Oh.

Well that explains everything.

The rest of the world just needs to catch up.

How Did You Die?

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble’s a ton, or a trouble’s an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it.
And it isn’t the fact that you’re hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what’s that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It’s nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there – that’s disgrace.
The harder you’re thrown, why the higher you bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn’t the fact that you’re licked that counts;
It’s how did you fight and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could;
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he’s slow or spry,
It isn’t that fact that you’re dead that counts,
But only how did you die?

-Edmund Vance Cooke

Christmas Depends On Your Age.

Via Oatmeal!

How To Be Alone

Why You're Not Married

You want to get married. It's taken a while to admit it. Saying it out loud -- even in your mind -- feels kind of desperate, kind of unfeminist, kind of definitely not you, or at least not any you that you recognize. Because you're hardly like those girls on TLC saying yes to the dress and you would never compete for a man like those poor actress-wannabes on The Bachelor.

Then, something happened. Another birthday, maybe. A breakup. Your brother's wedding. His wife-elect asked you to be a bridesmaid, and suddenly there you were, wondering how in hell you came to be 36-years-old, walking down the aisle wearing something halfway decent from J. Crew that you could totally repurpose with a cute pair of boots and a jean jacket. You started to hate the bride -- she was so effing happy -- and for the first time ever you began to have feelings about the fact that you're not married. You never really cared that much before. But suddenly (it was so sudden) you found yourself wondering... Deep, deep breath... Why you're not married.

Well, I know why.

How? It basically comes down to this: I've been married three times. Yes, three. To a very nice MBA at 19; a very nice minister's son at 32 (and pregnant); and at 40, to a very nice liar and cheater who was just like my dad, if my dad had gone to Harvard instead of doing multiple stints in federal prison.

I was, for some reason, born knowing how to get married. Growing up in foster care is a big part of it. The need for security made me look for very specific traits in the men I dated -- traits it turns out lead to marriage a surprisingly high percentage of the time. Without really trying to, I've become a sort of jailhouse lawyer of relationships -- someone who's had to do so much work on her own case that I can now help you with yours.

But I won't lie. The problem is not men, it's you. Sure, there are lame men out there, but they're not really standing in your way. Because the fact is -- if whatever you're doing right now was going to get you married, you'd already have a ring on it. So without further ado, let's look at the top six reasons why you're not married.

1. You're a Bitch.
Here's what I mean by bitch. I mean you're angry. You probably don't think you're angry. You think you're super smart, or if you've been to a lot of therapy, that you're setting boundaries. But the truth is you're pissed. At your mom. At the military-industrial complex. At Sarah Palin. And it's scaring men off.

The deal is: most men just want to marry someone who is nice to them. I am the mother of a 13-year-old boy, which is like living with the single-cell protozoa version of a husband. Here's what my son wants out of life: macaroni and cheese, a video game, and Kim Kardashian. Have you ever seen Kim Kardashian angry? I didn't think so. You've seen Kim Kardashian smile, wiggle, and make a sex tape. Female anger terrifies men. I know it seems unfair that you have to work around a man's fear and insecurity in order to get married -- but actually, it's perfect, since working around a man's fear and insecurity is big part of what you'll be doing as a wife.

2. You're Shallow.
When it comes to choosing a husband, only one thing really, truly matters: character. So it stands to reason that a man's character should be at the top of the list of things you are looking for, right? But if you're not married, I already know it isn't. Because if you were looking for a man of character,you would have found one by now. Men of character are, by definition, willing to commit.

Instead, you are looking for someone tall. Or rich. Or someone who knows what an Eames chair is. Unfortunately, this is not the thinking of a wife. This is the thinking of a teenaged girl. And men of character do not want to marry teenaged girls. Because teenage girls are never happy. And they never feel like cooking, either.

3. You're a Slut.
Hooking up with some guy in a hot tub on a rooftop is fine for the ladies of Jersey Shore -- but they're not trying to get married. You are. Which means, unfortunately, that if you're having sex outside committed relationships, you will have to stop. Why? Because past a certain age, casual sex is like recreational heroin -- it doesn't stay recreational for long.

That's due in part to this thing called oxytocin -- a bonding hormone that is released when a woman a) nurses her baby and b) has an orgasm -- that will totally mess up your casual-sex game. It's why you can be f**k-buddying with some dude who isn't even all that great and the next thing you know, you're totally strung out on him. And you have no idea how it happened. Oxytocin, that's how it happened. And since nature can't discriminate between marriage material and Charlie Sheen, you're going to have to start being way more selective than you are right now.

4. You're a Liar.
It usually goes something like this: you meet a guy who is cute and likes you, but he's not really available for a relationship. He has some condition that absolutely precludes his availability, like he's married, or he gets around town on a skateboard. Or maybe he just comes right out and says something cryptic and open to interpretation like, "I'm not really available for a relationship right now."

