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.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
The Other Way Around
I knew a guy that had his heart absolutely smashed by the first girl he ever loved.
He was a successful man, at the top of his field for his age, and wanted to go further in his career. He had built a neat little empire form which to stand on, and finally found the right type of gal to stand with him.
She said no, though.
I talked with him a few times about it, desparing at his sorrow. It was difficult to watch someone who knows everything suddenly know nothing. Even if the moments were brief, they were there, and they struck a chord in my heart when I watched him put his head in his hands.
I get it now, though.
He was a successful man, at the top of his field for his age, and wanted to go further in his career. He had built a neat little empire form which to stand on, and finally found the right type of gal to stand with him.
She said no, though.
I talked with him a few times about it, desparing at his sorrow. It was difficult to watch someone who knows everything suddenly know nothing. Even if the moments were brief, they were there, and they struck a chord in my heart when I watched him put his head in his hands.
I get it now, though.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
My Mother, My Career
My talented teacher mother has been chosen to teach a study abroad class in FRANCE! Next year, isn't that spectacular? Claps for mama. It is so depressing that my mother's career is taking off like all those planes in LAX while mine sags like an empty balloon. Dramatic. Actually, its more like an elderly man's shlong. It's feeble, it's trying, but its not quite there.
And its not depressing, its utterly amazing. I am so proud of you...Mademoiselle Mama.
Anyway, I am at post college job number two, trying to gain my footing. I am having difficulty sleeping because I have an interesting set of responsibilities this time around. I have been doing research, brainstorming, pleading with my bored friends for ideas, trying to "become the job." So far I am only half of the job, half Sonia, half uber stressed and getting fat because to deal with halving myself three times my carb consumption is, like, way up there. But I am actually liking me a little more this time around so I am hoping for the best. Who knows, perhaps next week I will be digging my own vocational grave, but for now I'm alive and kickin!
Before this blogage, I was laying in bed, kicking my sheets around and I kind of did a little in-my-head career montage of all my past jobs. The summer of my senior year my mother told me solemnly, "You will work." Okay, whatever Mom. I'm 18 and AWESOME and no longer a virgin, so whatever no big deal.
Having absolutely no job skills, I was lucky enough to get a job through a dear friend of my mother's. I was an office assistant at a dental office. What means is I did things like filing, recording Perio charting (that thing where they stick a pokey thing in your mouth and a mirror and call out 3,2,3...4,3,2...224 until you feel like your jaw in unhinged), recording X Rays, putting the cookies out for the patients in the lobby. But mostly I cleaned. I cleaned and sterilized rooms, tools, chairs, trays. Everything you put your mouth on at the dentist I cleaned. In scrubs with my hair undid, no makeup, and a bad attitude that I quelled by stealing the frozen cookie dough for the lobby cookies, storing it in my scrub pockets, and eating it in between cleanings. It didn't seems to phase me one moment I was putting a bloody tooth scalpel in the sterilization thing and the next minute shoving frozen caramel chocolate chip into my mouth.
One of my jobs was to set up the patient rooms according to procedure. Hygiene was cake, it was the same every time. But the "surgery" rooms where they fixed rotten teeth or bleached out the highlighted and large-breasted soccer mom's smile until her teeth looked like Chiclets called for different set ups. My enemy was the tool tray where, depending on procedure, I would lay out a set of 8-10 metal sticks. They were supposed to be in a certain order, and discernible by their tiny little "heads" or end points. These things cost big money, and I was supposed to handle them delicately. I could. not. tell. them. apart. Many an hour I spent squinting at the tiny little spoon at the end of the metal stick asking myself :
"Is this a blah blah blah spoon for smoothing the gums, or is this the blah blah blah hooky thing he uses to cut people? Fuck."
Needles to say, it wasn't my dream job. All I wanted to be doing that summer was make out with my first cool boyfriend and pretend to smoke cigarettes. I remember one time being very upset I had to go to work the next morning and therefore had to go to bed early. I was so angry, resentful, and upset. Why the hell do I have to work? Hello? I'm going to college. I know everything. I hate wearing scrubs.
