Posts
At home sick and suffering from a presumable case of food poisoning, I'm avoiding my mid-term and watching Sex and the City. And I just have to say that my FAVORITE CHARACTER OF ALL TIME is, well, not Mr. Big (though Chris Noth is pretty attractive), but rather Steve Brady (David Eigenberg). And yes, I realize this makes me the most predictable sort of woman, but that's something that's been quite obvious for some time to anyone paying attention.
28 February 2007
27 February 2007
i do not want to...
...go to school.
...leave my house.
...get dressed.
...take the "L" or the bus.
...do any work.
...fix my hair.
...put on makeup. or perfume.
...brave the cold.
...remain particularly chipper.
...make lunch.
...stay awake.
...be responsible.
...put in my contacts.
...stop listening to dmb live trax vol. 6.
...wash dishes.
...write my 1,000 words today.
...leave my house.
...get dressed.
...take the "L" or the bus.
...do any work.
...fix my hair.
...put on makeup. or perfume.
...brave the cold.
...remain particularly chipper.
...make lunch.
...stay awake.
...be responsible.
...put in my contacts.
...stop listening to dmb live trax vol. 6.
...wash dishes.
...write my 1,000 words today.
I do, however, want to crawl back into bed, snuggle up with all my pillows, and sleep for the next 12 hours. We all know what wins out, though: Catholic guilt mixed with my Protestant work ethic, resulting in my doing the dishes, eating lunch, making myself all pretty and nice smelling, then slushing through the streets of Lincoln Square and hopping on the #49 express bus to the Blue Line, where I'll wait 20 minutes for a train to take me to hell and back. And when the morning light comes streaming in, I'll get up and do it again...
26 February 2007
recent conversation with the b boy
B: Hey, mom! There are two different ways to spell two.
A: Okay...
B: Actually, there are three different ways, now that I think about it. There's T-W-O, which is when you're counting stuff... and T-O, when you're going "to the store"... and T-O-O, which kind of means the same thing as "also"... which makes three!
A: Those are called homophones. Words that sound alike but have different spellings and meanings.
B: Ooh. Homophones! I found my new favorite word!
[At which point I shake my head at the fact that I seem to be producing the world's nerdiest children...]
A: Okay...
B: Actually, there are three different ways, now that I think about it. There's T-W-O, which is when you're counting stuff... and T-O, when you're going "to the store"... and T-O-O, which kind of means the same thing as "also"... which makes three!
A: Those are called homophones. Words that sound alike but have different spellings and meanings.
B: Ooh. Homophones! I found my new favorite word!
[At which point I shake my head at the fact that I seem to be producing the world's nerdiest children...]
25 February 2007
new york city
Since I'm heading to New York City next month for work, I just made a reservation at The Pod Hotel. I'm looking forward to exploring the neighborhoods a little more; perhaps I'll finally make it to the Brooklyn Bridge and even successfully find vegan food in Manhattan at 2am. I've also located my erstwhile copy of Bruce Kayton's Radical Walking Tours of New York & plan to go on at least one of the tours listed, if not several.
Also on the schedule: Friday Night Dinner at the Natural Gourmet Institute, a movie at the Film Society of Lincoln Center with my ESL instructor friend from Queens, and drinks with BrooklynBoy (though he's in the recording studio for insane hours with his bandmates, so that's up in the air). All this + the work I have to do, and I don't know that I'll get any sleep! That's OK, though; it's the price I'll happily pay for visiting the bestest city ever (behind Chicago, of course).
[More travels in the near future: San Francisco, Seattle, Washington DC (with W for the March on the Pentagon), Dallas, South Dakota (hello, Mt. Rushmore!), South Carolina, Philadelphia, and (possibly) the Route-66-to-Cali-and-back road trip postponed last summer.]
Also on the schedule: Friday Night Dinner at the Natural Gourmet Institute, a movie at the Film Society of Lincoln Center with my ESL instructor friend from Queens, and drinks with BrooklynBoy (though he's in the recording studio for insane hours with his bandmates, so that's up in the air). All this + the work I have to do, and I don't know that I'll get any sleep! That's OK, though; it's the price I'll happily pay for visiting the bestest city ever (behind Chicago, of course).
[More travels in the near future: San Francisco, Seattle, Washington DC (with W for the March on the Pentagon), Dallas, South Dakota (hello, Mt. Rushmore!), South Carolina, Philadelphia, and (possibly) the Route-66-to-Cali-and-back road trip postponed last summer.]
musings to remember
I HATE THE SUBURBS
Sorry folks, but this even includes semi-suburbs such as Oak Park. I spent the morning there yesterday while W tested for Northwestern University's Center for Talent Development and wanted to pull my hair out by the time I left. My two hours sitting in Panera Bread for its free wifi were torture. To all of my friends: if I ever even start to talk about moving out of the city proper, tie me up and throw me in a basement until I come to my senses.
RED WINE = BANNED
Do not bring red wine to my house. Because then, weeks later, I drink it under unsuspecting circumstances - hey! what do I have to drink? let's drink this ENTIRE BOTTLE OF RED WINE! - and end up with a red wine headache the next morning. This is a horribly inconvenient and unfortunate development, especially since I have a mid-term exam due within 72 hours.
CHILDREN SUCK
Okay, so I'm being a bit hyperbolic. What I mean is "ill-behaved children who belong to other people suck." I am so fed up with kids who cannot behave in public (and, presumably, in private). Whatever happened to the concepts of sitting still, being polite, and not acting like bobo monkeys?
ONE-YEAR BAN ON GRAD SCHOOL
Spring 2007 marks five years of being in school full-time, with Summer 2006 being the only term I've taken off (unless you count the two weeks off when B. was born during Fall 2002 or the two weeks off for brain surgery in Fall 2005). When I am finally done with my second M.A., I am taking a year off, even if the endorphins responsible for my seeming addiction to higher education start rushing through my brain again. And maybe I'll even decide to end it all there, depending on how that year goes.
CAN YOU SAY IRONY?
Took B and W to see The True Story of the 3 Little Pigs! at the Lifeline Theatre today. The production was good enough, but as a radical vegan mama I was a bit appalled. One of the main musical numbers included the wolf offering justification for eating the pigs by saying, "if someone asked you to stop eating cheeseburgers because it was wrong, you'd do it anyhow because they're so good and eating them is part of being human!" Thankfully B. wasn't paying attention and W. knows enough about these issues that we gave each other looks with raised eyebrows and smirks.
MUSIC FLASHBACKS
My favorite Chicago radio station - WXRT - is offering a nonstop flashback weekend, where each hour a different year is featured. It's not so much the music that's making this enjoyable - though it is interesting and nostalgia inspiring - but, instead, the tidbits about television, news, movies, and popular culture. They're also including the DJs' personal recollections about concerts or other musical things they experienced in those years. So far, my favorites include tales of the Monterey Pop Festival and the Summer Jam at Watkins Glen.
SPEAKING OF MUSIC...
Most everyone knows that I believe one's answer to the question "Led Zeppelin or The Who?" says a lot about a person, and I've come up with a few more dialectical relationships: Beatles/The Rolling Stones, Nirvana/Pearl Jam, The Pixies/The Pogues, Green Day/Smashing Pumpkins, Phish/Dave Matthews Band, and Garbage/No Doubt. Any others are welcome... it's always interesting to come up with bands that are somewhat similar but opposed enough that the one preferred makes a statement...
OK, THEN
All right, already! Back to work, despite a nagging red wine headache and still feeling a bit under the weather. No one can procrastinate like I can, but even this procrastinator has to get to work sometime.
Sorry folks, but this even includes semi-suburbs such as Oak Park. I spent the morning there yesterday while W tested for Northwestern University's Center for Talent Development and wanted to pull my hair out by the time I left. My two hours sitting in Panera Bread for its free wifi were torture. To all of my friends: if I ever even start to talk about moving out of the city proper, tie me up and throw me in a basement until I come to my senses.
RED WINE = BANNED
Do not bring red wine to my house. Because then, weeks later, I drink it under unsuspecting circumstances - hey! what do I have to drink? let's drink this ENTIRE BOTTLE OF RED WINE! - and end up with a red wine headache the next morning. This is a horribly inconvenient and unfortunate development, especially since I have a mid-term exam due within 72 hours.
CHILDREN SUCK
Okay, so I'm being a bit hyperbolic. What I mean is "ill-behaved children who belong to other people suck." I am so fed up with kids who cannot behave in public (and, presumably, in private). Whatever happened to the concepts of sitting still, being polite, and not acting like bobo monkeys?
ONE-YEAR BAN ON GRAD SCHOOL
Spring 2007 marks five years of being in school full-time, with Summer 2006 being the only term I've taken off (unless you count the two weeks off when B. was born during Fall 2002 or the two weeks off for brain surgery in Fall 2005). When I am finally done with my second M.A., I am taking a year off, even if the endorphins responsible for my seeming addiction to higher education start rushing through my brain again. And maybe I'll even decide to end it all there, depending on how that year goes.
CAN YOU SAY IRONY?
Took B and W to see The True Story of the 3 Little Pigs! at the Lifeline Theatre today. The production was good enough, but as a radical vegan mama I was a bit appalled. One of the main musical numbers included the wolf offering justification for eating the pigs by saying, "if someone asked you to stop eating cheeseburgers because it was wrong, you'd do it anyhow because they're so good and eating them is part of being human!" Thankfully B. wasn't paying attention and W. knows enough about these issues that we gave each other looks with raised eyebrows and smirks.
MUSIC FLASHBACKS
My favorite Chicago radio station - WXRT - is offering a nonstop flashback weekend, where each hour a different year is featured. It's not so much the music that's making this enjoyable - though it is interesting and nostalgia inspiring - but, instead, the tidbits about television, news, movies, and popular culture. They're also including the DJs' personal recollections about concerts or other musical things they experienced in those years. So far, my favorites include tales of the Monterey Pop Festival and the Summer Jam at Watkins Glen.
SPEAKING OF MUSIC...
Most everyone knows that I believe one's answer to the question "Led Zeppelin or The Who?" says a lot about a person, and I've come up with a few more dialectical relationships: Beatles/The Rolling Stones, Nirvana/Pearl Jam, The Pixies/The Pogues, Green Day/Smashing Pumpkins, Phish/Dave Matthews Band, and Garbage/No Doubt. Any others are welcome... it's always interesting to come up with bands that are somewhat similar but opposed enough that the one preferred makes a statement...
OK, THEN
All right, already! Back to work, despite a nagging red wine headache and still feeling a bit under the weather. No one can procrastinate like I can, but even this procrastinator has to get to work sometime.
