When I was fifteen I wrote down in my diary all the things I was afraid of:
-boys
-sex
-booze
-drugs
-my friends not liking me
-being a bad kisser
-going to parties
-smelling bad
Now I am 23. And these are the things I am afraid of.
-men who would rather be boys
-bad sex
-cheap booze
-drug [tests] just kidding mom
-my friends not liking me
-going to parties and holding hands when you are not supposed to
-smelling bad
Some fears are universal, I learned. It was fun to see how un-far I have come in some areas of my life and now far I have come in others. Suddenly, being 23 feels not so old, perhaps I have started paying my own bills and burrowing into adulthood, but I am still scared of body odor and I am always worried that my people in my life will have heart seizures and stop altogether enjoying my company.
Some fears are newly developed, however. The fear of losing people now that I am 23 and understand when there is something worth holding onto. When, because of this person, ordinary things like camping trips and early morning nooky become 10x more exciting. Is making a sandwich routine? NO WAY. Grocery shopping is like an roller coaster. Perhaps we waltzed in the cereal isle. He can swing dance when boiling water and play dead for my tiny dog to sniff and sniff until he convulses with happiness because his other playmate is so much cooler than mom. He opens tuna cans by just looking at them. Together, the world is open for business. Brushing your teeth is sexy when you do it side by side.
And to watch the potential of your Disneyland relationship slip down through your hands like old bathwater is perhaps the fear that drains me most of all.
But ultimately, you mustn't lie down in the wake of the tidal wave of fear. You must stand up to watch it crash and destroy everything, hoping that when the water subsides, there he will be, waltzing his way back into your arms so we can head off to our next great adventure.
Showing posts with label musings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label musings. Show all posts
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
Guilty as Charged
Guilt is an interesting bitch. It is not like anger, which bursts and subsides, but is always moving, coiling. It is not quite like fear, which seems distinctly haunting, the darkly twisted angst of what is to come.
Rather, guilt can die altogether in moments. It can stop itself autonomously. And you can go on waking up, brushing your teeth, and fetching a latte without the weight.
But just as inconspicuously as it died, it can be reborn. And the stench of it is so strong, it fills your throat and lungs until breath seems difficult as you struggle to wait out the day, the week, the month until it dies again.
It has been over a year since I had my first wrestle with the fleeting bitch. She still returns occasionally, with less vigor and momentum. There is less hangover, less temptation and her visits are tempered with my slightly newer perspective and strength.
When you do something you know is wrong, it ignites you with passion and fear. And when the adrenaline subsides, all that remains is a pile of dusty ash. There is nothing you can do but wait. Wait for the phoenix, wait for your next chance to go head to head with the bitch.
Rather, guilt can die altogether in moments. It can stop itself autonomously. And you can go on waking up, brushing your teeth, and fetching a latte without the weight.
But just as inconspicuously as it died, it can be reborn. And the stench of it is so strong, it fills your throat and lungs until breath seems difficult as you struggle to wait out the day, the week, the month until it dies again.
It has been over a year since I had my first wrestle with the fleeting bitch. She still returns occasionally, with less vigor and momentum. There is less hangover, less temptation and her visits are tempered with my slightly newer perspective and strength.
When you do something you know is wrong, it ignites you with passion and fear. And when the adrenaline subsides, all that remains is a pile of dusty ash. There is nothing you can do but wait. Wait for the phoenix, wait for your next chance to go head to head with the bitch.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Bilingual a Plus
Within the hollowed depths of my job search, I have come across many postings whom list bilingualness as an incentive to hire. Living in southern California, it's a safe assumption that the tongue besides my native one is that of the sultry rolling r's, part one of the Romance: Spanish.
I've always sort of poked fun at the fact that I cannot speak a word of Spanish. My German born father and I once went to a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place, and both of us played charades attempting to spell out of orders much to the amusement of the lady behind the counter.
Being born to Peter Lucyga, with half my people living beautifully in Northern Germany, learning das language was always a part of my life. When we were children, my father bought this interactive language learning program. We sang songs, attempted grammar, and learned the words for things like strawberry or sandwich.
I still remember one of the songs.
Guten Morgen! Guten Morgen! Euch Kinder hier in Haus. Euch Madchen und Jungen euch grossen und kleinen, kommt alle zusammen, Wir fangen jetz an...
Good Morning! Good Morning! All the children are present in the home. All girls and boys, big and small, Come together, and we will now begin...
My sister and I were glad to learn the song, because it was oddly satisfying to sing in German even if you had no idea what you were singing about. But as I grew older, the disadvantages of living in California and not knowing Spanish began to make themselves visible.
For instance, getting a text message from a boy, saying "Calmate chica." Confused for a moment, then restfully assured calmate means some form of beautiful. Them ruminating on how much you are smitten with the charming, Spanish-learned rascal.
Then showing your sister the text message, expecting a similar conclusion. There is a quick debate on the actual meaning of calmate. It is remembered that caliente means hot, not calmate. Then rapidly pulling up freetranslation.com and realizing that "Calmate, chica" does not mean "Girl, you are so fine." Rather, it roughly translates to "Bitch calm down."
I know that I should be more disappointed that my lack of Spanish speaking knowledge has held me back from applying for some really fabulous jobs, but it is my "Bitch calm down" scenario that truly grinds my gears. If I am to be honest, freeing myself of the chill girl representation I've built in this blog (haha), I curse the day I learned my first "Ich habe Hunger" specifically because for a good half an hour I was lulled into a brief euphoria of dreaminess and good feelings when I was really being chastised.
Spanish is a sexy to hear, especially that elusive Listhp that reverberates off the lips of my friends who have returned from studying abroad in Madrid. But when I think of Spanish, I don't think of sexy things, like, er, parted lips or...naked people. I think of things I could not understand. I think of someone trying to tell me something, and the message simply refusing to enter into my consciousness. Or better yet, my consciousness dressing up the sage advice in a way cuter costume. You know how the squeamish say a squirrel is just a rat in a cuter costume? Well, for me, in that silly instance, Spanish is all the words I don't want to hear in English. In a sexier, listhp-ier costume.
When I look back at my lack of bilinguality, I have to smile. I smile because the whole affair transcends job frustration or that push and pull of initial dating when things are "complicated." I like the allure of not understanding the words that people are saying. Because for once, I can just let the syllables and meaning wash over me without the strain of interpretation or analysis. I can just listen to the organic foundation of human communication and actually appreciate for a minute, the miracle of language.
I've always sort of poked fun at the fact that I cannot speak a word of Spanish. My German born father and I once went to a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place, and both of us played charades attempting to spell out of orders much to the amusement of the lady behind the counter.
Being born to Peter Lucyga, with half my people living beautifully in Northern Germany, learning das language was always a part of my life. When we were children, my father bought this interactive language learning program. We sang songs, attempted grammar, and learned the words for things like strawberry or sandwich.
I still remember one of the songs.
Guten Morgen! Guten Morgen! Euch Kinder hier in Haus. Euch Madchen und Jungen euch grossen und kleinen, kommt alle zusammen, Wir fangen jetz an...
Good Morning! Good Morning! All the children are present in the home. All girls and boys, big and small, Come together, and we will now begin...
My sister and I were glad to learn the song, because it was oddly satisfying to sing in German even if you had no idea what you were singing about. But as I grew older, the disadvantages of living in California and not knowing Spanish began to make themselves visible.
For instance, getting a text message from a boy, saying "Calmate chica." Confused for a moment, then restfully assured calmate means some form of beautiful. Them ruminating on how much you are smitten with the charming, Spanish-learned rascal.
Then showing your sister the text message, expecting a similar conclusion. There is a quick debate on the actual meaning of calmate. It is remembered that caliente means hot, not calmate. Then rapidly pulling up freetranslation.com and realizing that "Calmate, chica" does not mean "Girl, you are so fine." Rather, it roughly translates to "Bitch calm down."
I know that I should be more disappointed that my lack of Spanish speaking knowledge has held me back from applying for some really fabulous jobs, but it is my "Bitch calm down" scenario that truly grinds my gears. If I am to be honest, freeing myself of the chill girl representation I've built in this blog (haha), I curse the day I learned my first "Ich habe Hunger" specifically because for a good half an hour I was lulled into a brief euphoria of dreaminess and good feelings when I was really being chastised.
Spanish is a sexy to hear, especially that elusive Listhp that reverberates off the lips of my friends who have returned from studying abroad in Madrid. But when I think of Spanish, I don't think of sexy things, like, er, parted lips or...naked people. I think of things I could not understand. I think of someone trying to tell me something, and the message simply refusing to enter into my consciousness. Or better yet, my consciousness dressing up the sage advice in a way cuter costume. You know how the squeamish say a squirrel is just a rat in a cuter costume? Well, for me, in that silly instance, Spanish is all the words I don't want to hear in English. In a sexier, listhp-ier costume.