I was busy moping when my mother probably called me out on it. I let loose 18 years of spoiling and sheltered-ness when I raised back my in indignant fist and...
Grabbed a pile of discarded bank statements and threw them about the room. Take that Golden 1! Not paying you on time Hawaiian Airlines Credit Card! What, USAA Federal Savings Bank? Yeah that's right, YOU GOT THROWN!
My mother watched me get in a bar fight with paper and to her credit, did not laugh. Rather instead, she followed me to my room (where I had stormed off to, duh) and calmly talked me down from stabbing her VISA statement with my scissors. She told me that you have to pay your dues in some way or another because they will give you the background and tools to get where you want to go.
Great lesson, huh? It's funny that I only remembered it now, dealing with shady ex-employers and feeling truly hopeless as my second security deposit in 4 months is hungry for the meager amount that resides in my USAA checking. Because at the end of the day, I no longer look like an extra from Grey's Anatomy and spend mornings cleaning up blueberry muffin puke. I paid that due. I am past the minimum wage job! Its time to accept me, real people world, I am one of the entry level big dogs now!
...Although I do miss the caramel chocolate chip cookies.
And its not depressing, its utterly amazing. I am so proud of you...Mademoiselle Mama.
Anyway, I am at post college job number two, trying to gain my footing. I am having difficulty sleeping because I have an interesting set of responsibilities this time around. I have been doing research, brainstorming, pleading with my bored friends for ideas, trying to "become the job." So far I am only half of the job, half Sonia, half uber stressed and getting fat because to deal with halving myself three times my carb consumption is, like, way up there. But I am actually liking me a little more this time around so I am hoping for the best. Who knows, perhaps next week I will be digging my own vocational grave, but for now I'm alive and kickin!
Before this blogage, I was laying in bed, kicking my sheets around and I kind of did a little in-my-head career montage of all my past jobs. The summer of my senior year my mother told me solemnly, "You will work." Okay, whatever Mom. I'm 18 and AWESOME and no longer a virgin, so whatever no big deal.
Having absolutely no job skills, I was lucky enough to get a job through a dear friend of my mother's. I was an office assistant at a dental office. What means is I did things like filing, recording Perio charting (that thing where they stick a pokey thing in your mouth and a mirror and call out 3,2,3...4,3,2...224 until you feel like your jaw in unhinged), recording X Rays, putting the cookies out for the patients in the lobby. But mostly I cleaned. I cleaned and sterilized rooms, tools, chairs, trays. Everything you put your mouth on at the dentist I cleaned. In scrubs with my hair undid, no makeup, and a bad attitude that I quelled by stealing the frozen cookie dough for the lobby cookies, storing it in my scrub pockets, and eating it in between cleanings. It didn't seems to phase me one moment I was putting a bloody tooth scalpel in the sterilization thing and the next minute shoving frozen caramel chocolate chip into my mouth.
One of my jobs was to set up the patient rooms according to procedure. Hygiene was cake, it was the same every time. But the "surgery" rooms where they fixed rotten teeth or bleached out the highlighted and large-breasted soccer mom's smile until her teeth looked like Chiclets called for different set ups. My enemy was the tool tray where, depending on procedure, I would lay out a set of 8-10 metal sticks. They were supposed to be in a certain order, and discernible by their tiny little "heads" or end points. These things cost big money, and I was supposed to handle them delicately. I could. not. tell. them. apart. Many an hour I spent squinting at the tiny little spoon at the end of the metal stick asking myself :
"Is this a blah blah blah spoon for smoothing the gums, or is this the blah blah blah hooky thing he uses to cut people? Fuck."
Needles to say, it wasn't my dream job. All I wanted to be doing that summer was make out with my first cool boyfriend and pretend to smoke cigarettes. I remember one time being very upset I had to go to work the next morning and therefore had to go to bed early. I was so angry, resentful, and upset. Why the hell do I have to work? Hello? I'm going to college. I know everything. I hate wearing scrubs.
