Something very sneaky happened along the way. I am overworked and underpaid but self-employed. Not sure where to direct my frustration, short of mumbling to myself.
So much on my mind. My brain feels like this frail necklace chain I once had that got all tangled up. My mom says you have to tackle life's problems (or whatever's on your plate) as you would that chain- loosen it up little by little instead of trying to attack it at once from all angles. I got really irritated, incidentally pulled the knot tighter, and tossed it back in a box in no man's closet.
UNEDITED TRAIN OF THOUGHT. ENTER AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION (AND QUITE POSSIBLY BOREDOM)
I am in deep shit, as I 'seem' to have lost a cap for one of my dad's wheels. I thought while he was out of town I'd give my little bro my wheels and just keep Dad's in case of errands, etc. (or the need to leisurely cruise around in a car that appears as if I have a lofty income -- or any at all).
Dad is on the other end of the planet right now. Like if you could draw a line THROUGH earth, you might find him. Probably in a kabob restaurant with his family, laughing at stories he hasn't heard because 13 years has passed and the least they can do is have tales to regale him with. He is equally liable to be in a mosque sneaking pictures, oh tricky tourist! I kinda wish he asked me to go with, but he didn't. Still licking that wound. I'm not sure that I actually want to go back right now, but it would have been nice to see it from his point of view - film a mental documentary as I wandered around with him, peeking out from under my scarf that wouldn't make me pass out because it's only spring. Instead of battling waves of heat-induced nausea, I might actually have enjoyed myself. I miss him, so it's going to be a long three weeks.
Other thoughts in no particular order:
The plants on my balcony aren't doing a good job of staying alive. I hold this against them. I am a woman, therefore a nurturer, so GROW you BASTARDS! Even my friggin plants challenge my femininity.
I keep telling people I'll watch Braveheart with them. But I don't want to. And every time it comes up in conversation with a new person, I feign the same motivation and interest. I am living a lie.
No one seems to have the answer as to why in baseball there is a manager instead of a coach. This is starting to annoy me.
I need to get (another) job. Like "lottery winner". Or "heiress to the Heinz empire".
As much as I whined about being a little worn out around the wedding and all the frenetic activity that surrounded it, I think I'm suffering some variation on letdown. I tried to convince Gene to do a Gregorian chant interpretation of "Who Let the Dogs Out?" at his next show. If that's not a sign of depression, what is? ;)
Dad is on the other end of the planet right now. Like if you could draw a line THROUGH earth, you might find him. Probably in a kabob restaurant with his family, laughing at stories he hasn't heard because 13 years has passed and the least they can do is have tales to regale him with. He is equally liable to be in a mosque sneaking pictures, oh tricky tourist! I kinda wish he asked me to go with, but he didn't. Still licking that wound. I'm not sure that I actually want to go back right now, but it would have been nice to see it from his point of view - film a mental documentary as I wandered around with him, peeking out from under my scarf that wouldn't make me pass out because it's only spring. Instead of battling waves of heat-induced nausea, I might actually have enjoyed myself. I miss him, so it's going to be a long three weeks.
Other thoughts in no particular order:
The plants on my balcony aren't doing a good job of staying alive. I hold this against them. I am a woman, therefore a nurturer, so GROW you BASTARDS! Even my friggin plants challenge my femininity.
I keep telling people I'll watch Braveheart with them. But I don't want to. And every time it comes up in conversation with a new person, I feign the same motivation and interest. I am living a lie.
No one seems to have the answer as to why in baseball there is a manager instead of a coach. This is starting to annoy me.
I need to get (another) job. Like "lottery winner". Or "heiress to the Heinz empire".
As much as I whined about being a little worn out around the wedding and all the frenetic activity that surrounded it, I think I'm suffering some variation on letdown. I tried to convince Gene to do a Gregorian chant interpretation of "Who Let the Dogs Out?" at his next show. If that's not a sign of depression, what is? ;)
THE BRAINWASHING OF THE HEART OF L-----.
It's gotten to the point where I dread talking to my most beloved friends. Particularly with the girls, there is NO way to pass the 4 minute mark without a question being shot directly at my ego about who I'm dating or if I'm not, an explanation (short essay) of why not. It's become a sickening mental game of "Boiling Point". Today: Janet. Boiling point... 12 minutes. She spared me, which only tells me one thing... she's single too.
I have been with couples nonstop for the past few weeks. So it only seems natural to wonder why one of these things is not like the others. The short-list roster: My friend from law school and her husband. My pan-continental partner in crime and her fiance. My Vegas satellite and her husband. My bar study buddy and *her* now-husband. Another law school girlfriend and her new fiance. I'm only stopping the count because I might launch into an anxiety attack. And if that's not enough salt in the wound, honk honk, beep beep, up pulls a rental Mercury Sable with my sis and the love of her life.
Yes, love even looks good in an old man mobile.
I swear, I did not get the memo. I have NO idea how people do this. I was a huge old-school Disney fan (Snow White- black hair, white skin? Hello. That's ME!), so Jon's (www.hyperwest.net/anachronic) recent examination of this clear-cut direct-market brainwashing of L---- (that's me, too) was enlightening. Are my standards just a convoluted bipidy-boppity-boo?
The idea of being paired up with someone has always made me a little nervous. When I wore my gray velvet dress and do-si-doe'd with Brian B. in third grade... sweat. When I had to seventh-grade slow-dance with Chad and yet keep good posture in my tie-died Skort...panic. When I had to fake marry Josh G. for our Family Matters class in high school, we lived 'parallel lives' and our love fern quickly died in my locker. My most durable relationship to date with a man has been with George Michael; and yes, it is entirely possible that this fact alone prompted his coming out of the closet.
There are not many things that scare me, but alongside sharks, snakes, and six-toed human beings is the idea of putting my heart on the line like that.
I have been with couples nonstop for the past few weeks. So it only seems natural to wonder why one of these things is not like the others. The short-list roster: My friend from law school and her husband. My pan-continental partner in crime and her fiance. My Vegas satellite and her husband. My bar study buddy and *her* now-husband. Another law school girlfriend and her new fiance. I'm only stopping the count because I might launch into an anxiety attack. And if that's not enough salt in the wound, honk honk, beep beep, up pulls a rental Mercury Sable with my sis and the love of her life.
Yes, love even looks good in an old man mobile.
I swear, I did not get the memo. I have NO idea how people do this. I was a huge old-school Disney fan (Snow White- black hair, white skin? Hello. That's ME!), so Jon's (www.hyperwest.net/anachronic) recent examination of this clear-cut direct-market brainwashing of L---- (that's me, too) was enlightening. Are my standards just a convoluted bipidy-boppity-boo?
The idea of being paired up with someone has always made me a little nervous. When I wore my gray velvet dress and do-si-doe'd with Brian B. in third grade... sweat. When I had to seventh-grade slow-dance with Chad and yet keep good posture in my tie-died Skort...panic. When I had to fake marry Josh G. for our Family Matters class in high school, we lived 'parallel lives' and our love fern quickly died in my locker. My most durable relationship to date with a man has been with George Michael; and yes, it is entirely possible that this fact alone prompted his coming out of the closet.
There are not many things that scare me, but alongside sharks, snakes, and six-toed human beings is the idea of putting my heart on the line like that.
HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS.
I'm definitely my father's child, because my thoughts and emotions have been wrapped in real estate this weekend.
My brother showed me a brochure today. Actually, he didn't show it to me. I threw open his bedroom door uninvited, and began interrogating him and picking up random things on his floor, including a real estate brochure. It took me a second to figure out what was going on. "Is thi ---" I couldn't even fully ask the question, so he told me. "Yup, the house." He had recently returned from a jaunt over to Chicago and had taken it upon himself to go investigate what was happening with our old house. The guy who bought it from my family paid the price of the land, renovated the whole house (I'm talking GUTTED IT) and put it back on the market. For three times the price (again, as a G, I am embittered). I was looking at the pictures and it was like this whole sector of my childhood was totally inverted. I mean, this is the ONLY HOUSE I grew up in. Every memory I have was there. It's one thing to renovate the house, but to put the front door where the back door was? Put the back door where the front door was... you changed my ADDRESS, man! Give me my house back!
There were only about 7 pictures to torment myself with. The office above the garage that I spent some of my most precious time in, sifting through shelves of amazing books and making mix tapes for plane rides (complete with spoken interludes) for my friends... it's gone. The garage where I stored my bikes and badminton rackets (don't ask) and rollerblades is now one with the office, one big high-ceilinged living room. Who wants to 'live' in the room where I stealthily parked my mom's car complete with Steve Prince's frozen barf splattered across the side on a cold winter's night?
