I have been hovering over my keyboard for two weeks and two days now, trying to figure out how I was going to blog about my next big life change. I decided to take a few months up in San Francisco, a city I love and will probably love even more since I'm a single girl and then I can blame my singleness on something other than the fact that I'd rather spend an evening with two other couples (Lorelai and Luke and Rory and Logan for anyone keeping track) on any given night. So off I go to the big city up north, the city where other people read more than I do. The emerald city.
The sad thing is that I know more people there than I do here. If I had to take a poll, quantity-wise I'd say more people are excited to see me move up there than are sorry to see me go. There has been a slow exodus from San Diego and I'm attributing part of the lack of mourning-my-forthcoming-absence here to that (for the sake of my own ego!). Or maybe urban sprawl just makes it feel like that. And I suppose the fact that it's just a test run at this point (two months, for those of you counting) helps make it not quite dramatic.
But it IS dramatic for those of us who have resided at the same address for the past four years. I have never moved somewhere for the hell of it. There was always a reason (namely: school, school, school, family). I'm just going to go. To see if whatever it was that told me when I was 16 that I would someday live up there actually exists. (Back when I was 16 it struck me as "Chicago with less shitty weather", for one thing). Back then that same 'something' told me I'd go to Stanford. Hardy har har.
So that's the general backdrop for whatever I'll be yammering about in the coming months. Maybe I'll write blogs about all the time I spend in the public library (my hopes! my dreams!) or at obscure author readings. Or about walking up hills and down hills and back up them again (i'm not taking my car. this seems like a good idea at this point in time, i'm sure I'll be eating my words soon enough). No idea what I'll blog about, but there are aspirations to blog a bit more.
And now, without further ado:
FIVE THINGS THAT MADE ME SMILE TODAY:
1) Remembering how much I used to love reading "Alexander Who Used To Be Rich Last Sunday"
2) Working out (step class, LA fitness) and listening to the music and coming to terms with the fact that I'd jump at the chance to be one of the Countdown Singers
3) seeing someone's very very faded suction-cuppy Garfield on his car window
4) related, but NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH GARFIELD: hearing susie make an offhanded reference to Heathcliff at dinner.
5) making jokes about finding a man with a good health insurance plan. and watching other people laugh. and then laughing inside because i wasn't joking.
Only When I'm Dancing Can I Feel This Free
You are what you listen to. Or something like that. I grew up apparently with a lack of hobbies, because every time I bought a tape, I’d rush home, lock my door and pull out some paper. I would then sit and read the liner notes over and over (who did they thank? Who produced it?) This sometimes took a weekend (rewind. stop. what was that line again? fast forward. stop.)
Stop snickering - this is one small part of how I amassed my Stash of Useless Trivia. Like the fact that Patrick Leonard who helped Madonna’s early stuff was the same guy who helped Jody Watley (listen to "most of all" right after you hear Madonna's get up there, and you can hear his keyboards and how he used some of the same stuff. It’s how you know that the Bangles sang the chorus on Cyndi lauper’s “change of heart” or how you know Prince wrote “Manic Monday”. And how you know that he also wrote sinead’s “nothing compares 2 u” and he will only sing it with one person, Rosie Gaines. (And that he does, it’s a live track on his best of discs.)
But I digress. I always digress. Is butidigress.blogspot.com taken yet?
For a long time I've wanted to compile a list of my favorite song lines. I know a woman who keeps a list of first lines from books. Maybe I'll try that next. For now, here are some lines that, for all different reasons, I have love or been affected by in the past 28 years. I'll get the Madonna ones out of the way first, so skip down if you're a hater.
“all I know from experience is that if you have to ask for something more than once or twice, it wasn’t yours in the first place…” -Madonna/Waiting
“I’m not religious- but I feel so moved. Makes me want to pray.” – Madonna/Nothing Fails
“without your love, I’m nothing but a beggar” - Aerosmith/Angel
“try me on… I’m very you” - deee-lite/Try Me On...I'm Very You
“you turned to me as you were threading daisies on a chain. You said ‘it’s decision time again’..." –Everything But the Girl/Wrong
“Kiss me. Please kiss me. But kiss me out of desire, baby, not consolation. Oh you know it makes me so angry cause I know that in time I’ll only make you cry. This is our last goodbye” - Jeff Buckley/Last Goodbye
“I want to end this letter with three words- we tired y’all” Prince/Dear Mr. Man
“Everytime I comb my hair, thoughts of you get in my eyes.” Prince/ Erotic City
“Today is where your book begins. The rest is still unwritten.” – Natasha Bedingfield/Unwritten (yes, I had a very hard time admitting I wanted to include this)
“There’s a time for every star.” – Nikka Costa/Everybody Got Their Something
“brick for brick I know this city like my handprint” – G love n special sauce f. jasper/This Ain't Living
“The rich declare themselves poor and most of us are not sure if we have too much but we’ll take our chances cause God stopped keeping score…you hold on to what you can and charity is a coat you wear twice a year…” –George Michael/ Praying for Time
“She got the beamiest face. Car turns left. I’m into you” Howie Day/Secret
“You make me love you… with a little L” -- Jamiroquoi/Little L
“Yeah yeah have you heard the news today? Money’s on the menu in my favorite restaurant.” - Jamiroquoi/When You Gonna Learn?
"Snap her up in a butterfly net... Pin her down in a photograph album" - Counting Crows/Anna Begins
And that's just for starters.
Stop snickering - this is one small part of how I amassed my Stash of Useless Trivia. Like the fact that Patrick Leonard who helped Madonna’s early stuff was the same guy who helped Jody Watley (listen to "most of all" right after you hear Madonna's get up there, and you can hear his keyboards and how he used some of the same stuff. It’s how you know that the Bangles sang the chorus on Cyndi lauper’s “change of heart” or how you know Prince wrote “Manic Monday”. And how you know that he also wrote sinead’s “nothing compares 2 u” and he will only sing it with one person, Rosie Gaines. (And that he does, it’s a live track on his best of discs.)
But I digress. I always digress. Is butidigress.blogspot.com taken yet?
For a long time I've wanted to compile a list of my favorite song lines. I know a woman who keeps a list of first lines from books. Maybe I'll try that next. For now, here are some lines that, for all different reasons, I have love or been affected by in the past 28 years. I'll get the Madonna ones out of the way first, so skip down if you're a hater.
“all I know from experience is that if you have to ask for something more than once or twice, it wasn’t yours in the first place…” -Madonna/Waiting
“I’m not religious- but I feel so moved. Makes me want to pray.” – Madonna/Nothing Fails
“without your love, I’m nothing but a beggar” - Aerosmith/Angel
“try me on… I’m very you” - deee-lite/Try Me On...I'm Very You
“you turned to me as you were threading daisies on a chain. You said ‘it’s decision time again’..." –Everything But the Girl/Wrong
“Kiss me. Please kiss me. But kiss me out of desire, baby, not consolation. Oh you know it makes me so angry cause I know that in time I’ll only make you cry. This is our last goodbye” - Jeff Buckley/Last Goodbye
“I want to end this letter with three words- we tired y’all” Prince/Dear Mr. Man
“Everytime I comb my hair, thoughts of you get in my eyes.” Prince/ Erotic City
“Today is where your book begins. The rest is still unwritten.” – Natasha Bedingfield/Unwritten (yes, I had a very hard time admitting I wanted to include this)
“There’s a time for every star.” – Nikka Costa/Everybody Got Their Something
“brick for brick I know this city like my handprint” – G love n special sauce f. jasper/This Ain't Living
“The rich declare themselves poor and most of us are not sure if we have too much but we’ll take our chances cause God stopped keeping score…you hold on to what you can and charity is a coat you wear twice a year…” –George Michael/ Praying for Time
“She got the beamiest face. Car turns left. I’m into you” Howie Day/Secret
“You make me love you… with a little L” -- Jamiroquoi/Little L
“Yeah yeah have you heard the news today? Money’s on the menu in my favorite restaurant.” - Jamiroquoi/When You Gonna Learn?
"Snap her up in a butterfly net... Pin her down in a photograph album" - Counting Crows/Anna Begins
And that's just for starters.
Playing Grown Up
Ok, I have come to the final realization that playing "grown up" sucks. When I was little, all I wanted was to work. I was dying to take the place of my mom's secretary Paula, answering phones, booking appointments and offering financial organization to the world and its dental files.
Fast forward to today. When you play house, you do the fun stuff, you cook for the kids, but you never have to clean the dishes. And you don't deal with a broken garbage disposal. Mind you, being an adult with a juvenile mentality, I should note that I've functioned sans disposal for about 2 months now. No joke. It stopped whirring one day and I mourned it for about 24 hours and forgot about it.
As a kid, you play house with whoever's around. If need be, you convert an elementary school classmate into Mike Brady. Hell, I did. As an adult, the quest to find someone to put into Mike Brady's shoes becomes more difficult. And you find out Mike Brady was a homosexual, which just confuses you that little bit more.
Today I'm faced with finding a partner (if not for love then for the tax deduction, because I was nearly brought to tears when I filed my taxes this year), making enough money to keep a roof over my head, perhaps even fixing the appliances therein. And yesterday a friend mentioned that perhaps I should create a savings account for "fun" or travel. What happened to mom and dad just springing a Hawaii trip on us? Nowadays I consider it a getaway if I drive as far as La Jolla. And as a kid you prized your possessions and knew where they were at all times. This weekend, concerned with worldly things like paying a month's worth of bills (ok, and maybe watching the Hulk Hogan reality show at the gym) I lost my iPod. Again. And I'm too tired to care. I'm not sure which is sadder.
What happened when the biggest task in your day was a sheet of foreign verb conjugation or finding a ride to the mall to get that new cassette you were dying for? Youth is so wasted on the young. I'm just gonna pray that my youthful looks help me stretch it out a bit more. Let the regression begin.
Fast forward to today. When you play house, you do the fun stuff, you cook for the kids, but you never have to clean the dishes. And you don't deal with a broken garbage disposal. Mind you, being an adult with a juvenile mentality, I should note that I've functioned sans disposal for about 2 months now. No joke. It stopped whirring one day and I mourned it for about 24 hours and forgot about it.
As a kid, you play house with whoever's around. If need be, you convert an elementary school classmate into Mike Brady. Hell, I did. As an adult, the quest to find someone to put into Mike Brady's shoes becomes more difficult. And you find out Mike Brady was a homosexual, which just confuses you that little bit more.