I was busy moping when my mother probably called me out on it. I let loose 18 years of spoiling and sheltered-ness when I raised back my in indignant fist and...
Grabbed a pile of discarded bank statements and threw them about the room. Take that Golden 1! Not paying you on time Hawaiian Airlines Credit Card! What, USAA Federal Savings Bank? Yeah that's right, YOU GOT THROWN!
My mother watched me get in a bar fight with paper and to her credit, did not laugh. Rather instead, she followed me to my room (where I had stormed off to, duh) and calmly talked me down from stabbing her VISA statement with my scissors. She told me that you have to pay your dues in some way or another because they will give you the background and tools to get where you want to go.
Great lesson, huh? It's funny that I only remembered it now, dealing with shady ex-employers and feeling truly hopeless as my second security deposit in 4 months is hungry for the meager amount that resides in my USAA checking. Because at the end of the day, I no longer look like an extra from Grey's Anatomy and spend mornings cleaning up blueberry muffin puke. I paid that due. I am past the minimum wage job! Its time to accept me, real people world, I am one of the entry level big dogs now!
...Although I do miss the caramel chocolate chip cookies.
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.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Sistergurad
When my sister and I were younger, it seemed we were ages apart.
We are not quite two years, and she is really my best friend; so much so that it seems the only thing separating our ascent to doing everything together is her inability to legally drink in bars. She is my best gal pal, if not slightly on a protective sisterly pedestal. I start gnashing my teeth and cracking my knuckles when my boy friends talk about her sex appeal or whereabouts.
As in its 10 p.m. and we're all 5 shots deep and my charming neighbor inquires, meaningfully: "Sonia, where's your sister?"
Or, "Sonia, you're sister's so hot...Where is she?"
So, yes my sister is hot. And yes, if you try to hit on her in front of me I am immature enough that not only will I cock block you to Hades, I will also defriend you on every social networking platform, ever. I know, terrifying. Testosterone is quaking in its boots.
But anyway, when we were younger our two year span seemed more like four. We were different, and disagreed on many things. One large nugget of dissension was the welfare of our mother. My sister was very protective, she didn't condone any roughhousing like chicken fights in the pool or that weird game where you swim around, pushing your opponents head down into the water, trying to drown each other.
I on the other hand, was older and had an attitude. I saw myself as an equal opponent to my mothers head-dunking abilities, and would challenge her. When my 8 year old core strength failed, I would get mad, exact revenge, and cling onto my mother's neck like an enraged koala, hoping for an advantage.
My mother would laugh, my sister would cry, and then my attempts at winning the drowning game would be thwarted as we'd all have to stop to calm Sasha down.
But there is one moment in my sister's brief career as my mother's bodyguard that truly bested me. My mother is athletic, and growing up she coached quite a few of our sports teams. When we lived in Virginia, Sash and I were just starting to play soccer, and my mother was the coach for my Under 8 soccer team, dubbed "The Geckos."
It was one of our last practices. All seven year olds want to end every game or practice by throwing water or Gatorade on their coach, because it is hilarious and adults look funny wet. Exactly the kind of physical humiliation, however, that my sister did not allow in our house. The instant Sasha caught wind of my team's giggly plan, her protective instinct kicked in.
Meanwhile, I was deviously unscrewing the cap of my water bottle, chuckling to myself.
During our post practice huddle, all the girls are looking at each other, mischievously, clutching their water bottles. My mother knew what was coming, and began jogging away as 13 Geckos took after her, shrieking.
I hung back a bit, wanting my dousing to be just me and the coach, for full hilarity. As I began jogging towards the pack, something felt off. I began to hear a vague buzzing sound, getting louder. I stopped my cleated pursuit, and turned around to face the growing hum...
WHAM
"WAHHHHHHH!!"
I was full on flattened by my midget of a sister. She sprang up from kicking my ass, wailing in fear and sadness, and took off like a demon towards my mom. I sat up in disbelief as I watched the back of her pigtailed head cover the field alarmingly fast.
