Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Advise Me.

When you "graduate" from college, people want to give you advice.

I say "graduate" because I still have to take one more class in August (another thing people want to give you advice about, failing classes).

So for all intents and purposes, I "graduated."

Recently my father gave me a self help book from a female author who really gets him. Its title I can't remember, something along the lines of "How to REALLY get past your break-up." It's full of great idiomatic one-liners that punctuate the author's points. The paragraph about not stalking your ex's profiles on social networking sites ends with "If you don't want to get your hair cut, don't hang around the barber's shop!"

Thanks, no haircut, got it.

I read a few chapters aloud to my dad and sister, reading her idioms in a few of my well matured impressions. "If you hang around dogs, you're bound to get fleas!" sounds cooler as Cookie Monster, well a Cookie Monster that sounds more like Eartha Kitt.

I remember my commencement speaker at graduation. She was a fancy international journalist, impressively accomplished, New York accent. A portion of her speech explained how the study of humanities prepared her for her career and life. "My degree in humanities taught me the importance of communication, but it doesn't take the place of learning how to communicate in life."

Okay, those were not the precise words of her speech, but that is the way they felt to me as my brain processed them, hot in my itchy robe and fold-out chair. Her graceful and well thought out arguments sort of clumped together and formed that fuzzy, Charlie Brown's teacher ball of sound. I squinted my eyes up at the podium, hoping to cling onto some piece of her wisdom that would propel me to another state, any other state than my current numbness. Like a sad, hysterical one. Or a thoughtful, reflective one. Not my itchy and sweaty butt one.

It got me thinking about advice. I feel like I am getting advice from all ends of the spectrum: old, young, furry, sober, drunk, male, lesbian, well-meaning, bored, lonely, equally confused, angry, motiv-ed. All this wisdom flying in at newly porous me, permeating my skull and vulnerable, unemployed being until I get off the phone crying:


People, like the aforementioned two, give advice to help and guide those in a time of flux. I am, by definition of my age, education and maturation level, and relationship status, in a time of fluuu-huuuux. But I feel like these disciples of success, happiness, and life satisfaction are failing me a little. If my options are to "Shoot for the moon" or "You miss 100 % of the shots you never take," then I might as well live my life with a 22 caliber, aiming at the pie in the sky while during the day I run in circles like a discombobulated hamster, shooting hoops until its time to kill the moon again.

I wish someone would tell me to take a shower everyday. Go get your teeth cleaned, it's good for you. Read a book. Write down your thoughts. Go for a run (haha yeah right). Don't drink so much. Don't forget your mistakes, but forgive yourself. Buy more shoes.

I guess giving yourself advice is the hardest thing to do. But imagine that you have two parts, both of which can aid in "showing you the light." You and your dummy self are of one being, and can help each other out. Sometimes my dummy self drinks too much and passes out. BUT it was the right thing to do because my real self was all raw and pissed off and dummy self made any potentially embarrassing displays of wildebeest anger and drunken emotion impossible by consuming too many vodka sodas and being sleepy.

"Trust yourself, whether it be the real or dummy, because you never know when dummy will drink too much and save your real."

How's that for advice?

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Whistle Blower

When my family lived in Virginia Beach, my parents spent time with a group of adults and their subsequent children who loved to party. It felt like so much of our Virginia time was spent at soccer games or parties. My father had a short party-time span. For 3-4 hours he would be the belle of the ball, making jokes, being active, flitting around the space with his bottled beer and great attitude, aiding along the general festive atmosphere.

But as dusk started to set during the wet summer evenings, my father would lose interest in clever small talk and bacon-wrapped figs. Then the previously engaged would become brooding, and usually take to a small patch of lawn somewhere slightly distant from the party.

With this removal came the jangling of his keys, a sound in which my sister and I remained spectacularly in-tuned too, even though we rarely bring our father to the thuper cool house parties we now attend. Then, about 20 minutes later, he would blow a small whistle he had attached to his jangly keys.

I don't know if my father foreshadowed this use for his whistle. For its berth, it emitted an impressive sound. Like a train.


My sister and I would whip our eight and six year old heads to the lawn. Then back to where our mother was sipping a decently full drink with a tall blond lady.


