Thursday, October 30, 2014

Why I'm (Passionately) Voting For Wendy Davis & Why You Should, Too...

I'll never forget the day of September 11th. Shocker, right? Most 90's kids and up never will. I was in sixth grade. Probably wearing an awful Old Navy $5 tee and some faded, straight-leg Lee outlet blue jeans with a 9-inch zipper. Classic 60-year-old wardrobe.

My mom was in the office next to the library where I had just started third period as library aide. Typical Mallory move, right? #LibraryAide. Anyway, she came over and awkwardly said, "Mallory, something's happened in New York City. There's been a terrorist attack and that's all we know right now. Ask Mrs. Andresen to turn on the TV and we'll talk later at home."

Well... anybody that knows my mother knows she doesn't relay dramatic news calmly so I knew something was up. And I was a kid that listened and took direction, (rare occasion today, y'all) and that was that.

Also, this was when all of this began.

I was glued to the TV for days. I wasn't scared or mad. I'm not sure that I even was capable of expressing the emotions then that I'm most definitely capable of now. I was curious. I was beyond intrigued by this thing called "the government" and my fascination with all things politics took off.

I'll never forget buying this 9/11 Memorial book by like CNN or something on clearance at the local Hastings Bookstore a year later, and my mom let me stay home from school for Bush's '04 election so I could watch the inauguration live. I've been blessed enough to visit DC twice, once being on Veteran's Day where I experienced enough inspirational chills for a lifetime; all Americans should do it.

Subsequently, my extreme curiosity and desire of being a part of the behind-the-scenes, "clandestine" government affairs has only grown stronger year after year. I have 902928 maps, history books, law textbooks, political rally pictures, CIA documentary DVDs, and American history/politics poker trivia cards. And I say "clandestine" because anything labeled as "clandestine" interests me immediately which is all things American government and Netflix documentary, so, um, yes. #YesPlease.

Anyway, I'm 24-years-old today. I graduated from Southern Methodist University in 2012 with a B.A. in Political Science (and a PhD in life). Why? Well, if you're an economist or millennial-exposing journalist, good question. Otherwise, I majored in all things politics because it's my passion. It fuels my fire. I'm constantly seeing society's problems and dreaming of ways to fix 'em. I love being consumed in a world that's (sadly) utter bullshit but that somehow has the magical power of changing lives in a second. Or policy.

Which leads me to my final and most important point of this rambling post...

Vote Wendy Davis. Please. For me. For my incredible mom, sister, and my best friends; For my future daughters; (We all know I want 4-5 kids and chances of me getting a female fireball or two are strong thanks to Karma, yeah?) My fellow improv troupe girls; My AXO sorority sisters and SMU alumna; And for the precious 8-year-old that I nanny, along with her inspiring mother, aunts, and grandparents.

I could write on and on about why you should vote for her but I'm not a big believer in annoyingly pushing my beliefs on others. That may sound contradicting in the bigger scheme of things but do your research, do some thinking, maybe google morality (if you're still questioning/unsure), and do the right thing. I say "do the right thing" lightly because this quote has a different meaning to each and every person but, ya know, I'm no preacher nor Stephen Hawking, so no depth here.

If you care at all about the rights of a human being given and granted to said human(s) then you'll get your inspirational arse out and vote for Wendy by November 4th. Okay? Okay.



Friday, October 10, 2014

Joni Mitchell, Therapy, iOS Fail, & Siri's Inadequacy...

I spent an hour tonight negotiating with Apple geniuses, Patrick and Mark, for the refund of 200 GB worth of iCloud storage purchased three days ago in a desperate panic. Because this Taurus lacks zero patience/rationality when iPhone says "no storage available and to check my usage settings" instead of just performing basic functions needed for the day to be successful. From the (ironic) moment the annoying default tone disrupts my REM cycle to when Mindful app tells me go to sleep, I wear Siri's insides out so that I may afford my downtown abode, secret Schlotzsky's addiction, wines not found in a box, bag, or Shell station, etc. Basic 20-something essentials. Therefore, my tolerance level of 20th-century issues with 21st century phones has hit negative levels, and obviously resulted in a compulsive buy of extra GB I thought would cure the nonsense/iOS 8.whatever update refusal by my iPhone 4S. Not only ancient and flawed due to lacking first-world storage capacity, but undeserving of the S as far as I'm concerned because Siri's about as useful as an empty Pluckers box.

And you'd think after being an Apple pro at AT&T, spending literally half of my life with technology as my life, and personally using every Apple product ever invented or that will ever be invented (despite Apple's loyalty program rewards those workin' the jobs to support the Jobs' about as much as the U.S. government), I would've known better. I mean, it'd be absurd to think Apple's extra, expensive, fancy cloud storage would sync with Apple device storage, right? Anywho, I'm not sure if my snarky explanation of this to Patrick and Mark was logical or merely entertaining, but I have my money back now so I'll shut up. Maybe. Because my iMessage is still a hot mess, and to say that both Mrs. X and myself are beyond irritated is an understatement, so the next few days should be interesting. Maybe blog-worthy. Who knows.

But... I forget how therapeutic writing is. As cheesy as this sounds, I've been so busy enjoying life the past month or so that I've not really needed a distraction. It's been a while since I've journaled or blogged. Sure, everyone needs a sounding board, especially yours truly. But being overbooked is a good thing for me. However, I read Maria Popova's 'Joni Mitchell on Therapy and the Creative Mind' last night and of all the thought-provoking articles this one instantly resonated. Creativity is subjective. And so is mental illness. But most know that aside from being in the theater or doing improv, writing is an outlet I consider to be a life-saving therapist. Mainly because for whatever reason I naturally enjoy talking to other people. Expression keeps me sane. And with this, apathy has taught me empathy. Being able to unapologetically write out an occasional rant or word vomit over something that's had some profound effect on me, without being interrupted, judged, or given a time limit is a beautiful thing. Because Macbook can't ignore the phalanges or dismiss the fact I'm a stereotypical human, with emotions and feelings. Individuals who care enough to not only express own thoughts on subjects requiring actual thinking and/or vulnerability, but also engage in conversation by truly listening to others are rare gems not to be taken for granted.

I've learned that there's a lot to be learned in simply listening to others. Because listening is caring. Those who beg to differ prove my point. And caring brings more sunshines and rainbows and unicorns and doesn't cost a thing. (With the exception of actual therapists, obviously.) Yeah, Joni Mitchell's mechanism of coping with life's confusion differs a bit from mine. But so do our talents, and lives, and universes. Self-confrontation, though, either in solitude or to a person is a very good thing. Both work for me in different ways.Couldn't agree with Joni more here because I get it. That connection and/or sensitivity is I guess what keeps the creative folks going. Or committed. Either one.

Alas, today is a special 8-year-old's birthday so I should probably attempt to assemble some stuff I got her in a presentable manner before catching a few ZZZs or taking on the day. Whichever comes first, thanks to the blood moon, because my internal clock is all kinds of crazy this week. Last night I helped Little X's mom wrap presents but quickly realized I could never run a gift shop that averaged more than one customer at a time because for every one gift I wrapped, Mrs. X had already wrapped like three. Pathetic example of me feeling inadequate, but I guess it's only natural for a DMWB (doctor-mom-wife-boss) who goes 90 mph every single day and organizes rooms triage-style to be quick with the scissors on a menial task like gift-wrapping, no?