"Mom! Sasha hurt me!" I immediately complained. I wasn't even mad, I was more humiliated that my awesome water throwing moment was ruined by a shrimp wearing a Winnie the Pooh shirt.
My mom couldn't really feel sorry for me, considering she was busy comforting my sister/bodyguard as well as holding back laughter at the grass and dirt in my hair, evidence of my ass beating.
It was the first time I was taught never to underestimate my younger sister. Though I may have height and 1.75 years of life experience, she assess situations in a different, and often far more bad ass way than myself. But now I feel like her protective instinct has grown to encompass me, and I am her quarterback instead of, er, the other team. She protects me, just as vehemently and insanely as she protected my mother that fateful day on the soccer field.
She was just giving me a preview of her services.
I miss you, Sasha.
We are not quite two years, and she is really my best friend; so much so that it seems the only thing separating our ascent to doing everything together is her inability to legally drink in bars. She is my best gal pal, if not slightly on a protective sisterly pedestal. I start gnashing my teeth and cracking my knuckles when my boy friends talk about her sex appeal or whereabouts.
As in its 10 p.m. and we're all 5 shots deep and my charming neighbor inquires, meaningfully: "Sonia, where's your sister?"
Or, "Sonia, you're sister's so hot...Where is she?"
So, yes my sister is hot. And yes, if you try to hit on her in front of me I am immature enough that not only will I cock block you to Hades, I will also defriend you on every social networking platform, ever. I know, terrifying. Testosterone is quaking in its boots.
But anyway, when we were younger our two year span seemed more like four. We were different, and disagreed on many things. One large nugget of dissension was the welfare of our mother. My sister was very protective, she didn't condone any roughhousing like chicken fights in the pool or that weird game where you swim around, pushing your opponents head down into the water, trying to drown each other.
I on the other hand, was older and had an attitude. I saw myself as an equal opponent to my mothers head-dunking abilities, and would challenge her. When my 8 year old core strength failed, I would get mad, exact revenge, and cling onto my mother's neck like an enraged koala, hoping for an advantage.
My mother would laugh, my sister would cry, and then my attempts at winning the drowning game would be thwarted as we'd all have to stop to calm Sasha down.
But there is one moment in my sister's brief career as my mother's bodyguard that truly bested me. My mother is athletic, and growing up she coached quite a few of our sports teams. When we lived in Virginia, Sash and I were just starting to play soccer, and my mother was the coach for my Under 8 soccer team, dubbed "The Geckos."
It was one of our last practices. All seven year olds want to end every game or practice by throwing water or Gatorade on their coach, because it is hilarious and adults look funny wet. Exactly the kind of physical humiliation, however, that my sister did not allow in our house. The instant Sasha caught wind of my team's giggly plan, her protective instinct kicked in.
Meanwhile, I was deviously unscrewing the cap of my water bottle, chuckling to myself.
During our post practice huddle, all the girls are looking at each other, mischievously, clutching their water bottles. My mother knew what was coming, and began jogging away as 13 Geckos took after her, shrieking.
I hung back a bit, wanting my dousing to be just me and the coach, for full hilarity. As I began jogging towards the pack, something felt off. I began to hear a vague buzzing sound, getting louder. I stopped my cleated pursuit, and turned around to face the growing hum...
WHAM
"WAHHHHHHH!!"
I was full on flattened by my midget of a sister. She sprang up from kicking my ass, wailing in fear and sadness, and took off like a demon towards my mom. I sat up in disbelief as I watched the back of her pigtailed head cover the field alarmingly fast.
"Mom! Sasha hurt me!" I immediately complained. I wasn't even mad, I was more humiliated that my awesome water throwing moment was ruined by a shrimp wearing a Winnie the Pooh shirt.
My mom couldn't really feel sorry for me, considering she was busy comforting my sister/bodyguard as well as holding back laughter at the grass and dirt in my hair, evidence of my ass beating.