Cyrus said my room survived, but didn't make it clear as to whether the walk-in closet connecting my room to Susie's did as well. I really didn't prod him as much as I should have for answers. Will the new inhabitants be able to launch surprise attacks via the connecting closet -- throwing open the doors (which had no locks) and beating the holy hell out of their siblings? And if not, I ask you, what kind of childhood can they be expected to have, *really*? Have they changed the windows, or can some frustrated teenager still prop her Thighmaster on the windowsill and use it to catapult random shit into the backyard? Are the tape marks still there from where I lined my closet with shirtless photos of Bret Michaels, Slash and Axl, Sebastian Bach, and the Robinson Brothers in a mudbath? (Yes. Together. This never struck me as strange until I typed these words.)
The kitchen is remodeled, too. I looked at the picture and can't even envision where I hid out when Ella's (our old babysitter) boyfriend's wife (Oooooops) came over, rang the doorbell, and knocked her one. The room where I'd watch our young neighbor make her way across the backyard with her red wagon in tow. The place where, as in any good Persian family, social life centered. Where we'd congregate after returning from (or throwing) a mehmooni (party) and rehash the entire night and the psychology (or psychosis) of each and every attendee. The kitchen where I got my first college acceptance (Indiana U) and where I had my last cup of coffee with [and ever saw] my friend Sam.
I've always been glad that we moved out of Highland Park. That's never been a question. For all my blogistic dramaticism, I *hated* living in that town, and was only too happy to flee the walls of that house. When I moved to California, I really cut the cord. I realized that you need to put the past behind you and move forward and be open to opportunities and they will find you (hello ocean view, sunny winters of 70 degrees, and Life with Pele). But today was a quick trip in a rickety time machine, and it definitely threw me for a loop.
Glad I got that out.
But as long as we're living in the now... I returned to my apartment in the afternoon and just absorbed where my life is centered now. Pulling back all the blinds, I had a new appreciation for my distant view of the bay. Water has always calmed me. People think it's my newcomer reaction to being by the ocean, but I find it tranquilizing in all forms. It could be the ocean. Or a lake. Or a lilypond or a fountain. (The toilet is pushing it). Then the thought set in that they're going to build in front of my view. A thirty story building, no less. I suppose I'm being "glass-is-half-empty" today. Which is fine. It happens. I suppose that instead of bitching about the past and worrying about the future I should get on making some new memories in the homes I now occupy (minds OUT of the gutter on the count of three...)
Hm. Bright note, bright note... This weekend I saw a good friend of mine who just got married. She is a living testament to the fact that people who question whether love even exists can find not only that love does exist, but subsequently fall deeply in it. She broke her gaze from her hubby (who is awesome and certainly has the Lilly stamp of approval) only to do sake bombs and tell me that there's someone out there for everyone.
Happy note.
THE LILLY.
Names. This has been the theme of the week.
Yesterday, while taking a scenic detour along the harbor with Hong and Jon, I somehow felt compelled to let them in on yet another 'special' episode of my childhood. I told them about how I hated the name Lilly because it was the name of everyone's dead grandma when I was little (true). And how I adapted quickly to a self-proclaimed pseudonym of Carol, and dubbed my father Peter (Electra complex what?) Indeed, these were the appelations I used when I placed a social phonecall to 911 in a feast of 4 year old boredom when my parents left me with a Polish sitter and went to the movies. But I digress...
Tonight I capitulated and watched a huge dose of tv. I can't help it. I'm hooked on The Apprentice in a big, bad way. So first I sat through some old Friends episodes, and in one Phoebe changed her name to Princess Consuela Bananahammock. Apparently I'm not the only person to have had name reservations in my life. Until tonight, I thought it was me and then Susie's college friend, whose liberal parents allowed him to pick his own name at a young age. Hello Beanbag Amerika. My train of thought was diverted by the discomfort of discussing the derivation of bananahammock (speedos) with my mom, and we broke for a commercial.
But names came up **again** this evening when during The Apprentice (sigh) the love of my greedy heart referred to his little pool of asskissers...um...I mean applicants. He was talking about the standards for an employee of The Donald. Yes, he referred to *himself* as "The Donald." Take that.
I wouldn't mind ruling the world from my boardroom, but I'd take the close second of just being called The Lilly. As I build up my little literary empire, name recognition counts for something. I mean, people are literary, but does identifying me need to be a spelling bee? Isn't The Lilly more fitting than 10 letters and 2 silent h's anyways? ("G-H, like 'ghetto'")
So it has been decided.
Parting thoughts: I am on PickthePersian.com. Exactly how many of my 15 minutes of fame just got sucked there?
Yesterday, while taking a scenic detour along the harbor with Hong and Jon, I somehow felt compelled to let them in on yet another 'special' episode of my childhood. I told them about how I hated the name Lilly because it was the name of everyone's dead grandma when I was little (true). And how I adapted quickly to a self-proclaimed pseudonym of Carol, and dubbed my father Peter (Electra complex what?) Indeed, these were the appelations I used when I placed a social phonecall to 911 in a feast of 4 year old boredom when my parents left me with a Polish sitter and went to the movies. But I digress...
Tonight I capitulated and watched a huge dose of tv. I can't help it. I'm hooked on The Apprentice in a big, bad way. So first I sat through some old Friends episodes, and in one Phoebe changed her name to Princess Consuela Bananahammock. Apparently I'm not the only person to have had name reservations in my life. Until tonight, I thought it was me and then Susie's college friend, whose liberal parents allowed him to pick his own name at a young age. Hello Beanbag Amerika. My train of thought was diverted by the discomfort of discussing the derivation of bananahammock (speedos) with my mom, and we broke for a commercial.
But names came up **again** this evening when during The Apprentice (sigh) the love of my greedy heart referred to his little pool of asskissers...um...I mean applicants. He was talking about the standards for an employee of The Donald. Yes, he referred to *himself* as "The Donald." Take that.
I wouldn't mind ruling the world from my boardroom, but I'd take the close second of just being called The Lilly. As I build up my little literary empire, name recognition counts for something. I mean, people are literary, but does identifying me need to be a spelling bee? Isn't The Lilly more fitting than 10 letters and 2 silent h's anyways? ("G-H, like 'ghetto'")
So it has been decided.
Parting thoughts: I am on PickthePersian.com. Exactly how many of my 15 minutes of fame just got sucked there?
POSTSCRIPT RE: AUTOFAILS.
Tonight an unnamed but dear friend of mine (Hi Gene!) alerted me to a most decisive autofail. The toe sock.
This item of clothing offers a clear definition of the lines preventing entry into my big heart.
What are they? Socks that offer a cozy compartment for each individual toe.
They should have been a fad. Much as I appreciate their function of hiding away the nastiness of the human foot, their prompt and shapely silhouetting of the foot feels like betrayal of the highest order.
I regret that the subject came to pass, not via the innocuous path of mere chit chat, but due to Gene's own choice of footwear this evening.
This item of clothing offers a clear definition of the lines preventing entry into my big heart.
What are they? Socks that offer a cozy compartment for each individual toe.
They should have been a fad. Much as I appreciate their function of hiding away the nastiness of the human foot, their prompt and shapely silhouetting of the foot feels like betrayal of the highest order.
I regret that the subject came to pass, not via the innocuous path of mere chit chat, but due to Gene's own choice of footwear this evening.
TAKE ME OUT TO THE FOOD STANDS...
I love baseball.
Even more so, I love my friend Hong for hooking me up with a ticket to last night's Padres stadium. For over a year now, I have been excitedly twiddling my thumbs, watching cranes swing back and forth over the distant patch of green you can see if you lean right and hang precariously over my balcony. The time had come for closer exploration, and so Jon, Gene (the Artist Currently Known as Dave's Son), Hong and I made our way down Cortez Hill to become one with America's favorite pasttime.
I got really into baseball last year during the pennant races. I am a sucker for the underdog (read: the Cubs). I went into work early in order to be home for 5pm tee-offs... um, I mean...kickoffs? I've never been super into team sports (except kickball. Why, oh why, are you not an Olympic game?), but there's something to the pace of baseball that does in fact suck me in. The amount of food involved in attending a baseball game is merely bonus, I assure you.
So, we lived the luxury life. Our suite came complete with what I like to call "my own personal assistant" - Jean - who assured me that she was there for anything we needed, ie. if we wanted to order food into the box, etc. As you may already know, I've had my manicure this week, so I simply thanked her for the offer and did what I could to slide gracefully by the seat of a woman 14 months pregnant.
We won. I am still trying to decide if that made the difference in my experience. I suppose if we'd had a closer game (8-3. Is that even a GAME?), I would have had to watch the game a little closer. But this way, I could zoom out and drink in my tax dollars. The stadium is on a prime piece of property. You really have to will yourself to stay in your seat and not wander the 1001 restaurants and bars and head up to the back deck with the view of the bay, the bridge, and Coronado island. I think they should sell seats to just sit up there.