Today I'm faced with finding a partner (if not for love then for the tax deduction, because I was nearly brought to tears when I filed my taxes this year), making enough money to keep a roof over my head, perhaps even fixing the appliances therein. And yesterday a friend mentioned that perhaps I should create a savings account for "fun" or travel. What happened to mom and dad just springing a Hawaii trip on us? Nowadays I consider it a getaway if I drive as far as La Jolla. And as a kid you prized your possessions and knew where they were at all times. This weekend, concerned with worldly things like paying a month's worth of bills (ok, and maybe watching the Hulk Hogan reality show at the gym) I lost my iPod. Again. And I'm too tired to care. I'm not sure which is sadder.
What happened when the biggest task in your day was a sheet of foreign verb conjugation or finding a ride to the mall to get that new cassette you were dying for? Youth is so wasted on the young. I'm just gonna pray that my youthful looks help me stretch it out a bit more. Let the regression begin.
You Are My Sunshine, My Only Sunshine
I went out of town to New York and returned. Apparently the sunshine and 70 degree weather I took with me to the Big Apple didn't return with me. It's day 2424635 of cloudy greyness and I've had enough of it.
Alot of people say that if you didn't grow up in California you don't have a right to complain about the weather here. To them I say, well, whatever word goes with wiggly moose-head signs and sticking my tongue out. Screw that. I pay a premium for sunshine and so I want some fucking sunshine.
See how mad I am? I just f-bombed. And my mom reads my blog!
When I left the midwest, I left a land where crappy weather was a certainty. There is something to be said for the reassuring nature of knowing that when you get up, it's going to be crappy out. Here, I get up expecting California Dreamin' and I look out the window and don't know where I am for a moment. In Chicago, you knew it was going to be freezing-slip-on-your-ass-icy in winter, spring and part of fall. In summer it was unGodly hot where your lungs would need a moment to adjust from the cool air conditioned house when you stepped outside, beads of sweat forming almost immediately. It was never perfect, so you didn't bother worrying. But here, my own (very reasonable) expectations aside, I have a reputation to keep up! When people -- clients, friends, telemarketers -- call and want to know what the weather is like, I am under a certain amount of pressure to perform. I want to say "you don't want me to tell you - heh heh", but instead I say "Sorry, tell me again. What is the survey about?"
In Chicago my parents realized that the lack of sunshine was affecting their children. It was first noted shortly after my growth spurt halted right around 4 feet (yes, short, even for my family) for a while there. Immediately my mom sought out what became nicknamed "happy lights" -- indoor lighting meant to mimic the sun's rays and give you some of whatever that drug is that the sun shoots down on my solar panel. Our moods lightened, or in any case the placebo effect was in full force.
But these days, I don't know where to buy a happy light. I'm in freaking San Diego. They don't sell them here. I keep turning around (I've turned my desk because facing out the window was getting to me after a week) to see if maybe the sun has burned the clouds away while I"m hammering away at my keyboard. Nope. At this rate, I will continue to be the Whitest Iranian Girl That Ever Did Live. It's not a title I'm looking to champion for much longer. I keep eyeing a reserve bottle of self-tanner in my medicine cabinet. Middle eastern people shouldn't even HAVE to buy that stuff. See what I mean?
If there was a sun dance, I'd do it. But that would require energy I don't have. Send help.
Alot of people say that if you didn't grow up in California you don't have a right to complain about the weather here. To them I say, well, whatever word goes with wiggly moose-head signs and sticking my tongue out. Screw that. I pay a premium for sunshine and so I want some fucking sunshine.
See how mad I am? I just f-bombed. And my mom reads my blog!
When I left the midwest, I left a land where crappy weather was a certainty. There is something to be said for the reassuring nature of knowing that when you get up, it's going to be crappy out. Here, I get up expecting California Dreamin' and I look out the window and don't know where I am for a moment. In Chicago, you knew it was going to be freezing-slip-on-your-ass-icy in winter, spring and part of fall. In summer it was unGodly hot where your lungs would need a moment to adjust from the cool air conditioned house when you stepped outside, beads of sweat forming almost immediately. It was never perfect, so you didn't bother worrying. But here, my own (very reasonable) expectations aside, I have a reputation to keep up! When people -- clients, friends, telemarketers -- call and want to know what the weather is like, I am under a certain amount of pressure to perform. I want to say "you don't want me to tell you - heh heh", but instead I say "Sorry, tell me again. What is the survey about?"
In Chicago my parents realized that the lack of sunshine was affecting their children. It was first noted shortly after my growth spurt halted right around 4 feet (yes, short, even for my family) for a while there. Immediately my mom sought out what became nicknamed "happy lights" -- indoor lighting meant to mimic the sun's rays and give you some of whatever that drug is that the sun shoots down on my solar panel. Our moods lightened, or in any case the placebo effect was in full force.
But these days, I don't know where to buy a happy light. I'm in freaking San Diego. They don't sell them here. I keep turning around (I've turned my desk because facing out the window was getting to me after a week) to see if maybe the sun has burned the clouds away while I"m hammering away at my keyboard. Nope. At this rate, I will continue to be the Whitest Iranian Girl That Ever Did Live. It's not a title I'm looking to champion for much longer. I keep eyeing a reserve bottle of self-tanner in my medicine cabinet. Middle eastern people shouldn't even HAVE to buy that stuff. See what I mean?
If there was a sun dance, I'd do it. But that would require energy I don't have. Send help.
guilty pleasures in no particular order.
1. Jordan Knight covering New Kids on the Block. Double disc album. Owned by me. For those of you who thought it couldn't get worse than my ownership of the London Symphony Orchestra covering Madonna's greatest hits. (Apparently one of you out there didn't think it was so bad b/c you borrowed it and didn't return it.)
2. Seeing famous people look fat in pictures. Thank you US Weekly.
3. Astrologyzone.com. I stay up late the last night of the month so I can sneak a peek at what Susan is predicting for the next month. True. Not that I should feel guilty about being emotionally attached to my horoscope. I am a Scorpio and we're just obsessed like that...
4. Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup. Sodium plus starch, period. I could live on this stuff.
5. Singing in the car. I know, not a guilty pleasure until I tell you that sometimes I rewind so I can sing a different part of the harmony. Gotta cover it all. Albums like Brandy offer maximum harmonizing potential, fyi.
I have no idea why I just cyberdumped these private facts. I'm a stone's throw from a reality show audition. Actually, I think I'd like my own show. It could be called So Lillious. Don't worry, Tori could have a supporting role. I don't want to totally steal the limelight. It would be about my life, my times, and importantly, my rise as a pre-eminent literary agent to the stars (see www.hyperwest.net/anachronic for more details on cast member Jon Yang).
So basically it would show me reading for the first 5 minutes. Then for the next 25 minutes the camera would watch me watching my screen, emailing everyone I know - clients, friends, randoms and laughing at my own wit. Insert more featuring my various friends. I'd definitely give special attention to my lawyer friends, contrasting their days with mine (them in suits, me in cute sweats. them clocking in and out, me reading manuscripts in the sun). Maybe I'll take a note from Hasselhoff and do a slo-mo montage of that bit. I'd let my parents be on the show, but my dad couldn't make jokes about me being an old maid. Come to think of it, I'd probably have to make him sign something about that.
I still feel like I'm jetlagged from my awesome trip to NYC. This week's lesson on "So Lillious" is that you can take a wicked nap if you bunch up an airplane blanket for a pillow to rest your head on on your traytable. Plus you look so weird that the air waitresses (as I like to call them) leave you alone.
Like a Von Trapp, I bid you adieu (always wanted to do that. To you, and you, and you and you and you). Nitey nite.
2. Seeing famous people look fat in pictures. Thank you US Weekly.
3. Astrologyzone.com. I stay up late the last night of the month so I can sneak a peek at what Susan is predicting for the next month. True. Not that I should feel guilty about being emotionally attached to my horoscope. I am a Scorpio and we're just obsessed like that...
4. Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup. Sodium plus starch, period. I could live on this stuff.
5. Singing in the car. I know, not a guilty pleasure until I tell you that sometimes I rewind so I can sing a different part of the harmony. Gotta cover it all. Albums like Brandy offer maximum harmonizing potential, fyi.
I have no idea why I just cyberdumped these private facts. I'm a stone's throw from a reality show audition. Actually, I think I'd like my own show. It could be called So Lillious. Don't worry, Tori could have a supporting role. I don't want to totally steal the limelight. It would be about my life, my times, and importantly, my rise as a pre-eminent literary agent to the stars (see www.hyperwest.net/anachronic for more details on cast member Jon Yang).
So basically it would show me reading for the first 5 minutes. Then for the next 25 minutes the camera would watch me watching my screen, emailing everyone I know - clients, friends, randoms and laughing at my own wit. Insert more featuring my various friends. I'd definitely give special attention to my lawyer friends, contrasting their days with mine (them in suits, me in cute sweats. them clocking in and out, me reading manuscripts in the sun). Maybe I'll take a note from Hasselhoff and do a slo-mo montage of that bit. I'd let my parents be on the show, but my dad couldn't make jokes about me being an old maid. Come to think of it, I'd probably have to make him sign something about that.
I still feel like I'm jetlagged from my awesome trip to NYC. This week's lesson on "So Lillious" is that you can take a wicked nap if you bunch up an airplane blanket for a pillow to rest your head on on your traytable. Plus you look so weird that the air waitresses (as I like to call them) leave you alone.
Like a Von Trapp, I bid you adieu (always wanted to do that. To you, and you, and you and you and you). Nitey nite.
Does My Hair Look Okay?
This evening a few pressing questions came to mind.
1) Do people who have mullets *call* them mullets?
Or let's backtrack.
2) Do people who have mullets even know they have mullets?
Pondering these questions has entertained me for more of the evening than I'd like to admit.
Notes from Room 611
So last night I had a near brush with death. Don't worry, dear readers. I'm alive and well, if undercaffeinated. There is much room for aggressive Strabucks franchising in Colorado, if anyone is looking for a business opportunity. I threw a fit in the Denver Int'l Airport. I had been late to SAN to take my flight, so I figured I'd nap and get a coffee at my layover. This was not meant to be, however. I walked the length of the terminal at Denver only to find myself in front of the terminal map, hands on my waist, just short of stomping my feet.
I called a friend. At work. In the middle of her busiest day.
me: "Um. So there's apparently no Starbucks at this airport. Is this even possible?"
her: "No Starbucks? Is it a third world country?"
This is why we have our friends. Rather than ridicule me, she was quick to point out that even Iran has Starbucks, if a completely illegal ripoff called "Starbox". I love my people.
