Lately I've taken to looking at people and saying to myself, 'that's someone's baby girl or boy.' Someone looks at them and sees an apple cheek, gap toothed kid even if they now have studs through their nose and a back piece. My mom tells a story about me during their time in Vegas; it's over a hundred degrees out and she is trying her darndest to get out of the hot sun with a basket of laundry and me trailing behind. I have turned pink with the heat and she is imploring me to keep up but I am poo-pooing along, picking dandelions. I think that's me in a nutshell, ambling along, obliviously picking pretty weeds.
Speaking of weed, I went to a party tonight. When I spend my Friday and Saturday nights indoors, I sometimes feel like I'm missing something, that there is this fun 'out there' I'm not having. Then I go out and can't wait to get back in again. I know part of it is the people. We just aren't into the same things. There was a girl at the party who was/is bat shit crazy. Certifiable, honest to god. She's single white female crazy. I'm not sure if she was drunk but I do know she was talking really, really fast and was either manic or high. She didn't arrive at the party that way so I'm trying to remember when she might have snuck away and ingested generous amounts of amphetamines. She is one of those people whose only purpose in talking with other people is to convey information about herself and her accomplishments. She's a neurology nurse but it takes her a while to get to the nurse part. She describes herself first a someone who works in neurosurgery. Then she went on and on about her running club and how much she loved running, which if I took a lot of mind altering stimulants, I'd probably be into as well. She insisted I put my number in her phone so she could text me and rather than risk doing combat with her, I entered my work phone and only part of my first name. Now I'm thinking I could have just gotten away with giving her phone back to her without putting my number in. She didn't check. She was just talking so fast and so intently and I was a little scared. I couldn't get in an argument or confrontation with this girl over my phone number. You can't win arguments with crazy people and even less so when they are intoxicated or high.
Single white female was just the icing on the 'I need to get the hell out of here' cake. In what felt like an after school special moment, I wandered out back during the party to find a group of people expertly making a joint out of a hollowed out cigarette thingy. The guy had a bag of weed and when he saw me said, 'oh, did you want to...?' and I, saucer eyed, said no thanks and went back inside. I'm almost halfway to 40 and that is the very first time I've ever seen weed at a party. When I wasn't nodding and trying to keep up with single white female, or just saying no to drugs, I was floating in and out of various conversations about hookups and hangovers. That is just not me. I want to be somewhere I actually have something to add to the conversation. It's not that I'm highbrow and want to go to parties where people discuss Iran's nuclear ambitions or Khadafi's latest rant. It was the highlight of my evening out last weekend having a giggly conversation about poop.
But alas these nights are never a waste as I could not wait to get home to blog about it. I may just start being the weird girl who shows up with a notebook at parties. Not only are the people there interesting but I have thoughts about fitting in and the Mutual of Omaha show that is the cutest guy there vs all of the single women vs eachother that I just can't recapture when I get home. I probably won't have many parties to write about if I start doing that...
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Time goes by so slowly
The year has flown by but this week seemed to last a year. It was a very dense week. I did a lot of thinking this week. I did a lot of doing this week too. The first part of the week when I was consumed with engaging in yet another tete a tete with with the dog walker, this time over his pilfering of my poo bags, I realized I'm more than a little petty. And vindictively passive aggressive. I would rather turn off the water to the toilet than ask a person not to desecrate my bathroom.
This week, I have used the phrase "I will end you" in conversation and even though I was simply recounting a story to someone about something annoying that happened, recalling the situation actually made me want to pistol whip someone in the mouth.
I also gathered further anecdotal evidence to support my theory regarding the Random Dude Index (RDI) which postulates that when I look put together and feel comfortable, random dudes notice me enough to let me know even though I'm not wearing revealing or suggestive attire. Sometimes it's the street sweeper, "Damn, girl, you just sexy." Today yet another security guy in the building asked me out. Other times it's a statement about how they would walk in the rain with me if we were together or some other comment that alludes they would love to do 'x' thing if they had someone special to do it with. A firefighter asked me to dinner (not sure why I let that one get away, he was actually cute with a sexy job). A homeless man offered to be my dog and get on all fours and bark for me. Charming. The point is, I can validate my feelings about how a particular outfit suits me through the RDI. Pay attention ladies. If you notice an correlation between an outfit and an uptick in the randoms trying to "get wich you" your stock is rising on the RDI.
