it doesn’t really matter what happened before. What counts is what happens now.

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I think that to be a good writer, you have to be fearless. You can’t worry about whether or not someone is going to judge you or be upset about something you wrote. If you did, you could never write the truth. You’d always be skimming the surface, never delving into the depths of real human character or emotion.

The truth is not always pretty, but often it is the ugly things in life that teach us the most.

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I’m not there yet. I am not fearless.

But I’m working on it.

If you care about why this bunny is on this Web site, read the previous post.

But does this kind of cuteness really need a reason?

Best way to drive your puppy nuts: discover an adorable baby bunny who lives outside your front door and is willing to let you come within 3 feet of him. Guaranteed to make your dog pull so hard on his leash that he will nearly choke himself.

Also guaranteed to make you gush for 3 days straight, so that your boyfriend finally gives in and says, “Do you want to try and feed him?”

To which you will respond, “I already got the carrots.”

Yesterday’s decor8 featured a great post titled “Career Advice for Creatives”, which is intended for designers but really applies to anyone in any field:

I decided that the comfort of income wasn’t as important as the comfort of a joyful, happy spirit. I wanted to regain joy and the steady income wasn’t doing it so my answer was quite clear. Sacrifice the pay and pursue a career doing what I felt passionate about.

There are so many people who panic when faced with the thought of “not enough money,” myself included, but in reality, pursuing one’s dreams (and making the necessary sacrifices to do so) isn’t a luxury or a fantasy. It’s a mentality. Change your definition of “enough,” and you could change your whole world.

Also, I truly believe that even if we can’t all have our dream jobs, we can find work that we don’t hate or dread while we pursue our other passions. It’s a matter of working to live or living to work. For a lucky few, the two are the same. For the rest, the choice should be clear.

Good: Cookie dough in the company fridge — that we’re allowed to eat!

Bad: People who call to tell you that they can’t read your email until later in the day. Then call back to say they’re on their way home to read your email. Then call back again to say they’ve read the email, and ask if you would like them to reply now, or via email.

(SERIOUSLY?)

Ugly: (As if the Bad weren’t ugly enough…) 10 pieces of cookie dough in 2 days. That’s almost a baker’s dozen in my belly!

Riley has asked me to amend the title of my previous post to read “To two of the three most important men in my life.” However, about fifteen minutes ago I was taking him out for his nightly walk when all of a sudden a round of fireworks were set off at a church festival a few blocks away. I was extremely excited and called Andy to tell him to come outside and watch. Riley was extremely terrified and ran around in circles as if Bigfoot were chasing him to catch and cook for dinner.

So I’m sorry, dear pup o’ mine, but until you are a little more man and a little less crying cowardly tail-between-the-legs baby, the post title will have to remain the same.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad! And happy birthday, Andy!

I could get really mushy about these guys, but I’ll spare everyone and just link to this great Father’s Day article that Andy sent me, written by his favorite columnist of all time, Rick Reilly.

Yes, for some reason, Homearama is one word. But with a sunset like this, do you even care?

Yeah, didn’t think so.

I had never heard of Homearama, but last weekend Andy and I were eating at Relish, and he realized that we were only a few minutes away from this year’s Cincinnati site. So after dinner we drove around for a few minutes looking for it, Andy going, “I don’t see it, look it up on the BlackBerry!” and me going, “I can’t work your stupid BlackBerry!”

With a mild case of the Grumps about to set in, we gave up and were on our way back to the freeway when we saw a sign right in front of the driveway to Relish: HOMEARAMA THIS WAY —>.

o_O

Two hours, ten houses, and $24 later, we found our new home: #2 Savoy Blanc. Not only is it LEED certified (dunno what level), but it is GORGEOUS certified too. I mean seriously, can you imagine this in your backyard?

Your backyard that also has an HD TV, a built-in grill, and an enclosable porch for winter? Also, how cool is this bar? (The real boat’s not so bad either…)

And the best part is, I think we’re really close to being able to afford it. I mean, it’s not so hard to make $2 million, right?

The other homes were nice — our 2nd fave was #1 Arreton Manor and our third fave was #8 The Artisan — but none really came close to Savoy Blanc for us. (PS: We had the same favorites in the same order. Good sign, no?) We did see some cool things to possibly incorporate into whatever house we actually DO buy in the future — which is really the point of Homearama for 99.9% of the people who attend. For example, I’d love a built-in bookcase or the AWESOME curvy wood side table below:

(I also like those flower photographs. That house had great art and furniture, but was overall too white/bright and too full of glass for me. I felt like I was going to break something.)

More Incredible Housing You Can’t Afford can be seen on my Flickr account here.

Today at lunch I heard “Stacy’s Mom” on the radio. I remember when it came out and every boy on New House 5 would belt it out at random and unfailingly inappropriate times. In line at Si Señor. On the way to calculus. During Alias. In the middle of a late-night, serious heart-to-heart conversation! And I remember how much I used to hate it. Not just the poor timing, but the song itself. I mean, seriously, it’s one thing to say someone’s a MILF, but it’s a whole other thing to write a song about it. And what about poor Stacy, huh? HUH?

Well, before I could remember any of my past indignation, I turned up the volume and began to sing along.