Earth, Wind, and Fire has a song called Saturday Night. Part of the lyrics are as follows:
"Many dress to suit their taste, participate in the ego race. Tonight's the night for you to be, the biggest man in history."
I love that song; it's my favorite EWAF song, after Serpentine Fire. I find it obscenely ironic it is what came on my shuffle while during this Saturday night. Because this Saturday Night, instead of dressing to run in the race of egos and transforming to a huge man, I am making bruschetta in my mother's kitchen.
It came out all fabulous, by the way. I ate it with a 2007 Zinfandel.
There are moments in my life that I feel it would go against my core being to not reflect on. I am a capable 22 year old female, with dreams, a clean record, and high heels. I could be sitting, looking prissy on some faux white leather bar stool in downtown somewhere listening to a remix of Cooler Than Me hoping somebody in a sparkly shirt buys me another vodka soda so I can officially arrive.
But instead I choose the road less traveled. I choose the road reflective. I choose such a shiny, untraveled road that in order to deal with such the reverse of expected and normal action from other retards of my generation I must detail the defiance. Has anybody ever punted their phone? Of course you have. But for no reason other than there is no other movement in your life? My phone is somewhere in my backyard, and I feel better simply because of the motion.
I gather, from the words of my mother, her friends, and my therapist, that in your twenties you get a bad case of the Angst. And it's bratty, its transitional, it stems from insecurity and lack of knowledge about this inner being I so often speak of, but it still feels like a dense, sticky fog that remains slightly impenetrable without a nice Merlot and a bad attitude.
So, my fellow boomerang generation, let us raise our bratty, nice crystal (thanks mom) glasses of ingratitude and unmitigated ambition. Raise them high to 10 pm bruschetta's and 10 am returns to your childhood bedroom. Mom, I hope this a temporary situation. But until then, would you like a little nibble with your wine?
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Baby
Yesterday I was social.
So now I am going to negate any personality points I would have received and talk about my social evening on a virtual platform.
I met up with a friend who I haven't seen before she left to study malaria in Uganda. IN UGANDA. She told me a story of how she assisted in two births, C-Section and vaginal. The medical assistant wasn't available and the doctor snapped up my friend's capable hands.
One of the babies, the family named after her.
Isn't that unspeakably beautiful?
I started to cry when she mentioned that small tidbit. She said it slightly offhand, like oh and I got an A on the test I completed blindfolded. If I had a child named after me, I would have T-Shirts made. I am probably still going to have them made and distribute them to family members so we can take a group picture to solidify an accomplishment I had absolutely no part in. Everyone grinning, in little stadium rows wearing red shirts that say "My friend has a baby named after her in Africa, and all I got was this lousy T-Shirt."
This story makes me wildly enthusiastic about things I may have not been before. My friend will forever be connected by something so intricately personal to this little girl who will one day live and grow to have hands just like those who delivered her. It is not an immediate, perhaps typical connection, but it exists, and strongly. I believe in it like I believe in coffee and the cold light of mornings. I believe in it like a realization.
Somethings are easy to believe in; sports teams, democracy, microwaves. But somethings, like those hidden in the spaces of human conscious which we choose often to not explore as they may hurt or scare us, those things are difficult to commit to. And if you can find something that inspires you to believe...Go on and let yourself be a little in love. Because somewhere in Uganda, in a village full of people, there lives a baby named Kaitlin.
So now I am going to negate any personality points I would have received and talk about my social evening on a virtual platform.
I met up with a friend who I haven't seen before she left to study malaria in Uganda. IN UGANDA. She told me a story of how she assisted in two births, C-Section and vaginal. The medical assistant wasn't available and the doctor snapped up my friend's capable hands.
One of the babies, the family named after her.
Isn't that unspeakably beautiful?
I started to cry when she mentioned that small tidbit. She said it slightly offhand, like oh and I got an A on the test I completed blindfolded. If I had a child named after me, I would have T-Shirts made. I am probably still going to have them made and distribute them to family members so we can take a group picture to solidify an accomplishment I had absolutely no part in. Everyone grinning, in little stadium rows wearing red shirts that say "My friend has a baby named after her in Africa, and all I got was this lousy T-Shirt."
This story makes me wildly enthusiastic about things I may have not been before. My friend will forever be connected by something so intricately personal to this little girl who will one day live and grow to have hands just like those who delivered her. It is not an immediate, perhaps typical connection, but it exists, and strongly. I believe in it like I believe in coffee and the cold light of mornings. I believe in it like a realization.
Somethings are easy to believe in; sports teams, democracy, microwaves. But somethings, like those hidden in the spaces of human conscious which we choose often to not explore as they may hurt or scare us, those things are difficult to commit to. And if you can find something that inspires you to believe...Go on and let yourself be a little in love. Because somewhere in Uganda, in a village full of people, there lives a baby named Kaitlin.
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.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Me and my Dad
Yesterday my father graciously opened up an account for me at a nice, fancy gym.
My membership, however, exists on the condition that once I become "established," I will take over payment.
I asked my father what he meant by established, just to be a shit. I know what it meant. It means not sleeping till noon, haphazardly job searching until your eyes get tired, then making yourself cocktails with the different fruit juices that your mom buys. Pretending, while you cocktail, that you are the star of your own highly successful snarky, hip cooking show. Or putting on the first act of Les Miserables on the house stereo system, printing out the lyrics, and performing for two sleepy, non-plussed poodles.
I don't think that constitutes "established."
On my gym member application form, there is a box where you list two friends for a referral and a free week trial membership. After a deliberation that was a bit too long, and a scan of my contacts, I grudgingly listed one acquaintance. Proud of myself, I announced my successful listing to my father.
"You need more friends."
Dad! I said.
"No, it's not a put-down!" he explained. "It's a fact."
"What?!"
"It's a fact! We all need friends, you and I. We need friends."
"Dad, that's worse. It's worse that it's a fact."
We had a brief word scuffle, me finally conceding that he was more of the opinion that I needed friends because it's a general need of the human race, as in we are not really solitary creatures, even if you live in Folsom.
So I don't need friends because I haven't brushed my hair in two days, or plan to perform Act 2 for Bear and Otto tomorrow. I need friends because I'm human.
My membership, however, exists on the condition that once I become "established," I will take over payment.
I asked my father what he meant by established, just to be a shit. I know what it meant. It means not sleeping till noon, haphazardly job searching until your eyes get tired, then making yourself cocktails with the different fruit juices that your mom buys. Pretending, while you cocktail, that you are the star of your own highly successful snarky, hip cooking show. Or putting on the first act of Les Miserables on the house stereo system, printing out the lyrics, and performing for two sleepy, non-plussed poodles.
I don't think that constitutes "established."
On my gym member application form, there is a box where you list two friends for a referral and a free week trial membership. After a deliberation that was a bit too long, and a scan of my contacts, I grudgingly listed one acquaintance. Proud of myself, I announced my successful listing to my father.
"You need more friends."
Dad! I said.
"No, it's not a put-down!" he explained. "It's a fact."
"What?!"
"It's a fact! We all need friends, you and I. We need friends."
"Dad, that's worse. It's worse that it's a fact."
We had a brief word scuffle, me finally conceding that he was more of the opinion that I needed friends because it's a general need of the human race, as in we are not really solitary creatures, even if you live in Folsom.
So I don't need friends because I haven't brushed my hair in two days, or plan to perform Act 2 for Bear and Otto tomorrow. I need friends because I'm human.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