It was the first time I was taught never to underestimate my younger sister. Though I may have height and 1.75 years of life experience, she assess situations in a different, and often far more bad ass way than myself. But now I feel like her protective instinct has grown to encompass me, and I am her quarterback instead of, er, the other team. She protects me, just as vehemently and insanely as she protected my mother that fateful day on the soccer field.
She was just giving me a preview of her services.
I miss you, Sasha.
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.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Welcome Home?
I moved into my new space in Oceanside, moving in being a relative term. I have an air mattress and eight boxes of heels (four of those serving as a nightstand).
The house I'm renting a room in is beautiful; new, with painted walls, spacious rooms, and bathrooms with decorative towels. I'm kind of afraid to touch anything, I tiptoe around but still manage to make a racket. I feel silly, like Jane Eyre, the mental estranged roommate emitting sinister noises in her back house burrow.
I am not sure how my new town likes me. The first morning I got a sixty dollar parking ticket (street cleaning). The second day I set my car alarm off in the Ralph's parking lot and frightened a passing little girl to tears. The third day on my moving misadventure I, in an attempt to carry three shoe boxes and a glass globe lamp, lost control of the armload and watched it slow motion fall to the ground and shatter.
As I reviewed the carnage of flinty, frosted glass pieces and spilled purple suede booties I felt that perhaps Oceanside does not want me.
I recently interviewed the owner of "Kindred Journeys" who is also a psychic. After our interview, I was flitting around the sun spackled store, photographing it. She asked me how long I had been doing this. I told her I was new. She told me I wouldn't be in North County for long. She said I was going to move closer to the city, for a job I would get with my persona (does this mean I has no skills? and what type of job would hire me for my lamp dropping, children scaring persona?)
She gave me a sixth month deadline.
Oceanside is preparing to eject me.
I'm kind of pissed. Why don't you want me, O-side? Okay so I clutter your neighborhoods with glass debri, make your children cry, and get in the way of clean streets.
But I like you. I'd like to make this relationship mutually beneficial.
I was in the Walmart trying to buy a correctly sized curtain rod and was stopped in the parking lot by a man asking me "Hey, girl. You from around here?"
Dammit. Again?
He was wearing a long sleeved button down, unbuttoned except for the top one. Wifebeater underneath, cargo shorts, and a sideways trucker hat.
"Hey girl, are you from around here? Why your wearing those boots? Are you from Texas?"
I looked down at my cowboy boots, cursing them for betraying my non-local status. Damn you. Damn you, because as much as I try to smile and eat Mexican food, and shop in local stores, and not get lost while driving, I am still just a big haired Jane Eyre who it seems cannot escape her true, tourist nature.
It's not like I haven't been down this road, but this time I am far more determined. Soon you will learn Oceanside, all the things I can do for you. You will learn I am an amazing happy hour partner, fun, interesting dining companion, drink orderer, funky white girl dancer, enthusiastic shopper, sweet listener, and naive, unscathed, not-yet-soured-by-life reporter.
Forget cowboy boots. Get ready for these babies:
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
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Inquisitive is a Euphamism
Sometimes, a situation seems so detrimental that life beyond the present, living, breathing, pulsating, sensual life seems as impossible as locating two matching socks.
I can always recall moments like these, although their severity fades in memory. Because life always goes on, the morning always comes, and there you lie, alive, awake, musing at a painting that you wanted to tear off the wall and put your foot through six hours earlier.
I am a detective. I am also a slight masochist. Not a sitcom masochist, all trussed up in leather and chains, but a mundane, everyday pain-chaser. You know how they say the truth hurts? Well I like to find out the truth. I like it very much.
Being on the hunt for the truth means you become a devious snoop. Sometimes I hear the theme for the Pink Panther whirling in my head as his phone sits unguarded, three feet away from my itching fingers, accusing. Then begins the internal battle.
Angel/Chill Girl: Don't be a nutjob, don't be a nutjob. Walk away from your impending snoopery and go watch TV.
Demon/Crazed and Convinced: UM HELLO?! GIRL YOU'VE GOT LIKE FIVE MINUTES. START DIGGING.