22 February 2007
deconstructing britney
Though I'm sure she doesn't need pity, I feel sorry for Britney Spears. I've spent the last week largely tuned out of popular culture (ironic, since I was attending a popular culture conference...) and so I was surprised to find out about her head-shaving tattooing binge followed by a revolving-door stint in rehab. And now K-Fed is out for the kids, which doesn't bode well for the former teen poplet. What's a child star cum single mama to do?Perhaps it's naïvete speaking, but I'm not sure Britney's trajectory is anything other than what could be expected. With a life lived publicly for well over a decade, publicized and oft-ridiculed deficiencies in reason and poise, romantic excursions and failures smeared throughout the tabloids, and - lets not forget - two children in just as many years, it's not surprising that something had to give.
It's tremendously sad that the people in Britney's life either couldn't or wouldn't prepare for the inevitable downfall. Even worse is that they didn't hardly try to guide her in a responsible fashion. I don't know the specifics of her family life growing up, but it seems to me that her parents (in particular, her mother) viewed Britney's meteoric rise to sex symbol poplet as the meal ticket out of a life filled with double wide trailers and fried chicken dinners. [And I know this mostly because it's also the world I used to inhabit.] Living in the moment, reveling in the fame and not much caring about the dangers and pitfalls along the way, no one seemed to care that Britney was making one bad mistake after another. And mostly, I didn't care, either; however, from my own experience, I did know that when the end came, no one would bother to try and figure out how her crash was a direct result of all that abandonment in the beginning.
It would be ludicrous for me to say I have much in common with Britney Spears, but I do have this: growing up too fast because I thought I was ready, making stupid mistakes along the way that the people who loved me should have at least smacked me around about, having children very young and with little support system, entering into relationships because that's what was expected of me and, besides, I was lonely. I wasn't a multi-millionaire pop star by the time I was 18, but I was just as alienated from the world, just as convinced my sexuality would be my saving grace, just as adamant and sincere in my belief that I was an autonomous woman entering into the world as an informed consumer of other people's fantasies.
But then reality sets in: it's there with the years of diapers and lost sleep, the realization that sexuality doesn't sell as much with stretch marks, the balancing of motherhood with not-motherhood, the process of negotiating relationships with people who make you feel even more lonely, the lost hope and the frustrations of realizing that perhaps adulthood wasn't the panacea you'd hoped for. Suddenly, childhood and its requisite rebellion seem impossibly appealing, and the relationships, the children, anything resembling stability and security collectively become the albatross around your neck.
Call it a mid-life crisis, or call it an existential sadness, but it's the point where real growth begins. The media may make Britney the laughingstock of pop culture over the next few weeks, but quite possibly that's what she needs to authentically grow up and into the sort of person for which her past ill-prepared her. Becoming an adult doesn't happen by getting married or having children or even taking off your clothes for money; it happens during the times when we come to terms with the choices we've made and decide to accept the fall-out, when we seek out love rather than attention, and when we look for hope and connection in the world. For me, this has been a gradual process, one that entailed leaving behind people who never really had a vested interest in my growth and coming to terms with responsibilities I have. It's a never-ending process, or at least that's how it seems now, as I continue to struggle with the dialectic of mother and not-mother and negotiate in and out of relationships.
I hope Britney can weather these life storms - and these natural consequences of the life she's had (with little moral support) - without falling apart completely, and instead grow and develop as a person. Indeed, I surely never thought I'd say this, but I have great hopes for Britney Spears. I can't wait to see what she does next.
20 February 2007
the small spaces
[This is the latest addition to my art collection, "Under the Divine Shimmering Fingertips" by Bernie McGovern. I think the image is appropriate for this blog...]Frequent readers of this blog may notice that I often refer to the "small spaces" in which we find peace and love. No one's ever asked what I mean by that, but somehow I feel the phrase deserves an explanation. And as I find myself somewhat exiled this evening in my own literal small space (i.e., the 450-square-foot apartment I share with my cat, Luau), this timing is right.
The basic way I view the world is that there are things I can control and things that I cannot. This doesn't differ too much from St. Francis of Assisi:
Lord grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the differencethough, of course, as an unapologetic atheist, the "Lord" doesn't much come into play. Instead, I spend a fair amount of time thinking about what in the universe falls under my sphere of influence. Somewhat related to Sunday's blog, there is a very real sense in which my sanity depends on focusing my energy in appropriate ways. One rather unproductive waste of energy is struggling to change things that aren't in my power to alter. This leaves me with a conceptual space in which I am in control of my universe. It is not a large space, but it is mine alone. Hence, the term "small spaces."
In addition to being a locus of personal control, these small spaces are ones in which great things can - and do - happen. I think of them as the sites of personal connection, love, happiness, serenity, and peace, the places where we are both fully alive and completely aware of our connection with the world. They are the places in which we are freely able to share ourselves with other people and invite people to share our love and hope as well as the places we inhabit with people we love the most.
And so: I wish all of you the best in filling your small spaces with love, happiness, and hope. Lord knows we need all of it we can get.
18 February 2007
albuquerque: next 19 exits
As my time in Albuquerque comes to a close, I'm hesitant to write a recap and, instead, offer this list of observations, funny snippets, and moments of finding peace & love in the small spaces.
BEST BREAKFAST
I can't say it was breakfast per se, but Saturday morning Jake (my roommate for the conference) and I found a wonderful little French bakery on 4th Street, where he got an almond croissant and I got a pinwheel fruit pastry... both absolutely delicious, and it was a wonderful surprise to accidentally stumble upon the place.
BEST LUNCH
Annapurna, Saturday, with David, Christian, and Jake. We ordered what seemed like too much, but it turned out to be just the right amount of food. And then David bought us all cardamon cookies, which were divine with our tea. Yummy.
BEST DINNER
Saturday night, with Melinda, Jake, and Christian. We were the only folks left willing to drive to get authentic vegan-friendly New Mexican food at El Patio, and the small group was perfect for intimate conversation, sharing guava wine-flavored margaritas, and marking the relative close of a few days with friends.
BEST PARTY
While the house party in Placitas was pretty darn fun, I have to say that the gathering Thursday night in Nick's room eclipsed it. Plenty of us camped out on the floor, sharing stories and laughing along with each other. I finally got to hear Rebecca's story about Joey Ramone, Rick gave me my Rainbow name (Ultimate Bad), and everyone learned how much I really hate nature.
BEST BANTERING
There's something about East Coast people that causes me to fall in love with them (OK, not in love, but definitely in like...). They have this witty (quick) bantering capacity that it's difficult to find among Midwesterners or - gasp! - Southerners (who often have the linguistic speed of a box turtle). David and I have been bantering for some time now, but this year saw the addition of Christian and Jake to my cadre of conversation partners willing and able to enter the give-and-take of my linguistic dance. I foresee much snarkiness and sarcasm in the future, fellas!
BEST HOTEL ROOM FEATURE
OK, so the Hotel Blue sucked because they were bought out by someone else and are currently going through remodeling, which means there is NO INTERNET ACCESS in the rooms. Nonetheless, the Tempurpedic beds made it all worthwile.
BEST MIX CD(S) RECEIVED
Quite some time ago, I asked Eric if he had Dylan's "Mama, You Been on My Mind" that he could burn for me. Well, he did, and presented me with that and more, including five live Dave Matthews Band tracks he'd found that aren't commercially available. It's nice to have friends who know what I like.
BEST DRIVE
Even though I was nervous about heading out to Ten Thousand Waves in Santa Fe all by myself today (the long drive was worrisome), it turned out to be rather enjoyable. I'm the only one of the group who's left in town, and it was peaceful and pleasant to drive for an hour or so & enjoy my music and the solitude.
BEST BAR EXPERIENCE
Going to the little place on 2nd and Central with Bud, Alan, Christian, Melinda, Nick, Kent, and Jake. Despite the local woman whose voice was the most annoying one I'd ever encountered, we had a good time and I had a rather interesting conversation with two Air Force search-and-rescue team members who, apparently, get paid to drink beer and work out.
BEST VEGAN PAD THAI
From Thai Crystal, which may well not have the best Thai food in Albuquerque, but nonetheless we ate lunch there on Thursday and got dinner there for the house party on Friday. Yummy stuff, and the egg rolls were good, too!
BEST NIGHT TIME SKY
Hands down, Penny's yard in Placitas. Everyone else had intimate knowledge of constellations, so I just kept quiet and remembered what it was like growing up in Texas, where I could see all those stars, in comparison with the city skyline of which I've grown fond.
BEST MOMENT OF RELAXATION
You'd think I'd say it was going to the spa, but you're wrong. It was lying in bed in the room and talking with various people halfway through the night. Nothing better than just shooting the breeze with Friends Who Get It.
BEST NAP
Saturday afternoon, hands down. Even though it wasn't that long (30 minutes?) it was one of those perfect power naps, where you go to sleep almost right away after getting so comfortable and then wake feeling refreshed and reenergized.
BEST DEADHEAD CAUCUS MOMENT
Taking the final picture after the last session. I'd only been to one of their panels - mostly because I was working on or presenting my own work! - but I was still greeted graciously and urged to join in the picture when I walked in as everyone was settling in a pose. Even though I don't hardly self-identify as a Deadhead, I'm glad to be part of a group of people who are so welcoming, warm, and just darn fun!
BEST DEADHEAD PANEL PRESENTATION
Now, I only saw three papers, so I can't say this means anything, but Steven Gimbel's talk was entertaining, relevant to my own tourhead experience, and rather engaging.
BEST NON-DEADHEAD CONFERENCE MOMENT
The woman in the audience at my paper presentation who said, "I think your interpretation is wrong because I don't agree with it."
BEST (POTENTIALLY) EMBARRASSING SITUATION
Realizing the zipper of my jeans was broken AFTER getting back from the Placitas party. [And even if no one noticed that: Christian videotaping me dancing while David was playing... we'll see how embarrassing this is if Steve ever turns the footage into a YouTube flick.]
BEST ACCENT
Rick. Lord knows how crazy he must be drivingpeople women down there in Tennessee.
BEST LAUGHTER-INDUCING MOMENT
Jake had been on the phone with his fiancee, Rose, and afterward the following conversation commenced:
BEST BREAKFAST
I can't say it was breakfast per se, but Saturday morning Jake (my roommate for the conference) and I found a wonderful little French bakery on 4th Street, where he got an almond croissant and I got a pinwheel fruit pastry... both absolutely delicious, and it was a wonderful surprise to accidentally stumble upon the place.