Anyway, she told me Seattle's Best is owned by Starbucks, but that didn't comfort me. I got a frozen yogurt and continued planning the bar crawl for 100 folks that I've got going on Tuesday night in honor of the Roomienator's graduation. Is there anything better one can do on a Tuesday than drink copious amounts of well drinks? I think not. And I don't know that there's anything more professional you can do on a business trip than spend your time planning such an event. "$2 kamikazes. Think you can do that?"
Back to the future, here we are, room 611 at the Wyndham in Colorado Springs. Which brings us back to my near-death experience. It's really dry out here. They outfitted us with bottles of water and chapstick upon arrival. Well last night I was talking on my phone (yes, this is what I do on Friday nights. Get over it.) and my phone was sparking at my ear! Static like CRAZY. So I decided to put it away, shut off the lights and go to bed. And then, when I got in bed there was even MORE static- sparks left and right. BLUE SPARKS! Big ones! Ouchy ones. I told myself not to worry because I'm not flammable. But then I realized...
I AM!
I am flammable. For some reason this fascinates me. I nearly escaped death. Ok, maybe that's dramatic, but I'm at a writers conference. What do you expect?
Here's to hoping I find the next Great American Novelist downstairs. And a cup of coffee. I'd like one of those too.
I called a friend. At work. In the middle of her busiest day.
me: "Um. So there's apparently no Starbucks at this airport. Is this even possible?"
her: "No Starbucks? Is it a third world country?"
This is why we have our friends. Rather than ridicule me, she was quick to point out that even Iran has Starbucks, if a completely illegal ripoff called "Starbox". I love my people.
Anyway, she told me Seattle's Best is owned by Starbucks, but that didn't comfort me. I got a frozen yogurt and continued planning the bar crawl for 100 folks that I've got going on Tuesday night in honor of the Roomienator's graduation. Is there anything better one can do on a Tuesday than drink copious amounts of well drinks? I think not. And I don't know that there's anything more professional you can do on a business trip than spend your time planning such an event. "$2 kamikazes. Think you can do that?"
Back to the future, here we are, room 611 at the Wyndham in Colorado Springs. Which brings us back to my near-death experience. It's really dry out here. They outfitted us with bottles of water and chapstick upon arrival. Well last night I was talking on my phone (yes, this is what I do on Friday nights. Get over it.) and my phone was sparking at my ear! Static like CRAZY. So I decided to put it away, shut off the lights and go to bed. And then, when I got in bed there was even MORE static- sparks left and right. BLUE SPARKS! Big ones! Ouchy ones. I told myself not to worry because I'm not flammable. But then I realized...
I AM!
I am flammable. For some reason this fascinates me. I nearly escaped death. Ok, maybe that's dramatic, but I'm at a writers conference. What do you expect?
Here's to hoping I find the next Great American Novelist downstairs. And a cup of coffee. I'd like one of those too.
My Last Meal
Tonight my roommate and I had some friends over and cooked dinner (yes smartass, you read that right). A ridiculous top-secret yummalicious recipe from her boyfriend's mom for mac and cheese. And dessert? Cupcakes.
Unfortunately, the amount of joy I found in consuming this menu led me to the realization that while I am 28, I am really just 5.
Unfortunately, the amount of joy I found in consuming this menu led me to the realization that while I am 28, I am really just 5.
Kiss the Cook
Apparently hell has frozen over. I've decided I like cooking.
Yesterday I woke up in the morning and moseyed (mosied?) my way over to the kitchen, where I pulled out the latest issues of COOKING LIGHT. You might want to know why they were handy, and I'm going to go ahead and out myself and let you know that I subscribed. Yup, commitment. I leafed through and decided that I would take on the Dijon Pork Tenderloin w/a cranberry sauce. Oh yes, it's true. I was ready to put Rachel Ray in my back pocket.
So anyway, I read the recipe twice to be sure I understood the Order of Operations (for you elementary school math geeks). Then I checked which ingredients I had. I was missing just two. Tarragon and cranberry sauce. Now, the Lilly of a few months ago would have decided that all green spices are the same, and used rosemary or some other Simon and Garfunkely flavoring (damn them for the inadvertant accompaniment I get every time I spin my spice rack). And don't think I didn't entertain using what was left of my sugar free strawberry jam as a sauce instead.
But no, this time was different. I am ready to cook by the rules. I know. I felt possessed!
Last night I got home from the bar and what did I do? Did I head to the bathroom to pray to a porcelein God? Nope. Did I go straight for the chips in the pantry? Well, kinda. But I also had the wherewithal to MARINATE my meat to be cooked today. I kid you not. 3 a.m. found me fully dressed in club gear, shaking a tupperware container with my little concoction.
Today my inner domestic goddess and I got up and went to the store and picked up what I needed. Tarragon, the sauce, and much more (worry not, dear reader, for they corrolate to recipes for later in the week). I came home and made what my sister called my little Thanksgiving feast (ok, I had sweet potato on the side). I did everything as instructed and -- it came out really good! I put it on a pretty plate because I was dining with Lorelai and Rory and the rest of Stars Hollow. It had the makings of a perfect night minus the makeout session, but THINK! -- if I get better at this whole domestic gig, chances only increase actually get one of those too!
I can't get over the fact that I actually ate the whole dinner. What if I outgrow this "I'm the anti-domestic goddess" act that fits me like the perfect pair of jeans? What if, instead of scrolling past the Food Network listing on my tv, I stop? What if I WATCH it? What if I become one of Them? One of those people who knows how food magically arrives on a plate? Then what will I have? Apparently six servings of leftovers. Anyone hungry?
So as I was washing my dishes (I'm the cleanest chef west of the Mississippi, by the way) I had this epiphany -- it was this: every ingredient matters. You can't take shortcuts in the kitchen and expect things to come out as perfect as if you went through all the agony of circling the grocery store six thousand times scared to ask for canned anything because you're at an organic store. No short cuts. So it is in life. Every Ingredient Matters. And then I started to worry that I'm finding my life philosophies in the kitchen. "Every little ingredient matters." "Coffee or death." "Expiration dates are for wussies" and so on.
I'm hoping to cease the cheesy life lessons, but I'm going full-force with this cooking thing. I'm not sure where this adventure is taking me, but I highly encourage my friends and acquaintances to get very busy very soon because I'm looking for tasters, you see...
Yesterday I woke up in the morning and moseyed (mosied?) my way over to the kitchen, where I pulled out the latest issues of COOKING LIGHT. You might want to know why they were handy, and I'm going to go ahead and out myself and let you know that I subscribed. Yup, commitment. I leafed through and decided that I would take on the Dijon Pork Tenderloin w/a cranberry sauce. Oh yes, it's true. I was ready to put Rachel Ray in my back pocket.
So anyway, I read the recipe twice to be sure I understood the Order of Operations (for you elementary school math geeks). Then I checked which ingredients I had. I was missing just two. Tarragon and cranberry sauce. Now, the Lilly of a few months ago would have decided that all green spices are the same, and used rosemary or some other Simon and Garfunkely flavoring (damn them for the inadvertant accompaniment I get every time I spin my spice rack). And don't think I didn't entertain using what was left of my sugar free strawberry jam as a sauce instead.
But no, this time was different. I am ready to cook by the rules. I know. I felt possessed!
Last night I got home from the bar and what did I do? Did I head to the bathroom to pray to a porcelein God? Nope. Did I go straight for the chips in the pantry? Well, kinda. But I also had the wherewithal to MARINATE my meat to be cooked today. I kid you not. 3 a.m. found me fully dressed in club gear, shaking a tupperware container with my little concoction.
Today my inner domestic goddess and I got up and went to the store and picked up what I needed. Tarragon, the sauce, and much more (worry not, dear reader, for they corrolate to recipes for later in the week). I came home and made what my sister called my little Thanksgiving feast (ok, I had sweet potato on the side). I did everything as instructed and -- it came out really good! I put it on a pretty plate because I was dining with Lorelai and Rory and the rest of Stars Hollow. It had the makings of a perfect night minus the makeout session, but THINK! -- if I get better at this whole domestic gig, chances only increase actually get one of those too!
I can't get over the fact that I actually ate the whole dinner. What if I outgrow this "I'm the anti-domestic goddess" act that fits me like the perfect pair of jeans? What if, instead of scrolling past the Food Network listing on my tv, I stop? What if I WATCH it? What if I become one of Them? One of those people who knows how food magically arrives on a plate? Then what will I have? Apparently six servings of leftovers. Anyone hungry?
So as I was washing my dishes (I'm the cleanest chef west of the Mississippi, by the way) I had this epiphany -- it was this: every ingredient matters. You can't take shortcuts in the kitchen and expect things to come out as perfect as if you went through all the agony of circling the grocery store six thousand times scared to ask for canned anything because you're at an organic store. No short cuts. So it is in life. Every Ingredient Matters. And then I started to worry that I'm finding my life philosophies in the kitchen. "Every little ingredient matters." "Coffee or death." "Expiration dates are for wussies" and so on.
I'm hoping to cease the cheesy life lessons, but I'm going full-force with this cooking thing. I'm not sure where this adventure is taking me, but I highly encourage my friends and acquaintances to get very busy very soon because I'm looking for tasters, you see...
Let He Who Is Without Sin
Two events happened back to back that are possibly worth discussing.
This past week I met up with Tim, who started Pandora.com, my internet musical playground. Pandora is a site that lets you plug in an artist or band you like and then goes through its records to create a station of songs you are likely to find equally appealing as tested by the Music Genome Project. I know, too cool to be true. It explores the fact that our musical taste might be a touch different if we felt we had complete privacy to explore -- and adore -- music. In discussing this, he brought up the fact that music is very personal to people.
Proving that "All roads lead to Madonna" (R), I was talking with my sister yesterday and she brought up my unrelenting love for all things Madonna (no secret to you, dear reader), and she wrinkled her nose or rolled her eyes or jabbed at her Indian food in a protest of my taste. I realized in a flash of a moment (or it could have been a curry-induced hotflash, but let's go with "epiphany") that I do the same thing.
Ok, so that's about when I started to feel bad. On the one hand, I do believe music is right up there with air and water. I believe music is important and fuels our days and forms a soundtrack that we each live by, that marks important dates or times or experiences. I think everyone should have access to it and that a world without songs would be, well, the gynocologist's office. I love music SO much and consider it such a basic human accessory that when I find people who *don't* have articulated tastes or preferences or feel satisfied to listen to music rather than own it and obsess over it, I get a bit confused. I then have to look at them and think quickly of all the redeeming qualities why I should go on being their friend. And then I have to tell myself "It doesn't matter if there aren't enough reasons. You still have to stay their friend!" It's true.
