For one of the first times in my life, I can't seem to find the song to fit my mood or what I've just been through. I realize that people usually describe "been through" to describe great personal tragedy, years of fighting for civil rights, or maybe childbirth. So prepare yourselves, because what I have is not close to that magnitude; conveniently, it's much more juicy. Settle in. Let's talk.
I'd like to start by blaming everything on Jon (lesson number one - always blame someone else. Don't say I never taught ya nothin.) He came through my door with a copy of Reality Bites this afternoon. I hadn't seen it in years. Some would think that, featuring my lookalike Janeane Garofalo, I would pour over it (and by that, myself?); not so. It was released when I was a lass of 16 and *maybe* indulging in my first kiss (ah, how a renegade high school house party will release the wild child in a girl). I had no concept then of anything beyond crushing. My devotion was, if ever, encoded in the shaky writing of simply friendly yearbook messages (Tony come back!). If I was really feeling like going on a limb, I would use high school GPS to 'position' myself by the lockers allowing for optimum sighting chances. When Reality Bites greeted American moviegoers, I certainly didn't understand the concept of boy-girl emotions (indeed, at that point in time, I probably called them such) and relationships and their complexities.
And so the soundtrack was more memorable to me than the film.
We sped through the movie. I tried to quickly memorize the series of brilliant quips, mostly failing, and rather gaping while indulging the gallons of coffee that allow me to now sit uncomfortably alert at this weird hour. After it finished and I watched the credits go by in a haze, I suppose I had a spirit of "why not" in me. I mean, as unfeasible as their future was, I rooted for Lanie and Troy. They had convinced the closet romantic in me that there is something to gain by laying emotions on the line from time to time. I put my coffee cup in the sink and had to wonder if perhaps what I'm looking for is as simple as someone to share a cup of coffee and good conversation with. I'm usually pretty good about telling people where I stand if it just has to do with me ("It's rainy out. I'm in a crappy mood.") But revelation of emotions that deal with someone *else*? What a concept. Intriguing and important.
As I watched the movie this afternoon, I wondered how sincere it was. I mean, could people REALLY look at each other and say "I love you." without knowing beforehand where the other person stood? Fantastic concept (golf claps).
In the movie, they could say those lines b/c Ethan could look with conviction into her eyes and spill his guts knowing that her next line was set. IT WAS ON THE TELEPROMPTOR. Whether it was this scene or the next one, he would get the girl. Revealing himself just moved along to the inevitable conclusion.
After reflection, I could see the merit. This bearing of the heartwaves should be done with calculated timing, I decided. I rewound the movie and sent Jon on his way.
And then a funny thing happened.
This evening, as if mocking me, my phone rang and it was a guy I'd been playing phone tag with for literally months. Someone from my tucked-away past. I'm talking five years of long-time-no-see. Someone who once had my heart more than he realized; or I did, for that matter. And someone I coincidentally hope isn't the internet dork I am :) Um, if he is, um, hi?
Tonight I watched thoughts that had been trapped in my head and heart escape me and travel down the line to the faraway place where he is (the faraway place where I left my correct grammar, apparently). Thoughts that had percolated (and often festered) in me bubbled to the surface and marched out of my mouth one by one. Sometimes they were greeted by silence; other times understanding or reflection. While it is crucial to be honest with yourself, I wonder if we (Ok, I) remember to put equal value on being honest with other people? And not the "well, you didn't ask!" variety, either. Maybe the two types of honesty go hand in hand.
So, does Reality Bite?
I think Troy would say it does. But he also lives at The Winter of Our Discontent, so really, you can't expect more.
Reality is personal. If something isn't working for you; if it feels like reality does really bite, maybe there's something to it. Reality bites, but when it bites, it bites you in the ass. Hard. And usually for a good reason.
MY CALLING CARD, OR, JON'S REVOLUTION.
It's a work in progress. I've been trying to think of what represents me, and I fear it is the bizarre fine points of my quirky existence. I'd love to paint broad strokes of passions and life goals, but then I'd have sorted out the meaning of (my) life. Can't do that without a few shots of tequila, so alas, water bottle in hand, I offer you:
1) I shake the milk before I pour. Always have.