BEST LUNCH
Annapurna, Saturday, with David, Christian, and Jake. We ordered what seemed like too much, but it turned out to be just the right amount of food. And then David bought us all cardamon cookies, which were divine with our tea. Yummy.
BEST DINNER
Saturday night, with Melinda, Jake, and Christian. We were the only folks left willing to drive to get authentic vegan-friendly New Mexican food at El Patio, and the small group was perfect for intimate conversation, sharing guava wine-flavored margaritas, and marking the relative close of a few days with friends.
BEST PARTY
While the house party in Placitas was pretty darn fun, I have to say that the gathering Thursday night in Nick's room eclipsed it. Plenty of us camped out on the floor, sharing stories and laughing along with each other. I finally got to hear Rebecca's story about Joey Ramone, Rick gave me my Rainbow name (Ultimate Bad), and everyone learned how much I really hate nature.
BEST BANTERING
There's something about East Coast people that causes me to fall in love with them (OK, not in love, but definitely in like...). They have this witty (quick) bantering capacity that it's difficult to find among Midwesterners or - gasp! - Southerners (who often have the linguistic speed of a box turtle). David and I have been bantering for some time now, but this year saw the addition of Christian and Jake to my cadre of conversation partners willing and able to enter the give-and-take of my linguistic dance. I foresee much snarkiness and sarcasm in the future, fellas!
BEST HOTEL ROOM FEATURE
OK, so the Hotel Blue sucked because they were bought out by someone else and are currently going through remodeling, which means there is NO INTERNET ACCESS in the rooms. Nonetheless, the Tempurpedic beds made it all worthwile.
BEST MIX CD(S) RECEIVED
Quite some time ago, I asked Eric if he had Dylan's "Mama, You Been on My Mind" that he could burn for me. Well, he did, and presented me with that and more, including five live Dave Matthews Band tracks he'd found that aren't commercially available. It's nice to have friends who know what I like.
BEST DRIVE
Even though I was nervous about heading out to Ten Thousand Waves in Santa Fe all by myself today (the long drive was worrisome), it turned out to be rather enjoyable. I'm the only one of the group who's left in town, and it was peaceful and pleasant to drive for an hour or so & enjoy my music and the solitude.
BEST BAR EXPERIENCE
Going to the little place on 2nd and Central with Bud, Alan, Christian, Melinda, Nick, Kent, and Jake. Despite the local woman whose voice was the most annoying one I'd ever encountered, we had a good time and I had a rather interesting conversation with two Air Force search-and-rescue team members who, apparently, get paid to drink beer and work out.
BEST VEGAN PAD THAI
From Thai Crystal, which may well not have the best Thai food in Albuquerque, but nonetheless we ate lunch there on Thursday and got dinner there for the house party on Friday. Yummy stuff, and the egg rolls were good, too!
BEST NIGHT TIME SKY
Hands down, Penny's yard in Placitas. Everyone else had intimate knowledge of constellations, so I just kept quiet and remembered what it was like growing up in Texas, where I could see all those stars, in comparison with the city skyline of which I've grown fond.
BEST MOMENT OF RELAXATION
You'd think I'd say it was going to the spa, but you're wrong. It was lying in bed in the room and talking with various people halfway through the night. Nothing better than just shooting the breeze with Friends Who Get It.
BEST NAP
Saturday afternoon, hands down. Even though it wasn't that long (30 minutes?) it was one of those perfect power naps, where you go to sleep almost right away after getting so comfortable and then wake feeling refreshed and reenergized.
BEST DEADHEAD CAUCUS MOMENT
Taking the final picture after the last session. I'd only been to one of their panels - mostly because I was working on or presenting my own work! - but I was still greeted graciously and urged to join in the picture when I walked in as everyone was settling in a pose. Even though I don't hardly self-identify as a Deadhead, I'm glad to be part of a group of people who are so welcoming, warm, and just darn fun!
BEST DEADHEAD PANEL PRESENTATION
Now, I only saw three papers, so I can't say this means anything, but Steven Gimbel's talk was entertaining, relevant to my own tourhead experience, and rather engaging.
BEST NON-DEADHEAD CONFERENCE MOMENT
The woman in the audience at my paper presentation who said, "I think your interpretation is wrong because I don't agree with it."
BEST (POTENTIALLY) EMBARRASSING SITUATION
Realizing the zipper of my jeans was broken AFTER getting back from the Placitas party. [And even if no one noticed that: Christian videotaping me dancing while David was playing... we'll see how embarrassing this is if Steve ever turns the footage into a YouTube flick.]
BEST ACCENT
Rick. Lord knows how crazy he must be driving
BEST LAUGHTER-INDUCING MOMENT
Jake had been on the phone with his fiancee, Rose, and afterward the following conversation commenced:
J: Rose says no hanky panky in the room.This shall become a running joke in perpetuity.
A: OK. I promise not to put my right foot in and shake it all about.
J: Um, that's the hokey pokey.
[Insert gales of laughter during which I lose the ability to breathe and nearly lose control of my bladder.]
in my nature to... ?
I've heard the above story in many incarnations over the years - this one comes from Once Upon a Time: A Collection of Buddhist Stories - and always seem to come back to it, particularly when I find myself frustrated at making what seems like the same few mistakes over and over again. Today, though, I've been thinking about this story from a different perspective: one of forgiveness.One morning, after he had finished his meditation, the old man opened his eyes and saw a scorpion floating helplessly in the water. As the scorpion was washed closer to the tree, the old man quickly stretched himself out on one of the long roots that branched out into the river and reached out to rescue the drowning creature. As soon as he touched it, the scorpion stung him. Instinctively the man withdrew his hand.
A minute later, after he had regained his balance, he stretched himself out again on the roots to save the scorpion. This time the scorpion stung him so badly with its poisonous tail that his hand became swollen and bloody and his face contorted with pain.
At that moment, a passerby saw the old man stretched out on the roots struggling with the scorpion and shouted: "Hey, stupid old man, what's wrong with you? Only a fool would risk his life for the sake of an ugly, evil creature. Don't you know you could kill yourself trying to save that ungrateful scorpion?"
The old man turned his head. Looking into the stranger's eyes he said calmly, "My friend, just because it is the scorpion's nature to sting, that does not change my nature to save."
It occurs to me that I need to stop trying to change my nature and start forgiving other people for doing what is in theirs. I don't think this precludes growth and moral ambitiousness; I do think it entails forgiving people for things which are largely out of their control. Does this mean I can't expect people to change if it's within their capacity? Not at all. But I do need to stop holding people responsible for things that are not within their reach and start accepting myself for the type of person who is driven to help people who can't always reciprocate.
16 February 2007
ultimate bad
I've been in Albuquerque for the past 36 hours and am enjoying the weather but REALLY missing Chicago. Intellectually, I acknowledge that the mountains are pretty cool, but I'm a bit underwhelmed and realize I'm a million times more impressed and awed by New York City than Santa Fe. Maybe that makes me a horrible post-modern city bitch, but I don't care.
Mostly I've been slowly catching up sleep and chatting away with the Deadheads. And, oh, one of them came up with a Rainbow name, something I've been unable to do despite five years' worth of Rainbow Gatherings: Ultimate Bad. [And yes, I know this is contradictory to the peaceful message of the Rainbow Family, but what am I other than unconventional?]
Mostly I've been slowly catching up sleep and chatting away with the Deadheads. And, oh, one of them came up with a Rainbow name, something I've been unable to do despite five years' worth of Rainbow Gatherings: Ultimate Bad. [And yes, I know this is contradictory to the peaceful message of the Rainbow Family, but what am I other than unconventional?]
13 February 2007
from noah's ark to destiny
I always liked the story of Noah's Ark and the idea of starting anew by rescuing the things you like and leaving the rest behind. (Zach Braff)Today marks Valentine's Day, which in my estimation is one of the most asinine holidays of the entire year, second only to Sweetest Day. Never mind that it encourages millions of people across the world to spend millions of dollars on consumer goods that are relatively meaningless, but it's also a crass conception of romantic love that sets aside only one day every year to profess our love. Indeed, the ONLY positive memories I have of the holiday are from when I was a child, and my father would come home from work early, bearing chocolates for us kids and roses for my mother. The rest of the year, my father worked 80 hours a week and my parents fought like crazy, but on Valentine's Day that all disappeared. And so my writing turns not to flowery language or expressions of my love, but instead to ruminations on love past, present, and future.
As I celebrate my 33rd Valentine's Day on this planet, it occurs to me to think about love and what it means for us as human beings winding our way through a complex and complicated world. Love comes and goes, and sometimes it even slips through our fingers or passes us by and we don't realize it until much later. Love causes a lot of pain, particularly (as I've noted) when it's unrequited, but also when it's passed its expiration date but people want desperately to hang on. And so: WHAT DOES THIS ALL MEAN?
In talking with a friend about her romantic frustrations, I commented that perhaps life is like an interminable journey; as rational human beings who are self-interested and morally ambitious, the purpose of life is to, well, forge on. This can entail setting goals - both short- and long-term - and pursuing our interests to the best of our ability, but it also includes meeting people along the way (as it would be rather depressing walking forever alone).
And so we're on this journey, walking through life, and there are people who come and go: for many years, we walk with our parents, then follow our own paths which may or may not cross theirs in the future. Perhaps we have children of our own, whose hands we hold until it becomes clear it's time to let go. There are our friends, people who seem to be able to walk forever with us - carrying us, even, from time to time - without growing tired or bitchy or resentful that sometimes we stumble or even need to rest. And then there are our lovers, the most complicated people we will ever meet, both because they make the walk so much more enjoyable and because, often, we have no clue when it's time to leave them behind.
It's true that sometimes it's our job to carry other people on our journey when they are important enough that we don't want to leave them behind and they are in a weak moment. And sometimes other people will carry us when we are in similar dire straits. But what happens when we're stuck at the side of the road, begging someone else to come along when they don't really want to? Or when we're stuck ALWAYS carrying someone else without any reward or reciprocation? Or, even worse, when we're dragging someone behind us which, of course, slows our progress down as much as it damages our integrity? And how do we find the strength to introspect to the point where we can determine where we fall on this continuum? How do we pick and choose the people who make our journeys easier on the whole and those who make it nearly impossible to proceed in any sort of productive fashion?