I'm a self-proclaimed radio-knob-arm-wrestler. If you're in the car with me, the rules go like this:
IF I'M DRIVING: I'm the radio boss. My car is equipped with buttons on the BACK of the wheel (so you don't even KNOW I'm the boss but I am). Totally coincidental, and at the same time, totally convenient. It has been brought to my attention that I will covertly turn up the volume while other people are talking if there's a song I like but then fade out so my own proclamations can be heard. I know, an obnoxious twitch of a habit. But come on, pretty funny. Volume, cd, track, station, it's all mine. It's my car, so naturally it follows that I'm the Music Leader in that situation.
IF OTHER PEOPLE ARE DRIVING: I will wait to hear what's on. If it's objectionable, I will request a music change. Particularly when a group of people are in a car, you'd think music wouldn't matter and you'd, I dunno, TALK to each other. But the awful truth is that I get carsick if I don't have music on in the car. And knowing this, most people prefer to let me be the Music Leader and not barf on their lovely upholstery.
IF MY SISTER IS DRIVING: I will not wait to hear what's on. I think this is more out of habit than anything else. If it's B-52s, we will leave it in peace. But then I will sing along and Susie will shut it off because my singing is apparently that offensive (although fans of The Parish may not agree, and I love you all -- ::mwah::) Then, as she's focused on a task like, I dunno, getting us somewhere in one piece, I will covertly begin tinkering. Susie is one safe driver and so, after a few times, she will usually just shut it off while I look around the car for that damn B-52s cd.
Ok so now that you are fully acquainted with my Musicism or whatever you want to call it, my bossy nature (if you must) about music and my Taste Preferences (see also "Judgmental"), you can imagine how taken aback I was by the mere notion, suggested to me ever so casually, that taking music personally and harassing people about their (poor/pathetic/offensive - circle one) music taste are at odds.
So I'm deciding which one I want to pick. Do I continue believing that music is personal and important and touches everyone in a different way -- which would require me at some point backing down and biting my lovely tongue when someone's eyes grow wide and bright at the mention of a remastered Abba disc? (I'm talking biting til it bleeds, people!) That kinda sounds like the whole thing where you try to find something nice in everyone. I know, I gagged too.
Or do I march forward in my Crusade Against Shitty Music like one of those generals in the Civil War who, I dunno, marched alot?
Don't you love rhetorical questions?
This past week I met up with Tim, who started Pandora.com, my internet musical playground. Pandora is a site that lets you plug in an artist or band you like and then goes through its records to create a station of songs you are likely to find equally appealing as tested by the Music Genome Project. I know, too cool to be true. It explores the fact that our musical taste might be a touch different if we felt we had complete privacy to explore -- and adore -- music. In discussing this, he brought up the fact that music is very personal to people.
Proving that "All roads lead to Madonna" (R), I was talking with my sister yesterday and she brought up my unrelenting love for all things Madonna (no secret to you, dear reader), and she wrinkled her nose or rolled her eyes or jabbed at her Indian food in a protest of my taste. I realized in a flash of a moment (or it could have been a curry-induced hotflash, but let's go with "epiphany") that I do the same thing.
Ok, so that's about when I started to feel bad. On the one hand, I do believe music is right up there with air and water. I believe music is important and fuels our days and forms a soundtrack that we each live by, that marks important dates or times or experiences. I think everyone should have access to it and that a world without songs would be, well, the gynocologist's office. I love music SO much and consider it such a basic human accessory that when I find people who *don't* have articulated tastes or preferences or feel satisfied to listen to music rather than own it and obsess over it, I get a bit confused. I then have to look at them and think quickly of all the redeeming qualities why I should go on being their friend. And then I have to tell myself "It doesn't matter if there aren't enough reasons. You still have to stay their friend!" It's true.
I'm a self-proclaimed radio-knob-arm-wrestler. If you're in the car with me, the rules go like this:
IF I'M DRIVING: I'm the radio boss. My car is equipped with buttons on the BACK of the wheel (so you don't even KNOW I'm the boss but I am). Totally coincidental, and at the same time, totally convenient. It has been brought to my attention that I will covertly turn up the volume while other people are talking if there's a song I like but then fade out so my own proclamations can be heard. I know, an obnoxious twitch of a habit. But come on, pretty funny. Volume, cd, track, station, it's all mine. It's my car, so naturally it follows that I'm the Music Leader in that situation.
IF OTHER PEOPLE ARE DRIVING: I will wait to hear what's on. If it's objectionable, I will request a music change. Particularly when a group of people are in a car, you'd think music wouldn't matter and you'd, I dunno, TALK to each other. But the awful truth is that I get carsick if I don't have music on in the car. And knowing this, most people prefer to let me be the Music Leader and not barf on their lovely upholstery.
IF MY SISTER IS DRIVING: I will not wait to hear what's on. I think this is more out of habit than anything else. If it's B-52s, we will leave it in peace. But then I will sing along and Susie will shut it off because my singing is apparently that offensive (although fans of The Parish may not agree, and I love you all -- ::mwah::) Then, as she's focused on a task like, I dunno, getting us somewhere in one piece, I will covertly begin tinkering. Susie is one safe driver and so, after a few times, she will usually just shut it off while I look around the car for that damn B-52s cd.
Ok so now that you are fully acquainted with my Musicism or whatever you want to call it, my bossy nature (if you must) about music and my Taste Preferences (see also "Judgmental"), you can imagine how taken aback I was by the mere notion, suggested to me ever so casually, that taking music personally and harassing people about their (poor/pathetic/offensive - circle one) music taste are at odds.
So I'm deciding which one I want to pick. Do I continue believing that music is personal and important and touches everyone in a different way -- which would require me at some point backing down and biting my lovely tongue when someone's eyes grow wide and bright at the mention of a remastered Abba disc? (I'm talking biting til it bleeds, people!) That kinda sounds like the whole thing where you try to find something nice in everyone. I know, I gagged too.
Or do I march forward in my Crusade Against Shitty Music like one of those generals in the Civil War who, I dunno, marched alot?
Don't you love rhetorical questions?
March of the Questions
This one goes out to my roomie (Hi Roomie!).
So my Roomie (who can be identified by the beeping and screaming coming from my car when she lets me drop her off "smartest student at Cal Western coming through! BEEP BEEP! Make way!) and her boyfriend just saw March of the Penguins. I've had mixed feelings about this movie, but given our conversations about it, I thought I'd parlay my thoughts, hopes, and confusions into a post.
When I saw this movie, I left the theater very depressed. The storyline: penguins march across God's frozen earth to hatch an egg that they then roll back and forth in a painstakingly fragile ballet, during which the egg may just, well, die. And sometimes the moms die. And sometimes the dads get sad. And sometimes baby penguins get eaten by seals. The way I saw it, the movie might as well have been titled "God Hates Penguins". What a difficult life. I couldn't see the point.
If you rebut my thoughts with "that's part of the circle of life", please pass me the nearest barf bag.
Don't get me wrong -- the film was beautifully done. In fact, it was such a touching portrayal of the little things that I obviously took it to heart and felt the anguish of their little journey and the toils of their lifestyle.
But this afternoon a few questions came up that I think we need to address, effective immediately. I'm plagiarizing them from my conversation with Roomie. Please respond to us IMMEDIATELY if you have insight into this (yes, Susie, our avian specialist, this means you.)
--> So when the couples all find each other, what do the SINGLE penguins do? Today we bounced around a few scenarios- so do the single penguins hang around and help with anything? Moral support? Someone call Hillary -- does it take a village to raise a baby penguin too? Why would the singles go with the couples on this pain-in-the-ass-ful journey? I can't recall if the pairing happened before or after the trek. I venture to say before, in which case, why do they have to go too? Why can't they be left alone -- like their human corollaries -- to rot in single purgatory? A lil' Valentines spirit for ya ;)
--> What are the possibilities that a penguin would accidentally mate with a sibling? I mean, how do they know who their parents were or that they are related one year later?
Roomie suggested this and I would like to feign disgust, but the truth is, I wondered the same thing when I watched it.
--> Part B to the above: what would an incest penguin look like? (that's all mine)
--> Why do they go so far? We felt this was a stretch, a little dramatic flair.
Sheesh. Hollywood can't even leave the penguins alone.
Fan Mail.
Sometimes when I sit down to check email -- ok, every time I sit down to check email -- maybe I pretend I'm reading my fanmail. Who loves me? What do they think I can advise them about? Am I keeping them on their toes? Clients? Friends? Mom? The spam mail is just a red herring in this quest to connect with my public. A few lines in (or a cup of coffee later, whichever comes first), I'm quick to realize that Abu Kambuzi from Nigeria doesn't *really* need my help transferring millions to his account. I refocus and apply myself to giving useful advice to writers or friends (or completely useless advice and/or obnoxious and unsolicited life commentary, depending on the friend), channeling my thoughts out at 100+ wmp.
And when email fails me, and I'm super-bored and don't want to do my work, I will go back through my blog, beat myself up about typos, and read comments from my TRUE fans. Or obligated friends, as the case may be. Which led me, on this particular evening (it was that or continue reading a book about Mormons that is barely holding my interest) to a few months back when I posted a brief chain letter of sorts. The post I offered had concluded with offering readers to send me three questions which I would then answer.
But I realize tonight that I never did answer them. Oops. With an attitude like that, how do I expect to keep my fans?
Taking a page from the "better late than never" book, I'm going to go ahead and answer them.
WITH APOLOGIES, I OFFER YOU:
1. What’s with this new pink color on your blog?
Answer: My blog, as you, dear reader, must be noticing, is no longer pink. I go through phases when I need change. Expect frequent overhaul of my blog design if I can figure out how to not lose the comments you've all posted ("I" = Jon, my tech guru, friend, client, coiner of the phrase "My agent, my life." and author of THE ROUGH GUIDE TO BLOGGING, forthcoming this summer. How's that for a shameless plug?).
2. Where/what is Mathissexy? I tried mathissexy.com; it wasn’t anything interesting.
Answer: Mathissexy is something my sister mentioned on her blog. I don't know what it is, but since it generated from my sister, chances are it's hip and ahead of the curve, and thus something you and I won't be privy to for another 2-3 years, at which point she'll tiredly point out "I told you so."
3. Can you make gobs of money being a literary agent?
Answer: The short answer to this one is yes. The long answer is that one in a million do. But we all agree that I'm special like that, no? Keep checking back. James Frey and his agent have parted ways, so...
Kidding, guys, kidding.
I personally could make gobs of money if you refer up there to #1 and buy Jon's book. In bulk. For years.