2) I count people's toes (Visually. I do not touch. That's another item). If you average 5 digits per foot, you're not off the hook. I need to assure myself that the MODE, if you will, is 5 per foot. This quirk can be directly traced back to "Jenny" at Tamarak day camp's little bro, who visited us in bare feet, thus exposing me to a six-toed pudgy baby foot.
3) I hated the name Lilly until college. As a child, I renamed myself "Carol" and my dad was "Peter". In true childlike fashion, my mother did not exist.
4) I speak four languages. I will keep learning new ones until someone understands me.
5) I hate... *hate*... Seinfeld. I watched the finale along with the rest of the tv-infected world to be assured that it was truly over.
6) I danced before I could walk.
7) I have a brother and a sister. For some reason, in conversation I tend to admit to the existence of one, but not the other. So let's just throw that in here.
8) I have never been in love. That question on email surveys is way up there on the DancingonmynervesMeter (tm). Due to the fact that I am 26 and have never been in love, I field the question of whether I'm a lesbian from time to time. I am not, although historical factors might have predicted otherwise. (see #11)
9) I was in a sorority. I'm not as ashamed of it as my general public would expect me to be. If someday pictures of me doing a kegstand appear on the net, or better yet -- dressed in all white holding hands (or candles) swaying and singing about One Heart, One Way, you heard it here first.
10) I always wanted a treehouse. Never got one.
11) My parents never bought us Ken. We always had Barbie (or Marbie, etc.) So my sister and I shaved one's head, christened her "Sandy Duncan", and she was the lesbian in the group. Avant garde childplay, I realize now.
12) I'm convinced I'll die by gunshot or shark attack. I have a haunting fear of both...figures that I'd move to California ;)
13) Thirteen is my favorite number. On the 13th of March I got my first ghettoblaster (yes, back when we called them by that lovely name), which was probably the biggest day of my life. Ok, or maybe my brother's birth. But I'm leaning towards the stereo.
14) I'm a little bit scared of old people. An old lady slapped me once when I gave her a Valentine I had made (I was lured into this type of crisp suburban good-doing by my Brownie troop); my romance with the Cocoon generation was summarily ended.
15) I always feel the need to justify my actions. While I aspire to live a life lead by my heart, I tend towards living with my head. This is proof that GGG is my dad, not Fred the Mailman, as my mom used to tell me.
16) I usually find it easier to communicate via writing. Except right now. Let us laminate now.
1) I shake the milk before I pour. Always have.
2) I count people's toes (Visually. I do not touch. That's another item). If you average 5 digits per foot, you're not off the hook. I need to assure myself that the MODE, if you will, is 5 per foot. This quirk can be directly traced back to "Jenny" at Tamarak day camp's little bro, who visited us in bare feet, thus exposing me to a six-toed pudgy baby foot.
3) I hated the name Lilly until college. As a child, I renamed myself "Carol" and my dad was "Peter". In true childlike fashion, my mother did not exist.
4) I speak four languages. I will keep learning new ones until someone understands me.
5) I hate... *hate*... Seinfeld. I watched the finale along with the rest of the tv-infected world to be assured that it was truly over.
6) I danced before I could walk.
7) I have a brother and a sister. For some reason, in conversation I tend to admit to the existence of one, but not the other. So let's just throw that in here.
8) I have never been in love. That question on email surveys is way up there on the DancingonmynervesMeter (tm). Due to the fact that I am 26 and have never been in love, I field the question of whether I'm a lesbian from time to time. I am not, although historical factors might have predicted otherwise. (see #11)
9) I was in a sorority. I'm not as ashamed of it as my general public would expect me to be. If someday pictures of me doing a kegstand appear on the net, or better yet -- dressed in all white holding hands (or candles) swaying and singing about One Heart, One Way, you heard it here first.
10) I always wanted a treehouse. Never got one.
11) My parents never bought us Ken. We always had Barbie (or Marbie, etc.) So my sister and I shaved one's head, christened her "Sandy Duncan", and she was the lesbian in the group. Avant garde childplay, I realize now.