When I look back at my lack of bilinguality, I have to smile. I smile because the whole affair transcends job frustration or that push and pull of initial dating when things are "complicated." I like the allure of not understanding the words that people are saying. Because for once, I can just let the syllables and meaning wash over me without the strain of interpretation or analysis. I can just listen to the organic foundation of human communication and actually appreciate for a minute, the miracle of language.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
If the shoe [doesn't] fit...
Hello, dear blog.
So my last few posts about Oceanside and a new job seem woefully unimportant now. The few weeks that I was employed by that company feel like a black hole, a hole where the site of my reporter pad would make me nauseous and I developed a brief interview stutter.
In other words, I was laid off.
So now I am blogging to you from a coffee shop, terrifically unemployed, unpaid (the former company of mine is having financial troubles), yet undeterred. If you can't laugh when life takes you to Oceanside and then shits all over your lovely yet childlike perception that the job world will give you as much love as you give it, then when can you?
I choose to laugh. HA. HA. Ha. ha.
So, let me dwell not and instead get to the real subject of this post: shoes! My brief stint as a reporter allowed me to meet a bunch of people and get to know a bunch of local business. Being the clothes hound that I profess I am, (I am! I am) I gravitated toward boutique business. During one interview, I found a pair of precious black patent wedges.
I yanked them off the shelf and immediately tried the price. $7.00! I'll take them!
Unfortunately they were size 6.5. I can squeeze into a 7.5 sometimes, and have bought a pair of 7.5 studded stilettos in a moment of reduced price desperation. But 6.5 was pushing it. They are uncomfortable, my toes hang off like pigeons on a phone line, and I can only wear them to outing that involve little walking and lots of sitting (read: movie, dinner, doing my makeup).
But I had to have them, very much. In fact if I left the store without buying them, something truly terrible would happen, like I'd get gout or be fired (ha.ha.ha.). My hands itched to possess the too small shoes, and my heart raced as she rang them up. Let's go! my silent thought process said. If I don't own these, someone else with smaller feet will. I should have them, because I want them, now. They will make me happy, now. If I don't, right now, they will sit, right now, and later, someone who doesn't really love them for all they are will get them, later, and I will be alone, for now, and for later.
And then perhaps, for ever.
Well, I got them, I now own them, and they sit along the top shelf of my closet gathering dust. I realize, regretfully, that I really should not have bought them, even though they looked great and made me feel great. When I'd feel dull or unhappy, I'd look at them and think "Well, at least I have that." And I'd feel giddy, and sneaky, and comfortable for the time being.
But you can't keep shoes on retainer, especially ones that don't fit. Shoes are meant to be worn, walked, and admired. They are meant to spend time with you, to be a part of your life. You can't just stay with shoes because it makes you feel good to have them around, just in case.
In case of what? Something bad happening? Like getting laid off?
Well, I got laid off. I put the shoes on, thinking I could salvage something from my time "on the job." And when push came to shove, when I most needed them to fit, they still didn't.
I know its silly to pin hopes of support onto inanimate objects. But my reverse Cinderella story made me realize that it is just as silly to pin hopes of support on ill-fitting relationships as it is on pretty patent wedges.
So my last few posts about Oceanside and a new job seem woefully unimportant now. The few weeks that I was employed by that company feel like a black hole, a hole where the site of my reporter pad would make me nauseous and I developed a brief interview stutter.
In other words, I was laid off.
So now I am blogging to you from a coffee shop, terrifically unemployed, unpaid (the former company of mine is having financial troubles), yet undeterred. If you can't laugh when life takes you to Oceanside and then shits all over your lovely yet childlike perception that the job world will give you as much love as you give it, then when can you?
I choose to laugh. HA. HA. Ha. ha.
So, let me dwell not and instead get to the real subject of this post: shoes! My brief stint as a reporter allowed me to meet a bunch of people and get to know a bunch of local business. Being the clothes hound that I profess I am, (I am! I am) I gravitated toward boutique business. During one interview, I found a pair of precious black patent wedges.
I yanked them off the shelf and immediately tried the price. $7.00! I'll take them!
Unfortunately they were size 6.5. I can squeeze into a 7.5 sometimes, and have bought a pair of 7.5 studded stilettos in a moment of reduced price desperation. But 6.5 was pushing it. They are uncomfortable, my toes hang off like pigeons on a phone line, and I can only wear them to outing that involve little walking and lots of sitting (read: movie, dinner, doing my makeup).
But I had to have them, very much. In fact if I left the store without buying them, something truly terrible would happen, like I'd get gout or be fired (ha.ha.ha.). My hands itched to possess the too small shoes, and my heart raced as she rang them up. Let's go! my silent thought process said. If I don't own these, someone else with smaller feet will. I should have them, because I want them, now. They will make me happy, now. If I don't, right now, they will sit, right now, and later, someone who doesn't really love them for all they are will get them, later, and I will be alone, for now, and for later.
And then perhaps, for ever.
Well, I got them, I now own them, and they sit along the top shelf of my closet gathering dust. I realize, regretfully, that I really should not have bought them, even though they looked great and made me feel great. When I'd feel dull or unhappy, I'd look at them and think "Well, at least I have that." And I'd feel giddy, and sneaky, and comfortable for the time being.
But you can't keep shoes on retainer, especially ones that don't fit. Shoes are meant to be worn, walked, and admired. They are meant to spend time with you, to be a part of your life. You can't just stay with shoes because it makes you feel good to have them around, just in case.
In case of what? Something bad happening? Like getting laid off?
Well, I got laid off. I put the shoes on, thinking I could salvage something from my time "on the job." And when push came to shove, when I most needed them to fit, they still didn't.
I know its silly to pin hopes of support onto inanimate objects. But my reverse Cinderella story made me realize that it is just as silly to pin hopes of support on ill-fitting relationships as it is on pretty patent wedges.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
The Christmas Spirit.
So it's Christmas Day.
I'm wearing my best robe, new watch and ring, having just ordered my new ridiculous shoes online; my feverish, narcotic consumerism is finally laid to rest. The order promises 1-5 business days. I am satisfied.
My mother gave my sister and I two movies, very specific ones. My sister received The House Bunny and I was gifted Ever After. She said that she chose them deliberately, for each of us. Telling Fernando (my sister's boyfriend who is staying with us over the holidays, poor guy) to cover his ears, she said that the films were important because both of the heroine's men accepted them for who they are, and that is what my sister and I deserve in our lives.
Looking over at Fernando and Sash, who look like a precious happy family of kittens framed by the gleaming of multi-colored Christmas lights, I deduct.
"I feel like this one is directed at me."
My mother is laughing and tearing and denying, and we all giggle a little. It smells like bacon and coffee in our home, it's dark because of the weather, and our 7 dollar Christmas tree is trying its hardest to stand impressive
My sister is leaving for Germany in a few days to study abroad. I am moving to Oceanside, with bills, a job and young, tumultuous adulthood. But for now we get to be playmates and well-read Cinderellas, eat bacon and drink mimosas. Real things like goodbyes and men with so-so character get suspended for the time being; we all play a part in this Christmas Story.
But perhaps, like Ebeneezer finally comprehended when he threw open the blinds and ordered a turkey, that the realizations of Christmas can be the prefaces to life in the New Year. I think I have a extremely handsome Prince, sans tights and a horse (or with?), and Sasha totally has the boobs for Playboy. A Goodbye is not forever and I know at least 5 people to adore me for exactly the insane wench I am.
Merry Christmas.
I'm wearing my best robe, new watch and ring, having just ordered my new ridiculous shoes online; my feverish, narcotic consumerism is finally laid to rest. The order promises 1-5 business days. I am satisfied.
My mother gave my sister and I two movies, very specific ones. My sister received The House Bunny and I was gifted Ever After. She said that she chose them deliberately, for each of us. Telling Fernando (my sister's boyfriend who is staying with us over the holidays, poor guy) to cover his ears, she said that the films were important because both of the heroine's men accepted them for who they are, and that is what my sister and I deserve in our lives.
Looking over at Fernando and Sash, who look like a precious happy family of kittens framed by the gleaming of multi-colored Christmas lights, I deduct.
"I feel like this one is directed at me."
My mother is laughing and tearing and denying, and we all giggle a little. It smells like bacon and coffee in our home, it's dark because of the weather, and our 7 dollar Christmas tree is trying its hardest to stand impressive
My sister is leaving for Germany in a few days to study abroad. I am moving to Oceanside, with bills, a job and young, tumultuous adulthood. But for now we get to be playmates and well-read Cinderellas, eat bacon and drink mimosas. Real things like goodbyes and men with so-so character get suspended for the time being; we all play a part in this Christmas Story.
But perhaps, like Ebeneezer finally comprehended when he threw open the blinds and ordered a turkey, that the realizations of Christmas can be the prefaces to life in the New Year. I think I have a extremely handsome Prince, sans tights and a horse (or with?), and Sasha totally has the boobs for Playboy. A Goodbye is not forever and I know at least 5 people to adore me for exactly the insane wench I am.