From the ballpark, all of a sudden San Diego felt like a 'real city'. I mean, I had never seen so many people, for one thing. The population of San Diego had reached its peak point for me when I happened through Persian festivities at Mission Bay, population 5000. The energy of a crowd of that many people (1 million?) watching one game, focusing on one little baseball, was fantastic. And when the Dodgers hit a ball past the outfield fence and a minute later it plopped back onto the field, we were not just neighbors, we were family.
As we were leaving, employees had been stationed to wish you a good evening, thank you for coming to Petco Park, and to request that you drive home safely now, you hear? With a love like that, who wouldn't love this game?
Even more so, I love my friend Hong for hooking me up with a ticket to last night's Padres stadium. For over a year now, I have been excitedly twiddling my thumbs, watching cranes swing back and forth over the distant patch of green you can see if you lean right and hang precariously over my balcony. The time had come for closer exploration, and so Jon, Gene (the Artist Currently Known as Dave's Son), Hong and I made our way down Cortez Hill to become one with America's favorite pasttime.
I got really into baseball last year during the pennant races. I am a sucker for the underdog (read: the Cubs). I went into work early in order to be home for 5pm tee-offs... um, I mean...kickoffs? I've never been super into team sports (except kickball. Why, oh why, are you not an Olympic game?), but there's something to the pace of baseball that does in fact suck me in. The amount of food involved in attending a baseball game is merely bonus, I assure you.
So, we lived the luxury life. Our suite came complete with what I like to call "my own personal assistant" - Jean - who assured me that she was there for anything we needed, ie. if we wanted to order food into the box, etc. As you may already know, I've had my manicure this week, so I simply thanked her for the offer and did what I could to slide gracefully by the seat of a woman 14 months pregnant.
We won. I am still trying to decide if that made the difference in my experience. I suppose if we'd had a closer game (8-3. Is that even a GAME?), I would have had to watch the game a little closer. But this way, I could zoom out and drink in my tax dollars. The stadium is on a prime piece of property. You really have to will yourself to stay in your seat and not wander the 1001 restaurants and bars and head up to the back deck with the view of the bay, the bridge, and Coronado island. I think they should sell seats to just sit up there.
From the ballpark, all of a sudden San Diego felt like a 'real city'. I mean, I had never seen so many people, for one thing. The population of San Diego had reached its peak point for me when I happened through Persian festivities at Mission Bay, population 5000. The energy of a crowd of that many people (1 million?) watching one game, focusing on one little baseball, was fantastic. And when the Dodgers hit a ball past the outfield fence and a minute later it plopped back onto the field, we were not just neighbors, we were family.
As we were leaving, employees had been stationed to wish you a good evening, thank you for coming to Petco Park, and to request that you drive home safely now, you hear? With a love like that, who wouldn't love this game?
THE FEMININE MYSTIQUE?
This past weekend I got my nails done. Not a big deal, I know.
FOOLS! OF COURSE IT'S A BIG DEAL! In salons across the United States, statements are being made on a daily basis. As feet soak in warm water tubs, as hands rest in paraffin baths, women aren't just enjoying themselves, they are speaking out (albeit in a weird language that faintly smells of acetone). Allow me to translate. They're saying: "I'm a girl. Yoo hoo, watch me be feminine."
The weekend found me in Santa Barbara with a small group of my closest girl friends. We were there to celebrate the big send-off of our first compatriot into the domain of marriagehood. It's a world I know nothing about except that it's directly inspired her to become more interested in china patterns, thread counts and kitchen appliances, oh my! And she will get booty on the regular.
For the past year that she's been engaged, I've struggled to try to come to terms with womanhood "as it should be" for my age group, particularly those women of the Persian persuasion. By my age (the big 2-6), most Persian girls are well on their way to marital bliss. If they aren't, it's due to an educational exemption or extenuating circumstances. I have been accused of sheer laziness. But really, I'm not lazy. I just don't have a clue about this whole world. I can't even get myself dressed right in the morning, much less "find a man".
I had to fight off the desire to cover my ears and let out a Macauley Caulkin Home Alone holler when the bridal shower for this friend had rolled around and I heard my friends debating what two brands of silver trays any married woman should have. (The answers, now emblazoned in my head, are Lennox and Arthur someoneorother, FYI). To begin with, I felt betrayed. Like all of a sudden, my girlfriends had come out of the closet with the fact that they actually *don't* hate Martha Stewart. I was just standing there, mouth gaping until I found one friend (heretofore known as The Last Woman Standing) to share an eye roll with. I reacted as I do when watching an art movie. I 'got it' enough to make vague conversation about it, but then I felt free to go home and be confused in private.
I'm trying to decide whether to embrace or shun my decidedly unfeminine traits (again, using the scale somewhat offered to me by my Persian foremothers). I'm currently in limbo, and kinda on a self-imposed probation. The citations are scattered, but are many. I've caught myself wearing sweats one too many times lately. I like doing arm weights. I have never once turned on the Love Channel that I apparently pay premium cable bills for, but my tv is always set to 325- Fox Sports World. I involuntarily roll my eyes at the price tags on designer purses. I always forget to ask to see the ring.
On one hand, I pride myself on being able to have fun sans high heels and attitude. On the other hand, sometimes I watch these other girls trapse up and down the streets of San Diego (or God forbid LA, if I'm up there, which is when the guilt *really* sets in), and I wonder why I don't *care* enough to be like that. Am I lazy? Why do I find myself inherently annoyed if a conversation about clothing lasts more than the obligatory "What's the dress code for tonight?". Clothes shopping is an absolute last resort for me... placing a distant second after gyno appointments and watching paint dry.
I'm not sure how you negotiate femininity. Even if I wear a beautiful dress and heels and put a twist in my hips when I walk (hey single boys, I *can* do it, and do it well. holla back), some comment is sure to fire out of my mouth that betrays me. Or perhaps someone will walk by in a baseball shirt and a ponytail and flannel pj pants and I will just stare longingly, thus giving myself away.
I guess the question is: what percentage do you have to be 'typical' to be considered feminine? I have a uterus. WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
So, going back to my story, given the opportunity to have my nails done, I jumped at it. Hands? Oh yes. Pedicure? Oh, but of course!
I do this in spurts. Once in awhile, I realize how far off the girly scale I've landed, and I tuck my chromosomes under my arm and saunter back over with a vengeance. I mean, my name is Lilly, for God's sake. I wear skirts for a few days in a row and show some leg. I put on a sexy pink bra. I do grocery shopping with concentration and pick up whichever magazines have the most ribs showing on the cover. I lower my voice, and I resist (with all my might) the urge to snicker like an adolescent boy at sexual innuendos.
Then I realize how much I miss my cargos and myself, and I revert.
I kept the polish on my nails for exactly 54 hours this time (yes, I counted). It's almost as if the orange polish (see, I told you. Can't do anything distinctly feminine right) didn't want to stay on my fingers. It just began to chip away in its own little political statement.
Right now I have trailer trash couture in the manicure department.
Let that be a lesson to me.
FOOLS! OF COURSE IT'S A BIG DEAL! In salons across the United States, statements are being made on a daily basis. As feet soak in warm water tubs, as hands rest in paraffin baths, women aren't just enjoying themselves, they are speaking out (albeit in a weird language that faintly smells of acetone). Allow me to translate. They're saying: "I'm a girl. Yoo hoo, watch me be feminine."
The weekend found me in Santa Barbara with a small group of my closest girl friends. We were there to celebrate the big send-off of our first compatriot into the domain of marriagehood. It's a world I know nothing about except that it's directly inspired her to become more interested in china patterns, thread counts and kitchen appliances, oh my! And she will get booty on the regular.
For the past year that she's been engaged, I've struggled to try to come to terms with womanhood "as it should be" for my age group, particularly those women of the Persian persuasion. By my age (the big 2-6), most Persian girls are well on their way to marital bliss. If they aren't, it's due to an educational exemption or extenuating circumstances. I have been accused of sheer laziness. But really, I'm not lazy. I just don't have a clue about this whole world. I can't even get myself dressed right in the morning, much less "find a man".
I had to fight off the desire to cover my ears and let out a Macauley Caulkin Home Alone holler when the bridal shower for this friend had rolled around and I heard my friends debating what two brands of silver trays any married woman should have. (The answers, now emblazoned in my head, are Lennox and Arthur someoneorother, FYI). To begin with, I felt betrayed. Like all of a sudden, my girlfriends had come out of the closet with the fact that they actually *don't* hate Martha Stewart. I was just standing there, mouth gaping until I found one friend (heretofore known as The Last Woman Standing) to share an eye roll with. I reacted as I do when watching an art movie. I 'got it' enough to make vague conversation about it, but then I felt free to go home and be confused in private.
