Honesty, the brutal kind.

Tell me you've been there. 

You're at lunch, dinner, a movie, wherever, and a good friend of yours has invited a third party with the hopes you'll hit it off and all three of you can be besties. Now you're annoyed because third party may not want to analyze so-and-so from high school's baby's crazy hair, or talk about the misfortunes of your perpetually single brother. But for a moment you allow yourself to entertain the thought that this third party could be rad, and you could gain a new yoga partner/blog follower.

Until, your friend says, "You are going to love third party! You should know though, she is brutally honest, and I mean brutally honest."

As soon as those two words leave your friend's mouth, all hopes of a fantastically gossipy yoga partner or blog worshiper die. 

Third party is rude. 

Third party is rude, and instead of owning up to her bad manners, she's masquerading them as honesty. And you, you are going to have to sit through a lunch full of "Don't take this the wrong way..." or, "I just have to say...," or my personal favorite, "I'm just being honest..."

If there is the possibility that someone could take what you're saying the "wrong way"(aka the way it sounds, and most often exactly what you mean) - don't say it. 

You don't have to say anything - keep that in mind.

And lastly, honesty and politeness are not mutually exclusive. Honesty also does not always mean speaking your mind - not all of your thoughts are diamonds. 

Maybe you're thinking, "Honesty is the best policy Cate. What do you have against honesty huh? Do you like liars?! DO YOU WANT ME TO LIE CATE?!?!?!"

If you're thinking that, you are third party. 

Listen, no one is asking you to lie through your teeth, or even to tell white lies. But sometimes, rather than saying what you think, just don't say anything at all. If the words that are about to emerge from your lips are not constructive, relative, informative, or kind, forget them before they offend everyone within a ten mile radius, or make someone cry.

Not caring what other people think isn't necessarily a character trait that deserves pride. Be proud of compassion and kindness, that way when people find out you're coming to lunch, they won't make up a hair appointment to avoid listening to you. 

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|         |     <-----That's my soap box. Don't worry,  I've stepped down so we can talk about 

                         shoes and be friends again.

Want to see something gross?

That is a pile of flies. (And a couple of bees.)

During the winter they foolishly trapped themselves between the screen and my window. Because they're flies, they weren't able to navigate their nasty little bodies to freedom, and they died.

That is a pile of dead flies.

My pillow is 8 inches from that window sill.

Gross.

Fail.

In 6th grade I was just under 5 feet tall, I had braces and glasses, and knee caps bigger than my feet. My hobbies included reading, reading, and reading. We've already been over how I am not an athlete, so when I announced to my mother that I was trying out for cheerleading, you can imagine her surprise. Bless my mom's heart, she let me do it.

I went to four days of cheer boot camp, where I learned a slew of poorly rhymed chants, and crazy 8-count dances. Then I would go home and practice everything I had learned, 100 more times. I rattled chandeliers toe-touching off beds, and almost broke my mom's back, trying to get her to teach me how to do a back walk-over. I was in it, to win it.

Try-outs were held in the gym, primping was to be done in the locker room. Friday afternoon I walked straight into a mad house, a mad house run by cheer moms. My mom is a CPA, she was no where to be found. I went to the mirror, tied a red ribbon around my pony tail, covered my teeth in vaseline, pinned the number 12 to my shirt, and that was that.

I don't remember actually performing for the judges. I only remember taking one last breath of glitter-infused air, to try and slow my heartbeat, before running into the gym screaming like a mad woman.

The results were posted on the front door of the school at 5pm. I looked the paper up and down, no number 12. I thought I had just missed it, so I blinked a couple times and looked again. Tears started to blur my vision, and I realized there was not a one or a two anywhere on that paper.

Crushed, devastated, heart-broken, dramatic, hysterical, silly. All words you could have used to describe me. But it was middle school, so I was allowed to be all of those things. Before you jump to any conclusions, No, this didn't scar me for life, and No, it's not the worst thing to ever happen to me. It is however, the first time that I remember feeling like I had failed. I had done everything I could, and it still wasn't enough.

Failure's been on my mind, I'm afraid of it. I don't know many people who aren't. There are things I won't try and words I won't say, because I'm afraid to fail. A couple years ago, I found a quote by Winston Churchill:

Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.

I have failed at least 100 times since trying out for cheerleading, and I'm still alive. But sometimes I need to be reminded that it's the courage that counts.

(Wo)Man Code

I think the Man Code is dumb. It lets guys keep ugly mustaches, wait 3 days to call, and feel entitled to forget your birthday. Although the execution is poor, the concept is valuable. Women need such a code, well-written of course, to protect friendships, balance back-stabbing, and check mood swings. I'd call all women to a convention in Philadelphia to draft an official charter, but we just don't have that kind of time. Born a dictator, I've made up my own, and am single-handedly ratifying it as the official Woman Code of the greater Provo area.

1. Any woman may point out another woman's mustache, or unibrow, without fear of penalty.

2. A woman may not ever blame "that time of the month" for catty, vindictive behavior.

3. The divulging of another woman's bad habits, in front of a handsome man, is strictly prohibited.

4. A woman does not call other women degrading names like "slut," "skank," "whore," or "B****."

5. No woman ever leaves her house without applying deodorant.

6. A woman does not wear cross trainers and jeans.

7. A woman does not name drop brands or ask the price.

8. If a woman's boyfriend/husband gets sick, she must at least pretend she made the soup.

9. A woman is only allowed to be 5 minutes late.

10. A woman never criticizes a friend's boyfriend, only nods when the friend brings up his idiotic behavior.

11. A woman never lets her friend leave the house dressed like a prostitute.

12. A woman does not mystic tan.

13. A woman is always grammatically correct.

14. A woman does not date a friend's ex-boyfriend, unless she has permission from said friend.

15. A woman does not chase after men, men come to her.

16. A woman does not wear Juicy sweatsuits, or anything bedazzled for that matter.

17. A woman writes thank you notes.

18. A woman does not text, call, or message ex-boyfriends to tell them she misses them.

19. A woman does not express an opinion, unless she is well versed in the topic of discussion, and can support her argument with fact.

20. A woman does not abuse her feminine charm. (Unless she needs basketball tickets.)

If any of these laws are broken the woman in question is stripped of her title, and will from then on be known as just a girl.

*Women are exempt from extending girls the courtesies extended to women. (Particularly the name calling.)