You can't spell "courage" without "rage"

I can’t tell you how many times people have called me “ballsy”. I am not a daredevil committing death-defying stunts. Even the occasional acts of reckless abandon are weighed heavily over time and only appear to be slightly impetuous. So what are these people really saying to me?

The last guy to comment on the nature of my balls was reacting to my suggestion that I am a very good catch. Though he agreed, he thought it brave somehow for me to express such a sentiment out loud. Was it? Is it?

Conclusion, dear readers, it is brave. Time and time again this label of ballsy is a reaction to my ability to be absolutely honest and open about my true feelings. So it got me thinking about what courage really means. The acronym “cou” is derived from the French word for “heart”, “inner-most feelings” and “temper”.  And “rage”, of course, in its origin was meant to express furious intensity or passion, i.e. “to be mad”.

Heart madness. Furious intensity of the innermost feelings. Courage turns out to be nothing more than vulnerability; the willingness to not only listen to the heart, but to honor its temperaments through acts of passion. Vulnerability itself is an openness to an attack.

So, you can call it balls if you want, but  I’ll call it courage because the etymology of the word turns out to be pretty rad. I will be soft and open and vulnerable. I will express what is in my heart with intensity. I will rage.

                     

Goodbye, Yellow Prick Road...

There seems to be a rampant uprising of the sentiment of never turning a man down for sex or else he will simply go and get it someplace else. What now?

Seriously ladies?! Seriously. This is another, not at all subtle way of relinquishing all of our power to men. They are clearly desperate for our lady bits, which should give us all the power. Go vaginas! But wait, they’ll be within their rights to cheat on us if we aren’t always ready to comply… Here’s a thought: Stop getting with married men! They’ll have no place to “go”. Or if they do go, good riddance. Problem solved.

Our duty to ourselves as women is not to be complacent for the needs of our men. Rape culture much? We all, as in all people, have trillions of cells in our bodies, full of demands, leading us to action. Eat, dispose of waste, procreate. Nature and biology have everything to do with sex drive, lending men and women alike moments of libidinous rapture. Thanks, libido! Some of us like to drive a little harder and faster and longer and need a compatible copilot, but let's be honest, no man has ever died from a stymied ejaculation. Calm down.  A woman’s “place” is not sex-ready in the kitchen.

All men care about what’s on the inside. And by inside, I mean vagina. Sounds to me like we’re in charge…

                                                    

Don't forget to roar!

                                                                        

Women’s beauty has been heralded long before languages were formed and the earliest of texts were scribed. Helen of Troy launched a thousand ships with her legendary beauty. Bruno Mars tells us that a pretty girl should never look so blue. Endless memes offer a variety of “I’m too pretty to ___”; you fill in the blank.

It’s time to start valuing women for more than their beauty, and we girls have the largest stake in this. We have a responsibility to fight for our equality and it will never come if we continue to insist on being adored for the cosmetic.

You are not too pretty to work. You aren’t. Thinking this way or feeling this way is extremely dangerous. It says to the world that beauty is the most valuable thing. That a woman who has achieved some standard of beauty has fulfilled her life’s purpose and should now find a man to belong to. He should work hard and pay all the bills and be grateful to be in your presence. Now you are a kept woman whose value relies deeply upon your man’s physical attraction to you, which is proven by science to wane over time.

You are not too pretty to be single. You aren’t. Dating is difficult and chemistry is elusive. Identities are a heavy burden and no one really has their shit together. If you’ve put all your stock in your looks, then that is all you have to offer and any man will get bored quickly.

It is reckless to suggest that pretty people deserve more than everyone else. Where is the humanity in that? Of course beauty is an asset, it would be absurd to consider otherwise, but so is intelligence, humor, honesty, and the list goes on. Women are seldom praised for any of these attributes unless they have been previously trumped by a superficial compliment. A woman should use all her assets, and the very word “use” suggests an action. So put in work. Offer up more to the pantheon of art and society than a complacent satisfaction in a surface appraisal. We are women. Hear us roar. If you want to look fabulous doing it, great, but don’t forget to roar.

Vive la femme!

                                                                                   

The feminine should absolutely never be used in the pejorative. We have to stop teaching not only our girls, but everyone, that “acting like a girl” is in no way weak. The strongest bond a creature can make is through love, which requires vulnerability, which inherently makes the vulnerable strong. 