I'm trying to decide whether to embrace or shun my decidedly unfeminine traits (again, using the scale somewhat offered to me by my Persian foremothers). I'm currently in limbo, and kinda on a self-imposed probation. The citations are scattered, but are many. I've caught myself wearing sweats one too many times lately. I like doing arm weights. I have never once turned on the Love Channel that I apparently pay premium cable bills for, but my tv is always set to 325- Fox Sports World. I involuntarily roll my eyes at the price tags on designer purses. I always forget to ask to see the ring.
On one hand, I pride myself on being able to have fun sans high heels and attitude. On the other hand, sometimes I watch these other girls trapse up and down the streets of San Diego (or God forbid LA, if I'm up there, which is when the guilt *really* sets in), and I wonder why I don't *care* enough to be like that. Am I lazy? Why do I find myself inherently annoyed if a conversation about clothing lasts more than the obligatory "What's the dress code for tonight?". Clothes shopping is an absolute last resort for me... placing a distant second after gyno appointments and watching paint dry.
I'm not sure how you negotiate femininity. Even if I wear a beautiful dress and heels and put a twist in my hips when I walk (hey single boys, I *can* do it, and do it well. holla back), some comment is sure to fire out of my mouth that betrays me. Or perhaps someone will walk by in a baseball shirt and a ponytail and flannel pj pants and I will just stare longingly, thus giving myself away.
I guess the question is: what percentage do you have to be 'typical' to be considered feminine? I have a uterus. WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
So, going back to my story, given the opportunity to have my nails done, I jumped at it. Hands? Oh yes. Pedicure? Oh, but of course!
I do this in spurts. Once in awhile, I realize how far off the girly scale I've landed, and I tuck my chromosomes under my arm and saunter back over with a vengeance. I mean, my name is Lilly, for God's sake. I wear skirts for a few days in a row and show some leg. I put on a sexy pink bra. I do grocery shopping with concentration and pick up whichever magazines have the most ribs showing on the cover. I lower my voice, and I resist (with all my might) the urge to snicker like an adolescent boy at sexual innuendos.
Then I realize how much I miss my cargos and myself, and I revert.
I kept the polish on my nails for exactly 54 hours this time (yes, I counted). It's almost as if the orange polish (see, I told you. Can't do anything distinctly feminine right) didn't want to stay on my fingers. It just began to chip away in its own little political statement.
Right now I have trailer trash couture in the manicure department.
Let that be a lesson to me.
"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..."
I understand that we never outgrow certain things. I still like my cereal super soggy and my milk shaken. I will always respect a good, big swingset. Mary Poppins is and always will be my favorite movie. But today I was confronted with proof positive that I have really not progressed much from where I was at age 6.
I remember watching my dad help me dub my first tape. (Ah, the roots of copyright infringement. How it could bring a family together.) I had gotten a new stereo for Persian New Year, so I'm not joking when I say it was hovering around 15-20 years ago. I wasn't tall enough to see what was taking place on the bar countertop (some would say that hasn't changed?). But I knew with all my heart what was going on. The tape to be dubbed FOR ME AND ONLY ME onto the translucent orange blank tape (what a treat!) was... Madonna "Like a Virgin". I'm talking Angel, Dress You Up, or for ye 80s pop cultural neophytes (hi Jon!), "Material Girl".
The years passed and the tapes got more standard. A translucent clear - but with yellow label- for my dubbing of Madonna "Madonna" (I had to work backwards on that one. Caught on late.) A store-bought True Blue, which notably became my first creative foray into dance. I mean, when the woman says "Get up, stand tall, put your back/up/against the wall, cause my love is dangerous", well then, you throw your little body against the wall, arms in the air, in a display of prepubescent sexuality. And your father, who is the Patron of the Arts, shelling out a buck for each performance, tries to sneak out, but you remind him that there IS ANOTHER song left on this side of the tape before INTERMISSION!
It was around this time that I realized Madonna had progressed to other media (without me?) -- Desperately Seeking Susan made its breakthrough, and I marvelled at a woman so cool she'd dry her armpits on a bus stop hand-dryer. I watched the film "Who's That Girl" over and over again, wondering how long I had to wait to dye *my* hair platinum. Then I bought the soundtrack, impressed and feeling justified (and arguing) that my idol was also, apparently, bilingual "Quien es, esta nina?/Who's that girl?".
The hits kept coming... as You Can Dance, a remix album, was released, I'd insist on staying in the car and listening to it. Lying sweaty in the back of mom's Ford Taurus with the windows barely cracked (Chicago summers, no less), I'd sing along literally Over and Over while mom and dad browsed the racks of Burlington Coat Factory on any given Sunday. Everyone knew I loved her. If there was a Madonna question, you'd ask *me*. That's just the way it was.
You guys who only knew her for Like A Prayer missed out on the whole Dick Tracy movement. In another G family moment (who knew so many of them were due to The Unvirgin herself?) - my sister Susie and I choreographed and entire show to I'm Breathless in our basement. And made my dad sit through it. (Please visit www.boygirlparty.com to see how the choreographer of "I'm Going Bananas" has since matured, well, at least musically.)
While my mom had the idea to let me have a punk 9th birthday party, I was strictly forbidden from attending Madonna concerts. Ever. (Apparently, dressing like her once per year was acceptable, though?) I knew mom didn't like her, encouraging me to listen to Cyndi Lauper instead, or even Michael Jackson, the King of Crotch-Grabbing. I had to sneak over to Kathy Stachniw's house to watch the forbidden Justify My Love video. And we didn't have cable until I was almost through with high school, so videos and awards shows were all I had to go on to keep in touch.
I studied dance. I admittedly never read "Sex", but that's not for lack of me looking for it at the library. I covered "Material Girl" at my school fun fair's Star Studio. I read about her and I enjoyed her freedom while I was a sheltered Persian girl in the midwest. Eventually, I went to University of Michigan. Coincidence? Perhaps.
I stayed faithful through Erotica, Bedtime Stories, and Ray of Light. I bought Evita and took off to Argentina to see the Casa Rosada. I stopped watching Sean Penn movies and tucked away my signed Rodman photo. I nodded to the Maverick building along Santa Monica when I'd drive through L.A. I forgave her for making The Next Best Thing. I overlooked her bastardization of Japanese culture, then Indian. I read about Kabbalah (although I always misspell it "Kaballah," which may be a sign in and of itself?). When she did Swept Away, we got in a fight, and I stopped paying attention to her for a few months. But we made up and American Life joined my expansive cd collection.
Somewhere in there, I *might* have bought her earliest album (horrendous electronica dance stuff from some Scandinavian country, if anyone's looking for it). And I *might* have dropped $20 for the London Symphony Orchestra's tribute to her. But I'm not admitting anything.
What I AM admitting is that this morning, some 20 years after this madness began, I found myself rushing to try and get tickets to her next tour. I'm 26, and I remembered last week that "I'm the boss of me" (said in my most petulant voice). So I dedicated $100 to obtaining tickets to her 'Reinvention' show at the Forum.
No such luck.
So, why am I admitting all of this?
Because part of me is as disappointed as the, what, 11 year old who wasn't allowed to see Blonde Ambition (in retrospect, watching Madonna masturbate on-stage would have been a bonding moment I really didn't need to have with my mom).
It's something I can't seem to get a handle on -- I mean, I am 20 years older than I was when I first started listening to her. In the interim, the world has progressed from tape walkmen to pen-sized mp3 players. We've gone from Reagan to Bush (ok, bad example).
As for Miss Madonna, she has clearly (well, to me) progressed from promiscuous strumpet to zen mother of two. She's gone from wailing popstress to aspiring Streisand impersonator. Her nasal Michigan accent has been replaced by her renown affected British accent. And her literary endeavours have moved from porn-and-poetry buffets to children's bestsellers.
The question remains: If she has grown up, why haven't I?
I understand that we never outgrow certain things. I still like my cereal super soggy and my milk shaken. I will always respect a good, big swingset. Mary Poppins is and always will be my favorite movie. But today I was confronted with proof positive that I have really not progressed much from where I was at age 6.
I remember watching my dad help me dub my first tape. (Ah, the roots of copyright infringement. How it could bring a family together.) I had gotten a new stereo for Persian New Year, so I'm not joking when I say it was hovering around 15-20 years ago. I wasn't tall enough to see what was taking place on the bar countertop (some would say that hasn't changed?). But I knew with all my heart what was going on. The tape to be dubbed FOR ME AND ONLY ME onto the translucent orange blank tape (what a treat!) was... Madonna "Like a Virgin". I'm talking Angel, Dress You Up, or for ye 80s pop cultural neophytes (hi Jon!), "Material Girl".