This week, I have used the phrase "I will end you" in conversation and even though I was simply recounting a story to someone about something annoying that happened, recalling the situation actually made me want to pistol whip someone in the mouth.
I also gathered further anecdotal evidence to support my theory regarding the Random Dude Index (RDI) which postulates that when I look put together and feel comfortable, random dudes notice me enough to let me know even though I'm not wearing revealing or suggestive attire. Sometimes it's the street sweeper, "Damn, girl, you just sexy." Today yet another security guy in the building asked me out. Other times it's a statement about how they would walk in the rain with me if we were together or some other comment that alludes they would love to do 'x' thing if they had someone special to do it with. A firefighter asked me to dinner (not sure why I let that one get away, he was actually cute with a sexy job). A homeless man offered to be my dog and get on all fours and bark for me. Charming. The point is, I can validate my feelings about how a particular outfit suits me through the RDI. Pay attention ladies. If you notice an correlation between an outfit and an uptick in the randoms trying to "get wich you" your stock is rising on the RDI.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Sometimes a day can turn on a dime. For most of the day, I vacillated between boredom and despair. Perhaps it was the decaf coffee and red velvet cheesecake. Perhaps it was a challenging but fun conversation with a interesting person with crinkly sparkly eyes. Perhaps it was the awesome boots that I found and am totally going to google when I finish this post. Or the light traffic and a great sing along to Lady by Little River Band. I don't know, but sometimes a day can turn on a dime and I'm grateful for it.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Time well spent
This weekend was awesome. Sunlight, discovery of a new delightful beer to love, books, more sunlight, hanging out with the puppy in the same sunlight while reading; pausing every few pages to watch her watch and wrinkle and wiggle her nose to sniff the air around her. I had dim sum for the first time today and probably ate three days worth of food as the carts went by and the previous plates were cleared to keep me from taking stock of just how much food I was consuming. Then I watched the Emmys and was excited to see people I actually know win awards. I hesitated sending them an e-mail; after all who the hell am I? It's not like we ever talk or send eachother holiday cards. But we were neighbors for a time and I was so excited both for their success and because they were on freaking TV! It was so cool. My sister sent me a text message the first time they were on screen and was just as excited as I was. Seeing them both buoys and diminishes my hope to see something become of this writing hobby. It seems like the camel passing through the eye of the needle. I do technically already write for a living so the issue is that of creative differences with my employer on the type of writing I get to do. I would like them to pay me to blog. They see it differently and would like me to continue to draft the official correspondence that is allegedly part of my job. The man is cramping my style...
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Step Off part 2
That my earlier post shows up as the third entry when you google "sprite step off" is likely a clear indication that you have not done your media promotion correctly. I did return to the step competition just as some people I had met earlier in the day who, like me, foolishly thought actual competition started at 11:00 am as advertised, were leaving in disgust. It was 3 o'clock by that time and they were told there might be some actual step competition (imagine that) by 4. I was prepared this time with reading material so I hung out near the marina for a half hour or so and then slowly ambled back towards the competition. For my entire day of waiting, I saw 4 step troupes and one bizarrely dressed group of youth who should have been spared the stage although the cause they pursued (keeping kids out of trouble) was noble.
When the MC finally took the stage, he thanked the sponsors no less than 15 times and then stalled again with a rapper no one has ever heard of and some random girl group with Wolverine slashed pants that the crowd was not feelin. The crowd was pretty thin and generally annoyed at the entire day's worth of non-stepping. We weren't rude but we also weren't going to feign enthusiasm for yet another non-step related person on the stage. The artists weren't horrible but the point is no one was there for a music festival, we were there for a STEP COMPETITION. We saw two sororities and then we had yet another interlude of filler, allegedly to allow the judges to get their scoring together. That was some BS for real. There were only 2 sororities and one was overwhelmingly better than the other which consisted of 4 girls. Same thing with the guys. If the judges needed to confer on that or work some advanced calculus on their score sheet, Sprite needed to invest in some other judges.