It is never okay to say that someone is acting like a wimp, wuss, sissy, pussy, bitch, faggot, pansy or pantywaist. It is never okay to say someone throws like a girl or fights like a little bitch. Every time you “innocently” say something like this, you create that space, that life in the universe where a woman is rendered a second-class citizen. It reinforces the stereotype that men do things the “right” way and that to be feminine is to somehow fail.

Don’t dare to call yourself a feminist or a champion of women out of one side of your mouth and then talk about how Lady Gaga isn’t that pretty or that Miley Cyrus is not that great at twerking out of the other side. So much attention has been paid at how to cut women down to size at every turn. We have to take responsibility for creating a new place where a woman is still celebrated without having to have perfectly symmetrical features or perfect muscle isolation in her glutes. We don’t have to feel threatened by the beauty or success of our fellow sisters because man and machine have thoughtfully sought to program us this way.

Did you know that if you give money to a man in an impoverished nation that he is entirely likely to abandon his family; take the money and leave? If you give the same sum to the woman of the house, she will start a sustainable business and support everyone. Forever.

We don’t need your “Ladies’ Nights” or to be otherwise rewarded for our perky tits. We just need to make the same money for the same work as a man and we’ll buy our own drinks at the bar. We don’t need anymore “lady doctors” or “male nurses” or reinforcements of any kind for the stringent gender roles that are constantly marketed as a one size fits all.

Being a woman is the most amazing, wonderful gift. I am grateful for it everyday. Vive la femme! 

Give Love, Not Power!

Ever wonder why men love bitches? It’s simple; they keep their power.

Let’s just assume that when you love someone you care about them and their needs, feelings, desires. It would be weird if you didn’t. To feel so much so strongly can make you want to share everything. To say “Here. Here is all of me.” It feels beautiful and liberating. And then terrifying, because there’s a huge difference between sharing and giving away the power. All of a sudden, you begin to have needs, to feel needy. Uh-oh. These needs create a sense of entitlement in the other person; you feel you need them and now you have rights. Wrong. You are already a complete and whole person and they are simply a new component that can add or subtract from your equation. They are a slice of life, not the main dish. This would never happen to a bitch. 

It can be difficult to distinguish between giving away love versus power. Have you ever heard the expression “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket”? Well, when you “need” someone and you make them responsible for your personal happiness in life, now you have put all your eggs in one basket. More specifically, you have burdened the person you love to carry all of your eggs. And your basket. How awful. Not just for they who now have the considerable load, but for you as well, for giving it all away. That would never happen to a bitch.

Keep your damn eggs to yourself. You keep all your power, which is what attracted that person to you in the first place. You get to walk down the road a little way, side by side, and though any time and length together brings its gifts, that certain someone is entirely more likely to walk further with you if they aren’t doing all the heavy lifting. 

Love with abandon, show up to the dance, be vulnerable, and do belly flops off the high dive, but bear your own burdens. Be like two, distinct rivers flowing independently that join in a mutual union without one sucking all the water out from the other. And whatever you do, don’t let those bitches have all the fun!

Holiest of Holes

I’ve been talking to a lot of people lately, taking a poll, and it is truly amazing to me that so many people are out of touch with their emotions, the men especially. Not only, mind you, but especially. I was raised to believe emotions are bad. My mother represses all of hers and lives in a pretty amazing fantasyland, but I completely understand why and that’s another blog for another time. My father was a stoic cowboy from good, hard-working Catholic farmers who was taught the value of grit. Perhaps I was too caught up in my own pain, the slow burn from a heart protected, to notice that it was not just my family, but society as a whole teaching people to disconnect, to shelter, to live in fear.

L.A. is really plagued by this epidemic of the emotionless; where those of us who were never loved quite enough as children flock and try to cohabitate while simultaneously chasing that elusive longing to become eternally enshrined in the pantheon of art. Laughable. I spent a solid three decades of my life trying not to feel anything but rather pawn off any strong sentiments onto characters in stories, whether acting or writing. I always thought everyone else had their shit together and I worked really hard to join them in that place. I went to therapy, I went to a shaman—I assembled a motley team with power tools to take away the ache of the steady chisel of introspection. And it worked. And people notice.