I don't know, but I do know that such introspection is necessary, and also that Valentine's Day is an entirely appropriate occasion to determine who facilitates and who sabotages our journeys through life. It may take weeks, months, or years after figuring out who deserves to walk alongside you and of whom you need to let go, but today could be the day you begin taking control, couldn't it?
shuffle survey for a snowy day
Since the weather sucks - a snowy topping to the coldest February in more than a decade and a week's worth of subzero windchills - I thought I'd have some fun. Yes, I know. VeganMama having fun? Control yourselves. Enjoy laughing at the range of absurd "answers" in this Shuffle Survey... and reserve comments on how appropriate some of these turned out to be. [Cf. How does my sex life look?]
HOW AM I FEELING TODAY?
Jack Ass Ginger (Poi Dog Pondering)
WILL I GET FAR IN LIFE?
Tragedy (Emmylou Harris)
HOW DO MY FRIENDS SEE ME?
Boy in the Bubble (Detholz)
WHERE WILL I GET MARRIED?
Valley Winter Song (Fountains of Wayne)
WHAT IS MY BEST FRIEND'S THEME SONG?
Least Complicated (Indigo Girls)
WHAT IS THE STORY OF MY LIFE?
Cheated Hearts (Yeah Yeah Yeahs)
WHAT WAS HIGH SCHOOL LIKE?
Blitzkrieg (Metallica)
HOW CAN I GET AHEAD IN LIFE?
Transatlanticism (Death Cab for Cutie)
WHAT IS THE BEST THING ABOUT ME?
Direction (Interpol)
HOW IS TODAY GOING TO BE?
Steady As She Goes (The Raconteurs)
WHAT'S IN STORE FOR THIS WEEKEND?
Mantra (Tool)
WHAT SONG DESCRIBES MY PARENTS?
God Damn Shame (Ike Reilly)
MY GRANDPARENTS?
Hot Soft Light (The Hold Steady)
HOW IS MY LIFE GOING?
New Shoes (Paolo Nutini)
WHAT SONG WILL THEY PLAY AT MY FUNERAL?
A Rush of Blood to the Head (Coldplay)
HOW DOES THE WORLD SEE ME?
Polar Opposites (Modest Mouse)
WILL I HAVE A HAPPY LIFE?
Feeling' All Right (Joe Cocker)
WHAT DO MY FRIENDS REALLY THINK ABOUT ME?
Set Yourself on Fire (Stars)
DO PEOPLE SECRETLY LUST AFTER ME?
Stolen Away at 55th and 3rd (Dave Matthews Band)
HOW CAN I MAKE MYSELF HAPPY?
Drunk Kid Catholic (Bright Eyes)
WHAT SHOULD I DO WITH MY LIFE?
Doves and Civilians (Mighty Mighty Bosstones)
WILL I EVER HAVE CHILDREN?
New York City (watched pots)
WHAT IS SOME GOOD ADVICE FOR ME?
Dorothy at Forty (Cursive)
WHAT IS MY SIGNATURE DANCING SONG?
BYOB (System of a Down)
WHAT DO I THINK MY CURRENT THEME SONG IS?
All the Pretty Girls Go to the City (Spoon)
WHAT DOES EVERYONE ELSE THINK MY CURRENT THEME SONG IS?
Banking on a Myth (Andrew Bird)
WHAT TYPE OF MEN DO I LIKE?
Brothers Unaware (Live)
HOW DOES MY SEX LIFE LOOK?
Me and Jesus the Pimp in a '79 Grenada Last Night (The Coup)
WOULD I MAKE A GOOD CATCH?
Less Than You Think (Wilco)
WILL I HAVE A GOOD LIFE IN GENERAL?
Sad Songs and Waltzes (Willie Nelson)
CAN MY CRUSH EVER REALLY LOVE ME?
Not For All the Love in the World (The Thrills)
CAN MY CRUSH AND I EVER BE MORE THAN FRIENDS?
I Don't Know (Big Audio Dynamite)
WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN TO ME THIS WEEK?
Volcano (Damien Rice)
WHERE WILL I BE A YEAR FROM NOW?
Idiots Rule (Jane's Addiction)
WHAT IS MY BIGGEST WISH?
Feel so Different (Sinead O'Connor)
WHAT IS THE LOVE OF MY LIFE DOING AT THIS VERY MOMENT?
El Ciervo Vulnerado (The Mars Volta)
HOW WILL I DIE?
Congratulations (Blue October)
WHAT WILL HAPPEN AFTER I DIE?
Paper Wings (Rise Against)
HOW AM I FEELING TODAY?
Jack Ass Ginger (Poi Dog Pondering)
WILL I GET FAR IN LIFE?
Tragedy (Emmylou Harris)
HOW DO MY FRIENDS SEE ME?
Boy in the Bubble (Detholz)
WHERE WILL I GET MARRIED?
Valley Winter Song (Fountains of Wayne)
WHAT IS MY BEST FRIEND'S THEME SONG?
Least Complicated (Indigo Girls)
WHAT IS THE STORY OF MY LIFE?
Cheated Hearts (Yeah Yeah Yeahs)
WHAT WAS HIGH SCHOOL LIKE?
Blitzkrieg (Metallica)
HOW CAN I GET AHEAD IN LIFE?
Transatlanticism (Death Cab for Cutie)
WHAT IS THE BEST THING ABOUT ME?
Direction (Interpol)
HOW IS TODAY GOING TO BE?
Steady As She Goes (The Raconteurs)
WHAT'S IN STORE FOR THIS WEEKEND?
Mantra (Tool)
WHAT SONG DESCRIBES MY PARENTS?
God Damn Shame (Ike Reilly)
MY GRANDPARENTS?
Hot Soft Light (The Hold Steady)
HOW IS MY LIFE GOING?
New Shoes (Paolo Nutini)
WHAT SONG WILL THEY PLAY AT MY FUNERAL?
A Rush of Blood to the Head (Coldplay)
HOW DOES THE WORLD SEE ME?
Polar Opposites (Modest Mouse)
WILL I HAVE A HAPPY LIFE?
Feeling' All Right (Joe Cocker)
WHAT DO MY FRIENDS REALLY THINK ABOUT ME?
Set Yourself on Fire (Stars)
DO PEOPLE SECRETLY LUST AFTER ME?
Stolen Away at 55th and 3rd (Dave Matthews Band)
HOW CAN I MAKE MYSELF HAPPY?
Drunk Kid Catholic (Bright Eyes)
WHAT SHOULD I DO WITH MY LIFE?
Doves and Civilians (Mighty Mighty Bosstones)
WILL I EVER HAVE CHILDREN?
New York City (watched pots)
WHAT IS SOME GOOD ADVICE FOR ME?
Dorothy at Forty (Cursive)
WHAT IS MY SIGNATURE DANCING SONG?
BYOB (System of a Down)
WHAT DO I THINK MY CURRENT THEME SONG IS?
All the Pretty Girls Go to the City (Spoon)
WHAT DOES EVERYONE ELSE THINK MY CURRENT THEME SONG IS?
Banking on a Myth (Andrew Bird)
WHAT TYPE OF MEN DO I LIKE?
Brothers Unaware (Live)
HOW DOES MY SEX LIFE LOOK?
Me and Jesus the Pimp in a '79 Grenada Last Night (The Coup)
WOULD I MAKE A GOOD CATCH?
Less Than You Think (Wilco)
WILL I HAVE A GOOD LIFE IN GENERAL?
Sad Songs and Waltzes (Willie Nelson)
CAN MY CRUSH EVER REALLY LOVE ME?
Not For All the Love in the World (The Thrills)
CAN MY CRUSH AND I EVER BE MORE THAN FRIENDS?
I Don't Know (Big Audio Dynamite)
WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN TO ME THIS WEEK?
Volcano (Damien Rice)
WHERE WILL I BE A YEAR FROM NOW?
Idiots Rule (Jane's Addiction)
WHAT IS MY BIGGEST WISH?
Feel so Different (Sinead O'Connor)
WHAT IS THE LOVE OF MY LIFE DOING AT THIS VERY MOMENT?
El Ciervo Vulnerado (The Mars Volta)
HOW WILL I DIE?
Congratulations (Blue October)
WHAT WILL HAPPEN AFTER I DIE?
Paper Wings (Rise Against)
12 February 2007
jesus freaks
I watched Jesus Camp tonight, and I cannot believe what I've seen.
If With God on Our Side: George W. Bush and the Rise of the Religious Right in America wasn't enough to freak you out, and if The End of Suburbia: Oil Depletion and the Collapse of the American Dream didn't have you waiting for the end of life as we know it, this should definitely rattle your chains. I almost threw a chair through the television watching the movie...
Really, there are some people who have such a tenuous grasp on reality that they simply should not be allowed to procreate. And I'm starting to agree with A. that people should have to pass some sort of (non-racist) test to be able to vote.
I want to move to Canada. Or Italy. Or Spain. Anywhere but this country filled with idiots.
If With God on Our Side: George W. Bush and the Rise of the Religious Right in America wasn't enough to freak you out, and if The End of Suburbia: Oil Depletion and the Collapse of the American Dream didn't have you waiting for the end of life as we know it, this should definitely rattle your chains. I almost threw a chair through the television watching the movie...
Really, there are some people who have such a tenuous grasp on reality that they simply should not be allowed to procreate. And I'm starting to agree with A. that people should have to pass some sort of (non-racist) test to be able to vote.
I want to move to Canada. Or Italy. Or Spain. Anywhere but this country filled with idiots.
11 February 2007
ballad of UL (verse two)
So I’ve had quite a bit to say about feeling deep Unrequited Love (UL) toward the Object of Your Affection (OoYA), with the ultimate plea to move on & stop hoping for what probably won’t ever happen. But then a twinge of guilt washed over my conscience and I’ve realized that its perhaps appropriate to explore UL from the perspect of the OoYA. In some sense, yes, this is sleeping with the enemy, but isn’t there some philosophical imperatIve to understand one’s opponent’s position in order to better understand one’s own? If so (and, as a big fan of the idea that social interactions are a sort of conversation, a dance we do with underlying rules and expectations, I think there is), then there can be no (or at least) little harm in better understanding what the hell is going through the mind of the OoYA while s/he seems to be enjoying stringing you along while wrapping you around his/her proverbial little finger.
Enter, then, Exhibit A: The Television Date.
Back in the early months of 1996, I started spending a bit of time with a man I’d met at a philosophy conference the previous summer. He was a frequent presenter at a philosophical salon I attended with some regularity, and came across as a responsible, stable, kind person. I don’t recall the exact trajectory of events, but I remember talking to him on the phone and possibly sending e-mail back and forth for a week or two (this was back when e-mail was still relatively new, not at all as ubiquitous as it is in 2006), but mostly driving together to the philosophy salon. At some point, it became clear that TVBoy (name to be explained later) was particularly interested in going out on a date with me, and despite the fact that his car was something like a hideous gold 1976 Oldsmobile, he worked at Kinkos, and still lived at home with his parents (at age 28), we made plans to do so. I wasn’t all that into him, but I was also coming out of an abusIve first marriage & it seemed like the right time to take a leap.