It is interesting that while in plight for the true intention of unanswered phone calls and cloying love texts that one begins to stretch meaning out of a message like "Loves" or "I like hotdogs." Suddenly the everyday communications of coed friendships become chapters in their love story. They met up at a place called Loves! It's probably a sex store! They had kinky, better sex! She likes his hotdog!
And while I am in heated, feverish pursuit of what he means I overlook the log in my own text inbox. They say things like "I love you" and "I miss you," but the words don't mean as much when they are said to me. I am more interested in what is being said to others.
And here's where the irony of "the truth" knocks the wind out of me. I have cast aside the potential happiness for my own happy kid story because I am way too into my spidey sense for foul play. When somebody says to you "I love you," you should not be thinking "Yes me, but who else?" You should be thinking I love you as well. You're perfect. Isn't this fun? Aren't we lucky and fun?
I have decided to lay my expectation of the truth in the present moment. I want to feel the love I know is there all the way to my snoopy little toes. It's possible, because I am willing to put down the fingerprint kit and extend an undusted hand of trust.
I have to put She-lock to rest. Girl is getting out of control.
On the other hand, if She-lock ends up knee deep in the shit she originally sniffed out, I wouldn't want to be around. In fact, I'd take myself, my painting, and my most comfortable leather shoes and start running.
I can always recall moments like these, although their severity fades in memory. Because life always goes on, the morning always comes, and there you lie, alive, awake, musing at a painting that you wanted to tear off the wall and put your foot through six hours earlier.
I am a detective. I am also a slight masochist. Not a sitcom masochist, all trussed up in leather and chains, but a mundane, everyday pain-chaser. You know how they say the truth hurts? Well I like to find out the truth. I like it very much.
Being on the hunt for the truth means you become a devious snoop. Sometimes I hear the theme for the Pink Panther whirling in my head as his phone sits unguarded, three feet away from my itching fingers, accusing. Then begins the internal battle.
Angel/Chill Girl: Don't be a nutjob, don't be a nutjob. Walk away from your impending snoopery and go watch TV.
Demon/Crazed and Convinced: UM HELLO?! GIRL YOU'VE GOT LIKE FIVE MINUTES. START DIGGING.
It is interesting that while in plight for the true intention of unanswered phone calls and cloying love texts that one begins to stretch meaning out of a message like "Loves" or "I like hotdogs." Suddenly the everyday communications of coed friendships become chapters in their love story. They met up at a place called Loves! It's probably a sex store! They had kinky, better sex! She likes his hotdog!
And while I am in heated, feverish pursuit of what he means I overlook the log in my own text inbox. They say things like "I love you" and "I miss you," but the words don't mean as much when they are said to me. I am more interested in what is being said to others.
And here's where the irony of "the truth" knocks the wind out of me. I have cast aside the potential happiness for my own happy kid story because I am way too into my spidey sense for foul play. When somebody says to you "I love you," you should not be thinking "Yes me, but who else?" You should be thinking I love you as well. You're perfect. Isn't this fun? Aren't we lucky and fun?
I have decided to lay my expectation of the truth in the present moment. I want to feel the love I know is there all the way to my snoopy little toes. It's possible, because I am willing to put down the fingerprint kit and extend an undusted hand of trust.
I have to put She-lock to rest. Girl is getting out of control.
On the other hand, if She-lock ends up knee deep in the shit she originally sniffed out, I wouldn't want to be around. In fact, I'd take myself, my painting, and my most comfortable leather shoes and start running.
Monday, December 6, 2010
I Never Do This
I'm not a huge picture poster, but I ADORE Grace Potter, and always search for pics of her. Then I was browsing all my inspiration folders and realized its nothing but a montage of all my women crushes. I love women! So much! So instead of me blabbering about feelings and happy hour, and sad moments, I just wanted to remind myself why the world is good, and beautiful, and wonderful.
1. Laura Stone. Size 4 Successful Model! Vogue did a profile on her hip hardships in the size -3 industry. Whatever. REBELLION!