My mother's head whipped to the lawn


The rest of the eight and six year olds' heads whipped the lawn.


Even the dog's head whipped to the lawn.

We were far from the Von Trapp family and the whistle did little to assemble us into neat, obedient lines. More so it made my mother grumble, my sister and I giggle, all of us a little embarrassed. But at the end of the train noises, when we four Lucygas made our way to the car parked in a neighborhood, the whistle made me feel like I belonged to something important.

The rest of the party watched us depart, probably amused at my mother's disgruntled look, the way my father swung his arms triumphantly as we walked. Perhaps they laughed, but it felt like the point, the traveling comedy troupe Lucyga.

And as eight year old me bucked my seat belt in the Mazda, I grasped my sister's little hand tightly, in on the joke, and happy to go home.

So thanks Dad, for being a whistle blower and a great father.

Happy Father's Day.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Aunt Frida, stop!

This one's directed right back at you, dead pants.

You are getting way to foreshadowing and reflective for your own good.

One time this nice and handsome man I knew made me watch an episode of South Park. It was about Facebook, and Stan or Ryan or whatever the cool one's name is...he got so popular on Facebook that he got sucked into the virtual world and had to battle his own profile! It took on virtual life.

Clever, you Colorado stoners, clever.

I am beginning to think my blog is turning into the Jewish aunt I never had. The one that starts to tell me things "for my own good" and they end up being painfully, uncomfortably true. It's as if she tells me all the things that are wrong with me, all my jokes about myself or my hard-to-follow-bc-they're-not-properly-thought-out metaphors are really her criticisms and bits of advice, sneaking their way into my consciousness through my narrative voice!

I might have to rename this blog. Auntie Frida.

Hold me Hostage, baby.

I am supposed to be writing a paper on metamorphosis, the individual vs the collective. If a man turns into a beetle but no one notices him is he still a bug? Who the hell knows.

I am sitting on a couch with the volume turned super loud for a bad cop movie, so my topic sentence ideas and quote intros are punctuated with epithets like "Don't fuck me on this one Jimmy!" or "Four of our guys are dead, what do you want me to do, throw a fucking party?!?" Not really conducive to deciphering the delicate and at the same time steely prose of Kafka, but good enough to keep back the tears that want to leap out of my eyeballs and make streams, order 1,2,3, AND 4 down my face.

I am just going to spray it, Relationships are not for the meek. Relationships are beautiful, and terrifying. You find your being, your awesome singular being confronted with things you never knew about yourself; neurotic behaviors, split ends, the ability to text ridiculously sappy shit and at the same time declare emotional nuclear war the next day.

I sometimes feel, for us "young adults," like its all naught but a hostage situation. We both stand facing one other, sweaty, looking like we've been ridden and put away wet. I am holding his pulsating, metaphorical heart in my hand, gun ready and finger twitching on the trigger. To borrow form my cop movie: "I swear to God I'll fucking shoot, I'll fucking kill it. Get me out of here, I want a nice movie and dinner date, foot massages, and for you to love me for who I am!"

And he's across the room, quivering. "AW shut the fuck up of I'LL shoot! I want sex twice a day and verbal appreciation!"

This was supposed to be funny. I am just sad.

Relationships are hard.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Love Letter

Last week brought to my college town the onslaught of "June Gloom," where, like clockwork, a dense, dewy, hair wrecking mist descends over Southern/Central California inhabitants. And we all look to the ocean longingly, sighing.

Also, I just bought and energy drink called NEUROSONIC.

But in the midst of this spectacularly melodramatic weather, I have had few moments to revel in this prime emotional-inducing surrounding, which is a tragedy. I am in the last bit of my finals before I graduate from college.

Did i say Tragedy? I meant HORROR, like over articulated, linear Edgar Allen Poe horror, like Stephen King on PCP horror. Like Linda Blair is my new roomie horror.

I am graduating.


You know that episode of Sex and the City (all my roommates are gagging) where Carrie forgets the men (paha) and dates the city for an episode? I feel like I have just realized that I have been in a four year relationship with college. And now he's dumping me, telling me to "move on" and "welcome to your future" and "this was the best time of your life, good luck finding temp work, say hello to your mom now that I'm kicking you out of your adorable, lovable living situation"

Even though I am in the gloomy midst (JUNE GLOOM JOKES AL DAY LONG) of a break up, I don't want to remember college like this; me drunk outside college's door burning the t-shirts he left at my place while screaming the lyrics to "our song." I want to remember the reasons I fell in inconvenient love with him in the first place.