It surprised me an event with such significant corporate sponsorship (as we were repeatedly reminded by the MC), Coca Cola (of which Sprite is a part), McDonald's, could be so poorly executed. Kind of soured me on the brands every time they were mentioned, which was often. I think the crowd was with me. In fact, the crowd was quite vocal about wanting to see less of the MC and everyone else. Random non-stepping artists would try to engage the crowd and receive lukewarm response. I sat down and read the newspaper I brought with me. I refused to answer the question "has anyone here ever been in love?" even once. I'm not even sure after the first musical act asked and got little to no response why almost every subsequent no-name artist insisted on asking the same kind of question. The only time the crowd got excited was when the MC asked if we ready for some more stepping (and when he stalled during one of the interludes with his own stepping) and when there were ACTUAL STEP PERFORMANCES. There were only 2 good teams of the 4 there and the fraternity from Temple performed what I thought was an ill conceived routine mimicking apes. No need to court associations that have such negative racial connotations.
But I am glad I went. The two routines that rocked the crowd were what we all thought we had come for a day of. They were fantastic showmen (and women), their routines were tight and hugely entertaining, and they made me proud. Both for them and for 'us.' I didn't join any Greek societies in college unless you count a national honor society for freshman students, Alpha Lambda Delta (aka, I Am a Huge Nerd) that absolutely don't count. I found myself wishing I had gone to a traditional school that had an actual campus and active Greek societies so I could have girlfriends like that. Of course most things look prettier from a distance and that ship has sailed. I would give them props but because I didn't attend a college that had that kind of stuff, their fraternity and sorority names were literally and figuratively Greek to me.
So Coca Cola, who visited my previous post, if you're checking on me again (likely to see if I'm using your logo or some other fair use/copyright issue), please take the time to read this and use it to improve the next stop of your tour. I met a family who drove from Easton, PA--that's an hour and half away from Philly, paid for parking and for admission, even rushing to get there by 11:00, who was disappointed and wasn't there when I returned. Many commented on the poor advertising and the lack of actual stepping. Again, we did not buy tickets to a music festival, your schedule on Facebook did not suggest at all that most of the day would be filled with non-step activities, and it seemed like you were making up the program on the fly. The MC did his best to vamp but he had far too much time to fill. Either you don't have your crap together or you don't care about this. I prefer to think you don't have your crap together because if what I experienced today was the best you have for my community, you can bet I won't quench my thirst or hunger with another Coca Cola product.
When the MC finally took the stage, he thanked the sponsors no less than 15 times and then stalled again with a rapper no one has ever heard of and some random girl group with Wolverine slashed pants that the crowd was not feelin. The crowd was pretty thin and generally annoyed at the entire day's worth of non-stepping. We weren't rude but we also weren't going to feign enthusiasm for yet another non-step related person on the stage. The artists weren't horrible but the point is no one was there for a music festival, we were there for a STEP COMPETITION. We saw two sororities and then we had yet another interlude of filler, allegedly to allow the judges to get their scoring together. That was some BS for real. There were only 2 sororities and one was overwhelmingly better than the other which consisted of 4 girls. Same thing with the guys. If the judges needed to confer on that or work some advanced calculus on their score sheet, Sprite needed to invest in some other judges.
It surprised me an event with such significant corporate sponsorship (as we were repeatedly reminded by the MC), Coca Cola (of which Sprite is a part), McDonald's, could be so poorly executed. Kind of soured me on the brands every time they were mentioned, which was often. I think the crowd was with me. In fact, the crowd was quite vocal about wanting to see less of the MC and everyone else. Random non-stepping artists would try to engage the crowd and receive lukewarm response. I sat down and read the newspaper I brought with me. I refused to answer the question "has anyone here ever been in love?" even once. I'm not even sure after the first musical act asked and got little to no response why almost every subsequent no-name artist insisted on asking the same kind of question. The only time the crowd got excited was when the MC asked if we ready for some more stepping (and when he stalled during one of the interludes with his own stepping) and when there were ACTUAL STEP PERFORMANCES. There were only 2 good teams of the 4 there and the fraternity from Temple performed what I thought was an ill conceived routine mimicking apes. No need to court associations that have such negative racial connotations.