1. Laura Stone. Size 4 Successful Model! Vogue did a profile on her hip hardships in the size -3 industry. Whatever. REBELLION!
2. Katherine Hepburn. An original diva. Unknown, she demanded a higher salary than they were offering her on her first big film. That's how you end up with 1200 a day!
3. Nicki Minaj. I watched her documentary on MTV. She is weird, bossy, and strong. She is tough. Her album is doing really well, she's had Lauryn hill comparisons in terms of her lyrical ability, and many of the online responses have been PAH! I've read some of her lyrics, particularly Roman's Revenge. Eminem raps of the track, and his words seem to have a better narrative, but her rhyme schemes are impressive (hailing back to freshman year poetry ha) She reminds me of Emily Dickinson...it doesn't really seem to make sense, it sounds weird and makes you uncomfortable, but that's its purpose. I'm pulling for her. I see brilliant.
4.Sophia Loren. Done.
5.Anna Karina. Jean Luc-Godard's muse, French new wave siren, tiny fleeting bit of a human being. I like looking at photo's of her, she seems rather incapturable by still film. She is wide-eyed on subtle on screen. I like her mystery.
6. GRACE POTTER. I have only seen her perform on TV or youtube, but I feel the vibrations! She is fearless, sensual, powerful. I like her voice and how she extends herself through her sequins. Role Model.
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."
Sunday, November 14, 2010
The Punch
I once had a friend punch another in the face.
I remember what he looked like, before he struck. I have seen his face do so many things; smile, laugh, set up jokes, yell things across the street, but I'd rarely seen his face like this. His mouth looked strange, flattened and snarled, preparing. I tried to look at his eyes, but they moved too quickly to lock onto. They flashed up on my face for brief moments, but I may as well have another passerby.
And in a flash, there was blood.
He was gone.
And we all stood on the curb in mediated silence amidst the threats and the swearing, losing his back into the swell of the night.
I know far more violent things happen everyday. But witnessing this intimate glimpse of a hate's manifestation sticks with me like a bug I just can't shake.
I still have strange dreams about this ferocity, but it mutates itself into different scenes. Sometimes more carnage, sometimes no blood. But in those dreams I see the thing I never did during my waking memory.
I see his eyes. And it is a disappointment. I used to see a thousand lifetimes when I caught his gaze. But in my dreams, within the blue irises, there is only emptiness.
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 21, 2010
Can anybody find me, Somebody to love?
I once had Somebody tell me my blog was nothing but a stupid girl's rant.
I once had Somebody tell me I am so (excuse my language) fucked up in the brain it gives Somebody a headache.
Well Somebody, considering the nature of my aforementioned brain insides, if anyone should have a headache, it's this girl.
My friend once told me a story about a girl he knew while we were in college. I knew her too, but only slightly. She worked at a coffee shop in our small college town and was very noticeable. She was tall and slender, with astonishing eyes. They were blue, but not blue like the sky or blue like Billie Holiday. They were an icy, fiery blue. They were so blue that you kind of wanted to pee yourself when she looked at you and asked dully, "What kind of milk?"
She also had a mane of blond hair. It sprouted up from her skull defiantly and rippled down to the middle of her back in oddly perfect waves. She was striking.
This girl dated somebody equally striking sophomore year. He wasn't honest about it though. He wore pinstripe vests and girl's pants. His black hair, streaked with amber and bleach, played footsie with his eyeliner. He called himself by his first name, twice. Evan Evan.
After spring break his eyeliner decided it liked another girl. He returned to school and told coffee shop girl he wasn't interested anymore. I wonder what fierceness the blue took on when she looked back at him.
"So.. I love you and all, but I'm in love with another girl. Her named is Alexandra Alexandra Evita and we are very happy. You understand."
FIRE EYES.
A following evening, our blond heroine could not sleep. Everybody knows the insomnia that comes with anger. The last time I went to bed angry, I fell asleep drooling on my computer. On the document I had been working on, entitled "Manifesto of Obscene and Impressive Hatred and Vengeance Plan that will take place thereafter."