I am sure this will be the first of many weepy Word documents I will fill as I swill good wine form my mother's crystal, holding my mini poodles at home close, telling them about that time I was drunk with all my friends having the best time of my life. But for now I just want to think of college the way I'd think of a boyfriend whom I loved very much, who I can no longer be with.


Just kidding. I think of you when I can't sleep, which is often, as I am half cat. When I am rolling around in my bed getting getting pissed off, emitting strangled, annoying sobs in frustration. There comes a point where I play a little game called "try to recall what makes you happy." When I was little I would think of playing in the sand with my cousins in Hawaii and eating Kahlua pig with poi, or eating berries with cream with my Oma in Germany (wow, see where my 10 yr old priorities were).

Now I think of you, ex bf-as-college-metaphor, to feel happy and peaceful at 3 in the morning. I remember how nice you were to me once I got my act together and took all my piercings out. How you took me from Keystone light to something bottled and darker. How we used to eat shitty sushi until we stepped it up a notch and discovered places in old town. How you told me about people from faraway places, like LA and Chico. How I pretended never to like you and wanted to transfer to Davis until it was too late and now I want to cling to a eucalyptus tree until some bewildered UCSB maintenance worker drags me away.

I can't imagine going away from you. My post-you existence seems as dense and foggy as June Gloom (told you). Most people look at you, your natty-lite can littered streets, freshman filled house parties, the textfromlastnight website, long distance relationships, walk of shames, drunken brawls and think "What a brute." But when I think of you I remember cheap wine, family dinners, hearing smart people speak for free (kind of), mood lighting, TERRIBLE sex, AMAZING sex, political arguments where nobody knows what they're talking about, and sharing funny books. I hope we keep in touch, but I'm sure you will be calling me. I am your Alum, after all.

I love you.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

Dream On.

The other night I had one of the most vivid dreams. The type where your subconscious is trying to coerce you to sleep in just so it can find out what happens. I don't want to divulge the nature of this fancy pants dream (wizards, pot, magic school buses, college and a castle) because I believe that one day I will write it down and it will be the coolest, most money making story in the world. Then I will will have yellow tail tar-tar, as many platforms as I can drool over aligned in my closet like little foot soldiers, a gorgeous black standard poodle named Kristopherson, a German Shepard names Max or Wolfgang, and lots of over priced candles.

Anyway, I awoke reluctantly that morning and forced my boyfriend to wake up. Filled with sleepy enthusiasm I committed to relaying to him the eventual source of my enviable income!

"And then the girl...wait I have to figure that part out, I mean in the dream she was me, but I am not going to make her me...She might have brown hair but you know how I like brunettes. Anyway she is tired of going to class all the time because this guy is really boring. Are you listening? (Yes) Okay LISTEN, so she hasn't gone to class for like 3 weeks and finally one day...okay wait maybe five weeks, oh I don't know somewhere deep in the quarter, Oh wait do you think it should be on semester? Semester are more relatable don't you think? Shit okay well anyway she finally gets to the class..."

This continued for about ten minutes until I noticed I was losing his attention. I started to make up parts of my dream that hadn't happened in order to keep the room alive, but then I would lose track of my story. It began to get disjointed.

"And then there were DOLPHINS! yeaaaah dolphins and they were jumping in and out of the water as they crossed this greaaaat bridge...Wait I am not sure if they were on a bridge I mean that seems ridiculous, okay so I have to figure that part out but there was an ocean and somehow they got to an island...okay there may or may not have been dolphins..."

It finally ended with a plaintive "And there's drugs!" to which he looked nonplussed.

"What do you think," I asked, my eyes alight with a pleading excitement. "Good, huh?!?"

"Yeeeah," my boyfriend yawned. Then proceeded to tell me about his dream. Which involved a flying plank and a not-that-hot blond female co-pilot. Or something.

I don't really know. I guess I wasn't listening.