So the day comes for our first official date, and he called ahead of time, telling me he was going to be a few minutes late because he had something special he wanted to pick up for me. Thinking it was flowers or candy or something, I didn’t think much of it. Imagine my surprise, then, to see him barreling up my sidewalk carrying the box for a 27″ television (in addition to a dozen roses). At the time, all I had was a tiny 10″ black-and-white TV that had been my uncle’s when he was in high school (i.e., in the late 70s), and apparently he felt bad that I loved movies and television so much (I do) and didn’t have a better medium in which to enjoy them. [Never mind that my roommates had a large-screen projection television, so I wasn’t exactly condemned to watching Friends, ER, and Melrose Place in black-and-white on the small-small screen. But I digress.]
I didn’t like TVBoy all that much. In fact, he was kind of a dork. But I’d known him for so long, and we ran in the same circles (meaning we’d have to see each other ALL THE TIME regardless) and he was such a nice guy (I mean, he BOUGHT ME A $500 TELEVISION!!!) that I didn’t really know what to do, other than, well, keep dating him. And so I kept the television (for a while anyhow; eventually I sold it to my next boyfriend, who ended up being world-famous AFTER I broke up with him and introduced him to his wife) and met his parents and hung out at his house watching - I kid you not - old 70s sci-fi movies on LASER DISC, and I was even was the recipient of hundreds of pages of erotic stories and love letters elaborating on how I was the PERFECT PERSON for him. All the while, I was totally and absolutely NOT into him because, as I’ve mentioned, he was a dork, and by that I mean not one of those cool guys whos into dorky things but is equally into cool things, like the heavy metal drummer dudes who also play D&D in their spare time. Ultimately, over time, it became clear (to me) that I was going to have to be honest with TVBoy and break things off. Of course, I did this in the most cowardlyway possible (e-mail) with the lamest excuse (I wanted to focus on me and wasnt ready to be In Love, which - in reality - translated into I want to sleep with the guy-who-will-one-day-be-famous because he’s much cooler than you are and doesn’t drIve a gold grandpa car), which produced the only logical next step: TVBoy turning into a complete emotional wreck who left twenty-two messages a day on my answering machine (remember those things? back before voice mail?) with increasing desperation, pleading his case about how we were SO GOOD TOGETHER and how could I NOT SEE that HE WAS THE ONE?!?!?!
Now, I realize this isn’t the traditional UL situation I mentioned yesterday, but I mention it because its a crystallization of what it’s like to play the role of OoYA. Notice the elements at play: (1) regular contact is being made because youre part of the same social circles, (2) theres a reluctance on someone’s part because of (1), (3) one person is totally disinterested, and (4) the other person CAN’T LET IT GO. And so the question that becomes obvious is: Why was I such a bitch? Or, more globally, why can’t the OoYA ever just STOP stringing you along, flirting with you, and otherwise dropping molecules of crumbs which s/he HAS TO KNOW you are going to magnify into SOMETHING SIGNIFICANT when s/he knows PERFECTLY WELL that s/he couldn’t care less? Good question.
The thing is, I don’t really know WHY I did all those things (or why I’ve done them with an impossibly long list of boys/men in my life), other than (1) I didn’t particularly set out to deliberately hurt someone else’s feelings, (2) since I felt bad that I didn’t like him more than I did, it’s possible I overcompensated, (3) it was fun and felt exciting to have someone SO interested in me that I could completely fuck with them, string them along, and keep them hanging and they would STILL LIKE ME. In short, it was an ego-power boost, and it felt good.
And so let’s go back to the general mindset of the OoYA. The reason that these people string you along, flirt with you, touch you in suggestIve ways, and generally gIve you little signals that gIve you the slight impression that they are interested in you is BECAUSE THEY KNOW you will conflate that into THIS IS THE PERSON FOR ME!!! and that makes them feel really, really loved and important. [Those OoYA who refuse to engage in these tactics are probably the ones you SHOULD end up with, because they are KIND and NOT MANIPULATIVE so it is rather ironic that the ones who are the asshats (because they are fucking with you) are the ones who make you want them more, whereas the non-asshats (because they are not fucking with you) become immediately unimportant and unappealing.]
So what’s a gal/guy to do, given this insight into the OoYAs behavior and mindset? I see only two options: (1) sit his/her ass down and set things straight (which will make you feel like a complete idiot since s/he will likely play dumb and make you believe that you have MADE THIS ALL UP IN YOUR HEAD when s/he knows damn well s/he’s been purposely stringing you along) or (2) COME TO YOUR SENSES and acknowledge you’re being toyed with, and JUST MOVE ON.
In essence: the OoYA isn’t a normal person. S/he gives off signals s/he knows are interpreted as ROMANTIC LONGING in any other rational and sane context for the sole purpose of MAKING YOU WANT THEM with no intent of following through with anything, unless it’s a drunken kiss in 1998 that No One Ever Talked About Again.
And so my advice remains the same, since I know the evil that exists in the mind of the OoYA. GET OVER IT.
Enter, then, Exhibit A: The Television Date.
Back in the early months of 1996, I started spending a bit of time with a man I’d met at a philosophy conference the previous summer. He was a frequent presenter at a philosophical salon I attended with some regularity, and came across as a responsible, stable, kind person. I don’t recall the exact trajectory of events, but I remember talking to him on the phone and possibly sending e-mail back and forth for a week or two (this was back when e-mail was still relatively new, not at all as ubiquitous as it is in 2006), but mostly driving together to the philosophy salon. At some point, it became clear that TVBoy (name to be explained later) was particularly interested in going out on a date with me, and despite the fact that his car was something like a hideous gold 1976 Oldsmobile, he worked at Kinkos, and still lived at home with his parents (at age 28), we made plans to do so. I wasn’t all that into him, but I was also coming out of an abusIve first marriage & it seemed like the right time to take a leap.
So the day comes for our first official date, and he called ahead of time, telling me he was going to be a few minutes late because he had something special he wanted to pick up for me. Thinking it was flowers or candy or something, I didn’t think much of it. Imagine my surprise, then, to see him barreling up my sidewalk carrying the box for a 27″ television (in addition to a dozen roses). At the time, all I had was a tiny 10″ black-and-white TV that had been my uncle’s when he was in high school (i.e., in the late 70s), and apparently he felt bad that I loved movies and television so much (I do) and didn’t have a better medium in which to enjoy them. [Never mind that my roommates had a large-screen projection television, so I wasn’t exactly condemned to watching Friends, ER, and Melrose Place in black-and-white on the small-small screen. But I digress.]
I didn’t like TVBoy all that much. In fact, he was kind of a dork. But I’d known him for so long, and we ran in the same circles (meaning we’d have to see each other ALL THE TIME regardless) and he was such a nice guy (I mean, he BOUGHT ME A $500 TELEVISION!!!) that I didn’t really know what to do, other than, well, keep dating him. And so I kept the television (for a while anyhow; eventually I sold it to my next boyfriend, who ended up being world-famous AFTER I broke up with him and introduced him to his wife) and met his parents and hung out at his house watching - I kid you not - old 70s sci-fi movies on LASER DISC, and I was even was the recipient of hundreds of pages of erotic stories and love letters elaborating on how I was the PERFECT PERSON for him. All the while, I was totally and absolutely NOT into him because, as I’ve mentioned, he was a dork, and by that I mean not one of those cool guys whos into dorky things but is equally into cool things, like the heavy metal drummer dudes who also play D&D in their spare time. Ultimately, over time, it became clear (to me) that I was going to have to be honest with TVBoy and break things off. Of course, I did this in the most cowardlyway possible (e-mail) with the lamest excuse (I wanted to focus on me and wasnt ready to be In Love, which - in reality - translated into I want to sleep with the guy-who-will-one-day-be-famous because he’s much cooler than you are and doesn’t drIve a gold grandpa car), which produced the only logical next step: TVBoy turning into a complete emotional wreck who left twenty-two messages a day on my answering machine (remember those things? back before voice mail?) with increasing desperation, pleading his case about how we were SO GOOD TOGETHER and how could I NOT SEE that HE WAS THE ONE?!?!?!
Now, I realize this isn’t the traditional UL situation I mentioned yesterday, but I mention it because its a crystallization of what it’s like to play the role of OoYA. Notice the elements at play: (1) regular contact is being made because youre part of the same social circles, (2) theres a reluctance on someone’s part because of (1), (3) one person is totally disinterested, and (4) the other person CAN’T LET IT GO. And so the question that becomes obvious is: Why was I such a bitch? Or, more globally, why can’t the OoYA ever just STOP stringing you along, flirting with you, and otherwise dropping molecules of crumbs which s/he HAS TO KNOW you are going to magnify into SOMETHING SIGNIFICANT when s/he knows PERFECTLY WELL that s/he couldn’t care less? Good question.
The thing is, I don’t really know WHY I did all those things (or why I’ve done them with an impossibly long list of boys/men in my life), other than (1) I didn’t particularly set out to deliberately hurt someone else’s feelings, (2) since I felt bad that I didn’t like him more than I did, it’s possible I overcompensated, (3) it was fun and felt exciting to have someone SO interested in me that I could completely fuck with them, string them along, and keep them hanging and they would STILL LIKE ME. In short, it was an ego-power boost, and it felt good.
And so let’s go back to the general mindset of the OoYA. The reason that these people string you along, flirt with you, touch you in suggestIve ways, and generally gIve you little signals that gIve you the slight impression that they are interested in you is BECAUSE THEY KNOW you will conflate that into THIS IS THE PERSON FOR ME!!! and that makes them feel really, really loved and important. [Those OoYA who refuse to engage in these tactics are probably the ones you SHOULD end up with, because they are KIND and NOT MANIPULATIVE so it is rather ironic that the ones who are the asshats (because they are fucking with you) are the ones who make you want them more, whereas the non-asshats (because they are not fucking with you) become immediately unimportant and unappealing.]
So what’s a gal/guy to do, given this insight into the OoYAs behavior and mindset? I see only two options: (1) sit his/her ass down and set things straight (which will make you feel like a complete idiot since s/he will likely play dumb and make you believe that you have MADE THIS ALL UP IN YOUR HEAD when s/he knows damn well s/he’s been purposely stringing you along) or (2) COME TO YOUR SENSES and acknowledge you’re being toyed with, and JUST MOVE ON.