Merry Christmas.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Daily Happy
Recently, I had a...er, I guess you could call it a reader, mention my lack of reporting on my day-today experiences or reflections that make me happy. Instead, I let loose a slightly more composed collage of an angsty stream of consciousness narrative to be the stormy little raincloud blocking an onslaught of UV Rays.
Um, I'm protecting you. From ignorance and skin cancer.
But in all seriousness, there are many day to day moments that make me happy. Little scenes of minute satisfaction that I sometimes skip over in light of a good, cathartic bitch.
Buying thai tea boba in downtown Oceanside and the bespeckled lady already knowing who I am. Then subsequently spilling the neon orange liquid on the corner of my white blouse.
"What happened, ma'am?"
"It's tye dye."
"Just in the corner?"
"..."
"I spilled"
The owner at Ocean Breeze Flowers giving me a hug because I started tearing when I read a letter that was written to him by an elderly woman who had her spirits lifted by an arrangement he created.
Getting a call back from a boutique owner I had been hounding for a week.
Being enthusiastic and sweetly silly at a Piano Bar.
Driving to downtown San Diego and seeing the way the buildings look at night, and for the first time being conscious that I can be a part of it all.
Walking in downtown Oceanside, crying because I'm tried and people think I'm trying to sell them things instead of learning their stories, and see a 5 oclock orangey-red setting sun juxtaposed with the gray blue of the water and sand.
Getting an "I love you" text before I even wake up in the morning.
So yes, even though I spill shit on myself daily, sometimes get job-ly frustrated, and every once in a while go all CWFM (Crazy White Female), I would say life is good. It's so good that I haven't even needed to purchase a pair of unreasonable shoes to fill voids. In fact, I have been stomping (literally, I stomp) around my new little coastal town in a pair of tough, flat Cowboy boots and couldn't feel more powerful.
And that my friends,for this height obsessed young woman, is true happiness.
Um, I'm protecting you. From ignorance and skin cancer.
But in all seriousness, there are many day to day moments that make me happy. Little scenes of minute satisfaction that I sometimes skip over in light of a good, cathartic bitch.
Buying thai tea boba in downtown Oceanside and the bespeckled lady already knowing who I am. Then subsequently spilling the neon orange liquid on the corner of my white blouse.
"What happened, ma'am?"
"It's tye dye."
"Just in the corner?"
"..."
"I spilled"
The owner at Ocean Breeze Flowers giving me a hug because I started tearing when I read a letter that was written to him by an elderly woman who had her spirits lifted by an arrangement he created.
Getting a call back from a boutique owner I had been hounding for a week.
Being enthusiastic and sweetly silly at a Piano Bar.
Driving to downtown San Diego and seeing the way the buildings look at night, and for the first time being conscious that I can be a part of it all.
Walking in downtown Oceanside, crying because I'm tried and people think I'm trying to sell them things instead of learning their stories, and see a 5 oclock orangey-red setting sun juxtaposed with the gray blue of the water and sand.
Getting an "I love you" text before I even wake up in the morning.
So yes, even though I spill shit on myself daily, sometimes get job-ly frustrated, and every once in a while go all CWFM (Crazy White Female), I would say life is good. It's so good that I haven't even needed to purchase a pair of unreasonable shoes to fill voids. In fact, I have been stomping (literally, I stomp) around my new little coastal town in a pair of tough, flat Cowboy boots and couldn't feel more powerful.
And that my friends,for this height obsessed young woman, is true happiness.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Bye Bye Libido
I've just moved to a new town to start my shiny new job.
It's exciting, and my job is the kind of position I waxed poetic about when I was 19. The type that is like "If I could just have that opportunity..." Now that I have that opportunity all I can think about is deadline and rent and my disintegrating desire to be a sensual, breathy female.
I had a nice, handsome young man mention his appreciation of my, er, face the other day at Starbucks. I dumped my old man laptop case, camera case, notepad, reporter's handbook on the floor, wiped my nose and said "Huh?"
"Huh?" Like I just woke up and my mom was trying to tell me to let the dogs out.
"Huh?" Like I'm drunk at a Mexican restaurant and somebody is trying to tell me I have cilantro giving me a gap tooth.
"Huh?" Like I don't know what a penis is, or what boys are.
As I scramble to find living, handholds, and time to do my rapidly frizzing hair, my 22 year old sensuality has flown right out the window with my ability to complete my "Complete by Xmas" reading list.
I thought I had it in the bag once, get all dolled up with lipgloss and mascara, fly shoes, inappropriate dress. Have a couple of cocktails and feel all diva-like and unstoppable. I often live my life by my ability to curiously outfit the situation. Now I'm wearing jeans and a tired expression that is a constant manifestation of my dirty Starbucks "Huh?"
Good! Job first, annoyingly fleeting sexuality second.
Right?
Right?!?!?!
Good for all of you young voyeurs into the job world, work your overtime hours and still manage to bang your dome on the headboard regularly. I guess I shouldn't complain though, it's not like I don't have a man constantly pining for my attention (to detail) and time (for meetings). His name is Michael. Booyah.
He's my editor
It's exciting, and my job is the kind of position I waxed poetic about when I was 19. The type that is like "If I could just have that opportunity..." Now that I have that opportunity all I can think about is deadline and rent and my disintegrating desire to be a sensual, breathy female.
I had a nice, handsome young man mention his appreciation of my, er, face the other day at Starbucks. I dumped my old man laptop case, camera case, notepad, reporter's handbook on the floor, wiped my nose and said "Huh?"
"Huh?" Like I just woke up and my mom was trying to tell me to let the dogs out.
"Huh?" Like I'm drunk at a Mexican restaurant and somebody is trying to tell me I have cilantro giving me a gap tooth.
"Huh?" Like I don't know what a penis is, or what boys are.
As I scramble to find living, handholds, and time to do my rapidly frizzing hair, my 22 year old sensuality has flown right out the window with my ability to complete my "Complete by Xmas" reading list.
I thought I had it in the bag once, get all dolled up with lipgloss and mascara, fly shoes, inappropriate dress. Have a couple of cocktails and feel all diva-like and unstoppable. I often live my life by my ability to curiously outfit the situation. Now I'm wearing jeans and a tired expression that is a constant manifestation of my dirty Starbucks "Huh?"
Good! Job first, annoyingly fleeting sexuality second.
Right?
Right?!?!?!
Good for all of you young voyeurs into the job world, work your overtime hours and still manage to bang your dome on the headboard regularly. I guess I shouldn't complain though, it's not like I don't have a man constantly pining for my attention (to detail) and time (for meetings). His name is Michael. Booyah.
He's my editor
Monday, November 29, 2010
Great Expectations
I have a problem with daydreams.
As soon as I get a whiff of something that could be potentially enjoyable, I whip up a spectacular scenario and just marinate in it for a few days.
So what, right? But it's bad. My fake expectation is grounded in so little reality that I am usually always so disappointed I lapse into brief social comas. Here's a metaphor for how wide the gap is:
Let's say I turned on the divine seductress within for 1o minutes and secured myself the best kind of date: casual drinks at some spunky local watering hole. So far, so good. Then, when I'm at the office revamping the lede for the piece on January's "Foodie Finds," my currently reality will slip away in a mist, and just like the movies, I launch myself into a first date of epic proportions.
I'll probably be wearing a navy sleeveless well fitted dress with a deep v-neck. My hair will look exceptional, yet casual, and my height will be a good 5 inches higher thanks to fall's new platform mary-jane. I smell better than Elizabeth Taylor will ever smell, and look 5 pounds thinner.
My date is handsome, busy, has great, hulkish shoulders and sits by politely while I discuss my favorite authors. We get a bit drunk on expertly mixed wells, eat very little, and have conversation rhythm that all the blazer and dress clad couples envy; they shoot looks of jealousy over the platters of exotic french fries and fancy mayo. We're the Norman Rockwell of dates. We sparkle.
I am so exuberant about my fantasy date (which by now I have reconciled will be an outline for the actual event) I hum happily to myself while trying to find the perfect adjective for a cilantro chutney. I come up with "smooth." My vocabulary is affected.
Then, reality hits. The waterhole is spunky, yet booze soaked. There is beer on my shirt and hulky shoulders is late. The french fries are domestic, and the conversation is about about as interesting as my analysis of Jersey Shore after a second shot of Jameson. "Pauly D is hilarious! OH YEAH!"
The worst is watching a fallen hero. In my daydream he was charismatic and humble, brutish but shockingly funny, and nice as a button. In real life he is just drunk. And drooling. And doing a Van Zant impression that looks more like a seizure. We don't sparkle, We reek. Of whiskey, bad decisions, and my souring disillusion.
This is what I do, again and again: set myself up for a rather spectacular fail. Could anything ever be as good as the Norman Rockwell date? No! I don't think my own birth was as cool as that. Why do I insist on great expectations?