B1. Why study French instead of Spanish?
Answer:
In general -- French is very pretty, but short of living in France, French Canada, certain parts of Africa, or dating Gerard Depardieu (how many blogs can boast his name coming up TWICE?), eet eez maybe not so -- how do you say? -- makeeng of sense.
Personally -- My parents didn't really see the point to us learning Spanish growing up. What was the point? We were in the midwest -- *we* were the only brown people in town. At least with French we could communicate with the family members abroad that we (my sister and I) so staunchly refused to speak Persian with. Plus when they sent us away to language camp in the summer, it just seemed like you'd be better behaved at the French camp. It translated to "less fun, more manners."
Moving to California was a big ass reality check and now my brother, mom and I all speak it.
Truth is, in a country where we regularly massacre our own language (it's English, by the way), I'll support whatever language you'd like to study up on.
B2. How sinful is it to be a closet label whore? Not LV or anything obscene like that, but say, 7 jeans, or Valentino sunglasses.
Answer: In Lilly's Book of Sins, this fit in right between "wearing Tevas" and "not flushing". I thought the whole fun of being a label whore was the exhibitionism?
B3. Overrated, overroasted Starbucks or messy and time consuming but perfect stove heated Bialetti moka?
Answer: Starbucks. I would elaborate on this, but I can't even see how it's a question. Although if they promote anymore crappy albums, I may have to convert.
1. what are you getting dad for xmas?
Answer: Hi Susie. Every year I give dad something that bows to his dismay of all things gifty just a bit more. This year I took a funny investment book from the free books shelf in my apartment complex and wrapped it up for him, labeling that it was acquired at no cost. By next xmas I should be giving him things like homemade coupon books boasting such treats as "free parking at 7366 Fairway Road", "this coupon entitles you to not be given a new tie for Christmas", and "You can walk the dog." Can't wait.
2. what's the grossest thing you've ever eaten while on the atkins diet?
Answer: I ate a hell of a lot of bacon the first time I was on it. I mean half a pack in one sitting. Serving sizes mean nothing to me when I'm on Atkins.
3. name the top five things you miss about south haven, michigan
Answer: In no particular order-- sitting by myself on the grass watching the sunset, Ryan Gardner's cute friends, that feeling of hope as I'd enter the pawn shop looking for cheap cassette tapes, the smell of mom heating a rhubarb pie from Crane's orchard, and getting all the neighborhood kids together to create a whirlpool in the pool at night. (It was harder to limit that to 5 than I thought it would be. Oh South Haven, Michigan, 49090, how I miss you.)
1. Do all the real men migrate to Vegas?
Answer: By "real men" do you mean "greasy chest hair caught in rusting faux gold chains basking in the stink of last night's hookers"? Just checking. Real men VISIT Vegas, find a cute little Persian thing at the craps table, and strike up a witty conversation. WHERE ARE YOU, REAL MEN?
2. What (if any) articles of clothing do you swear help you get lucky? (I have my own sad list)
Answer: If I'd found the outfit, I don't think I'd be sitting at home alone blogging at night, now would I?
3. Is Ocean Beach the Gyro capital of the world?
Answer: I would assume Athens is, but don't quote me on that.
And when email fails me, and I'm super-bored and don't want to do my work, I will go back through my blog, beat myself up about typos, and read comments from my TRUE fans. Or obligated friends, as the case may be. Which led me, on this particular evening (it was that or continue reading a book about Mormons that is barely holding my interest) to a few months back when I posted a brief chain letter of sorts. The post I offered had concluded with offering readers to send me three questions which I would then answer.
But I realize tonight that I never did answer them. Oops. With an attitude like that, how do I expect to keep my fans?
Taking a page from the "better late than never" book, I'm going to go ahead and answer them.
WITH APOLOGIES, I OFFER YOU:
1. What’s with this new pink color on your blog?
Answer: My blog, as you, dear reader, must be noticing, is no longer pink. I go through phases when I need change. Expect frequent overhaul of my blog design if I can figure out how to not lose the comments you've all posted ("I" = Jon, my tech guru, friend, client, coiner of the phrase "My agent, my life." and author of THE ROUGH GUIDE TO BLOGGING, forthcoming this summer. How's that for a shameless plug?).
2. Where/what is Mathissexy? I tried mathissexy.com; it wasn’t anything interesting.
Answer: Mathissexy is something my sister mentioned on her blog. I don't know what it is, but since it generated from my sister, chances are it's hip and ahead of the curve, and thus something you and I won't be privy to for another 2-3 years, at which point she'll tiredly point out "I told you so."
3. Can you make gobs of money being a literary agent?
Answer: The short answer to this one is yes. The long answer is that one in a million do. But we all agree that I'm special like that, no? Keep checking back. James Frey and his agent have parted ways, so...
Kidding, guys, kidding.
I personally could make gobs of money if you refer up there to #1 and buy Jon's book. In bulk. For years.
B1. Why study French instead of Spanish?
Answer:
In general -- French is very pretty, but short of living in France, French Canada, certain parts of Africa, or dating Gerard Depardieu (how many blogs can boast his name coming up TWICE?), eet eez maybe not so -- how do you say? -- makeeng of sense.
Personally -- My parents didn't really see the point to us learning Spanish growing up. What was the point? We were in the midwest -- *we* were the only brown people in town. At least with French we could communicate with the family members abroad that we (my sister and I) so staunchly refused to speak Persian with. Plus when they sent us away to language camp in the summer, it just seemed like you'd be better behaved at the French camp. It translated to "less fun, more manners."
Moving to California was a big ass reality check and now my brother, mom and I all speak it.
Truth is, in a country where we regularly massacre our own language (it's English, by the way), I'll support whatever language you'd like to study up on.
B2. How sinful is it to be a closet label whore? Not LV or anything obscene like that, but say, 7 jeans, or Valentino sunglasses.
Answer: In Lilly's Book of Sins, this fit in right between "wearing Tevas" and "not flushing". I thought the whole fun of being a label whore was the exhibitionism?
B3. Overrated, overroasted Starbucks or messy and time consuming but perfect stove heated Bialetti moka?
Answer: Starbucks. I would elaborate on this, but I can't even see how it's a question. Although if they promote anymore crappy albums, I may have to convert.
1. what are you getting dad for xmas?
Answer: Hi Susie. Every year I give dad something that bows to his dismay of all things gifty just a bit more. This year I took a funny investment book from the free books shelf in my apartment complex and wrapped it up for him, labeling that it was acquired at no cost. By next xmas I should be giving him things like homemade coupon books boasting such treats as "free parking at 7366 Fairway Road", "this coupon entitles you to not be given a new tie for Christmas", and "You can walk the dog." Can't wait.
2. what's the grossest thing you've ever eaten while on the atkins diet?
Answer: I ate a hell of a lot of bacon the first time I was on it. I mean half a pack in one sitting. Serving sizes mean nothing to me when I'm on Atkins.
3. name the top five things you miss about south haven, michigan
Answer: In no particular order-- sitting by myself on the grass watching the sunset, Ryan Gardner's cute friends, that feeling of hope as I'd enter the pawn shop looking for cheap cassette tapes, the smell of mom heating a rhubarb pie from Crane's orchard, and getting all the neighborhood kids together to create a whirlpool in the pool at night. (It was harder to limit that to 5 than I thought it would be. Oh South Haven, Michigan, 49090, how I miss you.)
1. Do all the real men migrate to Vegas?
Answer: By "real men" do you mean "greasy chest hair caught in rusting faux gold chains basking in the stink of last night's hookers"? Just checking. Real men VISIT Vegas, find a cute little Persian thing at the craps table, and strike up a witty conversation. WHERE ARE YOU, REAL MEN?
2. What (if any) articles of clothing do you swear help you get lucky? (I have my own sad list)
Answer: If I'd found the outfit, I don't think I'd be sitting at home alone blogging at night, now would I?
3. Is Ocean Beach the Gyro capital of the world?
Answer: I would assume Athens is, but don't quote me on that.
A New Brand of Family Fun OR How We Spent Monday Night
I recently made a little mistake of judgment that I will now share with you so that you never make the same mistake.
Allow me to set the scene: on the eve of my father's 65th birthday, I got the feeling that he wasn't so excited about it after all. I mean, for YEARS he's been ordering senior breakfasts at Dennys and haggling at the movie counter for $2 off. He LOVED all the perks of nearly passing for a senior citizen. But when it came to actually "becoming" one, he got a little bit bummed. "Dad, you wanna go to the casino on your birthday?" Nope. Sad face. "Wanna go to SOUPLANTATION?" Nope. That's when I started to worry.
We quickly devised a plan- entertain him with a funny slapstick movie and a dinner he'd like. Ready, set, go. Short of my brother shaving for the occasion, we couldn't have better laid out our plans.
I arrived at the house and mom was cooking. During dinner we each poured ourselves one glass of wine from the half-empty bottles he wanted us to finish. We ate everything on the table and kept the conversation pleasant. We spoke about how to best wrangle a good deal on the used car Susie and Michael were about to buy. As soon as we were done, I beat him to clearing dishes and made sure the kitchen was SPOTLESS following a meal of his favorite food.
Then came the presents. For once, I did as he said, avoiding big or expensive gifts. He openly hates gifts. But I had to get him something. So that something was the latest John Grisham book. Paperback. With the Target 20% off sticker to boot. (I couldn't strip him of that extra bit of joyful news.) It was wrapped in leftover silvery wedding bell wrapping paper. I had even used one of the 50 cent greeting cards he'd bought for me the week before. He asked me with joy if it was one of those cards and when I confirmed, his grin grew bigger than it has in the past 28 years I've known him. It was a grin that said "this is my kid. Now I am sure of it!"
My brother and sister followed suit, providing him with unwrapped gifts that he loved. A book on the stock market, the Godfather dvd set and a magic dvd. We just had to drive it home.
Now my dad is a guy whose cine-motto is "I don't want to watch something depressing." That's right. Schindler's List can win all the awards it wants, no dice. However, he will watch with delight at Inspector Closeau's adventures in the Pink Panther series starring Peter Sellers. If it involves Steve Martin, it's going to be promising. And my dad has singlehandedly kept Leslie Nielsen in the business. Just in case you wonder why they made "Naked Gun 33 and 1/3".
I had recommended a movie I'd seen for the evening's finale. We'd get dad his jar of roasted peanuts and seat him in his favorite chair. This..... was..... it. Funny? Yes. Slapstick? Surely. Male humor? Check!
It was "THE FORTY YEAR OLD VIRGIN".