In essence: the OoYA isn’t a normal person. S/he gives off signals s/he knows are interpreted as ROMANTIC LONGING in any other rational and sane context for the sole purpose of MAKING YOU WANT THEM with no intent of following through with anything, unless it’s a drunken kiss in 1998 that No One Ever Talked About Again.
And so my advice remains the same, since I know the evil that exists in the mind of the OoYA. GET OVER IT.
musical recollections
[Repost from an Oct. 2006 MOG...]It was 1990. I was 16, and it was my freshman year of college. I'd grown up in a small town in Texas and my musical knowlege was limited to what came through on radio stations from San Antonio and talking with my cousin, who lived in Austin and was, therefore, presumably cooler. I'd had a subscription to Rolling Stone since 1984, for God only knows what reason, since when I first signed up, I was in 4H, wore Wrangler jeans and workboots, raised chickens, and listened to George Strait and Randy Travis.
In 1986, I heard my first REM song, but only because the captain of the soccer team liked them and I wanted to date him (I did). I also happened upon the Sex Pistols, the Replacements, Public Image Ltd., the Clash, Led Zeppelin, Metallica, and other bands boys generally liked, since that was my incentive to listen to anything new. Hey, what can I say? I was a hormonally influenced teen-ager with lots of time on her hands. Flirting with the boys and memorizing their favorite songs led me to grow musically, but only slightly, and so when I left for college I couldn't have even told you what a college music station was or what kind of music was played on one.
Enter my roommate: a transfer student from Knox College, who chain-smoked unfiltered Camels and spent the wee hours of the morning listening to the Pixies, Hüsker Dü, The Cure, and Throwing Muses. No big surprise there, but she did also have a softer side to her, and so I remember her mostly as the person who not only didn't laugh the first time I smoked pot but also the one who introduced me to Shelleyan Orphan, a British folk-pop duo (Caroline Crawley and Jemaur Tayle) best known for Century Flower (1989). We'd listened to the album whenever we studied, which was a lot considering how much time we spent off trying to (a) get fake IDs then (b) use them.
Later, after we'd both dropped out of college (me, to get married; her, for rehab), I picked up Helleborne (1987) - featuring Kate Bush's brother and her drummer - and Humroot (1992). The band broke up after Humroot, though, and I largely forgot about them until last year, when I found my old CDs going through a box and learned Crawley had formed her own band - Babacar - featuring former Cure members Boris Williams (Crawley's husband), Roberto Soave, and Porl Thompson. I recently put in an order for their CD, and am anxiously awaiting its arrival.
If you'd like to take a listen, three "audio samples" of Shelleyan Orphan songs are available online:
- Southern Bess (Helleborne, 1987)
- Burst (Century Flower, 1989)
- Dead Cat (Humroot, 1992)
- Shatter (Century Flower, 1989)
- Southern Bess (ibid)
10 February 2007
loathing in small places
Last night at The Hideout (for Thomas Dunning's Hoot Night) was a fabulous time, except for the people. And by "the people" I don't mean every single person; rather, I mean the, oh, half-dozen (mostly tall) Lincoln Park Trixie-bitch types who generally make it their purpose in life to be assholes to everyone who doesn't conform with their notion of time, space, and superficial physical appearance.Everything was fine. We made our way up to the front and planted ourselves in a good spot, without bumping into anyone, with a little breathing room. And then the Trixies began their invasion, knocking me in the head or arm with their trendy boho bags (who the hell brings a boho bag to The Hideout?), nearly knocking my drink out of my hands, stepping on toes, etc. Before long, Chad (my companion for the evening) moved a bit away from their shenanigans, but I pretty much stayed put. And I did this not because I WANTED to fuck with these women (I wanted to become Circe and turn them all into pigs...) but because they had - at a BARE minimum - four feet of room in front of them into which they could move.
We were at an angry standstill (i.e., me annoyed while ignoring their invasion of my personal space) until TheBlondeTrixieBitch bent over to talk to a friend who was sitting down and kept shoving her ass into my pelvic region. Even this was okay, since I harbored fantasies of freaking her out and saying something like, "Ooh, that's my favorite position" or "Hallelujah! my lesbian fantasies are coming true to tonight" while grabbing her ass and thrusting. [Which I would've done, probably, if K. or V. had been around, just because my gals would've had my back...] And then, after that, she kept dancing and purposely backing up into me, grinding her ass against me, etc. By this point, it was a matter of principle: she had ample space in front of her; I wasn't advancing forward at all; and all I was trying to do was WATCH THE DAMN SHOW. And so:
- ME (after politely tapping TBO's shoulder): Will you please stop bumping into me?
- TBTB: Like you can't just move.
- ME: Well, there's no place for me to go.
- TBTB: Back there (and she points to a space where, indeed, I COULD go but then I wouldn't be able to see anything because they are all so fucking tall and that would defeat the purpose of BEING IN THE FRONT).
- ME: Whatever. (I just wanted to hear the music.)
- ME: I'm going to spill my drink on you if you keep it up.
- TBTB: Whatever.
- ME: If you're looking for me to BEAT THE FUCKING SHIT OUT OF YOU RIGHT NOW YOU'RE DOING A REALLY GOOD JOB.
I felt bad afterward, since I didn't mean to turn into The Psycho Woman With Blue Hair, but in the end it was a matter of principle. I just hope I don't see her again in those parts or, if I do, that she leaves me the hell alone, because otherwise I really will just have to put aside my pacifist aspirations and kick her ass.
*Anyone else who grew up in Chicagoland in the 70s/80s remember the public service program in the schools where we learned the difference between Warm Fuzzies and Cold Prickleys? I know this cannot be a figment of my imagination, but I also am unable to find corroboration that a suspiciously happy woman with hippie hair trolled the public schools in 1978 to spread her rather dichotomous take on interpersonal relations...
09 February 2007
propensity for romantic illusions
My friend V. sent me an e-mail complaining about the media coverage of the Lisa Marie Nowak situation. For those of you living under rocks, this is the NASA astronaut who drove 900 miles (while wearing a special astronaut diaper, to avoid bathroom breaks) to confront a romantic rival armed with a compressed-air pistol, a steel mallet, a knife, latex gloves and garbage bags. Anyhow, among other rather thoughtful things, V. said,
The best quote I heard this morning was that NASA would be reviewing its mental evaluation standards, in light of the fact that this woman "clearly is deeply insecure, with a propensity for romantic illusions." Hah! I mean, yeah, we don't all try to kill our romantic rivals, but puhleese, "romantic illusions?" We're ALL guilty of that at one time or another.I've been thinking about what V. had to say, and I have to say I wholeheartedly agree! Particularly the part about our romantic illusions... which leads me to think about recent events that have nothing to do with driving 900 miles in a diaper but can, nonetheless, be filed under Nos. 176-242 of the Lessons My Friends and I Are (Unsuccessfully) Learning about Unrequited Love.
When you're a kid, love seems pretty easy: Either the affection is mutual or it's one-sided. If it's the latter, the inamorata/inamorato rebuffs the smitten one, who in turn goes off to find someone else (with, s/he hopes, more success); the former, then the lovely couple rides off into the sunset (preferably in a chariot or on a white horse) to live happily ever after. Perhaps there are some glitches on the way - misunderstandings, missed connections, or plain old mishaps - but, for the most part, this is the dichotomy popular culture shoves down our collective throats at every opportunity possible. And perhaps in Disney movies and during the World War II panic - get married! have babies! all of the men are GOING TO DIE!!! - this (kind of) holds true. But, in the real world (aka WHERE WE FUCKING LIVE) things are a bit more complicated, and Unrequited Love enters the room.
Now, we've all had crushes on people who either don't notice us (e.g., the star of the soccer team) or don't even know we exist (um, e.g., Dave Matthews). Those situations suck, because no matter how many times you invite yourself over to the third-string soccer player's house in an attempt to get close to someone who gets to see the soccer guy naked in the locker room (or how many times you attempt to flirt with the guy who wipes the ass of the guy who does the lights for the Dave Matthews Band), there seems to be nothing that launches you into orbit in a trajectory that will Get You In The Door. Still, that's not quite what we're talking about when (apologies to Raymond Carver) we talk about (Unrequited) Love (UL).
No, what I mean by UL are those situations you find yourself in when the Object of Your Affection (OoYA) is someone whom you see on a regular basis - the guy for whom you're just 'one of the guys' or the gal at the office you're having drinks with every Friday night - and, perhaps because of the close proximity, for whom you've fallen head over heels. Under any other social circumstances, you'd be able to confess your attraction, find out whether it's reciprocated, and act accordingly. But when you've fallen into UL, it's not that simple. Since you're smitten with A FRIEND, this means two things:
- You cannot, under any circumstances, reveal your attraction, because that will surely end your friendship with the OoYA; and
- You cannot, under any circumstances, stop hanging out with the OoYA, because (a) you will lose contact with the LOVE OF YOUR LIFE! and (b) disappearing will surely indicate to the OoYA that you are interested in him/her, which will bring you back to (1).
Thus enters the UL paradox: you're damned to UL-loneliness if you do and you're damned if you don't. And so the only thing left to do becomes suffering in silence, privately hoping that the OoYA will - in a moment of clarity, accompanied by a Lisa Loeb soundtrack and/or Peter Gabriel singing In Your Eyes - suddenly perceive your love and decide that - WOW! IMAGINE THAT! - they're in love with you, too. The thing is that this almost NEVER happens. Instead, what inevitably occurs is the following chain of events:
- Fed up with being ignored as a potential love interest by the OoYA, you reveal your love in a heartfelt yet drunken voice mail or MySpace message or midnight phone call or e-mail, which leads to
- The OoYA telling you that (a) they don't want to be in a relationship and/or (b) they don't want to ruin a friendship and/or (c) you're not really his/her type and/or (d) s/he doesn't really think of you in THAT WAY and/or (e) s/he DOES think of you that way but is scared/doesn't want to ruin your life/thinks you deserve better/isn't a good partner.
Of course, s/he may say every single one of these things to you, but what happens? Whether it's articulated or not, you latch onto 2(e) and come away thinking that this person is STILL perfect for you, if only given the right set of circumstances. And who better to provide that set of circumstances but you, the provider of UL, the one with the "propensity for romantic illusions," the one who JUST CAN'T LIVE ANOTHER MOMENT UNTIL THE OoYA REALIZES YOU ARE THE ONE FOR HIM/HER!!!!!