The years passed and the tapes got more standard. A translucent clear - but with yellow label- for my dubbing of Madonna "Madonna" (I had to work backwards on that one. Caught on late.) A store-bought True Blue, which notably became my first creative foray into dance. I mean, when the woman says "Get up, stand tall, put your back/up/against the wall, cause my love is dangerous", well then, you throw your little body against the wall, arms in the air, in a display of prepubescent sexuality. And your father, who is the Patron of the Arts, shelling out a buck for each performance, tries to sneak out, but you remind him that there IS ANOTHER song left on this side of the tape before INTERMISSION!
It was around this time that I realized Madonna had progressed to other media (without me?) -- Desperately Seeking Susan made its breakthrough, and I marvelled at a woman so cool she'd dry her armpits on a bus stop hand-dryer. I watched the film "Who's That Girl" over and over again, wondering how long I had to wait to dye *my* hair platinum. Then I bought the soundtrack, impressed and feeling justified (and arguing) that my idol was also, apparently, bilingual "Quien es, esta nina?/Who's that girl?".
The hits kept coming... as You Can Dance, a remix album, was released, I'd insist on staying in the car and listening to it. Lying sweaty in the back of mom's Ford Taurus with the windows barely cracked (Chicago summers, no less), I'd sing along literally Over and Over while mom and dad browsed the racks of Burlington Coat Factory on any given Sunday. Everyone knew I loved her. If there was a Madonna question, you'd ask *me*. That's just the way it was.
You guys who only knew her for Like A Prayer missed out on the whole Dick Tracy movement. In another G family moment (who knew so many of them were due to The Unvirgin herself?) - my sister Susie and I choreographed and entire show to I'm Breathless in our basement. And made my dad sit through it. (Please visit www.boygirlparty.com to see how the choreographer of "I'm Going Bananas" has since matured, well, at least musically.)
While my mom had the idea to let me have a punk 9th birthday party, I was strictly forbidden from attending Madonna concerts. Ever. (Apparently, dressing like her once per year was acceptable, though?) I knew mom didn't like her, encouraging me to listen to Cyndi Lauper instead, or even Michael Jackson, the King of Crotch-Grabbing. I had to sneak over to Kathy Stachniw's house to watch the forbidden Justify My Love video. And we didn't have cable until I was almost through with high school, so videos and awards shows were all I had to go on to keep in touch.
I studied dance. I admittedly never read "Sex", but that's not for lack of me looking for it at the library. I covered "Material Girl" at my school fun fair's Star Studio. I read about her and I enjoyed her freedom while I was a sheltered Persian girl in the midwest. Eventually, I went to University of Michigan. Coincidence? Perhaps.
I stayed faithful through Erotica, Bedtime Stories, and Ray of Light. I bought Evita and took off to Argentina to see the Casa Rosada. I stopped watching Sean Penn movies and tucked away my signed Rodman photo. I nodded to the Maverick building along Santa Monica when I'd drive through L.A. I forgave her for making The Next Best Thing. I overlooked her bastardization of Japanese culture, then Indian. I read about Kabbalah (although I always misspell it "Kaballah," which may be a sign in and of itself?). When she did Swept Away, we got in a fight, and I stopped paying attention to her for a few months. But we made up and American Life joined my expansive cd collection.
Somewhere in there, I *might* have bought her earliest album (horrendous electronica dance stuff from some Scandinavian country, if anyone's looking for it). And I *might* have dropped $20 for the London Symphony Orchestra's tribute to her. But I'm not admitting anything.
What I AM admitting is that this morning, some 20 years after this madness began, I found myself rushing to try and get tickets to her next tour. I'm 26, and I remembered last week that "I'm the boss of me" (said in my most petulant voice). So I dedicated $100 to obtaining tickets to her 'Reinvention' show at the Forum.
No such luck.
So, why am I admitting all of this?
Because part of me is as disappointed as the, what, 11 year old who wasn't allowed to see Blonde Ambition (in retrospect, watching Madonna masturbate on-stage would have been a bonding moment I really didn't need to have with my mom).
It's something I can't seem to get a handle on -- I mean, I am 20 years older than I was when I first started listening to her. In the interim, the world has progressed from tape walkmen to pen-sized mp3 players. We've gone from Reagan to Bush (ok, bad example).
As for Miss Madonna, she has clearly (well, to me) progressed from promiscuous strumpet to zen mother of two. She's gone from wailing popstress to aspiring Streisand impersonator. Her nasal Michigan accent has been replaced by her renown affected British accent. And her literary endeavours have moved from porn-and-poetry buffets to children's bestsellers.
The question remains: If she has grown up, why haven't I?
She Bangs, Will, but you rock
Not since the 1960s have so many women gathered, screaming with perfumed abandon. Is it the Rolling Stones? Nope. The Beatles? Who are they? We're talking William Hung. And don't the ladies know it.
Tonight we decided to take reality television one step forward by participating in the phenomenon known as a William Hung free concert at North County Fair. I hate malls (gender abberation), but I had to go. And courtesy of my resident Tall Friend, Jon, I may even have photographic proof (if not the skillz to post them here).
So. Off we went. Jon dropped us off at the front door and headed off to battle parking. There could be no doubt that the cream-colored Avant limo was for the Hungster (not to be confused with the Hongster). But the legions of screaming women and children? Amazing.
There was quite a lot of build-up to the performance. As muted pop blared through the mall's speakers, we rushed around Robinsons May (not sure of name, just giving you an image) to find a good vantage point. There was none to be had. Even where you could find a space to stand, it was only to be eye-level with youngster-ass, suspended midair in a fatherly display of shoulder-perching. Having made the inappropriate (for the circumstances) choice to wear flat sneakers for the night, I was relegated to merely listening to Will perform, periodically gazing at the posters and pictures of him hanging behind me in an effort to create a more immediate environment for myself. The crowd took mercy on me and parted ways just enough for me to catch the sweep of his hair across his happy forehead. *Hi William* His background dancers swayed, and he sang. About the Circle of Life. Which got a girl thinking.
What in the hell is going on here?
I have had a really tough time telling if America is fascinated by him, or making fun of him. At first, I thought it was brutality of the underhanded junior high 'we let him hang out with us - DORK!' kind. You see, I didn't realize that he set up his OWN website. Now, the pieces fall together-- this guy is at Berkeley. He's no dummy. He's capitalizing on something that usually only makes it as far as a set of 6 life-affirming tapes on a late night infomercial, for 4 easy installments of $39.95 plus tax.
In a weird way (one involving grand stage entrances via two-floor christmas-lit mall elevator), William made his dream come true. I mean, come on, what's the difference between playing Staples center and the mall? (I wouldn't doubt that Kelly Clarkson had to play a few malls in her day, anyway.) He wanted attention. He wanted to sing. I doubt he even thought so far as the pleasant-looking women swaying supportively behind him tonight.
My theory is this: America is watching and drooling over the concept that Everyone is a Star. The fact that his career is preposterous makes it all the more loveable. I mean, it makes sense. We don't love Madonna because she can sing. We love her because she's entertained herself and us and made shitloads of $ by *not* being able to. She's not this untouchable talent; she's just another girl with persistence and a good sense of humor and a business mind. Like the kind of mind that sets up a website immediately following humiliation on a national scale.
If the crowds of tonight are anything to go by, Hung's fans are as much the lone adults strolling the periphery as the young girls who screamed the adorations previously reserved for Justin Timberlake and his prepubescent counterpart Aaron Carter.
The rest of us who get lazy with our dreams (statistical overlap with the populations who hang around malls?) enjoy and live vicariously.
William for President.
THE TRAIN.
It can begin with a simple question. Someone asks you for your opinion about someone. You begin to casually outline the innocuous parts of your Real Thoughts. The conversation continues, and before long, what was once a pencilled tracing of your Real Thoughts becomes pen. No, wait, let's make that marker. Permanent. Bloody, thick lines of permanent black ink. And you're coloring it on, oh boy are you. It feels like a nice good binge standing in front of an open fridge (ok, here I may have lost the guys, but go with it). And you stand back, and have another moment that happens late night in front of the fridge- a moment of absolute and complete disgust with yourself.
Yesterday I found myself talking for an hour and a half about someone I don't know well enough to speak well of for an hour and half. I know this will show up on my report card from hell, but meanwhile, I'm struggling. I'm struggling with the notion of "venting" vs. "bitching" vs. "bouncing ideas". And I'm trying to understand the chemical reaction that takes place when you have particular thoughts or feelings and keep them inside, but the moment they hit the open air (whether in your booming drunken slur or in a delicate whisper), they are different. They are something out of your control. And there is no way to take them back.