Now, I'll be the first to say that I don't have a great memory. I can remember the gist of a movie or book, but very rarely do I remember details or character lines (that memory space has gone to song lyrics, as we all know). So when we sat down to watch the movie, I had NO idea what we were in for. Honestly, the scene that stuck out to me was the chest waxing. Blame it on my middle eastern self. I remember the scene about body hair, and TOTALLY blank on the substance of the rest of it.
Unfortunately, this was the part of the plan that I rigged ALL by myself. My brother nagged that he hadn't seen more than the first few minutes, but went along just to be part of the evening. My mom obviously hadn't seen it because, well, she's a mom. When I suggested it, my sister offered to bring it along because it had just arrived on Netflix. That's right. JUST arrived. As in "she hadn't watched it yet." (Her boyfriend had, though, and for that I totally and completely implicate him as an accomplice in what followed.)
Have you ever watched a bedroom scene with your parents? I generally don't because, back when we were young, my mom instituted the "take a walk" policy. If there was so much as a couple leaning together to kiss (I'm sure we missed many a whisper scene), she announced "TAKE A WAAAALK!" and off we went. Susie and I would march around our old house in Chicago, which was conveniently arranged in a circular course. We'd hurry around the tv room and continue through the house, perhaps banging a few piano keys on the way, sliding across a bit of the wood floor, and continuing on our blissfully happy way until we were reinvited into the room.
Well lemme tell you, I have never wanted to tell my PARENTS to take a walk as I did that night. My mom eventually removed herself from the room quietly, for which I was grateful. I don't know exactly when she left, because I couldn't look at her! The movie began with a conversation about woman-on-horse action and ended with a graphic "ha. You're not a virgin anymoooooooore!" wedding night. Ugh. I get dizzy just thinking about it.
Somehow the entire night, I was immobilized. I had nothing to say for myself. To speak up would be to acknowledge the nightmare I had created for us. And to draw attention to the fact that I had already seen it and found it to be funny enough to recommend. OOPS. So we all just sat there. I'm going to have to organize a Social Institute for Family Film Watching, which will include a total and complete list of movies that are inappropriate to watch with your parents. This just shouldn't happen. I mean, who are all those people out crusading for education and homelessness? Don't they know the REAL social issues pressuring our domestic agenda?
On the up side, Dad laughed out loud, so I knew I did the right thing as far as cheering him up. Despite that glitch, the evening went off quite well, and while I'll be abdicating my throne as "film chooser" FOREVER, I think we made a difference in how he'll head into the next year of his life.
Too bad about all that $ we saved on gift wrapping or cards or expensive gifts though. How much is family therapy anyway?
Allow me to set the scene: on the eve of my father's 65th birthday, I got the feeling that he wasn't so excited about it after all. I mean, for YEARS he's been ordering senior breakfasts at Dennys and haggling at the movie counter for $2 off. He LOVED all the perks of nearly passing for a senior citizen. But when it came to actually "becoming" one, he got a little bit bummed. "Dad, you wanna go to the casino on your birthday?" Nope. Sad face. "Wanna go to SOUPLANTATION?" Nope. That's when I started to worry.
We quickly devised a plan- entertain him with a funny slapstick movie and a dinner he'd like. Ready, set, go. Short of my brother shaving for the occasion, we couldn't have better laid out our plans.
I arrived at the house and mom was cooking. During dinner we each poured ourselves one glass of wine from the half-empty bottles he wanted us to finish. We ate everything on the table and kept the conversation pleasant. We spoke about how to best wrangle a good deal on the used car Susie and Michael were about to buy. As soon as we were done, I beat him to clearing dishes and made sure the kitchen was SPOTLESS following a meal of his favorite food.
Then came the presents. For once, I did as he said, avoiding big or expensive gifts. He openly hates gifts. But I had to get him something. So that something was the latest John Grisham book. Paperback. With the Target 20% off sticker to boot. (I couldn't strip him of that extra bit of joyful news.) It was wrapped in leftover silvery wedding bell wrapping paper. I had even used one of the 50 cent greeting cards he'd bought for me the week before. He asked me with joy if it was one of those cards and when I confirmed, his grin grew bigger than it has in the past 28 years I've known him. It was a grin that said "this is my kid. Now I am sure of it!"
My brother and sister followed suit, providing him with unwrapped gifts that he loved. A book on the stock market, the Godfather dvd set and a magic dvd. We just had to drive it home.
Now my dad is a guy whose cine-motto is "I don't want to watch something depressing." That's right. Schindler's List can win all the awards it wants, no dice. However, he will watch with delight at Inspector Closeau's adventures in the Pink Panther series starring Peter Sellers. If it involves Steve Martin, it's going to be promising. And my dad has singlehandedly kept Leslie Nielsen in the business. Just in case you wonder why they made "Naked Gun 33 and 1/3".
I had recommended a movie I'd seen for the evening's finale. We'd get dad his jar of roasted peanuts and seat him in his favorite chair. This..... was..... it. Funny? Yes. Slapstick? Surely. Male humor? Check!
It was "THE FORTY YEAR OLD VIRGIN".
Now, I'll be the first to say that I don't have a great memory. I can remember the gist of a movie or book, but very rarely do I remember details or character lines (that memory space has gone to song lyrics, as we all know). So when we sat down to watch the movie, I had NO idea what we were in for. Honestly, the scene that stuck out to me was the chest waxing. Blame it on my middle eastern self. I remember the scene about body hair, and TOTALLY blank on the substance of the rest of it.
Unfortunately, this was the part of the plan that I rigged ALL by myself. My brother nagged that he hadn't seen more than the first few minutes, but went along just to be part of the evening. My mom obviously hadn't seen it because, well, she's a mom. When I suggested it, my sister offered to bring it along because it had just arrived on Netflix. That's right. JUST arrived. As in "she hadn't watched it yet." (Her boyfriend had, though, and for that I totally and completely implicate him as an accomplice in what followed.)
Have you ever watched a bedroom scene with your parents? I generally don't because, back when we were young, my mom instituted the "take a walk" policy. If there was so much as a couple leaning together to kiss (I'm sure we missed many a whisper scene), she announced "TAKE A WAAAALK!" and off we went. Susie and I would march around our old house in Chicago, which was conveniently arranged in a circular course. We'd hurry around the tv room and continue through the house, perhaps banging a few piano keys on the way, sliding across a bit of the wood floor, and continuing on our blissfully happy way until we were reinvited into the room.
Well lemme tell you, I have never wanted to tell my PARENTS to take a walk as I did that night. My mom eventually removed herself from the room quietly, for which I was grateful. I don't know exactly when she left, because I couldn't look at her! The movie began with a conversation about woman-on-horse action and ended with a graphic "ha. You're not a virgin anymoooooooore!" wedding night. Ugh. I get dizzy just thinking about it.
Somehow the entire night, I was immobilized. I had nothing to say for myself. To speak up would be to acknowledge the nightmare I had created for us. And to draw attention to the fact that I had already seen it and found it to be funny enough to recommend. OOPS. So we all just sat there. I'm going to have to organize a Social Institute for Family Film Watching, which will include a total and complete list of movies that are inappropriate to watch with your parents. This just shouldn't happen. I mean, who are all those people out crusading for education and homelessness? Don't they know the REAL social issues pressuring our domestic agenda?
On the up side, Dad laughed out loud, so I knew I did the right thing as far as cheering him up. Despite that glitch, the evening went off quite well, and while I'll be abdicating my throne as "film chooser" FOREVER, I think we made a difference in how he'll head into the next year of his life.
Too bad about all that $ we saved on gift wrapping or cards or expensive gifts though. How much is family therapy anyway?
Hmmmm, Did You Do Something Different?
Ok, so here's a moral dilemma I've struggled with -- let me know what you guys think. Consider this a formal poll of your social practices.
When is it appropriate to comment on a woman's apparent pregnancy?
A. When and ONLY when it's verified, ie. you're in the room watching the baby come out of her.
B. Never.
C. When you've heard from someone else.
D. When she looks like she has a beer belly that you don't *think* was there before.
E. When you're her boyfriend and you haven't been getting any from her.
Ok, the reason I bring this up is that I ran into a casual acquaintance tonight. I asked her how she'd been and she said "Good, good. I, um, had a baby."
So NATURALLY I did the whole 'Ohmygosh!Congratulations!ThatisSOGREAT.Noway!' thing. To which she responded "Well, when I saw you back in June, I was seven months pregnant. And you didn't say anything! I left with my friend feeling sorry for myself because I thought you just thought I was fat." So then I had to explain to her my personal theory, ie. choice "A", listed above. Friends, if you are apparently with child, let me be the first to say you will NOT hear it out of me. Never will the words "Are you expeeeeeeeeecting?" fall from these lips.
I realize the margin of error on guessing wrong is probably very very small after a certain point. When the belly is past the boobs, you're pretty much good to go. My thing is to not comment until they (aformentioned Possibly Pregnant One) insist on making it conversation -- that, or if the labor pains strike on my watch. That's just me. I'm playing it safe. Hey, at least someone is.
When is it appropriate to comment on a woman's apparent pregnancy?
A. When and ONLY when it's verified, ie. you're in the room watching the baby come out of her.
B. Never.
C. When you've heard from someone else.
D. When she looks like she has a beer belly that you don't *think* was there before.
E. When you're her boyfriend and you haven't been getting any from her.
Ok, the reason I bring this up is that I ran into a casual acquaintance tonight. I asked her how she'd been and she said "Good, good. I, um, had a baby."
So NATURALLY I did the whole 'Ohmygosh!Congratulations!ThatisSOGREAT.Noway!' thing. To which she responded "Well, when I saw you back in June, I was seven months pregnant. And you didn't say anything! I left with my friend feeling sorry for myself because I thought you just thought I was fat." So then I had to explain to her my personal theory, ie. choice "A", listed above. Friends, if you are apparently with child, let me be the first to say you will NOT hear it out of me. Never will the words "Are you expeeeeeeeeecting?" fall from these lips.
I realize the margin of error on guessing wrong is probably very very small after a certain point. When the belly is past the boobs, you're pretty much good to go. My thing is to not comment until they (aformentioned Possibly Pregnant One) insist on making it conversation -- that, or if the labor pains strike on my watch. That's just me. I'm playing it safe. Hey, at least someone is.