[At this point, it's OK for you to be thinking I have experience with UL. In fact, I LIVE on the Island of UL, along with several friends, with whom I work to build life rafts and paddle off this godforsaken island to, oh, the Land of Real Love. But I rant/digress...]
So, to catch up: you've confessed your UL (which you hope soon becomes just L, with no U-ness) and the OoYA responds (at best) with half-hearted ambivalent excuses which s/he provides (probably) just to not break your heart completely but, instead, you - with your romantic illusion problem - take to mean there is A Chance After All, and you run with it. And where does this leave you? In one word: FUCKED. And do you know why? Because if a romantic relationship ever WERE to happen, it would have happened in one fell swoop when you blurted out how you'd fallen in love despite all precautions and/or warning signs and the OoYA confessed that s/he, too, was in love with you too (and you could finally start believing that John Hughes was onto something with those 80s movies). But if that doesn't happen, any further pining or plotting or hoping or wishing or wondering or wanting is STUPID.
Now, myself having been in such a situation, I know how easy it is to create an alternate reality. You know what I mean: even though s/he SAYS s/he isn't interested, s/he continually touches you and flirts with you when you go out together, and s/he calls you every night to talk for half an hour, and s/he invites you out for dinner or drinks at least once a week, and s/he even sets aside Valentine's Day (weeks in advance!) to SEE A CONCERT with you. And so, despite all verbal assurances to the contrary, you remain ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN that there is STILL A CHANCE that the OoYA will COME TO HIS/HER SENSES at some point in the very, very near future, because WHY ELSE would s/he be flirting with, calling, faux-dating, and/or Valentine-ing you?!?!?
I am here to tell you: if you believe this, you are wrong. And not only wrong, but delusional. Perhaps not to the point where you will kidnap and abduct any perceived competition for the OoYA, but nonetheless completely fooling yourself to the point of, well, proving you, indeed, possess a "propensity for romantic illusions." And so I offer advice which I wish I had the good sense to follow myself: get over it.
The truth is, UL doesn't do anyone any good. Its bearer finds nothing but frustration around every corner, and its object is placed in a situation where - at best - there's an 800-lb. elephant in the living room. The other person does those things because they (1) enjoy fucking with you or (2) don't care that they're fucking with you or (3) are asshats you wouldn't want to be involved with anyhow because they are fucking with you. Either things will click or they won't, but it's pointless to continue hoping to win at a fool's game.
And so I make a heartfelt plea to all the bearers of UL: Cancel those Valentine's plans and get off the Island of UL before you run out of food! [And, um, yeah... I'll be on the raft behind you...]
[At this point, it's OK for you to be thinking I have experience with UL. In fact, I LIVE on the Island of UL, along with several friends, with whom I work to build life rafts and paddle off this godforsaken island to, oh, the Land of Real Love. But I rant/digress...]
So, to catch up: you've confessed your UL (which you hope soon becomes just L, with no U-ness) and the OoYA responds (at best) with half-hearted ambivalent excuses which s/he provides (probably) just to not break your heart completely but, instead, you - with your romantic illusion problem - take to mean there is A Chance After All, and you run with it. And where does this leave you? In one word: FUCKED. And do you know why? Because if a romantic relationship ever WERE to happen, it would have happened in one fell swoop when you blurted out how you'd fallen in love despite all precautions and/or warning signs and the OoYA confessed that s/he, too, was in love with you too (and you could finally start believing that John Hughes was onto something with those 80s movies). But if that doesn't happen, any further pining or plotting or hoping or wishing or wondering or wanting is STUPID.
Now, myself having been in such a situation, I know how easy it is to create an alternate reality. You know what I mean: even though s/he SAYS s/he isn't interested, s/he continually touches you and flirts with you when you go out together, and s/he calls you every night to talk for half an hour, and s/he invites you out for dinner or drinks at least once a week, and s/he even sets aside Valentine's Day (weeks in advance!) to SEE A CONCERT with you. And so, despite all verbal assurances to the contrary, you remain ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN that there is STILL A CHANCE that the OoYA will COME TO HIS/HER SENSES at some point in the very, very near future, because WHY ELSE would s/he be flirting with, calling, faux-dating, and/or Valentine-ing you?!?!?
I am here to tell you: if you believe this, you are wrong. And not only wrong, but delusional. Perhaps not to the point where you will kidnap and abduct any perceived competition for the OoYA, but nonetheless completely fooling yourself to the point of, well, proving you, indeed, possess a "propensity for romantic illusions." And so I offer advice which I wish I had the good sense to follow myself: get over it.
The truth is, UL doesn't do anyone any good. Its bearer finds nothing but frustration around every corner, and its object is placed in a situation where - at best - there's an 800-lb. elephant in the living room. The other person does those things because they (1) enjoy fucking with you or (2) don't care that they're fucking with you or (3) are asshats you wouldn't want to be involved with anyhow because they are fucking with you. Either things will click or they won't, but it's pointless to continue hoping to win at a fool's game.
And so I make a heartfelt plea to all the bearers of UL: Cancel those Valentine's plans and get off the Island of UL before you run out of food! [And, um, yeah... I'll be on the raft behind you...]
08 February 2007
new shoes for the b-boy
I don't care that they are "girls' shoes" and I don't care that they are pink and I don't care that they will potentially and unnecessarily stereotype him as the kind of boy who wears pink girls' shoes. The Vans I bought for B today are kick-ass, and it's cool as shit to see him running around the house in them. I feel almost as happy as I did when, the other day, W started a conversation by saying, "I've decided what tattoo I want to get when I'm old enough..."
Hallelujah! Something's rubbing off on these kiddos of mine.
07 February 2007
memories of east texas
While New Braunfels can hardly be considered East Texas, listening to Michelle Shocked's Memories of East Texas and Anchorage (Short Sharp Shocked, 1989) for the first time in more than a decade brought tears to my eyes this afternoon. It seems as though as hard as I try to leave Texas behind, it just keeps cropping up. The lyrics from Memories of East Texas
...looking back and asking myself, "What the hell'd you let them break your spirit for?" You know, their lives ran in circles so small, Ah, they thought they'd seen it all. And they could not make a place for a girl who'd seen the ocean...set the stage, and so when Anchorage came around and gave me
...hey girl, what's it like to be in New York? New York City - imagine that! Tell me, what's it like to be a skateboard punk rocker...I nearly fell to pieces. Maybe it's just a residual affect of my experience remembering high school, but there's a lot of built-up something that just seeps out when
thinking back on the roads I'd come, thinking I had not come that farand it all swirls around in my head. I mean, I'm not a skateboard punk rocker who lives in New York City, but I might as well be, given what I once was and where I grew up. And maybe it's a midlife crisis or maybe it's growing pains, but I can't help but wonder why I DID let so many people break my spirit and why it's taken me so long to realize leaving Texas wasn't as simple or clean-cut as riding away in the back seat of my grandfather's Oldsmobile as he drove north to Chicago on a warm day in June almost seventeen years ago.
06 February 2007
grandma's got a tattoo
Quite frequently, I'm asked how I'll feel about my tattoos when I'm in my 80s and in a nursing home (no one assumes I'll be 85 and not living in a home, which I find odd, but I digress...). I've been thinking about this more since getting my latest tattoo, which is on my left wrist and therefore more visible on a daily basis than my other five. I have plans to get at least three more tattoos, including a sleeve, one on my lower back, and one on the back of my neck, despite realizing that this marks me (literally) as a certain type of person and, more specifically, as a certain type of woman.I'm okay with that. I'm okay growing old as a "certain type of woman." I really don't think I'll mind. And the fact that people ask me how I'll feel as a tattooed grandmother (with the implication: "THEN you'll be sorry") is simply evidence that our society remains remarkably narrow-minded, not that my path is the wrong one.
The poem When I Am Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple has always appealed to me, even though it's targeted at my mother's generation: Baby Boomers struggling with ageism and forging their own identities in a markedly different way than their own mothers might have. It isn't so much the words of the poem that resonate, but more its ethos and pathos: the idea that, as "old women" we won't have to worry about what other people think, that we can be secure in our life experiences and feel strong for who we are instead of what we look like or the clothes we wear or not "swear[ing] in the street." Beyond that, though (and this could be my own fantasies talking), I envision myself as an old woman who transcends traditional notions of what it means to be "old."
I look at my hip mama friends, some of whom are much older than I am, and somehow their age is hardly what defines them; they are wiser, and funnier, and hipper, and generally no worse for the wear, women I have no problem following behind in the aging game. And I think of my grandmother, who was delightfully plump with the smooth wrinkles on her face and the smell of her perfume, and I don't see any disconnect between the two - these hip mamas and my Italian grandmother who grew up in the Depression and told stories of how she wished she had been born a few decades later. There is no clear point at which the trajectory changes in any significant way, when someone stops being young and starts being old; it's a continuum that can't deny the dynamic yet fluid nature of being and becoming.
I don't want to be the sixty-year-old woman who clearly can't come to terms with aging and still wears the clothing and marks of a forty-year-old, but there has to be a way to reconcile my past with my future and come to a place where I'm just an old woman who happens to have tattoos and lots of great stories, surrounded by people who love me and don't care about the degree of ink I've got patchworked across my skin.
Just as I am now a hip mama, at one point I'll be a hip grandma, and I don't see how that entails any sense of regret or shame at whatever level of hipness I settle into as a not-so-young adult coming into her own place in the world. Just as I look back at my 20s as a decade of foolish mistakes without which I wouldn't be who I am, I suspect I'll look at my 30s, 40s, 50s, etc., as decades filled with more growth than missteps, more love than pain, more joy than sorrow, and culminating in the formation of my identity as a whole. And besides: I've got a whole bevy of hip mamas coming along for the ride. If nothing else, we'll take over a nursing home of our own, staff it with young tattooed Roller Derby stars, and hoot and holler our way into demented oblivion.
The poem When I Am Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple has always appealed to me, even though it's targeted at my mother's generation: Baby Boomers struggling with ageism and forging their own identities in a markedly different way than their own mothers might have. It isn't so much the words of the poem that resonate, but more its ethos and pathos: the idea that, as "old women" we won't have to worry about what other people think, that we can be secure in our life experiences and feel strong for who we are instead of what we look like or the clothes we wear or not "swear[ing] in the street." Beyond that, though (and this could be my own fantasies talking), I envision myself as an old woman who transcends traditional notions of what it means to be "old."