I feel like there are some distinctions to be made in the maze of Gossipland. There is of course the elemental truth/falsity line. Then there's the personal-experience/secondhand. To talk about something that happened directly to you involving another person is often considered "reflection", "venting", "sharing your feelings". But if for some reason someone just rubs you the wrong way and you say it, there's NO explanation. Particularly in a world where we're supposed to be making logical decisions, not ones based on INTUITION, for God's sake. That's the title to an offensively pop Jewel song, and ipso facto, not a motto by which to live your life.
No one wants to believe that they're the engine or that they in any way contribute to the chain of evil that somewhat resembles gossip. If we're make a litmus test, I suppose it would be that you should feel good when you're done talking if it's not gossip (pink strip!); you should feel like you got something off your chest. Otherwise, you need to check yourself. And hope it's not too late.
It can begin with a simple question. Someone asks you for your opinion about someone. You begin to casually outline the innocuous parts of your Real Thoughts. The conversation continues, and before long, what was once a pencilled tracing of your Real Thoughts becomes pen. No, wait, let's make that marker. Permanent. Bloody, thick lines of permanent black ink. And you're coloring it on, oh boy are you. It feels like a nice good binge standing in front of an open fridge (ok, here I may have lost the guys, but go with it). And you stand back, and have another moment that happens late night in front of the fridge- a moment of absolute and complete disgust with yourself.
Yesterday I found myself talking for an hour and a half about someone I don't know well enough to speak well of for an hour and half. I know this will show up on my report card from hell, but meanwhile, I'm struggling. I'm struggling with the notion of "venting" vs. "bitching" vs. "bouncing ideas". And I'm trying to understand the chemical reaction that takes place when you have particular thoughts or feelings and keep them inside, but the moment they hit the open air (whether in your booming drunken slur or in a delicate whisper), they are different. They are something out of your control. And there is no way to take them back.
I feel like there are some distinctions to be made in the maze of Gossipland. There is of course the elemental truth/falsity line. Then there's the personal-experience/secondhand. To talk about something that happened directly to you involving another person is often considered "reflection", "venting", "sharing your feelings". But if for some reason someone just rubs you the wrong way and you say it, there's NO explanation. Particularly in a world where we're supposed to be making logical decisions, not ones based on INTUITION, for God's sake. That's the title to an offensively pop Jewel song, and ipso facto, not a motto by which to live your life.
No one wants to believe that they're the engine or that they in any way contribute to the chain of evil that somewhat resembles gossip. If we're make a litmus test, I suppose it would be that you should feel good when you're done talking if it's not gossip (pink strip!); you should feel like you got something off your chest. Otherwise, you need to check yourself. And hope it's not too late.
VALENTINIAN FORMULAE.
"Some days are just 'no days'," mom told me.
I saw him across the parking lot of Starbuck's. Two blah dates and an unreturned call flashed through my mind, and I immediately became enraptured by the contents of my trunk. But alas, destiny was to have the upper hand, and when I ducked into Ralph's as an extra measure, he was approaching. Like the ghosts that duck through those infuriating tunnels and corner Pacman, it was a lost cause and I had only to crumple up and die. I was cornered near the Coinstar machine, ziploc full of change in hand, my ear to my phone checking messages. He was going to play it like he didn't recognize me, but he did. I knew he did. [He hadn't seen me duck him at Jury Duty a few months back - that time I brushed my hair over my face and bent over searching through my purse] This time, I knew I had been spotted. I knew I was the non-caller, which gave him higher moral standing on the dating scale? I think. Caught in the headlights, I pretended to be very involved with the silence in between my phone saying "you have NO - NEW - MESSAGES!", and, without slowing my pace, wiggled my fingers at him.
A wave.
This wave was more than a him-me thing. It was the universal gesture of the auto-fail. It was Simon's smile before dismissing an American Idol contestant. The rolling of eyes at your friends after dismissing a lame guy who you'd seen working his way down the line of ladies at the bar.
I don't like to think of the Auto-Fail as a judgmental instrument. Rather, it is a sincere screening device for settling what you can and can not stand for, and, the way I see it, a tool to spare everyone involved some serious amounts of wasted time.
Often, people will just say "we didn't click". Or "there's just NO chemistry" with us. What is the formula, you may ask? (Or the guy who has just been dissed for the 2040299402th time may ask. I'm not saying you're him. Let's just say it's an example). The formula is personal. It is the formulaic result of data collected from people you've dated, people you wish you'd dated, people your friends dated, the girl at dinner next to you in the ugly jacket, movies, books... all of it. I believe your brain quickly snaps through the possibilities and your human limitations, and spits out a 'yes' or 'no' fortune. It's not super high-tech, but it happens and we do it every time we walk by someone on the street. "Scruffy shoes". Boom. Autofail. "Blowing by panhandler without eye contact or donation." Boom. Autofail. "Deep blue shirt under suit." Meep meep. *Come here, baby*
My formula involves bans on bouffant hairdos, mandals, a guy who slips in the door before me, proud declaration of bowel movements and other illustrious bodily functions, cheesy tattoos, and halitosis. Some may call this shallow, but hey, there are guys out there who won't kick it to a non-blonde or a girl who breaks a sweat at the height requirement signs at Magic Mountain. All's fair in love and war.
But. There's always a but, isn't there? (Unless you don't like butts. Which, again, is your prerogative.) In compiling this little list of my auto-fails, I realized that I have let repeat offenders through the door. More than that, I've nearly fallen for composites of things I didn't want. And the 'nearly' came after the autofail had, well, failed.
So.
I'm learning a lot as I grow up. I've definitely espoused the belief in the past that "ohmigod, he likes that song TOO! What a SIGN!" I thought that the more you were like someone, the more random little interests you shared, the more it was meant to be. And I found that it was easy to focus on those little similarities and find comfort in them when, on a much larger moral scale, we were totally from differing planets. I used to think if a guy liked the same songs, it would be worth trying it out. Then I realized that when you love the same song, one person can love it for the lyrics and another is so caught up in the tune that they didn't even notice the words. Where does that leave you?
Now I wonder if it's possible that I'll fall in love with someone who can't dance for shit, hates sushi, only reads if the phone rings and he needs to click 'closed caption' on The Man Show (on "Girls on Trampolines"... just in case), and can speak about the Bush Jr. presidency without a wave of nausea washing over him.
Yin and yang. Day and Night. Opposites attract. Destiny. Fate. The perfect pair.
Sometimes I think that maybe I'm the sock that didn't make it out of the dryer.
But as for Auto-Fail? The happiest I've been is when it was on the fritz. Maybe I can handle the mandals.
But the halitosis is non-negotiable.
"Some days are just 'no days'," mom told me.
I saw him across the parking lot of Starbuck's. Two blah dates and an unreturned call flashed through my mind, and I immediately became enraptured by the contents of my trunk. But alas, destiny was to have the upper hand, and when I ducked into Ralph's as an extra measure, he was approaching. Like the ghosts that duck through those infuriating tunnels and corner Pacman, it was a lost cause and I had only to crumple up and die. I was cornered near the Coinstar machine, ziploc full of change in hand, my ear to my phone checking messages. He was going to play it like he didn't recognize me, but he did. I knew he did. [He hadn't seen me duck him at Jury Duty a few months back - that time I brushed my hair over my face and bent over searching through my purse] This time, I knew I had been spotted. I knew I was the non-caller, which gave him higher moral standing on the dating scale? I think. Caught in the headlights, I pretended to be very involved with the silence in between my phone saying "you have NO - NEW - MESSAGES!", and, without slowing my pace, wiggled my fingers at him.
A wave.
This wave was more than a him-me thing. It was the universal gesture of the auto-fail. It was Simon's smile before dismissing an American Idol contestant. The rolling of eyes at your friends after dismissing a lame guy who you'd seen working his way down the line of ladies at the bar.
I don't like to think of the Auto-Fail as a judgmental instrument. Rather, it is a sincere screening device for settling what you can and can not stand for, and, the way I see it, a tool to spare everyone involved some serious amounts of wasted time.
Often, people will just say "we didn't click". Or "there's just NO chemistry" with us. What is the formula, you may ask? (Or the guy who has just been dissed for the 2040299402th time may ask. I'm not saying you're him. Let's just say it's an example). The formula is personal. It is the formulaic result of data collected from people you've dated, people you wish you'd dated, people your friends dated, the girl at dinner next to you in the ugly jacket, movies, books... all of it. I believe your brain quickly snaps through the possibilities and your human limitations, and spits out a 'yes' or 'no' fortune. It's not super high-tech, but it happens and we do it every time we walk by someone on the street. "Scruffy shoes". Boom. Autofail. "Blowing by panhandler without eye contact or donation." Boom. Autofail. "Deep blue shirt under suit." Meep meep. *Come here, baby*
My formula involves bans on bouffant hairdos, mandals, a guy who slips in the door before me, proud declaration of bowel movements and other illustrious bodily functions, cheesy tattoos, and halitosis. Some may call this shallow, but hey, there are guys out there who won't kick it to a non-blonde or a girl who breaks a sweat at the height requirement signs at Magic Mountain. All's fair in love and war.