I'mGonnaWashThatManRightOuttaMyHair
There has only been one time in my life that I had short hair. It was (appropriately) in the 80's. Lice was going around my classroom and, next thing I knew, my mom had given me a really short haircut. I would describe it to you as a bowl if it had that shape. Unfortunately, my unruly hair had no shape whatsoever. The shape was kinda like cotton candy, only not soft. Just gross. To compensate, I wore my favorite puffy pastel reversable sweater (I'm not a fashion girl, so the fact that I remember the outfit is meant to signify how traumatic it all was) to school. Matt Evans was quick to tell me that, well, he liked my hair better long. I went home and stared in the mirror and cried. For two days. I never spoke to him again (and when I say never, I mean it. I'm a woman of my word). I also never really cut it again. I had one near-cut trim when a Persian hairstylist in Vestvood took liberties with the 'trim' she was commissioned to give me, but never has my hair risen above shoulder level.
Until last week.
I called my mom and told her I wanted to cut my hair off. Only fitting that she of the 1980's Lice Epidemic Hairstyling Fiasco be the one to once again take scissors to my locks. Was there a moment of regret? Not really, more fascination. Something that had been part of me so long was being amputated, but I couldn't feel a thing except surprise that I'd made the decision. I don't know what I was cutting off, but it felt awesome.
The first shower after you get your hair cut (I'm talking over a foot of tresses here, folks) is scary. You have phantom hair. I have since shared Phantom Hair stories with people, okay, just my sister, who grew her hair equally long and cut it. She recalled throwing her hair back in the shower and nearly knocking herself out when, lacking hair weight, she made cranial contact with a shower wall. But enough about her, let's get back to me ;)
Somehow you think that if you change your hair, you change your life. I'm not making this up. I watched the Lenny Kravitz Behind the Music special, and when he needed to rejuvenate, what did HE do? That's right- he cut his hair! And what are half of celeb magazines focused on? How women took their lives into their hands and cut their hair. Even Persian tribes believe that shaving the hair encourages growth. Granted, that's in children, but I'm short. I'm ready for change. As the wise philosopher Lauryn Hill once said "If you're not changing/growing, then you're dead."
So the report one week in is... well, I just feel like I'm wearing a wig. And I feel like I look older. But I'm also proud of myself for doing something really scary and having no idea how it would turn out. But on the other side, I'm learning not to be attached to it. It's just friggin hair. I know, I can hear you calling in the COSMO cops right now.
And yes, there will be the Matt Evans-es of the world who will remind me that - tsk tsk - men like long hair. But to them I say: Why don't you go worry about the pluralization of your last name and get me an answer on that instead of worrying about my hair?
It's possible to look one way so long that it *becomes* your identity instead of just decorating it. When you take that away, who are you? That's what I'm trying to figure out. And it seems I have about two years to do just that.
Spellbound
This afternoon a friend sent me this link that sends you to Merriam-Webster to find out what the most popular words looked up in the last year were. Click on this link and you too will read that:
"Merriam-Webster's Words of the Year 2005
Based on your online lookups, the #1 Word of the Year for 2005 was:
1. integrity
Pronunciation: in-'te-gr&-tE
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English integrite, from Middle French & Latin; Middle French integrité, from Latin integritat-, integritas, from integr-, integer entire
1 : firm adherence to a code of especially moral or artistic values : INCORRUPTIBILITY
2 : an unimpaired condition : SOUNDNESS
3 : the quality or state of being complete or undivided : COMPLETENESS
synonym see HONESTY"
The NUMBER ONE word that Americans didn't understand the meaning of was... ***integrity***?
I couldn't even bring myself to read the rest of the list. Oh brother.
"Merriam-Webster's Words of the Year 2005
Based on your online lookups, the #1 Word of the Year for 2005 was:
1. integrity
Pronunciation: in-'te-gr&-tE
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English integrite, from Middle French & Latin; Middle French integrité, from Latin integritat-, integritas, from integr-, integer entire
1 : firm adherence to a code of especially moral or artistic values : INCORRUPTIBILITY
2 : an unimpaired condition : SOUNDNESS
3 : the quality or state of being complete or undivided : COMPLETENESS
synonym see HONESTY"
The NUMBER ONE word that Americans didn't understand the meaning of was... ***integrity***?
I couldn't even bring myself to read the rest of the list. Oh brother.
Intentions Count for Something?
I believe the current state of my life can be summed up by the fact that I had every intention of reading Kafka's "The Trial" this afternoon and ended up watching "13 Going on 30".
The Good, The Bad and the Discounted
THE GOOD: Today I got my first galley. What is a galley, you ask? It's a bound copy of a book- an advanced ready copy. It's for THE GRILLED CHEESE MADONNA by Chris Cihlar. I opened the envelope and couldn't believe my eyes as I finally got to see a project I had watched grow from start to finish (I picked up the project starting with a random query email).
I imagine this is what a proud father feels like as he holds his newborn (the joy, the pride, no real sense of the blood, sweat and tears that bore the actual thing). Keep an eye out for it. As we were reading, we were busting up. If I didn't have free copies, I'd totally buy it, it's so damn funny. May 2006, baby!
THE BAD: I realized yesterday that there is something incredibly unfair about the holiday season as an Iranian American. You see, I don't subscribe to any particular religion, but something about the holidays in the US really get me down. I mean, deeeeee-pressed. This year I've been so depressed that I haven't even been able to partake in my usual ritual of popping in Home for the Holidays and delighting in the dysfunction of another person's family.
I feel the same pressure as everyone else to buy the 'perfect' gift for the people I love, to spend time with my family (even though we all live in the same city), and to make resolutions for a new year. Problem is, I'm not Christian or Jewish, the token holidays of the aformentioned "holiday season." Technically Persians do have a holiday, and it was tonight. Shabeh-Yalda, the longest night of the year. According to my mom, my job was to "eat lots of fruit and make a wish!" That's the type of holiday I want. And yet I feel all the solemnity of the Judeo-Christian Shopping season and all it entails. This depression is slated to last another two weeks. Right up until Dec 31st, when I have to make the aformentioned Resolutions and then sink under the weight of figuring out how I will possibly accomplish in 365 days what I haven't in the previous 28 years. The pressure, the pressure! And all this in the face of the fact that the new year that actually means something to me, Noruz, doesn't even roll around til the first day of spring in March.
I recently heard a statistic that approximately 70% of the United States is Christian. I don't know if this is true, but I wonder how much the numbers fluctuate around the holidays. The rest of us, aka. "Other", get greedy, we wanna play too, so we put up a tree, and then all hell (or depression) breaks loose. Last night my family even got around to bickering just a tad about the placement of lights and ornamentation on our Christmas tree. I am a victim of the American Marketing Complex, and it's my own damn fault.
THE DISCOUNTED: Random stroke of brilliance tonight. I think third wheels should get discounted movie tickets.
I imagine this is what a proud father feels like as he holds his newborn (the joy, the pride, no real sense of the blood, sweat and tears that bore the actual thing). Keep an eye out for it. As we were reading, we were busting up. If I didn't have free copies, I'd totally buy it, it's so damn funny. May 2006, baby!
THE BAD: I realized yesterday that there is something incredibly unfair about the holiday season as an Iranian American. You see, I don't subscribe to any particular religion, but something about the holidays in the US really get me down. I mean, deeeeee-pressed. This year I've been so depressed that I haven't even been able to partake in my usual ritual of popping in Home for the Holidays and delighting in the dysfunction of another person's family.
I feel the same pressure as everyone else to buy the 'perfect' gift for the people I love, to spend time with my family (even though we all live in the same city), and to make resolutions for a new year. Problem is, I'm not Christian or Jewish, the token holidays of the aformentioned "holiday season." Technically Persians do have a holiday, and it was tonight. Shabeh-Yalda, the longest night of the year. According to my mom, my job was to "eat lots of fruit and make a wish!" That's the type of holiday I want. And yet I feel all the solemnity of the Judeo-Christian Shopping season and all it entails. This depression is slated to last another two weeks. Right up until Dec 31st, when I have to make the aformentioned Resolutions and then sink under the weight of figuring out how I will possibly accomplish in 365 days what I haven't in the previous 28 years. The pressure, the pressure! And all this in the face of the fact that the new year that actually means something to me, Noruz, doesn't even roll around til the first day of spring in March.
I recently heard a statistic that approximately 70% of the United States is Christian. I don't know if this is true, but I wonder how much the numbers fluctuate around the holidays. The rest of us, aka. "Other", get greedy, we wanna play too, so we put up a tree, and then all hell (or depression) breaks loose. Last night my family even got around to bickering just a tad about the placement of lights and ornamentation on our Christmas tree. I am a victim of the American Marketing Complex, and it's my own damn fault.
THE DISCOUNTED: Random stroke of brilliance tonight. I think third wheels should get discounted movie tickets.
Resolving
The other night I was having dinner with one of my best friends and I asked her what her New Year's resolution would be. Never in my 28 years of life on this here earth have I seen a face go so blank. She may have asked me "What do you mean?," I really don't recall at this point.
You see, it has never been an option in my mind. Just like how you did your homework growing up and you look before you cross the street and you flush the toilet after you've left a souvenir (hopefully. If not, feel free to add that to your list)... you make a resolution. It's part of the natural order of things, really. Or so I thought.
The entire month of January is built around the fact that we are each supposed to be new people at the start of the new year. A Friends episode is devoted to this 'fact' -- that we all *try*, in any case. Entire marketing campaigns (big nod to 24 Hour Fitness, for example) have even been formulated around the usual suspects (weight loss and...oh yeah, weight loss). Everyone does it. No one doesn't do it. There are nudist colonies for people who don't wear clothes. There aren't "no resolution" colonies because it, to my knowledge, just doesn't exist. EVERYONE MAKES THEM... right?
Let's get back to the table. So I'm sitting in this fabulous little Asian fusion joint in L.A. chowing down food at 10pm. While I'm sitting there counting my sins (eating out while I'm supposed to be saving money, eating food that tastes too good to be good for you and the new dress you want to fit in to, etc.), my friend shrugged with the explanation that she had actually NEVER IN HER LIFE made a New Year's resolution.
I tried baiting her with a few suggestions -- "You never thought to ... or ....?" Nothing. She didn't bite. In fact, I can't recall making eye contact after the Kung Pao arrived. (But, again, that could have been my fault. See Resolution #2, above.)
Must be nice, most of me thought. A little tiny part of me sniffed at her "Hm. Well, the rest of us are trying to become better and better people with each passing year." But the majority of me recognized that she was the fortunate one. She is who she is. She accepts that. She doesn't make promises she doesn't intend to keep; if those things -if that handy list of 'self improvements' meant something to her, she would have made those changes long long ago. It wouldn't require an expensive evening out, annoying noisemakers and a cheap glass of champagne to seal the promise to herself.