You know if you tell him the truth -- that you're ready for marriage -- he will stop calling. Usually that day. And you don't want that. So you just tell him how perfect this is because you only want to have sex for fun! You love having fun sex! And you don't want to get in a relationship at all! You swear!
About ten minutes later, the oxytocin kicks in. You start wanting more. But you don't tell him that. That's your secret -- just between you and 22,000 of your closest girlfriends. Instead, you hang around, having sex with him, waiting for him to figure out that he can't live without you. I have news: he will never "figure" this out. He already knows he can live without you just fine. And so do you. Or you wouldn't be lying to him in the first place.

5. You're Selfish.
If you're not married, chances are you think a lot about you. You think about your thighs, your outfits, your naso-labial folds. You think about your career, or if you don't have one, you think about doing yoga teacher training. Sometimes you think about how marrying a wealthy guy -- or at least a guy with a really, really good job -- would solve all your problems.

Howevs, a good wife, even a halfway decent one, does not spend most of her day thinking about herself. She has too much s**t to do, especially after having kids. This is why you see a lot of celebrity women getting husbands after they adopt. The kids put the woman on notice: Bitch, hello! It's not all about you anymore! After a year or two of thinking about someone other than herself, suddenly, Brad Pitt or Harrison Ford comes along and decides to significantly other her. Which is also to say -- if what you really want is a baby, go get you one. Your husband will be along shortly. Motherhood has a way of weeding out the lotharios.

6. You're Not Good Enough.
Oh, I don't think that. You do. I can tell because you're not looking for a partner who is your equal. No, you want someone better than you are: better looking, better family, better job.

Here is what you need to know: You are enough right this minute. Period. Not understanding this is a major obstacle to getting married, since women who don't know their own worth make terrible wives. Why? You can fake it for a while, but ultimately you won't love your spouse any better than you love yourself. Smart men know this.

I see this at my son's artsy, progressive school. Of 183 kids, maybe six have moms who are as cute as you're trying to be. They're attractive, sure. They're just not objects. Their husbands (wisely) chose them for their character, not their cup size.

Alright, so that's the bad news. The good news is that I believe every woman who wants to can find a great partner. You're just going to need to get rid of the idea that marriage will make you happy. It won't. Once the initial high wears off, you'll just be you, except with twice as much laundry.

Because ultimately, marriage is not about getting something -- it's about giving it. Strangely, men understand this more than we do. Probably because for them marriage involves sacrificing their most treasured possession -- a free-agent penis -- and for us, it's the culmination of a princess fantasy so universal, it built Disneyland.

The bottom line is that marriage is just a long-term opportunity to practice loving someone even when they don't deserve it. Because most of the time, your messy, farting, macaroni-and-cheese eating man will not be doing what you want him to. But as you give him love anyway -- because you have made up your mind to transform yourself into a person who is practicing being kind, deep, virtuous, truthful, giving, and most of all, accepting of your own dear self -- you will find that you will experience the very thing you wanted all along:

Love.

My Closest Friend

Jeepers

I remember coming home from elementary school one day and going to the backyard and not seeing my miniature schnauzer, Jeepers, anywhere. My little brother and I searched everywhere and eventually thought he might have ran away. I called my mom at her work and she said she took him in to be put down earlier that morning. And just like that, Jeepers was dead.

Greg and I never got to say goodbye. Never got to pet him or feed him one last time. In our little tiny frames of rage, we destroyed Jeepers' doghouse with hammers. Out of what, I'm still not sure. Anger, of course, but directionless and without specific reason. Maybe reducing that little wooden house to kindling was our way of instant closure. It never worked, as we still resent her for it to this day.

But as I got the "privilege" to be there for my cat Jag during his final moments, I realize now that there is no easy way out; Whether you're there for it or not, when a loved pet dies, life fires a nail gun into your soul and leaves it there to rust until enough time has passed for you to jostle it free many years later.

My sister and Lynx

We got Jag and his sister Lynx before my sister was even born, which means Jag lived to be at least 16 years old. It was always an unsaid rule in the house that Jag was "my" cat. There was his sister Lynx, and they had kittens (Tiger, Puma and Foo), but Jag was just always mine.

Him and I were a lot alike. We liked being alone away from everyone else, but we never minded each other. I'd wake up with him pawing at my back, and when I woke up, he would lay down on the carpet in the sun coming through the window, waiting for me to join him. And I did. We'd lay in the sun on the floor, and I'd  tell him everything. Just talk. About life. I suppose this was my version of prayer; Confiding in a source your deepest fears, regrets and hopes. I knew he couldn't understand what I was saying per se, but I know that he knew I was communicating with him and only him. After all, we were the only two things in the room and he would look at me while laying on my belly, falling asleep to my heartbeat. When I was sick, he'd lay on the piano and watch over me. When I was in a bad mood, he stayed out of my way. And when I was just sad - even on days I was sad for no reason at all - he'd jump up and rub his head all around the hair on my head and purr until I sighed and just let all the bad shit in life fade away.