But. There's always a but, isn't there? (Unless you don't like butts. Which, again, is your prerogative.) In compiling this little list of my auto-fails, I realized that I have let repeat offenders through the door. More than that, I've nearly fallen for composites of things I didn't want. And the 'nearly' came after the autofail had, well, failed.
So.
I'm learning a lot as I grow up. I've definitely espoused the belief in the past that "ohmigod, he likes that song TOO! What a SIGN!" I thought that the more you were like someone, the more random little interests you shared, the more it was meant to be. And I found that it was easy to focus on those little similarities and find comfort in them when, on a much larger moral scale, we were totally from differing planets. I used to think if a guy liked the same songs, it would be worth trying it out. Then I realized that when you love the same song, one person can love it for the lyrics and another is so caught up in the tune that they didn't even notice the words. Where does that leave you?
Now I wonder if it's possible that I'll fall in love with someone who can't dance for shit, hates sushi, only reads if the phone rings and he needs to click 'closed caption' on The Man Show (on "Girls on Trampolines"... just in case), and can speak about the Bush Jr. presidency without a wave of nausea washing over him.
Yin and yang. Day and Night. Opposites attract. Destiny. Fate. The perfect pair.
Sometimes I think that maybe I'm the sock that didn't make it out of the dryer.
But as for Auto-Fail? The happiest I've been is when it was on the fritz. Maybe I can handle the mandals.
But the halitosis is non-negotiable.
THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF SLACKING.
It's been a long week. One of those weeks that feels like a year. On a roadtrip. Sitting bitch. With the a/c out. Listening to Hootie and the Blowfish on staticky radio.
But I'm back. I have a sore throat. This appears to be to the benefit of my neighbors, who will no longer hear my shower operetta. At least not this week.
While I haven't been writing much, I have been thinking alot. Not in the way that, when you're caught napping, you go "My eyes are closed because I'm *thinking*". For real thinking. Pondering. About "working to live" vs. "living to work". About friendship and how you gauge how much time/effort you're going to put into getting to know someone. About the appropriate length for a flirtatious email. About forgiveness and persistence in the face of cumulative signs that something (or someone) isn't right for you. About how a silly game of football is the pinpoint upon which the most powerful nation in the world rests for exactly 4 hours per annum. And about how to best develop my triceps (suggestions are appreciated).
2004 has been pretty entertaining so far. I find myself making grossly inappropriate decisions that I know Lilly would never have made a year ago. As my bank account steadily approaches zero, I booked a ticket to visit Paris. I did this, quite simply, because I feel like speaking French and taking lots of black and white photographs, even if they are on an automatic camera. It makes no sense and it goes against every grain of what I've ever been taught, particularly with my job hanging (dangling?) in the balance. But I'm finding more freedom in living in the moment this past month than I have in the entire past 26 years of my life.
I've always been raised to gogogogogogogo. I've been watching my sister be the one to gogogogogogo for the last month (big ups to susie g.- take a trip around the corner to www.boygirlparty.com). There's this immense relief in not being the go-getter. In watching my sibling be the one to bring home exciting news and pride in her accomplishments. I have been revelling in my backseat position these past few weeks (ok, all of you - heads OUT of the gutter!). I get to have that amazing feeling of being proud of (her) accomplishments and - get this! - I don't have to do ANYTHING!
Besides my general lack of drive to do anything except knit scarves and watch reality television, I find my new attitude filling my brain like smoke seeping through from under the door. I have proof positive that I'm getting dumber, and I'm exploring this new (or just acknowledged?) spacey-ness with the same excitement that I'd try on new shoes or a funky pair of earrings. I'm attitude-accessorizing, if you will.
The other day I had two episodes of blatant stupidity; moments where I played Chrissy Snow to the world's Janet. And I LOVED them, because it felt so **normal**. You can't always be smart. You can't always be 'together'. You can't always have a map for the next 5 years of your life sketched out. I had always thought these things so necessary to my happiness, and yet I found myself unhappy.
When you take the pressure of attempts at perfection out of every moment of your waking life, you notice that you're actually breathing. You notice the sun rise and set, not as the imposing parameters of what you can get done in the day, but as a pretty gift you get on a daily basis, you ungrateful shit! :) Now when a piece of my life seems like it's unraveling, I either deal with it, or laugh about it and put it away for another day when I have the energy to deal with bullshit. I don't lose my head over it. I don't obsess. Because it's just life, after all.
For my next act, I will attempt to bottle this attitude.
"Life is a tragedy to those who feel, and a comedy to those who think."
-someone, as quoted to me by my Mom
It's been a long week. One of those weeks that feels like a year. On a roadtrip. Sitting bitch. With the a/c out. Listening to Hootie and the Blowfish on staticky radio.
But I'm back. I have a sore throat. This appears to be to the benefit of my neighbors, who will no longer hear my shower operetta. At least not this week.
While I haven't been writing much, I have been thinking alot. Not in the way that, when you're caught napping, you go "My eyes are closed because I'm *thinking*". For real thinking. Pondering. About "working to live" vs. "living to work". About friendship and how you gauge how much time/effort you're going to put into getting to know someone. About the appropriate length for a flirtatious email. About forgiveness and persistence in the face of cumulative signs that something (or someone) isn't right for you. About how a silly game of football is the pinpoint upon which the most powerful nation in the world rests for exactly 4 hours per annum. And about how to best develop my triceps (suggestions are appreciated).
2004 has been pretty entertaining so far. I find myself making grossly inappropriate decisions that I know Lilly would never have made a year ago. As my bank account steadily approaches zero, I booked a ticket to visit Paris. I did this, quite simply, because I feel like speaking French and taking lots of black and white photographs, even if they are on an automatic camera. It makes no sense and it goes against every grain of what I've ever been taught, particularly with my job hanging (dangling?) in the balance. But I'm finding more freedom in living in the moment this past month than I have in the entire past 26 years of my life.
I've always been raised to gogogogogogogo. I've been watching my sister be the one to gogogogogogo for the last month (big ups to susie g.- take a trip around the corner to www.boygirlparty.com). There's this immense relief in not being the go-getter. In watching my sibling be the one to bring home exciting news and pride in her accomplishments. I have been revelling in my backseat position these past few weeks (ok, all of you - heads OUT of the gutter!). I get to have that amazing feeling of being proud of (her) accomplishments and - get this! - I don't have to do ANYTHING!
Besides my general lack of drive to do anything except knit scarves and watch reality television, I find my new attitude filling my brain like smoke seeping through from under the door. I have proof positive that I'm getting dumber, and I'm exploring this new (or just acknowledged?) spacey-ness with the same excitement that I'd try on new shoes or a funky pair of earrings. I'm attitude-accessorizing, if you will.
The other day I had two episodes of blatant stupidity; moments where I played Chrissy Snow to the world's Janet. And I LOVED them, because it felt so **normal**. You can't always be smart. You can't always be 'together'. You can't always have a map for the next 5 years of your life sketched out. I had always thought these things so necessary to my happiness, and yet I found myself unhappy.
When you take the pressure of attempts at perfection out of every moment of your waking life, you notice that you're actually breathing. You notice the sun rise and set, not as the imposing parameters of what you can get done in the day, but as a pretty gift you get on a daily basis, you ungrateful shit! :) Now when a piece of my life seems like it's unraveling, I either deal with it, or laugh about it and put it away for another day when I have the energy to deal with bullshit. I don't lose my head over it. I don't obsess. Because it's just life, after all.
For my next act, I will attempt to bottle this attitude.
"Life is a tragedy to those who feel, and a comedy to those who think."
-someone, as quoted to me by my Mom
"AND WIIIIIIILD HORSES/ COULDN'T DRAG ME AWAY..."
That's a pretty big statement, Sir Jagger. Just having these lyrics going in the background (newfound Stones obsession), it makes a girl ponder what would be so damn enticing that wild horses couldn't drag ME away. I have a tendency to think that if wild horses were in any way attached to me, I wouldn't fight them. But *let's say* I did... what would it be for? I'm not thinking ideas. I mean, nationalism? Give me a break. Drag me away. For the sake of a political belief? Naw. Too cliche. Wild horses, wild horses, hm.... I think it all comes down to the sordid drug that has plagued my life: caffeine. If I am in line at Starbucks, it is fair to surmise that wild horses (but how many are we talking about here?) couldn't drag me away. This is important to know. I mean, I like to think of myself as a principled person, and I suppose that by now, I should have the perimeters of these principles drafted- traced, per se. So there it is. Lalalalalalalatte. And wild horses couldn't drag me away.