12) I'm convinced I'll die by gunshot or shark attack. I have a haunting fear of both...figures that I'd move to California ;)
13) Thirteen is my favorite number. On the 13th of March I got my first ghettoblaster (yes, back when we called them by that lovely name), which was probably the biggest day of my life. Ok, or maybe my brother's birth. But I'm leaning towards the stereo.
14) I'm a little bit scared of old people. An old lady slapped me once when I gave her a Valentine I had made (I was lured into this type of crisp suburban good-doing by my Brownie troop); my romance with the Cocoon generation was summarily ended.
15) I always feel the need to justify my actions. While I aspire to live a life lead by my heart, I tend towards living with my head. This is proof that GGG is my dad, not Fred the Mailman, as my mom used to tell me.
16) I usually find it easier to communicate via writing. Except right now. Let us laminate now.
GENE-EE IN A BOTTLE.
What do you do when you have the opportunity of a lifetime? Something you've always wanted to do is offered to you... how do you carry yourself?
The honorable Gene (son of Dave) took me on a field trip to the recording studio on Tuesday. There was a "Do Not Disturb: In Session" plastic cracked sign on the door slot, but I was special. I got to disturb. When the door to the vault of my innermost daydreams swung open, my wide eyes began to focus. Herein lie the buttons and knobs that make the air I breathe. I fell back onto a beat up desk chair behind the board, trying to capture in mental photographs the plant delicately placed between two speakers, the deliberate romantic lighting, and the fake Persian carpets all at once. When the sound engineer offered me a cup of coffee, I nearly wept.
So, faced with this dream come true, this culmination of years of Star Studio at Six Flags, what did I do?
Well, first I belted out an off the cuff song about Hong's romantic prowess in an Argentinian accent. If there had been large windows, I would have thrown them open and clenched my fists over a crowd of gathered Peronistas. If there had been a bull, someone would have tossed me a cape. If I had *only* had a flamenco skirt, we would have been in business. It was horrific and hilarious at the same time (or so I am told).
Having retouched my "musical roots" (oh so deserving of quotation marks), yesterday, under his tutilage, I bought an Ibanez AF75.
Rock me Amadeus.
You always hear these jokes about fools who get 3 wishes and waste them. Well, those were 2 of mine. There's a little pressure on what I'll do with the third one, but I think I'm hoping for ice cream trees.
The honorable Gene (son of Dave) took me on a field trip to the recording studio on Tuesday. There was a "Do Not Disturb: In Session" plastic cracked sign on the door slot, but I was special. I got to disturb. When the door to the vault of my innermost daydreams swung open, my wide eyes began to focus. Herein lie the buttons and knobs that make the air I breathe. I fell back onto a beat up desk chair behind the board, trying to capture in mental photographs the plant delicately placed between two speakers, the deliberate romantic lighting, and the fake Persian carpets all at once. When the sound engineer offered me a cup of coffee, I nearly wept.
So, faced with this dream come true, this culmination of years of Star Studio at Six Flags, what did I do?
Well, first I belted out an off the cuff song about Hong's romantic prowess in an Argentinian accent. If there had been large windows, I would have thrown them open and clenched my fists over a crowd of gathered Peronistas. If there had been a bull, someone would have tossed me a cape. If I had *only* had a flamenco skirt, we would have been in business. It was horrific and hilarious at the same time (or so I am told).
Having retouched my "musical roots" (oh so deserving of quotation marks), yesterday, under his tutilage, I bought an Ibanez AF75.
Rock me Amadeus.
You always hear these jokes about fools who get 3 wishes and waste them. Well, those were 2 of mine. There's a little pressure on what I'll do with the third one, but I think I'm hoping for ice cream trees.
IF YOU WILL ALL PLEASE STAND.
I'd like to send special shout outs to Reverand Hongy and Reverand Jon Yang. Per their ordainments this evening (ah, the powers of the internet), they are each empowered to set up their own Churches. Right, as if guys need that ;)
This popularity contest is sure to outshine any middle America student council election. Fun for the whole family. While Reverand Yang is resting his weary head, Reverand Pan has made his first campaign promise. He tried to ply me with "cookies in between services." I upped the ante and we're looking at Sushi Deli 2 outings for Church members and prospective conversions.
Will his campaign promises hold the test of time? Tune in: same blog time, same blog station.