I look at my hip mama friends, some of whom are much older than I am, and somehow their age is hardly what defines them; they are wiser, and funnier, and hipper, and generally no worse for the wear, women I have no problem following behind in the aging game. And I think of my grandmother, who was delightfully plump with the smooth wrinkles on her face and the smell of her perfume, and I don't see any disconnect between the two - these hip mamas and my Italian grandmother who grew up in the Depression and told stories of how she wished she had been born a few decades later. There is no clear point at which the trajectory changes in any significant way, when someone stops being young and starts being old; it's a continuum that can't deny the dynamic yet fluid nature of being and becoming.
I don't want to be the sixty-year-old woman who clearly can't come to terms with aging and still wears the clothing and marks of a forty-year-old, but there has to be a way to reconcile my past with my future and come to a place where I'm just an old woman who happens to have tattoos and lots of great stories, surrounded by people who love me and don't care about the degree of ink I've got patchworked across my skin.
Just as I am now a hip mama, at one point I'll be a hip grandma, and I don't see how that entails any sense of regret or shame at whatever level of hipness I settle into as a not-so-young adult coming into her own place in the world. Just as I look back at my 20s as a decade of foolish mistakes without which I wouldn't be who I am, I suspect I'll look at my 30s, 40s, 50s, etc., as decades filled with more growth than missteps, more love than pain, more joy than sorrow, and culminating in the formation of my identity as a whole. And besides: I've got a whole bevy of hip mamas coming along for the ride. If nothing else, we'll take over a nursing home of our own, staff it with young tattooed Roller Derby stars, and hoot and holler our way into demented oblivion.
voice mail messages from the kiddo
Here's what life is like when you're the mama of child whose head is in the clouds more often than not...
Voice Mail No. 1 (4:20pm)
Hi Mom. What time are you getting home? ‘Cause Pop’s getting home around 5:30, so if you’re getting here around 5, then you’ll get here before 6… I mean, you’ll get here before Pop, which I want to happen, and… [lots of ssssshhhh sounds…] ooh, cool, static… o-kay. I guess that’s it. Bye. I mean it. Bye! I mean it! Bye! Ok, now you’re getting me angry. Bye.
Voice Mail No. 2 (5:30pm)
Hello. Um, hi Mom. Hi. Um… do you know which, what three goddesses control mortal destiny and who the daughters of Poseidon are? If you do, could you please call back? Oh yeah, and what do you call nymphs of the woods? Okay. Buh-bye. I said bye. Meanwhile, I’ll try to figure it out. It’s part of my homework and I have no idea what it is and I have no resource to find out what it is. Ooh, my notes. This looks like an N. Nina. Ooh, Nina’s one of my friends. Um… okay. What’s that word? Bye. I think that’s the word. Okay. Bye.
Voice Mail No. 1 (4:20pm)
Hi Mom. What time are you getting home? ‘Cause Pop’s getting home around 5:30, so if you’re getting here around 5, then you’ll get here before 6… I mean, you’ll get here before Pop, which I want to happen, and… [lots of ssssshhhh sounds…] ooh, cool, static… o-kay. I guess that’s it. Bye. I mean it. Bye! I mean it! Bye! Ok, now you’re getting me angry. Bye.
Voice Mail No. 2 (5:30pm)
Hello. Um, hi Mom. Hi. Um… do you know which, what three goddesses control mortal destiny and who the daughters of Poseidon are? If you do, could you please call back? Oh yeah, and what do you call nymphs of the woods? Okay. Buh-bye. I said bye. Meanwhile, I’ll try to figure it out. It’s part of my homework and I have no idea what it is and I have no resource to find out what it is. Ooh, my notes. This looks like an N. Nina. Ooh, Nina’s one of my friends. Um… okay. What’s that word? Bye. I think that’s the word. Okay. Bye.
05 February 2007
ten songs i'm really digging...
It's unlikely Music Experts would deem any of these tracks Particularly Blogworthy, but I like 'em and that's all that matters at 1:30am when I'm avoiding grading papers.
- Weather Reports (Bright Eyes)
- Mr. Miller's Opus (Endless Mike and the Beagle Club)
- Fade Together (Franz Ferdinand)
- Black Metal Valentine (Califone)
- My City (The Thin Man)
- Mockingbird (Palliard)
- Plan of the Man (The M's)
- Please Come Back (Catfish Haven)
- Break My Spine (The Saps)
- A Speculative Fiction (Propagandhi)
04 February 2007
path to non-enlightenment
Ugh. I'm tired of putting energy into people who don't reciprocate (and receiving attention from people I wish would disappear).
The 2007 SW/TX PCA/ACA conference starts in TEN DAYS. My paper - "Staring into the Yellow Eyes of Speciesism Without Blinking: The Social Construction of Oppressive Human-Animal Relations in Where the Wild Things Are" - is yet unwritten, and I have decided to ignore everyone until it's done (or at least started).
Of course, I still have my mini-housewarming Saturday, plans to see Midlake at Schuba's on Valentine's Day, and tickets for Hoot Night at The Hideout this Friday... so perhaps my telling everyone else to fuck off is, in practice, what normal people do when they are Responsible Adults with a Social Life.
[In other news, plans are set for my Buddha Treat at Ten Thousand Waves. It will be my first time with a male massage therapist, and I'm a bit nervous. For those of you who remember my experience last year, though, perhaps it's best for a man to be the one to take me on my journey to the end of the Earth and back.]
The 2007 SW/TX PCA/ACA conference starts in TEN DAYS. My paper - "Staring into the Yellow Eyes of Speciesism Without Blinking: The Social Construction of Oppressive Human-Animal Relations in Where the Wild Things Are" - is yet unwritten, and I have decided to ignore everyone until it's done (or at least started).
Of course, I still have my mini-housewarming Saturday, plans to see Midlake at Schuba's on Valentine's Day, and tickets for Hoot Night at The Hideout this Friday... so perhaps my telling everyone else to fuck off is, in practice, what normal people do when they are Responsible Adults with a Social Life.
[In other news, plans are set for my Buddha Treat at Ten Thousand Waves. It will be my first time with a male massage therapist, and I'm a bit nervous. For those of you who remember my experience last year, though, perhaps it's best for a man to be the one to take me on my journey to the end of the Earth and back.]
02 February 2007
my date with chuck?
Note to self: Win $1,100 on Jeopardy, buy a snazzy video camera, stalk Chuck Klosterman until he takes me on a date, then make like Brian Herzlinger and become semi-famous as a cult crit groupie.
PS - My crush on Slavoj Žižek has largely disintegrated, though I'm still smitten with the beard.
PPS - If I'm crazy enough to get married again, I want I Knew the Bride (When She Used to Rock'n'Roll) to be The Song.
PS - My crush on Slavoj Žižek has largely disintegrated, though I'm still smitten with the beard.
PPS - If I'm crazy enough to get married again, I want I Knew the Bride (When She Used to Rock'n'Roll) to be The Song.
the bar with mr. big
The universe is out of sorts when I spend my evening consoling men in ways that don't at least garner a PG-13 rating. The highlights:
Really: I'm just giddy because I got a beaded curtain of sorts off of Freecycle and it features - I'm not kidding - walnut shells among its beads. It's an instant cat toy AND conversation piece!
- Taking a poll of bar clientele within earshot as to whether Drew Barrymore is as hot as contemporary culture would make you believe (she's absolutely not);
- Pondering the girl-next-door hotness of Kirsten Dunst (despite her media oversaturation);
- Lamenting the pointlessness of trying to be Watts (yes, I'm still stuck on the impossibilities of Some Kind of Wonderful) despite Mr. Big's Friend assuring me that, once men hit their 30s, Watts becomes damned attractive (um, yeah, whatever);
- Repeatedly referencing High Fidelity, as if it were the Bible of our generation (which OF COURSE it's not...);
- Listening to Mr. Big wonder if he should get back together with his Perfect Girlfriend Who Got Away even though she's "shallow" (whatever that means), followed by an extended conversation about how both Mr. Big and His Friend really want to find women with whom they can connect on a deep and meaningful level;
- Talking about my supposed latent lesbian tendencies, which I insist are nonexistent but somehow no one believes me that I can't get past second base without wanting to leave the game and, say, join the Roller Derby league instead.
Really: I'm just giddy because I got a beaded curtain of sorts off of Freecycle and it features - I'm not kidding - walnut shells among its beads. It's an instant cat toy AND conversation piece!
01 February 2007
medical mysteries not-so-unraveled
Excerpt from my neuropsychological evaluation:
In the running for What's Wrong With Me: (1) a subclinical seizure disorder, (2) lupus, and (3) MS.
The next step is meeting with my family practitioner, who will send me to a neurologist, who will attach wires to my head with which I'll walk around for two days while my brain activity is constantly monitored. So if you see me wearing a stocking cap with wires sticking out, it's not because I'm an extra in a B-movie. Or maybe it is, and I'm just trying to get added benefit out of a sucky situation.
[And I also get all kinds of weird specialized blood tests to check for all those funky autoimmune disorders - plus a SPINAL TAP - and since I absolutely *heart* needles, I can't wait!]
The good news is that I don't have ADD/ADHD, nor do I suffer from schizophrenia or any other quantifiable form of mental illness, and my "very superior intellectual functioning" is on the record. The neuropsychiatrist told me my brain is a 2007 Ferrari whose cylinders misfire unpredictably and without warning. Me, I'd rather have a rusty-yet-reliable 1976 Buick that smells like pot and patchouli. I'm tired of being tired, unable to think straight, and periodically but perpetually numb on the left side of my body.
Impairments in the areas of attention, motor functioning, and verbal spontaneous recall efficiency are interfering with her ability to perform to her full intellectual capacity.Well, duh. That's why I went in for seven hours of testing, right?
In the running for What's Wrong With Me: (1) a subclinical seizure disorder, (2) lupus, and (3) MS.
The next step is meeting with my family practitioner, who will send me to a neurologist, who will attach wires to my head with which I'll walk around for two days while my brain activity is constantly monitored. So if you see me wearing a stocking cap with wires sticking out, it's not because I'm an extra in a B-movie. Or maybe it is, and I'm just trying to get added benefit out of a sucky situation.
[And I also get all kinds of weird specialized blood tests to check for all those funky autoimmune disorders - plus a SPINAL TAP - and since I absolutely *heart* needles, I can't wait!]
The good news is that I don't have ADD/ADHD, nor do I suffer from schizophrenia or any other quantifiable form of mental illness, and my "very superior intellectual functioning" is on the record. The neuropsychiatrist told me my brain is a 2007 Ferrari whose cylinders misfire unpredictably and without warning. Me, I'd rather have a rusty-yet-reliable 1976 Buick that smells like pot and patchouli. I'm tired of being tired, unable to think straight, and periodically but perpetually numb on the left side of my body.
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