Now that we have that all-important issue squared away... The cd has moved to the next track, and I'm finding my writing COMPLETELY compromised by The Rolling Stones' "Best Of" album. So much for music being your muse; it's overtaking my train of thought, because now I'm plagued by an overwhelming shame of my normalcy. I mean, if I'm in a bar and someone asks me my name, I'm just "Lilly G". From time to time, I console myself, thinking that the silent h's ("not one- but TWO!") are a little mysterious and unusual. But there's someone somewhere who bats her eyelashes (although the asker is gazing at her body because no doubt she's annoyingly beautiful too) and goes "Me? Oh, I'm just Ruby Tuesday." (bat bat, look down)
Back on track.
The SDSU Writers' Conference turned out to be absolutely energetic and amazing. I mean, now that I come to think of it, nothing extraordinary happened. Ideas and hopes were floating down the hallway of the hotel like little soap bubbles. It was a high just to walk into the place. I met inspiring people who were lots of fun and put a human face on what had become, for me, a very electronic and dispassionate publishing industry. It renewed my passion for working with writers - it was just the recharge that I needed.
That said, I'm still part-time and nothing in my life is sorted out any more than a week ago. But I suppose that's the best feeling you can have: Realizing that there is work to be done, income to be made, a void romantic platter to be filled ;) -- and -- knowing that you have 'no right' to feel so settled, so happy, so clearminded, you do it anyways. I can't get no satisfaction? I don't think so.
That's a pretty big statement, Sir Jagger. Just having these lyrics going in the background (newfound Stones obsession), it makes a girl ponder what would be so damn enticing that wild horses couldn't drag ME away. I have a tendency to think that if wild horses were in any way attached to me, I wouldn't fight them. But *let's say* I did... what would it be for? I'm not thinking ideas. I mean, nationalism? Give me a break. Drag me away. For the sake of a political belief? Naw. Too cliche. Wild horses, wild horses, hm.... I think it all comes down to the sordid drug that has plagued my life: caffeine. If I am in line at Starbucks, it is fair to surmise that wild horses (but how many are we talking about here?) couldn't drag me away. This is important to know. I mean, I like to think of myself as a principled person, and I suppose that by now, I should have the perimeters of these principles drafted- traced, per se. So there it is. Lalalalalalalatte. And wild horses couldn't drag me away.
Now that we have that all-important issue squared away... The cd has moved to the next track, and I'm finding my writing COMPLETELY compromised by The Rolling Stones' "Best Of" album. So much for music being your muse; it's overtaking my train of thought, because now I'm plagued by an overwhelming shame of my normalcy. I mean, if I'm in a bar and someone asks me my name, I'm just "Lilly G". From time to time, I console myself, thinking that the silent h's ("not one- but TWO!") are a little mysterious and unusual. But there's someone somewhere who bats her eyelashes (although the asker is gazing at her body because no doubt she's annoyingly beautiful too) and goes "Me? Oh, I'm just Ruby Tuesday." (bat bat, look down)
Back on track.
The SDSU Writers' Conference turned out to be absolutely energetic and amazing. I mean, now that I come to think of it, nothing extraordinary happened. Ideas and hopes were floating down the hallway of the hotel like little soap bubbles. It was a high just to walk into the place. I met inspiring people who were lots of fun and put a human face on what had become, for me, a very electronic and dispassionate publishing industry. It renewed my passion for working with writers - it was just the recharge that I needed.
That said, I'm still part-time and nothing in my life is sorted out any more than a week ago. But I suppose that's the best feeling you can have: Realizing that there is work to be done, income to be made, a void romantic platter to be filled ;) -- and -- knowing that you have 'no right' to feel so settled, so happy, so clearminded, you do it anyways. I can't get no satisfaction? I don't think so.
LILLY THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS ... Today the roles were suddenly reversed. At a writer's conference tonight, my moms suddenly became the shy child, and I was the one trying to nudge her into the classroom to mix with the other kids. She didn't want to socialize, completely somehow momentarily forgetting her talents, and there I was, 'there to do business'.
They're terrifying - those little moments when we become the grownups. When the world does a quick flip upside down and you find yourself being more mature or serious or logical than you really think you should have to be. Sometimes I think I'm so big and grown up, but never ever to the point that I want to really go switcheroo. I'll leave that to quality Jodie Foster childhood films. Never do I look at my life of twentysomething leisure and fun and shake my head, grimacing that - oh, no, *I* want to be the support column, the crying shoulder, the temperature taker, the advice doler-outer.
I know the saying that, with time, 'the parents become the kids and the kids become the parents', but I'd like to look at tonight as a one-time eavesdropping into a parallel world that I won't have to explore any time too soon.
So I went over to her house afterwards, complained about how tired I was, and begged for her best homemade omelette. And all was right again.
They're terrifying - those little moments when we become the grownups. When the world does a quick flip upside down and you find yourself being more mature or serious or logical than you really think you should have to be. Sometimes I think I'm so big and grown up, but never ever to the point that I want to really go switcheroo. I'll leave that to quality Jodie Foster childhood films. Never do I look at my life of twentysomething leisure and fun and shake my head, grimacing that - oh, no, *I* want to be the support column, the crying shoulder, the temperature taker, the advice doler-outer.
I know the saying that, with time, 'the parents become the kids and the kids become the parents', but I'd like to look at tonight as a one-time eavesdropping into a parallel world that I won't have to explore any time too soon.
So I went over to her house afterwards, complained about how tired I was, and begged for her best homemade omelette. And all was right again.
MY FIRST DAY AT BLOG SCHOOL...
There's a lot of pressure weighing down on these first few tappings of my fingers on the keys. There is pressure to say something coherent, intriguing, and witty. You know, just in case someone I know reads this and realizes something to crack my too cool veneer ;) "Oh, shit, wait, guys come over check this out -- Lilly is such a case! Read her blog! Her cover is SO blown!" I'm just gonna put that fear to the side for the minute.
What counts as making a difference?
Today I was having dinner with one of the authors I agent for and his wife. As I talked about all the plans I have for his book, I noticed him squeeze his wife's hand under the table. [Author mercifully omits extensive ponderances on the subjects of true love and lasting romance here.] Sitting there on the deck of the restaurant, floor heat lamp emblazoning my right leg, I heard his words come and go. How much we connect. How he's known I was down for the book since day one. How important my advice is to him. How much he looks forward to what may come. Scraaaaaaatch goes the record. Hold up now!.. The realization sunk in that he is totally honoring me by making me part of his dream. This man has been working his novel for years. I don't know if there's anything that defines trust more than him putting his pride and joy, his late nights, his best efforts, into my hands. Who am I to be trusted? Just because I smile and say the right things? It's powerful. It's also absolutely tempting to question yourself; to question how easily we trust people. Which gets me to thinking...maybe he's right. Maybe the problem is that we have taken trust to *too* conscious of a level. Maybe we think too much instead of just going with our gut feelings.
I watch Pele open one eye - his slumber on the dirty floor has been disturbed, and he jumps to his feet to growl at the door. He just knows that whoever is roaming the hall is bad news. I wonder if we all have that and are just unwilling to trust ourselves?
Trust is.
What counts as making a difference?
Today I was having dinner with one of the authors I agent for and his wife. As I talked about all the plans I have for his book, I noticed him squeeze his wife's hand under the table. [Author mercifully omits extensive ponderances on the subjects of true love and lasting romance here.] Sitting there on the deck of the restaurant, floor heat lamp emblazoning my right leg, I heard his words come and go. How much we connect. How he's known I was down for the book since day one. How important my advice is to him. How much he looks forward to what may come. Scraaaaaaatch goes the record. Hold up now!.. The realization sunk in that he is totally honoring me by making me part of his dream. This man has been working his novel for years. I don't know if there's anything that defines trust more than him putting his pride and joy, his late nights, his best efforts, into my hands. Who am I to be trusted? Just because I smile and say the right things? It's powerful. It's also absolutely tempting to question yourself; to question how easily we trust people. Which gets me to thinking...maybe he's right. Maybe the problem is that we have taken trust to *too* conscious of a level. Maybe we think too much instead of just going with our gut feelings.
I watch Pele open one eye - his slumber on the dirty floor has been disturbed, and he jumps to his feet to growl at the door. He just knows that whoever is roaming the hall is bad news. I wonder if we all have that and are just unwilling to trust ourselves?
Trust is.
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