I wonder if God can roll His eyes.
This popularity contest is sure to outshine any middle America student council election. Fun for the whole family. While Reverand Yang is resting his weary head, Reverand Pan has made his first campaign promise. He tried to ply me with "cookies in between services." I upped the ante and we're looking at Sushi Deli 2 outings for Church members and prospective conversions.
Will his campaign promises hold the test of time? Tune in: same blog time, same blog station.
I wonder if God can roll His eyes.
SO TELL ME MRS. RITA, WHAT'S IT SAY IN MY TAROT?
I really try to be good and not get addicted to too many things. Some slipped through the cracks. I can't help myself when it comes to caffeine, boys with mischevious eyes, Madonna, ocean views, and singing in the car. In no particular order. There's one more, though, one I keep lurking right below the surface, so you'd have to be in a bookstore with me or randomly walking down a touristy boardwalk to know about it... fortunetellers.
I'd like to begin by exonerating myself under the broad umbrella that I am a Scorpio. I am therefore programmed (by the cosmos, duh) to be really into this stuff. Proof positive: any bookstore is inevitably out of Scorpio volumes. But yes, as for the evidence against me, I stipulate to the following: I'm the person who stays an extra 10 seconds at the front of the line at a cafe to read the paper's horoscope, hastily taped to a coffee mug. I bring my friends in droves to experience my mom's coffee cup readings. (She does it lightheartedly. I don't.) I know the 'good' astrology sites to procrastinate on. I have more than once covertly found out a guy's birthday, and maybe once or twice noted an eclipse in my business planner.
So a few weeks ago mom and I were wandering through Balboa Park when, lo and behold, there was a woman with bleached blonde hair, a green velvet top and colorful skirts, body adorned in 2042902409 rings and bracelets, a tiara, and WINGS. I mean, does that last accessory not call for a pause in our trek? We walked up to see what was going on. She had a little collapsable table and was doing readings for 'donation only'. Palm reading, handwriting analysis, tarot card, dice, Tibetan spirits, Aztec something or other, *everything*. It was fortunetelling Disneyland. And in a recession, I mean, this woman must really love her craft to expect nothing for her psychic pains. Fast forward to the fact that she was creepily accurate (you know it's accurate when they say things that bother you. The ass-kissers are never any good.) So today mom has her over for a tea party with some friends, and I'm going to drop through.
I'm not sure what she's going to say that would be much different than 2 weeks ago, but I think it's part of the human condition to hope that things will change that quickly. Suddenly, the dead-end job will disappear (actually, astrologyzone.com predicted that back in February and it did...). Or the Next Big Thing is right around the corner (if it's a guy, all the better). You will reconcile with a long-lost friend. Someone is thinking of you. Success will be yours if you make a call on Wednesday. Yes, this type of stuff actually cheers me up.
There are definitely the crazy stories in my family of what people around the world predicted (yes, this fascination has followed my mom's family and me across continents and generations), but it's mostly just fun. I think life gets too serious, and fortunetelling gives you a minute to step off of whatever track you're on.
When and if I feel I can cough up the money (ok, and pride) for one of these services, it's inevitably during a most stressful period in my life. (Like when I jumped into the $3 palmreader's booth in Santa Monica on a walk in between finals. She looked at my palm and told me I was "a snob." If she hadn't been gripping my hand, rest assured she would have had a close up of my finger. But I digress...) The whole world of the paranormal is so far off the logical spectrum on which I live and breathe; it's my guilty pleasure.
So we'll see what happens this afternoon. In any case, it beats the hell out of doing work.
And now, if you will excuse me, a lady with wings awaits me...
I'd like to begin by exonerating myself under the broad umbrella that I am a Scorpio. I am therefore programmed (by the cosmos, duh) to be really into this stuff. Proof positive: any bookstore is inevitably out of Scorpio volumes. But yes, as for the evidence against me, I stipulate to the following: I'm the person who stays an extra 10 seconds at the front of the line at a cafe to read the paper's horoscope, hastily taped to a coffee mug. I bring my friends in droves to experience my mom's coffee cup readings. (She does it lightheartedly. I don't.) I know the 'good' astrology sites to procrastinate on. I have more than once covertly found out a guy's birthday, and maybe once or twice noted an eclipse in my business planner.