Away from each other, Jag and I did our own things: I did my best to go about my life with as little contact with my family as possible; Jag would sit on the roof, watching the city silently, not concerned about chasing birds or other cats. And when I got home, he'd be at my sliding glass door, waiting to come in. I'd sit down, do my homework, then watch a movie while he sat on my head.

Lynx eventually disappeared years ago the way cats do when they're too prideful to let you see them wither away. One day we just simply never saw her again. We kept the screen door ajar in hope of hearing that familiar sound of soft metal scratching and mewing, but it never did. It was sad for a few weeks, but it was a calm and underlying sadness where everyone knew the truth of Lynx, and we all accepted it quietly in our own ways as life went on.

I left my home years and years ago under, shall we say... acrimonious terms. And while living on my own and finding my own path in life while I become a man has been rewarding on many levels, one regret I always had was that I had to leave my cat, Jag, behind in hopes that my little sister would take care of him in my stead.

When I returned home years later to pick up an amp I had left in the garage, I found a box in my old front porch. In it was a figure I couldn't recognize. Just a bag of bone and fuzz barely moving. I tiled the box and heard Jag's meow, but it was weaker now. Barely audible and full of air. I could see his skeleton through his fur. As I reached out with both my arms to pull Jag in, he made that whiny groan that cats do in their throats when they're displeased with something but are incapable of doing anything about it (i.e. car rides). He was light as a feather. The heaviest thing about him was his collar. I could touch his tail, his belly, pet his back, move his paws, and where he would normally hiss or pull away, he simply just laid in my arms, now purring.

I couldn't understand. Jag was such a big cat. The biggest on the block. I've seen him take on three cats at the same time and they ran away. He turned dogs on their back if they even approached me. He jumped fences in single bounds and could get to the top of our chimney in seconds. How could such a powerful and beautiful creature be reduced to... this? So quickly?

I called my sister and asked her what happened to Jag. She said they took him to the doctor and there was something about his kidneys no longer working and he wouldn't eat. I broke the lock on the garage and opened some cat food, and sure enough, Jag was so weak he couldn't even lift his head to bother eating. He just looked at me. A few soft blinks, and then went back to sleep in his box.

I knew what was coming.

A few days later my sister called me and told me that my mom was taking Jag to the vet to put him down. I drove there as fast I could, speed limits be damned. She won't do this to me again. I parked and marched in. There was my mom and my sister with a box in her lap. Inside, Jag was standing awkwardly, half up and half crouching, in a confused state of awareness. I reached in to turn him around and he stayed in that position, like a doll. His eyes were open but he wasn't looking at anything. I squatted down to make eye contact, but even when I lined us up, he just wasn't... there.

The vet called Jag's name. I signed some papers on a clipboard. Let the pen hang off it's string. I carried the box, somehow still not comprehending the events that were happening. I was just carrying a box.

And then I saw the metal table around the corner. The sterile air and florescent lights gave everything a harsh, dull tone. The vet put rubber gloves on and gently dragged Jag out of the box. I heard his claws scratching the cardboard. A groan. Jag stumbled. Even though he couldn't physically react, somewhere in his mind I knew he wasn't liking the cold surface. The doctor asked me questions, but I was in my own world behind my sunglasses, looking at Jag, wondering what all of this meant. Just keep nodding.

The vet pulled out some clippers and shaved some of the fur from the inside of Jag's leg. More questions. More nodding in oblivious numbness. And then I saw the needle.

And in one full, entire fleeting moment of our flashbacks, it all came crashing down on me.

Jag is going to die. Right now.

The first needle went in. Jag reacted immediately. Out of nowhere he came to life and began twisting and turning with all the strength of a feather. I remember the veterinarian's command to "Hold him down," echoed in my head. So I grabbed what was left of the scruff of Jag's neck and held on.

I held on for as long as I could. At the same time, I could feel him letting go.

And Jag, for the first time in weeks, looked at me.

A tear fell onto the lens of my sunglasses, blurring my vision. But I knew what was going on. Jag looked up  - at his owner of 16 years - and suddenly, after all the petting, the movies, the talking, the hours of laying in the sun, the sneaking of food, the park, the vacations... suddenly he had to be confused as to why this giant who had loved him for so long was suddenly holding him down as he was dying. Why isn't he helping me? Jag looked up at me and only me with wide eyes, pupils constantly widening and narrowing, looking for a reason why I was doing this to him.

My teeth felt like plastic as I clenched them. I hadn't exhaled in some time. A green saucy fluid began drooling from the side of Jag's mouth.

And then...

There is no happy ending to this. No cute moral of the story. No heart-warming final thought. Regardless of the circumstances, regardless of what people may say to me, all I know is that Jag looked up at me and, in that little primal brain of his, his final thought was, "Why?"

And his green eyes closed for the last time.

My Jag.

Hope I see you soon, buddy. I'll explain when I get there.

-HKR

http://www.cracked.com/blog/5-jobs-everyone-in-world-should-have-at-some-point_p2/

The sex breakdown