Though, every once and again, these expectations allow me to be blown away by the unexpected. A walk in a park, a view that makes you cry, champagne in pajamas, takeout and football, catching the last 15 minutes of happy hour with an old friend...these are the moments that even my daydreams can't touch because they are so honest and simple, free of outlines or guidelines or 15 dollar well drinks.
This is a new sort of contentment, one that cannot be replicated in fantasy or used as a premonition. It is the redemption to what had fallen, the soft light of sun after a piss storm.
So while I am busy banging my head against a wall watching my sloshed date writhe on the floor during the climax of his air guitar solo, the universe is getting ready to suprise me with a real life daydream, free of expectations, but full of everything great.
As soon as I get a whiff of something that could be potentially enjoyable, I whip up a spectacular scenario and just marinate in it for a few days.
So what, right? But it's bad. My fake expectation is grounded in so little reality that I am usually always so disappointed I lapse into brief social comas. Here's a metaphor for how wide the gap is:
Let's say I turned on the divine seductress within for 1o minutes and secured myself the best kind of date: casual drinks at some spunky local watering hole. So far, so good. Then, when I'm at the office revamping the lede for the piece on January's "Foodie Finds," my currently reality will slip away in a mist, and just like the movies, I launch myself into a first date of epic proportions.
I'll probably be wearing a navy sleeveless well fitted dress with a deep v-neck. My hair will look exceptional, yet casual, and my height will be a good 5 inches higher thanks to fall's new platform mary-jane. I smell better than Elizabeth Taylor will ever smell, and look 5 pounds thinner.
My date is handsome, busy, has great, hulkish shoulders and sits by politely while I discuss my favorite authors. We get a bit drunk on expertly mixed wells, eat very little, and have conversation rhythm that all the blazer and dress clad couples envy; they shoot looks of jealousy over the platters of exotic french fries and fancy mayo. We're the Norman Rockwell of dates. We sparkle.
I am so exuberant about my fantasy date (which by now I have reconciled will be an outline for the actual event) I hum happily to myself while trying to find the perfect adjective for a cilantro chutney. I come up with "smooth." My vocabulary is affected.
Then, reality hits. The waterhole is spunky, yet booze soaked. There is beer on my shirt and hulky shoulders is late. The french fries are domestic, and the conversation is about about as interesting as my analysis of Jersey Shore after a second shot of Jameson. "Pauly D is hilarious! OH YEAH!"
The worst is watching a fallen hero. In my daydream he was charismatic and humble, brutish but shockingly funny, and nice as a button. In real life he is just drunk. And drooling. And doing a Van Zant impression that looks more like a seizure. We don't sparkle, We reek. Of whiskey, bad decisions, and my souring disillusion.
This is what I do, again and again: set myself up for a rather spectacular fail. Could anything ever be as good as the Norman Rockwell date? No! I don't think my own birth was as cool as that. Why do I insist on great expectations?
Though, every once and again, these expectations allow me to be blown away by the unexpected. A walk in a park, a view that makes you cry, champagne in pajamas, takeout and football, catching the last 15 minutes of happy hour with an old friend...these are the moments that even my daydreams can't touch because they are so honest and simple, free of outlines or guidelines or 15 dollar well drinks.
This is a new sort of contentment, one that cannot be replicated in fantasy or used as a premonition. It is the redemption to what had fallen, the soft light of sun after a piss storm.
So while I am busy banging my head against a wall watching my sloshed date writhe on the floor during the climax of his air guitar solo, the universe is getting ready to suprise me with a real life daydream, free of expectations, but full of everything great.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
The Little Things
It's truly shameful how packed I still am from college.
I just liberated my front and back car seat from odds and ends: tampons, a white dress, Calvin Klein strappy sandals. My job hunt and internship load is picking up and in an attempt to ward off any panic attacks I dug out my 2010 Audrey Hepburn calender.
Two months left in the little Audrey montage. I flipped to December to see the picture (a strange styling of Audrey with a fishing net) and there on December 25 was a large, fat, heart-punching reminder.
Scrawled around the day Christ was born in the rather inelegant handwriting of my ex-boyfriend, was the epithet "On this day...nothing happened."
My ex is a stout atheist, I have watched him drunkenly debate Jesus's existence with a surprising about of hammered eloquence. So much so that my the end of the discussion and five cigarettes his opponent is saying things to the extent of "I love God, but you're a cool cat."
I don't know what possessed him to mark my calender. I once caught him leafing through the pages to see if I had written down important dates like his winter break or when he'd leave for trips.
I sat for a bit in my room, laughing at this completely characteristic yet still surprising little note my ex boyfriend left me. It made me happy, but also slightly sad.
Innately I understand the process of break ups. The world--my world, his world--doesn't stop because our relationship does.
I guess I am just bittersweetly aware that within the proverbial Audrey calenders, on the date of our anniversary, it may one day read: "On this day...nothing happened."
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Beating a Dead Horse
A bit ago, I posted a story about a jilted lover whose rage took on the task of destroying some valuable property.
A friend of mine messaged me, relating a similar situation, in which his buddy got a lovely and pricey bike sawed in half by a similarly jilted lover.
My friend, who is the best guy you could ever know, asked me "Is this a common thing you girls do?"
It is sad, when I think if it, that pretty bikes and fancy guitars get demolished when a love turns ugly. I can imagine it is like the sadness that happens when you watch old Civil War movies and the horses are being gunned down, their spindly legs grasping at the air as they fall into a puddle or something. During my seventh grade history class we watched one of these, and I whispered to my classmate Ben how sad I was for the dying horses.
Ben looked at me in slight disgust, "What about the men?"
Yes, Ben! What about the men!
Perhaps things like guitars and bicycles sometimes fall as casualties in love and war. It doesn't stop there, people get nasty divorces and then houses, money and children are suddenly spoils as neatly suited lawyers engage in paper battles.
With my experience in all things jilting, it does not surprise me when I hear of a slashed tire, broken bicycle, or splintered guitar. In fact, the naughty little drag queen inside of me claps her hands and says "You go girl."
I don't know what it is, why I feel vindicated instead of sad for the proverbial dead horse. 70 cents to the dollar? Menstrual Cycles? Childbirth?
I remember once I was absolutely enraged, heart broken, sobbing, and very drunk. I gazed on the sleeping, passed out drunk form of my perpetrator, angry at how hurt I was, angrier that he was not awake to witness my clearly devastating hurt. I couldn't sleep, and began noticing objects in his apartment. Stupid chair, stupid pillow, stupid cheese grater. Then the objects began to vibrate with potential.
Ha! I thought! I will take them! That will show him who he thinks he is.
I really didn't have much of a strategy when gathering items; candles, the book I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell by Tucker Max, a tiny, electric fan, sunglasses. I grasped the loot in my arms, feeling devious and successful. Wait till he wakes up without his tea lights!
Then I realized I was hammered, it was 4 a.m., and I was twenty minutes by car from home.
I replaced all the items, defeated. Then I decided on a new form of revenge. I threw his lighter across the room, and planning to leave as soon as I sobered up, hid his "water pipe" in what at thought at the time was the last place he'd ever look.
Morning came, and with it two gut wrenching hangovers.
"Why is my [water pipe] on top of the refrigerator?"
... Perhaps not the cleverest hiding place.
I think that when a fiery, fiesty, woman feels the pain of heartbreak, she radiates it in her body like a new form of energy. That night I felt like I could shoot my pain from my fingertips, like a crazy Spiderwoman. It is so affecting, it is so resonating, it is red like fire and beautiful like the sun. It is the reason my friend's father said, "My whole life has been about keeping the woman happy," it is why a spider can eat her mate. A woman's pain consumes her being, and she lets it, as she has accepted it as a natural heritage.
So to answer your question friend, it is perhaps more common that we girls mess up some men stuff in the wake of our splintered hearts. We'd just like you, or your guitar, to understand what it feels like to have something of yours broken.
"Nobody will ever win the Battle of the Sexes. There's just too much fraternizing with the enemy." ~Henry Kissinger
A friend of mine messaged me, relating a similar situation, in which his buddy got a lovely and pricey bike sawed in half by a similarly jilted lover.
My friend, who is the best guy you could ever know, asked me "Is this a common thing you girls do?"
It is sad, when I think if it, that pretty bikes and fancy guitars get demolished when a love turns ugly. I can imagine it is like the sadness that happens when you watch old Civil War movies and the horses are being gunned down, their spindly legs grasping at the air as they fall into a puddle or something. During my seventh grade history class we watched one of these, and I whispered to my classmate Ben how sad I was for the dying horses.
Ben looked at me in slight disgust, "What about the men?"
Yes, Ben! What about the men!
Perhaps things like guitars and bicycles sometimes fall as casualties in love and war. It doesn't stop there, people get nasty divorces and then houses, money and children are suddenly spoils as neatly suited lawyers engage in paper battles.
With my experience in all things jilting, it does not surprise me when I hear of a slashed tire, broken bicycle, or splintered guitar. In fact, the naughty little drag queen inside of me claps her hands and says "You go girl."