Numb itself is a defense mechanism, and that guy brings a whole lot of unwelcome guests to the party. It takes so much energy to attack people and keep them at bay, to suppress everything, to never cry, to make sure everyone thinks you’re strong. It is absolutely effortless to simply experience what is happening naturally in the moment. But now that I’ve figured this out for myself and can see the forest for the trees, well, I’m concerned about a lot of you trees. There is none so obnoxious as the newly informed. I know; I get it. I’m finally in touch with myself and now I won’t shut up about you doing the same. Because it is wonderful and truly liberating!!!

There are so many ways that people avoid real human connections everyday. We avoid being human when it is such a gift. We are all capable of so many heightened emotions but we won’t let ourselves feel them. Why? When did we learn to do that? Children act out, scream, shout and get it all out so that they can play and be happy again. Immediately. No one ever calls them drama queens or psychos or tells them to keep their chin up through the pain or tells them that they are not ready for so much expression. Emotions are good. Feeling them. Having them. All good. Also, kids are smart.

Everyone comes with life experience. You can call it baggage, but again, that is just a way to pervert something beautiful about the scars and wounds of the person standing in front of you. I wear my hole, my scars, my “flaws” as a badge of honor. Look, I’m not asking you or anyone to fill my hole or fix it, because you can’t. I’m just asking you not to judge it. 

Getting Rich

So there I was at a 420 pool party, minding my own business, when a vision appeared before me in the pool. I was definitely staring. I felt something electric pulse through my body, a deep-seated, biological recognition of something that was mine, or should be. But who was he? Was he single? Does he think I'm pretty? 

I made friends quickly with everyone there, but one girl in particular glommed onto me. She immediately began discussing this gorgeous man and her intentions to have him as well. Apparently there was a line of girls before me, each declaring their dibs, hoping for a chance to catch the attention of this aloof man. "Are we sure he's not gay?" I asked, he was ignoring all these bikini-clad beauties after all. I was assured that he was extremely far from this on the old spectrum and that was good enough for me. 

I knew I had caught his eye several times, and when I happened to mention being single for the last seven months, he very visibly perked up. I tried to give him every opportunity to ask me out, but because I had shown up with a friend who also has a penis (probably, I wouldn't know, but I'm assuming) he respected some man code and left me alone.

So alone I was... but I couldn't stop thinking about him. Rich... Rich. I knew there must be a way to get him a message about my interest. I'm still a lady, I don't want to do any heavy lifting and prefer to be pursued, but he is just a man and probably could use a hint. I requested his facebook friendship, but this was somehow too vague. This never would have been a problem on Myspace... I then enlisted a friend to text him about my curiosity which quickly turned into a high-school-note-passing situation. She took several days to get in touch with him, unbeknownst to me, so I agonized for almost a week. Why wasn't he interested? Who the hell did he think he was? Didn't he know we were meant to be?

My fears were finally put to rest when he immediately responded to get my number. Happy dance! And then he called the next day. And we talked for over an hour. We couldn't get together for a whole other week (sigh), but we made plans to eat at my favorite sushi place and he called me two more times before then. I guess he got the memo--er--novel on how to navigate me. Everything was perfect. 

May the fourth could not come soon enough. I had butterflies the entire day. Okay, he's attracted to me, right? Right?! But will he like me? Oh, god... He has to. I need him to claim me, stick a fork in me, stick a flag in me, dear god, please stick something inside of me. I planned to abandon all my "rules" about dating and waiting. I am in my sexual peak and it's been too long. Way too long. I was hoping he wouldn't do anything stupid enough to turn me off like so many before him.

He didn't. It was amazing and everything and beyond words. I didn't even care if I never heard from him again. I got what I needed. What I NEEDED. When he got up in the middle of the night I braced myself for the inevitable creep, but he surprised me by coming back to bed. And asking me to breakfast. And spending the whole next day with me. Our date turned into a weekend turned into the most incredible relationship I have ever had. 

How did I get Rich? Just by being my authentic self and giving myself permission to do all the things I wanted to do without judgement. Turns out Oprah was right; follow your joy. Maybe money can't buy you happiness, but getting Rich is a great place to start... and hopefully, finish. 

On the Road Again...