I should clarify here that, while fascinated by her behavior, I didn't convert. I mean, anthropogists go observe tribal rituals but it doesn't mean they come home with a neck coil or a communal husband. I'm still rapidly creating a list and trying to google "how many resolutions is too may resolutions?" But it's enlightening to see how the other half lives. And hey, it's one less person fighting for the treadmill.
You see, it has never been an option in my mind. Just like how you did your homework growing up and you look before you cross the street and you flush the toilet after you've left a souvenir (hopefully. If not, feel free to add that to your list)... you make a resolution. It's part of the natural order of things, really. Or so I thought.
The entire month of January is built around the fact that we are each supposed to be new people at the start of the new year. A Friends episode is devoted to this 'fact' -- that we all *try*, in any case. Entire marketing campaigns (big nod to 24 Hour Fitness, for example) have even been formulated around the usual suspects (weight loss and...oh yeah, weight loss). Everyone does it. No one doesn't do it. There are nudist colonies for people who don't wear clothes. There aren't "no resolution" colonies because it, to my knowledge, just doesn't exist. EVERYONE MAKES THEM... right?
Let's get back to the table. So I'm sitting in this fabulous little Asian fusion joint in L.A. chowing down food at 10pm. While I'm sitting there counting my sins (eating out while I'm supposed to be saving money, eating food that tastes too good to be good for you and the new dress you want to fit in to, etc.), my friend shrugged with the explanation that she had actually NEVER IN HER LIFE made a New Year's resolution.
I tried baiting her with a few suggestions -- "You never thought to ... or ....?" Nothing. She didn't bite. In fact, I can't recall making eye contact after the Kung Pao arrived. (But, again, that could have been my fault. See Resolution #2, above.)
Must be nice, most of me thought. A little tiny part of me sniffed at her "Hm. Well, the rest of us are trying to become better and better people with each passing year." But the majority of me recognized that she was the fortunate one. She is who she is. She accepts that. She doesn't make promises she doesn't intend to keep; if those things -if that handy list of 'self improvements' meant something to her, she would have made those changes long long ago. It wouldn't require an expensive evening out, annoying noisemakers and a cheap glass of champagne to seal the promise to herself.
I should clarify here that, while fascinated by her behavior, I didn't convert. I mean, anthropogists go observe tribal rituals but it doesn't mean they come home with a neck coil or a communal husband. I'm still rapidly creating a list and trying to google "how many resolutions is too may resolutions?" But it's enlightening to see how the other half lives. And hey, it's one less person fighting for the treadmill.
In No Particular Order
1. I'm not okay yet, are you? A mere 24 hours later, Yahoo's headlines about Stanley "Tookie" Williams are but a cache'd link in a faraway place. Everyone is over it. I'm not. Watching the news and the minute-by-minute account of what was going on was a wake-up call to the part of me that used to be very active about prison social issues. Somewhere along the way, I tucked that interest and concern aside. Sometimes problems seem so big and I don't even know where to dig in and start helping. I have started to act as if voting from time to time for a Democrat would do the trick. But we have a legal system where it's okay to execute someone. To extinguish an existence. And that bothers me in a way I can't even put into words. In the matter of one day, I watched a simple shrug of a conclusion rise like a puff of air from that execution chamber. The conclusion: there is no redemption.
Have we lost our faith in the possibility of redemption -- or, simply put -- that people can learn and change and become better or shed an old skin? Is that what we were really putting to sleep last night? That hope? If so, that's so sad that I don't even know how to address it.
2. Tonight I went to a party with Cyrus and someone looked at me and asked "Who's older?" -- with a STRAIGHT FACE. Cyrus later explained that she is the dumbest girl at his workplace. This was consoling to me. Until someone else asked me as I was *telling her this story*. Arg. I still don't know whether to be upset or complimented by this. At 23, it was an insult to get carded and such. At 28, shouldn't I be rejoicing in the fact that I'm easily passing for 10 years younger than my own age? I'm still not sure where I stand on it.
Am I going to be one of those people who's in her 40s and then people finds out her real age, having thought she was cool like them, in her 20s, and then they freak and feel weirded out?
Which brings me to another thought -- you know the whole thing about 'you're only as old as you feel'? I have no idea how old I feel. I think it might be 18. Which is just weird. I can't seem to fit in at another number. Ack. I know most of my guy friends are happily hovering at an average of "ten... and a half." But girls?
3. Humbling Moment of the Week. Today I made what could possibly be construed as a mistake at work -- let's say I had an oversight on something that was caught by someone else. I realized through this horrific experience (a little melodrama for ya) that making a mistake is a really big thing I can't deal with. It unhinges me for all practical purposes. Does anyone know if perfectionism is genetically inherited? If so, I'd like to point fingers. Thanks!
3.5 I'm auditioning New Year's Resolutions. Anyone got good suggestions? I want to do one serious one and one silly one at least. Being all serious never works. Why do we make serious resolutions?
Wouldn't it be fun if you could make resolutions for *other* people? Hell, I'd give up some of my Xmas presents for that. I'd like to start with my neighbors across the hall, who cornered me when they were drunk after the building holiday party and yelled at me (unfortunately, this is quite literal; as we all know - cheap wine makes people hard of hearing) about how "the 30 year old and under crowd in this building needs to stop acting like it's a hotel." The volume continued to go up as they harangued me for not having attended the holiday party.
I imagine what I experienced is like the reaming teenagers get when they break curfew (never had that; see 3.0 for more details). They CORNERED me. As I was recycling, no less. So much for karma. As she's whining about how I should get involved and insists that I read the book club book and be present and accounted for at the building book club meeting, he's glaring at me. And she didn't let up. "It's so short you can read it on the TOILET, Lilly!!!!" Ah, class act. At this point, he steps forward. Military man. Hovering over my 5'1 frame (yes, I've come to terms with my height. Shut it.) and goes "Lilly. We'd really like to see you show up at some of these functions." Subtext: you have disappointed us. We love you, but we don't like you right now.
Um, I pay a hefty association fee so I don't have to interact with my neighbors - hello! Thus, I would begin my resolution superpowers with one for the aformentioned neighbors. It would simply be that in 2006, they will stop popping out of their door just as I walk by, which I find both creepy and fortuitous (for the spreading of their neighborly evangelism).
4. If you haven't gone to Pandora.com, you must go now. Because it's incredible. It's like a musical psychic. It knows what you'll like even more than you do. I predict that this will be one of the biggest sites of the next year. Who needs MySpace -- who needs friends at all -- when you have good music? I'm obsessed with the insight I'm gaining from this website and I think everyone worth their salt should go check it out. I am fully judging my friends based upon their reactions to it once they've examined, by the way.
5. I have initiated a hot-chocolate-before-bed ritual. Ok, that makes it sound much more scandalous than it is. I make hot chocolate in the spirit of Christmas. Given that it's been gorgeous and sunny, it may not make complete sense, but it works for me. Highly recommended. Me belly full, so off to bed I go.
Have we lost our faith in the possibility of redemption -- or, simply put -- that people can learn and change and become better or shed an old skin? Is that what we were really putting to sleep last night? That hope? If so, that's so sad that I don't even know how to address it.
2. Tonight I went to a party with Cyrus and someone looked at me and asked "Who's older?" -- with a STRAIGHT FACE. Cyrus later explained that she is the dumbest girl at his workplace. This was consoling to me. Until someone else asked me as I was *telling her this story*. Arg. I still don't know whether to be upset or complimented by this. At 23, it was an insult to get carded and such. At 28, shouldn't I be rejoicing in the fact that I'm easily passing for 10 years younger than my own age? I'm still not sure where I stand on it.
Am I going to be one of those people who's in her 40s and then people finds out her real age, having thought she was cool like them, in her 20s, and then they freak and feel weirded out?
Which brings me to another thought -- you know the whole thing about 'you're only as old as you feel'? I have no idea how old I feel. I think it might be 18. Which is just weird. I can't seem to fit in at another number. Ack. I know most of my guy friends are happily hovering at an average of "ten... and a half." But girls?
3. Humbling Moment of the Week. Today I made what could possibly be construed as a mistake at work -- let's say I had an oversight on something that was caught by someone else. I realized through this horrific experience (a little melodrama for ya) that making a mistake is a really big thing I can't deal with. It unhinges me for all practical purposes. Does anyone know if perfectionism is genetically inherited? If so, I'd like to point fingers. Thanks!
3.5 I'm auditioning New Year's Resolutions. Anyone got good suggestions? I want to do one serious one and one silly one at least. Being all serious never works. Why do we make serious resolutions?
Wouldn't it be fun if you could make resolutions for *other* people? Hell, I'd give up some of my Xmas presents for that. I'd like to start with my neighbors across the hall, who cornered me when they were drunk after the building holiday party and yelled at me (unfortunately, this is quite literal; as we all know - cheap wine makes people hard of hearing) about how "the 30 year old and under crowd in this building needs to stop acting like it's a hotel." The volume continued to go up as they harangued me for not having attended the holiday party.
I imagine what I experienced is like the reaming teenagers get when they break curfew (never had that; see 3.0 for more details). They CORNERED me. As I was recycling, no less. So much for karma. As she's whining about how I should get involved and insists that I read the book club book and be present and accounted for at the building book club meeting, he's glaring at me. And she didn't let up. "It's so short you can read it on the TOILET, Lilly!!!!" Ah, class act. At this point, he steps forward. Military man. Hovering over my 5'1 frame (yes, I've come to terms with my height. Shut it.) and goes "Lilly. We'd really like to see you show up at some of these functions." Subtext: you have disappointed us. We love you, but we don't like you right now.
Um, I pay a hefty association fee so I don't have to interact with my neighbors - hello! Thus, I would begin my resolution superpowers with one for the aformentioned neighbors. It would simply be that in 2006, they will stop popping out of their door just as I walk by, which I find both creepy and fortuitous (for the spreading of their neighborly evangelism).
4. If you haven't gone to Pandora.com, you must go now. Because it's incredible. It's like a musical psychic. It knows what you'll like even more than you do. I predict that this will be one of the biggest sites of the next year. Who needs MySpace -- who needs friends at all -- when you have good music? I'm obsessed with the insight I'm gaining from this website and I think everyone worth their salt should go check it out. I am fully judging my friends based upon their reactions to it once they've examined, by the way.
5. I have initiated a hot-chocolate-before-bed ritual. Ok, that makes it sound much more scandalous than it is. I make hot chocolate in the spirit of Christmas. Given that it's been gorgeous and sunny, it may not make complete sense, but it works for me. Highly recommended. Me belly full, so off to bed I go.
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