I don't know what it is, why I feel vindicated instead of sad for the proverbial dead horse. 70 cents to the dollar? Menstrual Cycles? Childbirth?
I remember once I was absolutely enraged, heart broken, sobbing, and very drunk. I gazed on the sleeping, passed out drunk form of my perpetrator, angry at how hurt I was, angrier that he was not awake to witness my clearly devastating hurt. I couldn't sleep, and began noticing objects in his apartment. Stupid chair, stupid pillow, stupid cheese grater. Then the objects began to vibrate with potential.
Ha! I thought! I will take them! That will show him who he thinks he is.
I really didn't have much of a strategy when gathering items; candles, the book I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell by Tucker Max, a tiny, electric fan, sunglasses. I grasped the loot in my arms, feeling devious and successful. Wait till he wakes up without his tea lights!
Then I realized I was hammered, it was 4 a.m., and I was twenty minutes by car from home.
I replaced all the items, defeated. Then I decided on a new form of revenge. I threw his lighter across the room, and planning to leave as soon as I sobered up, hid his "water pipe" in what at thought at the time was the last place he'd ever look.
Morning came, and with it two gut wrenching hangovers.
"Why is my [water pipe] on top of the refrigerator?"
... Perhaps not the cleverest hiding place.
I think that when a fiery, fiesty, woman feels the pain of heartbreak, she radiates it in her body like a new form of energy. That night I felt like I could shoot my pain from my fingertips, like a crazy Spiderwoman. It is so affecting, it is so resonating, it is red like fire and beautiful like the sun. It is the reason my friend's father said, "My whole life has been about keeping the woman happy," it is why a spider can eat her mate. A woman's pain consumes her being, and she lets it, as she has accepted it as a natural heritage.
So to answer your question friend, it is perhaps more common that we girls mess up some men stuff in the wake of our splintered hearts. We'd just like you, or your guitar, to understand what it feels like to have something of yours broken.
"Nobody will ever win the Battle of the Sexes. There's just too much fraternizing with the enemy." ~Henry Kissinger
Sunday, November 7, 2010
The Look on His Face
It is indicative by the contents of this blog that I love a good melodrama. Moments steeped in such ridiculous feeling that reality is briefly suspended. Those are the situations I cherish dearly and store them in my memory to revive during an Oasis song. But one melodrama sheds its mascara tears better than the rest: the goodbye.
I say goodbye everyday, Bye Mom, Bye Boss at work, Bye to my poodles as I am locking you in the guest room until you stop jumping all over the couches like mountain goats on LSD. Those goodbye are easy to brush off, like raindrops or Shirley Temples with too much grenadine. But there are other farewells that cling to you defiantly; a symbiotic relationship of comfy nostalgia and slight masochism where your only recourse is breaking out the vices.
I say goodbye everyday, Bye Mom, Bye Boss at work, Bye to my poodles as I am locking you in the guest room until you stop jumping all over the couches like mountain goats on LSD. Those goodbye are easy to brush off, like raindrops or Shirley Temples with too much grenadine. But there are other farewells that cling to you defiantly; a symbiotic relationship of comfy nostalgia and slight masochism where your only recourse is breaking out the vices.
I can remember only certain details about those kind of goodbyes. I remember watching the gray morning light make its way through the cracks in the blinds. I remember how the asphalt was still warm when I stood on it barefoot. I remember the clerk at the gas station commenting on my legs.
When my father left, he took parts of the house with him. Pans, silverware, linens. But what I can recall very clearly is coming home from school and seeing the tan leather recliner missing from its corner. My parents bought that chair when we first moved to Folsom, and friends of theirs would always remark on its quality or how comfortable it was. It had an ottoman as well, I remember my father reclining in it royally when we watched movies.
I have no memory of my father leaving, but I do remember the missing chair. It was, in many ways, like my father. Removed, handsome, wanted, and cozy like home. It was significant in its own way.
I think that is the melodrama of goodbyes: when inanimate and seemingly meaningless things suddenly become the only handholds to important memories. And I know I speak very diva-like about emotions and moments and melodrama, but the truth is it's all very simple. When you can't bear to say goodbye to the actual entity, you instead say goodbye to something disposable.
Perhaps this is why, seven years later, I can only remember the look of the light on the water, rather than the look of goodbye on his face.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Learning how to get Gold.
I am in Gold Country.
I remember looking for jobs on Craigslist in Sacramento. Sometimes Craigslist would assume I wanted to look in Gold Country and show me jobs in blue writing based out of Placerville.
It was as if my fingers could feel the gold Country vibes permeating the keyboard. I'd jump back from the screen, scowling, and rapidly find my way back to jobs in the river City.
Thanks Craigslist, but I'm not from there.
I'm from Folsom.
I just recently started interning at a magazine whose coverage encompasses areas like Folsom, Roseville, and Granite Bay. They also release a publication called Foothillstyle; this is the magazine I am working on. Foothillstyle is hitched up to El Dorado Hills, Cameron Park, Placerville, and Shingle Springs.
We are doing a "Holiday Gift Guide," which means I drive through brush-rimmed roads until I hit civilization and then ask the shop owners if they have any merchandise they'd like to feature in the spread.
This week I drove my red Toyota up to Shingle Springs to find a store named "Lee's Feed." I constantly live my life in a state of aesthetic delusion, and I always dress the part. I was wearing all black, some leather platform booties, and a vintage cashmere white hat that I thought made the whole thing quite kicky.
The parking lot of Lee's Feed was on a hill, so I pulled in tentatively, not wanted to hit all the Dodge Ram's that were being loaded up with the local livestock's fall menu. As I stepped one spiked bootie out onto the crackled asphalt, I suddenly realized my hat wasn't kicky, and that I, about to go into a store called Lee's Feed, looked like this:
I remember looking for jobs on Craigslist in Sacramento. Sometimes Craigslist would assume I wanted to look in Gold Country and show me jobs in blue writing based out of Placerville.
It was as if my fingers could feel the gold Country vibes permeating the keyboard. I'd jump back from the screen, scowling, and rapidly find my way back to jobs in the river City.
Thanks Craigslist, but I'm not from there.
I'm from Folsom.
I just recently started interning at a magazine whose coverage encompasses areas like Folsom, Roseville, and Granite Bay. They also release a publication called Foothillstyle; this is the magazine I am working on. Foothillstyle is hitched up to El Dorado Hills, Cameron Park, Placerville, and Shingle Springs.
We are doing a "Holiday Gift Guide," which means I drive through brush-rimmed roads until I hit civilization and then ask the shop owners if they have any merchandise they'd like to feature in the spread.
This week I drove my red Toyota up to Shingle Springs to find a store named "Lee's Feed." I constantly live my life in a state of aesthetic delusion, and I always dress the part. I was wearing all black, some leather platform booties, and a vintage cashmere white hat that I thought made the whole thing quite kicky.
The parking lot of Lee's Feed was on a hill, so I pulled in tentatively, not wanted to hit all the Dodge Ram's that were being loaded up with the local livestock's fall menu. As I stepped one spiked bootie out onto the crackled asphalt, I suddenly realized my hat wasn't kicky, and that I, about to go into a store called Lee's Feed, looked like this:
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Thwarting Yourself
Lately, I think I have been taking on tasks specifically because I know I will not be able to do them.
For the past half hour I have been trying to move a dresser. I want to move this dresser out of my room so I can twirl my bed around, allowing it to hug a corner of my bedroom. This dresser is immovable. It's the Iron Curtain. It's me when I see a shoe sale. It's my father's stance on extraterrestrial life (aliens exist apparently). I stare at it now, with hatred. It and it's stupid light wood, drawers askew. I try to push it and it grabs onto the carpet, stubborn as a mule and just as heavy. I lay half of my body down to its surface, the corners making sharp contact with my hipbones, and cry.
My dresser relocation is part of the Master Plan to revamp my childhood bedroom. My bedroom makes me uncomfortable. It's such a picture of a frozen transition; platform heels stacked next to seventh grade basketball trophies, pictures of me on St Patrick's Day smashed in college stare at a framed collage of me receiving First Communion. It is my stubborn girlhood refusing to give way to new, employed me. The tenets of adolescence cling to me like a spider web, and when I stumble home after a night out, hair mussed, drunk from the bar, I fight my room."I'm AN ADULT," my drunk self says.
"Ha," says my room. "In your 22 year old dreams. Why don't you cozy up to your giant stuffed bear and call it a night, eh? By the way, you've had these sheets since middle school."
Today I sat on my bed and checked my email, hoping for employer's enthusiastic responses to my scanty resume. I looked up at my desk, my suitcases still overflowing from still packed college goods, my high school diploma, volleyball plaques, a stuffed dog I named Patches one Christmas, and suddenly all the objects took on a pulse. Their motion grew; the simple notion that they could move at all mocked my existence, my resume, my attempts at dressing like an adult . I snapped, threw all my clothes out of the dresser, and heaved it away from the wall with all my adult, womanly strength.