Things go back on the market in Los Angeles all the time: Sprawling estates of the rich and famous, that store front next to the hotdog place that never has a business for more than a few months, and well, me. As the president of my own corporation, I have to decide what sort of business I'm running here. What are my projections; what's my five-year plan?

Luckily, I've never had any plans to start a family, so that ticking clock can knock itself out. I do, however, enjoy the companionship and intimacy that comes from close relationships. Oh, and sex. Unfortunately, L.A. is also known for its lazy men. So where can a girl go to get chased these days?

I've tried to have friends set me up with single guys they know. Then I realized that my friends hate me, or at least don't get me. As soon as I reject their offerings they tell me it's probably just as well since he just got out of prison, is still technically married to his third wife and now lives back at home with his mother until he can get a handle on his coke problem.

All roads lead to online dating. I tried Plenty of Fish for a month, but it's a free site full of perverts and looky-loos. Even though I thought I was marketing myself as a lady, I wasn't being approached with any dignity or grace, so I took responsibility for that and started over on Match. I only put up a few candid shots, not showing any skin. I got about 15 emails in a month, compared to over 1,000 on the other site. Though none of them were too interesting, at least they were well written and thoughtful. But I needed some action, cause Match ain't cheap. So I posted one flirtatious pose and received an immediate influx of offers. Ironically, some of the very same men who had previously written me, or ones that were double-dipping from Plenty of Fish, wrote me again. This time, the emails were mostly "Hey how r u" with no punctuation to speak of. I might be getting more attention from men now, but even though my profile is intelligent and witty, they are only looking at the picture, not even realizing I'm the same girl that they devoted an opus to, and I am now worth little more than a fragmented sentence comprised of mainly letters.

But, hey--it takes pressure to make a diamond, right? The market will stabilize. In the mean time, being single is fabulous!

Strong and Black

All the coffee propaganda doesn't really sway me. Something really bad would have to be associated with my favorite bean to make me give it up. The headline would have to read "Coffee goes on a hate crime killing spree then rapes itself to death at a local school." Pretty good chance I would switch to tea after that. Until then...

What a FOMO!

You know those people, always on their phone, checking Instagram and Facebook even while they're already out with all their friends. The ones that straggle at the party, afraid something awesome will happen the moment they leave. Or the peeps that won't RSVP to your Evite in case something better comes up. These are the FOMOs: Fearful Of Missing Out. Hey guy, don't be such a fomo.

Junk in the Trunk

A reader for Miramax passed on the script for Good Will Hunting. It just goes to show you, there's no accounting for taste. And there's always some idiot who wouldn't know cinematic gold if it sat on their face...

To be, damn it!

The life of an artist is filled with highs and lows, twists and turns. Somewhere along the way, we all trip over questions about what we are doing and why on Earth we are doing it. There are thousands of people competing for every role, however small, and "no" is the watchword. Workshops are expensive and filled with the unmistakable stench of desperation. Some of us are really only getting a creative fix in a class setting, which is also a hardship on the wallet and fulfilling to none. We try to glean more opportunities by self-submitting everywhere possible, but how many of these breakdowns say that pay is non-applicable or that they will be distributing on YouTube? Really?! But anything beats a cubicle and a dread of Mondays, at least most of the time.

So, how do you beat the doldrums, uncertainties and pitfalls into despair? The good news is, this is not an entirely unique position for artists. The average Joe will question where they are in their lives periodically, and others will struggle to ever find a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Passion will dwindle, fires will cool. What is left at the end of the day? Even if the motivation changes, if the driving need for creative release exists, it must be honored. This is not about fame, but rather hard work, skill and conditioning to be camera-ready. There are countless talented people that never find their way through those important doors. We got agents, made it into the union and have resumes that no one cares about. How can we be in service to our art when the gatekeepers are so savvy at only allowing those in the clique to make it inside the room?

All the doubt piles on until a breaking point is reached and the world goes dark. It's like losing your first tooth. Part of you is dangling there, looking foreign and unwelcoming. The pain is excruciating with no end in sight. You don't want to touch it or look at it or deal with it. Until the tooth finally falls out and upon reflection, you realize that wasn't so bad after all. Even the strongest walls can only withstand so much pressure before they crumble. The silver lining is that new teeth grow in, pain subsides and happiness is always available whenever you are ready for it. My best advice: Turn into the skid and accelerate.