But I am glad I went. The two routines that rocked the crowd were what we all thought we had come for a day of. They were fantastic showmen (and women), their routines were tight and hugely entertaining, and they made me proud. Both for them and for 'us.' I didn't join any Greek societies in college unless you count a national honor society for freshman students, Alpha Lambda Delta (aka, I Am a Huge Nerd) that absolutely don't count. I found myself wishing I had gone to a traditional school that had an actual campus and active Greek societies so I could have girlfriends like that. Of course most things look prettier from a distance and that ship has sailed. I would give them props but because I didn't attend a college that had that kind of stuff, their fraternity and sorority names were literally and figuratively Greek to me.
So Coca Cola, who visited my previous post, if you're checking on me again (likely to see if I'm using your logo or some other fair use/copyright issue), please take the time to read this and use it to improve the next stop of your tour. I met a family who drove from Easton, PA--that's an hour and half away from Philly, paid for parking and for admission, even rushing to get there by 11:00, who was disappointed and wasn't there when I returned. Many commented on the poor advertising and the lack of actual stepping. Again, we did not buy tickets to a music festival, your schedule on Facebook did not suggest at all that most of the day would be filled with non-step activities, and it seemed like you were making up the program on the fly. The MC did his best to vamp but he had far too much time to fill. Either you don't have your crap together or you don't care about this. I prefer to think you don't have your crap together because if what I experienced today was the best you have for my community, you can bet I won't quench my thirst or hunger with another Coca Cola product.
Step off
I don't go to a lot of events. I don't like big crowds or complicated logistics and don't usually like to plan in advance far enough to make attending large concerts or other big shows worthwhile. But the Sprite Step Off is in town not far from the house so I thought I would walk over and see what it was all about. I got up early (for a weekend), got the dog walked, had some coffee and left the house before 11, which was the advertised start time. Forty minutes later, I'm still standing around waiting for something to happen and sending pissy text messages to my sister. There are no programs, no rhyme or reason to when people are going to be on stage, and no f-ing steppers on the stage. Around noon, someone told me they heard from some random security guard that the big shows were probably going to start about 4. I walked home. While I was making my lunch and muttering to myself about black people and Sprite, I realized that as someone who generally likes to think of themselves as a 'go-with-the-flow' kind of person, I'm pretty type A anal retentive. At least about standing in the hot sun without any idea when any of the entertainment I had paid to see was actually going to happen. I'm chillin at the house now and will probably head back but be prepared for another world class rant if things haven't picked up by the time I get back. I'll probably come back and not be able to even find a good place to watch. At least it's nice out. I can get my tan on.
Friday, September 18, 2009
So.....
So I was out walking the dog and some guy was handing out flyers for their "fringe comedy" act and I decided to go. That's how I roll; plan ahead and I dread it with almost every fiber of my being, make plans about 20 minutes in advance, perfect. It wasn't until I was headed out the door that I realized the one of the guys was holding what appeared to be a used condom in the little flyer but I had asked the guy handing out the flyers was was so "fringe" about their comedy troupe, so there you had it, used condoms. Delightful.
Walking by one of the troupe members as I arrived for the show, I overheard him talking about how they had to tone their show down for the Philadelphia audience. This was strange to me as this was the same city that had a parade on election day 2003 featuring women in hot pink underwear and a strategically placed sticker that said "Lick Bush."
During the middle of the day.
Broad daylight, people. Kids around. Lick Bush. A parade down South Street that same evening chanting "Fuck Bush." Definitely spotted at least one kid in that crowd too, chanting along. So naturally, I was a little concerned about how the used condom might come into play in their 'toned down' version of the show and hoped there was no audience participation. To add to my anxiety was the fringe element gathering in the alley waiting to see the show. Some distinguished (read: old) couple who turned out to be press, a group of three couples so young they still talked about fraternities (made a silent vow to sit far away from them), these two odd guys I had seen while out for my walk earlier (I seriously entertained notions they may be masquerading as humans), and a non-couple couple where the girl had the body language that suggested she had feelings for him and he had the body language that wanted to be sure there was no confusion about the fact he didn't like her "that way." She was just happy he was there with her and probably even now is dissecting their night together to see if there was any interaction between them that would serve as a clue to his "true feelings" about her. I had grand plans to watch that play out and then the most annoying man in the world sat down in front of me with his wife/girlfriend/whatever. She was fine, he was an idiot. He kept trying to kiss on her even though she was clearly not into it. He anticipated lines during a sketch, he made 'ooh' noises. I think he's a professional live studio audience member when he's not annoying his dates and other people during comedy shows.