About a foot later, here I am.
On my blog.
Talking about how Patches came to life.
I have realized that there is no way will I be able to move this dresser by myself. Or my bed frame for that matter. They are both too heavy. I am going to ask my father to come over after work and help me move the elephants in the room.
I think part of being an adult is to recognize when you need help, and instead of thinking you have the upper body strength of a young Arnold, ask for it. Perhaps if I can swallow my girlhood bravado and pride for a second, the woman in me can make a brief appearance. Well, at least long enough to move a dresser and a bed.
For the past half hour I have been trying to move a dresser. I want to move this dresser out of my room so I can twirl my bed around, allowing it to hug a corner of my bedroom. This dresser is immovable. It's the Iron Curtain. It's me when I see a shoe sale. It's my father's stance on extraterrestrial life (aliens exist apparently). I stare at it now, with hatred. It and it's stupid light wood, drawers askew. I try to push it and it grabs onto the carpet, stubborn as a mule and just as heavy. I lay half of my body down to its surface, the corners making sharp contact with my hipbones, and cry.
My dresser relocation is part of the Master Plan to revamp my childhood bedroom. My bedroom makes me uncomfortable. It's such a picture of a frozen transition; platform heels stacked next to seventh grade basketball trophies, pictures of me on St Patrick's Day smashed in college stare at a framed collage of me receiving First Communion. It is my stubborn girlhood refusing to give way to new, employed me. The tenets of adolescence cling to me like a spider web, and when I stumble home after a night out, hair mussed, drunk from the bar, I fight my room."I'm AN ADULT," my drunk self says.
"Ha," says my room. "In your 22 year old dreams. Why don't you cozy up to your giant stuffed bear and call it a night, eh? By the way, you've had these sheets since middle school."
Today I sat on my bed and checked my email, hoping for employer's enthusiastic responses to my scanty resume. I looked up at my desk, my suitcases still overflowing from still packed college goods, my high school diploma, volleyball plaques, a stuffed dog I named Patches one Christmas, and suddenly all the objects took on a pulse. Their motion grew; the simple notion that they could move at all mocked my existence, my resume, my attempts at dressing like an adult . I snapped, threw all my clothes out of the dresser, and heaved it away from the wall with all my adult, womanly strength.
About a foot later, here I am.
On my blog.
Talking about how Patches came to life.
I have realized that there is no way will I be able to move this dresser by myself. Or my bed frame for that matter. They are both too heavy. I am going to ask my father to come over after work and help me move the elephants in the room.
I think part of being an adult is to recognize when you need help, and instead of thinking you have the upper body strength of a young Arnold, ask for it. Perhaps if I can swallow my girlhood bravado and pride for a second, the woman in me can make a brief appearance. Well, at least long enough to move a dresser and a bed.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Two Paths Diverge
Today I walked my dogs with my mother. The light was fading, just like summer, and I could see the tops of suburbia glazed with amber.
She says, "How's the job hunt?"
I say, "GREAT."
Then my steps pick up, and so do hers. Briefly, we look ridiculous. Two ladies with miniature poodles, race walking.
I wasn't really angry she asked me about job hunting. I live at home, she's supposed to do that. I even enjoy telling her about my interview nerves or worries about my qualifications. It usually quiets the angst.
But the real reason for the springin my step is more instrospective. Lately, I have been running scenes from my past over and over in my head. Scenes of domestic breakdown and youthful foolishness.
Once upon a time I was in a heart-crushing argument. The debate disintegrated to large pauses and reflections reaching that point where both parties have said all there is to say. You know, the moments of brief loss of hate, why there's all these breaks in speech. The fighters need enough time to squeeze out one more, trivial point.
During one of these late pauses, I took the opportunity to wipe the snot waterfalls from my nose. I am not sure what it is about wiping the snot away, or maybe I was just tired, but for a lovely, diaphanous moment I did not feel an all consuming urge to hurl insults and poorly thought out arguments. I felt... affectionate. Like I was sitting next to a dear old war buddy, not my evil nemesis.
"You know," I said, gazing up at him like Bambi. "I think maybe all this nutjob-ness of mine may make me famous one day." I cracked a silly grin in the dark.
"Maybe," said he said languidly, sounding bored to even be talking. "But you're not very resilient."
I think these are the brief moments that define us, as they present the paths we choose to stumble along and those we take one look at and then say "Hell No. I don't want to die."
I believe in that moment, a fork presented itself to me quite clearly. I quickly picked a side. I hope it is the right one.
She says, "How's the job hunt?"
I say, "GREAT."
Then my steps pick up, and so do hers. Briefly, we look ridiculous. Two ladies with miniature poodles, race walking.
I wasn't really angry she asked me about job hunting. I live at home, she's supposed to do that. I even enjoy telling her about my interview nerves or worries about my qualifications. It usually quiets the angst.
But the real reason for the springin my step is more instrospective. Lately, I have been running scenes from my past over and over in my head. Scenes of domestic breakdown and youthful foolishness.
Once upon a time I was in a heart-crushing argument. The debate disintegrated to large pauses and reflections reaching that point where both parties have said all there is to say. You know, the moments of brief loss of hate, why there's all these breaks in speech. The fighters need enough time to squeeze out one more, trivial point.
During one of these late pauses, I took the opportunity to wipe the snot waterfalls from my nose. I am not sure what it is about wiping the snot away, or maybe I was just tired, but for a lovely, diaphanous moment I did not feel an all consuming urge to hurl insults and poorly thought out arguments. I felt... affectionate. Like I was sitting next to a dear old war buddy, not my evil nemesis.
"You know," I said, gazing up at him like Bambi. "I think maybe all this nutjob-ness of mine may make me famous one day." I cracked a silly grin in the dark.
"Maybe," said he said languidly, sounding bored to even be talking. "But you're not very resilient."
I think these are the brief moments that define us, as they present the paths we choose to stumble along and those we take one look at and then say "Hell No. I don't want to die."
I believe in that moment, a fork presented itself to me quite clearly. I quickly picked a side. I hope it is the right one.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Stand By Me
My friend and I set goals for ourselves this summer: to go on a date.
Finals week starts tomorrow. No dice.
I came close a couple of times. I've had offers for chicken and waffles, been licked on the neck by an elderly, hammered gentleman, asked to watch a magic show. Got a gay man's number, gave mine to an ancient queen who danced like Richard Simmons with less flexibility, avoided subsequent phone calls.
The other day I heard "Stand by Me" on the oldies radio station and lost my shit. The song is literally the words stand by me repeated with different emphasises. But it is such a strong sentiment, more resounding than the other big three, I love you. Stand by me doesn't ask for a lifelong commitment, it doesn't clasp the chain around your ankle or slap a label onto your trembling back.
It just says, hey, just be here.
It seems pretty selfless to me, despite the fact that its technically command. I imagine that by him asking her, he is explaining the fullness of his devotion. That when the time came, he would be right there, standing.
Sometimes asking for help overpowers hot blooded declarations for love.
My date goal was stupid. It wasn't what I wanted.
I want somebody to hear that song and think of me. I want to Stand by Them.
Finals week starts tomorrow. No dice.
I came close a couple of times. I've had offers for chicken and waffles, been licked on the neck by an elderly, hammered gentleman, asked to watch a magic show. Got a gay man's number, gave mine to an ancient queen who danced like Richard Simmons with less flexibility, avoided subsequent phone calls.
The other day I heard "Stand by Me" on the oldies radio station and lost my shit. The song is literally the words stand by me repeated with different emphasises. But it is such a strong sentiment, more resounding than the other big three, I love you. Stand by me doesn't ask for a lifelong commitment, it doesn't clasp the chain around your ankle or slap a label onto your trembling back.
It just says, hey, just be here.
It seems pretty selfless to me, despite the fact that its technically command. I imagine that by him asking her, he is explaining the fullness of his devotion. That when the time came, he would be right there, standing.
Sometimes asking for help overpowers hot blooded declarations for love.
My date goal was stupid. It wasn't what I wanted.
I want somebody to hear that song and think of me. I want to Stand by Them.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Theory of Relativity, sort of
One of the tenets of Einstein's stupid theory of relativity is that your description of physical reality is the same regardless of the constant velocity at which you move.
As I avoid all attempts to study for my Astronomy final, I came across Chapter 22's intro to this special theory. I have just spent the weekend with my friends from college, freshly detached and come back to visit their old haunt. We all ate and drank way too much, laid on the couch for inordinate periods, talked about how full/drunk/tired/cranky we were in between those bouts of crotch hurting laughter and feelings of brief invincibility.
So for three days, we all had the reality of one another, no matter which direction we are moving in our lives, just like Einsten said. But now, sitting in my poorly lit room alone, I have realized that the way in which we are speeding through our young and directionless lives IS affecting our physical realities. I guess Einstein never had college rommates.