L.A. Examiner Articles

A link to my Examiner articles... A worthy read.

http://www.examiner.com/user-erinrae-miller

Fucket List

Somewhere along the dash to check off each item on a lengthy Bucket List, I realized that some things are better on paper. That is why I am starting my Fucket List. It's time to face the facts-- there are things worth abandoning.

Item Number One: PADI certification.

I'm completely certain that I will love scuba diving as a hobby or vacation activity, but the life and death nature of diving to great depths of the ocean as some sort of expert isn't for this girl. I don't want to take my mask off under water and get it back on without snorting sea water through my nose and panicking, rocketing back to the surface where the bends threaten my blood. I don't want my water supply to be secretly turned off. I am not going to remember the stupid hand signals for my buddy to give me his octopus (back-up air supply) so that I don't die. There is no way I can take my weight belt off under water and get it back on without cracking myself in the head, which is actually hard to do. Not to mention the fact that the oxygen tank weighs half of what I do, making it a nightmare to get into the water once I have the tank, the weight belt and the fins on. For all you jerks that thought I was certifiable, you were incorrect.

So to the Professional Association of Diving Instructors, to you I say FUCKET!!

Arabian Nights

Somewhere after the Hawaiian feast and delicious, delicious sangria, three girlfriends braved the fashion district together. After a promise to several shops to return before the end of business day to purchase a few items, no money had yet changed hands. After all, with the bountiful choices of the L.A. alleys, one has to be frugal and particular with spending power.

That's when I saw the pants. Genie pants. With cheap cotton drawstrings. They were glorious. Or maybe that was the sangria. Either way, that mannequin was working those black and white beauties and I decided I could do it better. So, I made my first purchase. Then Malo decided she liked them, too, and she wanted to put them on right away because it was too hot for jeans and boots--another one of my great ideas, though I suffered gladly for my autumn wardrobe. And then, I just suffered, as Malo was now wearing the Aladdin pants with a navy top, brown fanny pack and black motorcycle boots. And just when it couldn't get any weirder, Emily (new recruit to this circle of friends, and an excellent one at that) also purchased the pants.

Later, we all powwowed back at Emily's for a nightcap, of course wearing our new duds and vowing to never wear them again...

We all woke up with some buyer's remorse and a hilarious $18 story. I can only conclude that there must have been vodka in that sangria, and I must also apologize for being condemned to never share any of the pants' pictures. It's probably worse than you think...

It's Always Sunny in Los Angeles

The Fall of Erin is not scheduled to begin (de)construction until 2050, leaving at least 14, 235 hay-days. Thank you for your patience.

Vegas, Baby!

Vegas. I used to think "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" was an idiotic thing to say, but it turns out to be true. It should stay there. Always. All I can tell you about my recent trip there is this: I may be permanently blacklisted from the MGM Grand, I found the outside of my comfort zone with a stripper named Delishay (some variation of Delicious), and Swedish people are crazy.

Remember that time you gave me the ants?

One of my best gal pals, Malo, surprised me with a small, blue vase she bought at an art school. There were wild flowers crowding the stem, which she had picked while singing and prancing, thinking of me--but that's her version of the story. My story kicks in an hour or so later, when we were waving our goodbyes. I placed the tiny gifted ceramic in between my legs for the drive home to ensure its safe travels. Once parked, I realized that there were ants crawling everywhere. And not just any ants, the bitey kind. I began slapping myself on all exposed skin and hunting down the runners with an opposable thumb. More than a few got away, though they have probably suffocated in their hot, leather hiding places by now. That is my hope, at least. I am still itchy with bites from that time Malo gave me the ants...

**Stay tuned for tonight's adventure: Malo and I go to the Prince concert.

Summer of Erin

According to the tarot card reader on the Venice boardwalk, my social cup will runneth over as long as I open my iron fist, let go of the past and remain open to beauty, art and love. Even though he never stopped picking his nose and talked entirely too much about himself, his roommate, his ex-girlfriend and did an uncomfortably long Rodney Dangerfield impression, he seemed to know a thing or two about reading a deck of cards. All he really told me was to take my own advice, which is pretty good advice... So begins the chronicles of the Summer of Erin.

Dodgy

People have been saying "Get the hell out of Dodge" for a while now. I'm guessing it's cleaned up all right by now...