Fire eyes whips out of bed, throws the covers off, and goes in to full vengeance. Evan Evan had left one of his fancy, gleaming guitars at her place. It's shiny wood, oiled from Evan Evan's forehead grease and Oil of Olay make up remover, sprung an idea from her head like Athena out of Zeus.
She grabbed it's thin, strong neck, and smashed it to splinters, courtesy of her driveway and the months of frustration stored up from Evan Evan asking her if his eyeliner was even.
She then gathered the pieces and marched to Evan Evan's door. She dunked them with gasoline, and let out a banshee scream. Evan Evan arrived to the bonfire like Evita to the balcony and watched his baby burn.
Burn, baby. Burn.
I may not have the heart and guts to dramatically destroy some property, but I find it oddly comforting to tell a story so weirdly poetic. I have told the story to males of mine and they grin crookedly and say "That's awesome."
Is it awesome? It could happen to you. It might be happening to you right now.
I know it may be silly, but in committing this anecdote to Internet infamy (haha) I find myself feeling as victorious as if I had smashed a Gibson, without the possible destruction of property charge. I see this blog as more like a literal manifestation of guitar demolition than a collection of women rants.
And you know what? Somebody should be glad of that.
I once had Somebody tell me I am so (excuse my language) fucked up in the brain it gives Somebody a headache.
Well Somebody, considering the nature of my aforementioned brain insides, if anyone should have a headache, it's this girl.
My friend once told me a story about a girl he knew while we were in college. I knew her too, but only slightly. She worked at a coffee shop in our small college town and was very noticeable. She was tall and slender, with astonishing eyes. They were blue, but not blue like the sky or blue like Billie Holiday. They were an icy, fiery blue. They were so blue that you kind of wanted to pee yourself when she looked at you and asked dully, "What kind of milk?"
She also had a mane of blond hair. It sprouted up from her skull defiantly and rippled down to the middle of her back in oddly perfect waves. She was striking.
This girl dated somebody equally striking sophomore year. He wasn't honest about it though. He wore pinstripe vests and girl's pants. His black hair, streaked with amber and bleach, played footsie with his eyeliner. He called himself by his first name, twice. Evan Evan.
After spring break his eyeliner decided it liked another girl. He returned to school and told coffee shop girl he wasn't interested anymore. I wonder what fierceness the blue took on when she looked back at him.
"So.. I love you and all, but I'm in love with another girl. Her named is Alexandra Alexandra Evita and we are very happy. You understand."
FIRE EYES.
A following evening, our blond heroine could not sleep. Everybody knows the insomnia that comes with anger. The last time I went to bed angry, I fell asleep drooling on my computer. On the document I had been working on, entitled "Manifesto of Obscene and Impressive Hatred and Vengeance Plan that will take place thereafter."
Fire eyes whips out of bed, throws the covers off, and goes in to full vengeance. Evan Evan had left one of his fancy, gleaming guitars at her place. It's shiny wood, oiled from Evan Evan's forehead grease and Oil of Olay make up remover, sprung an idea from her head like Athena out of Zeus.
She grabbed it's thin, strong neck, and smashed it to splinters, courtesy of her driveway and the months of frustration stored up from Evan Evan asking her if his eyeliner was even.
She then gathered the pieces and marched to Evan Evan's door. She dunked them with gasoline, and let out a banshee scream. Evan Evan arrived to the bonfire like Evita to the balcony and watched his baby burn.
Burn, baby. Burn.
I may not have the heart and guts to dramatically destroy some property, but I find it oddly comforting to tell a story so weirdly poetic. I have told the story to males of mine and they grin crookedly and say "That's awesome."
Is it awesome? It could happen to you. It might be happening to you right now.
I know it may be silly, but in committing this anecdote to Internet infamy (haha) I find myself feeling as victorious as if I had smashed a Gibson, without the possible destruction of property charge. I see this blog as more like a literal manifestation of guitar demolition than a collection of women rants.
And you know what? Somebody should be glad of that.
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