The differences are subtle. Nobody looks unlike themselves. But the stitches of our four year situation begin to unravel as everybody seeks a new life thread.
Remember in high school when you were dumped for the first time? And you listened to Bright Eyes laying on your bed and felt that nothing could ever feel worse than that moment?
Well this time it's not like that. I see my friend, ready to move across an ocean to pursue the lifestyle he dreams of, and its not all Bright Eyes and moping. It's complicated now. It's pride, and fear, sadness and joy, excitement and regret. I miss the purity of high school emotions. Now my cocktail of feelings are pushing me to accept things I don't want to. You know, to grow up.
I feel that I have spent my summer resisting adulthood. I have clung to my girlfriend's mantra of living in the moment, so hard that I missed it when the moment actually hit me: We are all moving on.
I am not saying I plan to welcome adulthood with open arms, in fact I plan to fight that bitch all the way to the grave. But I guess I am coming to terms with letting people go and live their physical realities in ways that are different than mine.
Wish I could channel all this maturity into a successful Astro grade, dammit.
As I avoid all attempts to study for my Astronomy final, I came across Chapter 22's intro to this special theory. I have just spent the weekend with my friends from college, freshly detached and come back to visit their old haunt. We all ate and drank way too much, laid on the couch for inordinate periods, talked about how full/drunk/tired/cranky we were in between those bouts of crotch hurting laughter and feelings of brief invincibility.
So for three days, we all had the reality of one another, no matter which direction we are moving in our lives, just like Einsten said. But now, sitting in my poorly lit room alone, I have realized that the way in which we are speeding through our young and directionless lives IS affecting our physical realities. I guess Einstein never had college rommates.
The differences are subtle. Nobody looks unlike themselves. But the stitches of our four year situation begin to unravel as everybody seeks a new life thread.
Remember in high school when you were dumped for the first time? And you listened to Bright Eyes laying on your bed and felt that nothing could ever feel worse than that moment?
Well this time it's not like that. I see my friend, ready to move across an ocean to pursue the lifestyle he dreams of, and its not all Bright Eyes and moping. It's complicated now. It's pride, and fear, sadness and joy, excitement and regret. I miss the purity of high school emotions. Now my cocktail of feelings are pushing me to accept things I don't want to. You know, to grow up.
I feel that I have spent my summer resisting adulthood. I have clung to my girlfriend's mantra of living in the moment, so hard that I missed it when the moment actually hit me: We are all moving on.
I am not saying I plan to welcome adulthood with open arms, in fact I plan to fight that bitch all the way to the grave. But I guess I am coming to terms with letting people go and live their physical realities in ways that are different than mine.
Wish I could channel all this maturity into a successful Astro grade, dammit.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
The Male Gaze
Ever felt that somebody was looking through you instead of at you? You are about to launch into an adorably interesting anecdote and you turn to face your audience. His eyes are facing your direction, but his stare is that of what I assume a possum's would be: physically alive but wildly inattentive.
He looks, but does not listen.
So you continue, like a social robot. But you might as well be speaking in tongues. His possum eyes have launched themselves onto something shiny, like the waitresses tightly clad behind.
And then it's a sinking feeling, somewhere in your uterus.
It's that feeling you get when the top comes off your 4 dollar coffee and sloshes your white button down.
It's the feeling you get when your friend's band covers Nickelback.
It's the feeling you get when you hear about BP on the radio.
It's the feeling you get when you turn to grab a piece of toilet paper and all you feel in cardboard. And it's the morning.
Hangnails, the voicemail, burnt hair (or steak for that matter), weight gain, dirty dishes.
Life's little inconveniences. I think they hurt more than we care to admit. I am not ashamed to admit that when I fall down the last two steps of my lecture hall isle as I attempt to turn in my midterm, I feel a little hurt inside.
But hopefully, one day there will be somebody with human eyes on the other end of the line, who will not gaze past the words of my midterm fall. He'll laugh, and say "That sucks baby."
He looks, but does not listen.
So you continue, like a social robot. But you might as well be speaking in tongues. His possum eyes have launched themselves onto something shiny, like the waitresses tightly clad behind.
And then it's a sinking feeling, somewhere in your uterus.
It's that feeling you get when the top comes off your 4 dollar coffee and sloshes your white button down.
It's the feeling you get when your friend's band covers Nickelback.
It's the feeling you get when you hear about BP on the radio.
It's the feeling you get when you turn to grab a piece of toilet paper and all you feel in cardboard. And it's the morning.
Hangnails, the voicemail, burnt hair (or steak for that matter), weight gain, dirty dishes.
Life's little inconveniences. I think they hurt more than we care to admit. I am not ashamed to admit that when I fall down the last two steps of my lecture hall isle as I attempt to turn in my midterm, I feel a little hurt inside.
But hopefully, one day there will be somebody with human eyes on the other end of the line, who will not gaze past the words of my midterm fall. He'll laugh, and say "That sucks baby."
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Where's the Beef?
Yesterday I went to a bbq at a friend's house. She is living with a family near the hills of Santa Barbara; the property is insanely beautiful. We, well other people, I sat and watched, grilled burgers and slathered them with avocado and grilled onions and watched the sun burn down the mountain. It was gorgeous and I felt for brief moments the power that comes with youth and possibility.
But poetics aside, there was a younger young man I shall call Ryan who came to the feast a little later. A small group was sitting around the sienna tiled kitchen island, indulging in a round of tequila shots. Nothing bonds a group of people who don't know one another like tequila. We had just slammed down out glasses when Ryan makes his way to the island, all smiles, floppy hair and gaged ears. Everybody makes quick introductions and small talk is pushed aside for more interesting conversation (thanks again, tequila). Somehow it was brought to attention that Ryan was a vegetarian. He explained his devotion to all things leafy over the mound of charred burgers by denouncing beef's nutritional value and revealing its truly foul nature as nothing but pounds of masticated, rotting flesh.
The debate then swiveled to gesticulating on the birth of vegetarianism, and its contradiction to homo sapien's hunter-gatherer beginnings. It was argued, by the carnivores, that man first survived by bringing down a beast to nourish himself. To reject that would be a break with the tradition that allowed our species initial survival. Ryan countered with the notion that today's meat consumption is far more wasteful, "Back then it was different they used everything, they sucked the bone marrow and shit."
Then everybody took a shot. As we went to cheers, somebody volunteered a toast. "To Beef." A slight current of dissension shimmered in the air.
When you talk about dietary lifestyles, it always seems to hit a little too close to home. What begins as a difference of opinion ends up as an epic battle between good and evil. Statistics and scientific facts begin to get muddled and exaggerated to prove points, and suddenly what we put in our mouths decides if we're going to heaven or hell.
We are all not immune! I took a class on Literature and the Environment last year and was bombarded with a few texts talking about things like the meat and dairy industry, how CAFO's are big death factories and purchasing these types of products is obscenely bad for earth. Then, considering myself all learned, I stupidly brought this up at a dinner party, began questioning milk (we're the only species that drinks it) and got an interesting response.
"I LOVE MILK"
"MY MOM SAYS MILK IS GOOD FOR YOU"
"FUCK THAT SHIT"
It is said that a way to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but to me it seems more like the way to severely piss a group of people off is through their stomachs.
Perhaps literature and food should stay away from one another. Oh, and Ryan? He ended up getting arrested later that night. Maybe he tried to convert the police to soy based products.
But poetics aside, there was a younger young man I shall call Ryan who came to the feast a little later. A small group was sitting around the sienna tiled kitchen island, indulging in a round of tequila shots. Nothing bonds a group of people who don't know one another like tequila. We had just slammed down out glasses when Ryan makes his way to the island, all smiles, floppy hair and gaged ears. Everybody makes quick introductions and small talk is pushed aside for more interesting conversation (thanks again, tequila). Somehow it was brought to attention that Ryan was a vegetarian. He explained his devotion to all things leafy over the mound of charred burgers by denouncing beef's nutritional value and revealing its truly foul nature as nothing but pounds of masticated, rotting flesh.
The debate then swiveled to gesticulating on the birth of vegetarianism, and its contradiction to homo sapien's hunter-gatherer beginnings. It was argued, by the carnivores, that man first survived by bringing down a beast to nourish himself. To reject that would be a break with the tradition that allowed our species initial survival. Ryan countered with the notion that today's meat consumption is far more wasteful, "Back then it was different they used everything, they sucked the bone marrow and shit."
Then everybody took a shot. As we went to cheers, somebody volunteered a toast. "To Beef." A slight current of dissension shimmered in the air.
When you talk about dietary lifestyles, it always seems to hit a little too close to home. What begins as a difference of opinion ends up as an epic battle between good and evil. Statistics and scientific facts begin to get muddled and exaggerated to prove points, and suddenly what we put in our mouths decides if we're going to heaven or hell.