So a few weeks ago mom and I were wandering through Balboa Park when, lo and behold, there was a woman with bleached blonde hair, a green velvet top and colorful skirts, body adorned in 2042902409 rings and bracelets, a tiara, and WINGS. I mean, does that last accessory not call for a pause in our trek? We walked up to see what was going on. She had a little collapsable table and was doing readings for 'donation only'. Palm reading, handwriting analysis, tarot card, dice, Tibetan spirits, Aztec something or other, *everything*. It was fortunetelling Disneyland. And in a recession, I mean, this woman must really love her craft to expect nothing for her psychic pains. Fast forward to the fact that she was creepily accurate (you know it's accurate when they say things that bother you. The ass-kissers are never any good.) So today mom has her over for a tea party with some friends, and I'm going to drop through.
I'm not sure what she's going to say that would be much different than 2 weeks ago, but I think it's part of the human condition to hope that things will change that quickly. Suddenly, the dead-end job will disappear (actually, astrologyzone.com predicted that back in February and it did...). Or the Next Big Thing is right around the corner (if it's a guy, all the better). You will reconcile with a long-lost friend. Someone is thinking of you. Success will be yours if you make a call on Wednesday. Yes, this type of stuff actually cheers me up.
There are definitely the crazy stories in my family of what people around the world predicted (yes, this fascination has followed my mom's family and me across continents and generations), but it's mostly just fun. I think life gets too serious, and fortunetelling gives you a minute to step off of whatever track you're on.
When and if I feel I can cough up the money (ok, and pride) for one of these services, it's inevitably during a most stressful period in my life. (Like when I jumped into the $3 palmreader's booth in Santa Monica on a walk in between finals. She looked at my palm and told me I was "a snob." If she hadn't been gripping my hand, rest assured she would have had a close up of my finger. But I digress...) The whole world of the paranormal is so far off the logical spectrum on which I live and breathe; it's my guilty pleasure.
So we'll see what happens this afternoon. In any case, it beats the hell out of doing work.
And now, if you will excuse me, a lady with wings awaits me...
WAKING UP THE ROOSTER.
To be up at 6:54 is to stumble out of bed, narrowly missing the metal corner you always hit your foot on. After a moment pondering how your socks came off in the middle of the night, you head directly to the pantry for some 'wake up' food, and to ponder exactly how big your little heart is that you'd do this all for charity.
Today's the Race for Literacy 8K. Down the 163 I will go, woo hoo foot patrol. Mom is my trusty companion for this event, so we'll be walking rather than running it. I'd like to say that walking 5 miles is something I could 'do in my sleep', but alas, it appears to require garments other than my sleepwear of comfy short shorts and a sweatshirt. I mean, San Diego just doesn't deserve that ;) So off I go to change and pinch myself til both eyes are open (trying to cut down on coffee. Not sure that this will work. Details to follow in the coming weeks)
Question of the day (I have at least an hour in the steaming hot sun to ponder it, if you folks don't help me out): When do you turn off the backburner? For those of you who think I'm speaking literally- I love you- if you come over and cook for me, I will do the dishes always and forever.
I mean the 'boy backburner' (or girl backburner). Is there an expiration date on this act of narcissism?
Today's the Race for Literacy 8K. Down the 163 I will go, woo hoo foot patrol. Mom is my trusty companion for this event, so we'll be walking rather than running it. I'd like to say that walking 5 miles is something I could 'do in my sleep', but alas, it appears to require garments other than my sleepwear of comfy short shorts and a sweatshirt. I mean, San Diego just doesn't deserve that ;) So off I go to change and pinch myself til both eyes are open (trying to cut down on coffee. Not sure that this will work. Details to follow in the coming weeks)
Question of the day (I have at least an hour in the steaming hot sun to ponder it, if you folks don't help me out): When do you turn off the backburner? For those of you who think I'm speaking literally- I love you- if you come over and cook for me, I will do the dishes always and forever.
I mean the 'boy backburner' (or girl backburner). Is there an expiration date on this act of narcissism?
Posts