We are all not immune! I took a class on Literature and the Environment last year and was bombarded with a few texts talking about things like the meat and dairy industry, how CAFO's are big death factories and purchasing these types of products is obscenely bad for earth. Then, considering myself all learned, I stupidly brought this up at a dinner party, began questioning milk (we're the only species that drinks it) and got an interesting response.
"I LOVE MILK"
"MY MOM SAYS MILK IS GOOD FOR YOU"
"FUCK THAT SHIT"
It is said that a way to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but to me it seems more like the way to severely piss a group of people off is through their stomachs.
Perhaps literature and food should stay away from one another. Oh, and Ryan? He ended up getting arrested later that night. Maybe he tried to convert the police to soy based products.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Green Girl
Anybody been seeing previews for that new exorcist movie?
Why is evil always wearing a nightgown?
I still have to close my eyes and ears.
The Exorcist scares the living diva out of me. I will briefly glimpse a preview of the new possessed girl's sweaty head snapping back at an unnatural angle and start shivering mentally. It just takes me back to dome spins and pea soup vomit. My first experience with Linda Blair was when Billy Crystal hosted the Oscars. I can't remember what year that was, but I remember my mother had let us sleep in the living room on a large fold out futon. It was really exciting.
Billy did a historical montage of cinema in which he dubbed himself into famous movies of alternating genres. Horror was represented by The Exorcist, and Billy tried to reason with crazy ass Linda as if she were a distraught lover, not DEATH ITSELF.
I remember thinking, hmm, I wonder what movie this is, its kind of a strange scene, just a bed and this little weird girl OHMYGOD SHE IS FREAKING OUT AND THROWING UP EVERYWHERE AND TALKING LIKE AN OLD MAN WITH LUNG DISEASE. OHMYGOD I AM SO SCARED AND TEN YEARS OLD OHMYGOD.
I was paralyzed with fear. For years. From then on I referred to this mysterious character as "the green girl." I would try to explain to my sleepy and befuddled parents when I would wake them up at two in the morning, but I couldn't set the scene or context again as I was too afraid saying it aloud would make it real. It really disrupted my ability to be an adolescent, I could never sleep over at friend's houses, stomping off to my room was out of the question as I got too terrified alone; I was literally a sophomore in high school still creeping silently into my parents bedroom to huddle at the foot of their bed. Trembling in fear over green girl, over the possibility that my dad would wake up and find me, the refugee, and send me back to my deep dark bedroom.
I know I have been talking way too much about how to deal with demons, specifically those boy related. But the overexposure to this new demon-in-the-backwoods-of-Louisiana movie reminded me of the time I learned to man up and sleep in my own bed. It took, um years, but now I can curl up in the nook of my temporary air mattress (oh college) and clock a good ten hours of slumber. I remember at one time thinking i would never be able to sleep again, but today I am longing for my rubber bed as I type this. I guess if I can overcome green girl, what's a little bit of heartache?
Why is evil always wearing a nightgown?
I still have to close my eyes and ears.
The Exorcist scares the living diva out of me. I will briefly glimpse a preview of the new possessed girl's sweaty head snapping back at an unnatural angle and start shivering mentally. It just takes me back to dome spins and pea soup vomit. My first experience with Linda Blair was when Billy Crystal hosted the Oscars. I can't remember what year that was, but I remember my mother had let us sleep in the living room on a large fold out futon. It was really exciting.
Billy did a historical montage of cinema in which he dubbed himself into famous movies of alternating genres. Horror was represented by The Exorcist, and Billy tried to reason with crazy ass Linda as if she were a distraught lover, not DEATH ITSELF.
I remember thinking, hmm, I wonder what movie this is, its kind of a strange scene, just a bed and this little weird girl OHMYGOD SHE IS FREAKING OUT AND THROWING UP EVERYWHERE AND TALKING LIKE AN OLD MAN WITH LUNG DISEASE. OHMYGOD I AM SO SCARED AND TEN YEARS OLD OHMYGOD.
I was paralyzed with fear. For years. From then on I referred to this mysterious character as "the green girl." I would try to explain to my sleepy and befuddled parents when I would wake them up at two in the morning, but I couldn't set the scene or context again as I was too afraid saying it aloud would make it real. It really disrupted my ability to be an adolescent, I could never sleep over at friend's houses, stomping off to my room was out of the question as I got too terrified alone; I was literally a sophomore in high school still creeping silently into my parents bedroom to huddle at the foot of their bed. Trembling in fear over green girl, over the possibility that my dad would wake up and find me, the refugee, and send me back to my deep dark bedroom.
I know I have been talking way too much about how to deal with demons, specifically those boy related. But the overexposure to this new demon-in-the-backwoods-of-Louisiana movie reminded me of the time I learned to man up and sleep in my own bed. It took, um years, but now I can curl up in the nook of my temporary air mattress (oh college) and clock a good ten hours of slumber. I remember at one time thinking i would never be able to sleep again, but today I am longing for my rubber bed as I type this. I guess if I can overcome green girl, what's a little bit of heartache?
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Romance Day 1
My friend was telling me a story about a night out on the town. She was with a group of boys, one of whom I had dated, named...Joe. Joe and company were waxing on about how Joe's current girlfriend was a luminous ball of nuts emotion or something. A mutual friend of ours muttered to himself, without missing a beat, in reference to me,
"Well, you [Joe] do like the crazies [me]."
I am the first person to attest to my flamboyant side. When emotions are high, I'll combust like a supernova all over your previously pleasant evening. But it still doesn't feel luxurious when someone reminds you of the thing about yourself that gets you into trouble. The thing that snarls the lips of those I'd rather see smiling. The "get away from me" thing.
But then I look at the people who have meant or mean something to me. All of them are a little off. And the ones who aren't, well, we're really not that close. There is a strange kinship that happens when two nut jobs of a feather get together. You recognize that sedated wildness in the corners of their eyes; understanding that when the madness unleashes it will not always be pretty, but there is great comfort in solidarity.
My crazy seems to be triggered by, well frankly and stupidly, love; falling in it, for it, losing it, missing it, giving it, not getting it back, rejecting it. I won't get smashed and uproot plants after getting a bad grade or forgetting to pay my rent, but I'll end up with a counterful of dirt encrusted tulip plants the morning after getting dumped. And what's really crazy is the world feels me! Love makes most people want to drunkenly make bouquets or throw doughnuts at their ex's window, they just won't allow themselves. Well, I'll bite the bullet for y'all. Plants and baked goods beware.
I find, however, that there are ways in which to harness the beast within. Since it is that ole devil that riles me, I have decided to engage in a bit of a social experiment. I am going to try and give myself a good, solid dose of romance at least once a day. Things like going on an evening walk. Taking a bath. Listening to Billie Holiday in the morning. Wearing a flower in the button hole of my shirt. Reading 1 poem, because that's sort of all I can handle. Breathing Deeply. Drinking hot tea in the mornings and red wine at night. Brushing my hair. Eating fruit wildly over the sink.
It it going to be difficult, to woo myself, but I am going to try. Perhaps if I can fall in love with just plain old me, I can understand how to love somebody else. And I am sure once I learn to understand that, I won't be getting so Lady Macbeth on another poor boy's ass.
"Well, you [Joe] do like the crazies [me]."
I am the first person to attest to my flamboyant side. When emotions are high, I'll combust like a supernova all over your previously pleasant evening. But it still doesn't feel luxurious when someone reminds you of the thing about yourself that gets you into trouble. The thing that snarls the lips of those I'd rather see smiling. The "get away from me" thing.
But then I look at the people who have meant or mean something to me. All of them are a little off. And the ones who aren't, well, we're really not that close. There is a strange kinship that happens when two nut jobs of a feather get together. You recognize that sedated wildness in the corners of their eyes; understanding that when the madness unleashes it will not always be pretty, but there is great comfort in solidarity.
My crazy seems to be triggered by, well frankly and stupidly, love; falling in it, for it, losing it, missing it, giving it, not getting it back, rejecting it. I won't get smashed and uproot plants after getting a bad grade or forgetting to pay my rent, but I'll end up with a counterful of dirt encrusted tulip plants the morning after getting dumped. And what's really crazy is the world feels me! Love makes most people want to drunkenly make bouquets or throw doughnuts at their ex's window, they just won't allow themselves. Well, I'll bite the bullet for y'all. Plants and baked goods beware.
I find, however, that there are ways in which to harness the beast within. Since it is that ole devil that riles me, I have decided to engage in a bit of a social experiment. I am going to try and give myself a good, solid dose of romance at least once a day. Things like going on an evening walk. Taking a bath. Listening to Billie Holiday in the morning. Wearing a flower in the button hole of my shirt. Reading 1 poem, because that's sort of all I can handle. Breathing Deeply. Drinking hot tea in the mornings and red wine at night. Brushing my hair. Eating fruit wildly over the sink.
It it going to be difficult, to woo myself, but I am going to try. Perhaps if I can fall in love with just plain old me, I can understand how to love somebody else. And I am sure once I learn to understand that, I won't be getting so Lady Macbeth on another poor boy's ass.
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