As it turned out the Bacivo Nuggets (what?!) were okay and definitely not a waste of the ten dollars I paid to see them. It was kind of like Saturday Night Live which is usually amusing but rarely hilarious. I will say though that the trend in comedy for men to make out or hump eachother is something I hope is a fad. I won't miss it when/if it passes. I don't really enjoy seeing men rub all over eachother, not even for comedy. I don't think it's funny. Uncomfortable, 'oh God please don't actually open your mouth and kiss that guy' laughter is not the kind anyone is thinking about when describing it as the best medicine. And the way the act ended ***SPOILER ALERT**** with two guys going at it with furtive and frightening commitment is not the way a single gal in Philadelphia needs to end her evening of entertainment. I don't have to pay to see two guys making it with eachother here. It's PHILADELPHIA.
Walking by one of the troupe members as I arrived for the show, I overheard him talking about how they had to tone their show down for the Philadelphia audience. This was strange to me as this was the same city that had a parade on election day 2003 featuring women in hot pink underwear and a strategically placed sticker that said "Lick Bush."
During the middle of the day.
Broad daylight, people. Kids around. Lick Bush. A parade down South Street that same evening chanting "Fuck Bush." Definitely spotted at least one kid in that crowd too, chanting along. So naturally, I was a little concerned about how the used condom might come into play in their 'toned down' version of the show and hoped there was no audience participation. To add to my anxiety was the fringe element gathering in the alley waiting to see the show. Some distinguished (read: old) couple who turned out to be press, a group of three couples so young they still talked about fraternities (made a silent vow to sit far away from them), these two odd guys I had seen while out for my walk earlier (I seriously entertained notions they may be masquerading as humans), and a non-couple couple where the girl had the body language that suggested she had feelings for him and he had the body language that wanted to be sure there was no confusion about the fact he didn't like her "that way." She was just happy he was there with her and probably even now is dissecting their night together to see if there was any interaction between them that would serve as a clue to his "true feelings" about her. I had grand plans to watch that play out and then the most annoying man in the world sat down in front of me with his wife/girlfriend/whatever. She was fine, he was an idiot. He kept trying to kiss on her even though she was clearly not into it. He anticipated lines during a sketch, he made 'ooh' noises. I think he's a professional live studio audience member when he's not annoying his dates and other people during comedy shows.
As it turned out the Bacivo Nuggets (what?!) were okay and definitely not a waste of the ten dollars I paid to see them. It was kind of like Saturday Night Live which is usually amusing but rarely hilarious. I will say though that the trend in comedy for men to make out or hump eachother is something I hope is a fad. I won't miss it when/if it passes. I don't really enjoy seeing men rub all over eachother, not even for comedy. I don't think it's funny. Uncomfortable, 'oh God please don't actually open your mouth and kiss that guy' laughter is not the kind anyone is thinking about when describing it as the best medicine. And the way the act ended ***SPOILER ALERT**** with two guys going at it with furtive and frightening commitment is not the way a single gal in Philadelphia needs to end her evening of entertainment. I don't have to pay to see two guys making it with eachother here. It's PHILADELPHIA.
Steak and Kidneys
So I'm looking for collapsible IV poles and came across some practical gift ideas for my mom. Then I kind of got sad thinking that a bag that keeps her PD bags warm and has a top organizer bag for the rest of her dialysis kit is a good gift. Right now she uses a heating pad to warm the bags but she sometimes forgets them and then they are too hot to use right away. Every now and then I think about it too long and I seesaw between gratitude that although her kidneys (and mine) have failed, there is a way to stay alive, and despair that she literally has to dialyze to live. Reminded of her mortality every 4-6 hours. Every day.
At any rate, my browsing and clicking eventually brought me to the National Kidney Foundation page. I thought about the activism that comes from understanding how a particular disease ravages you or a person you love. I watched part of the previously aired Patrick Swayze interview this week. Pancreatic cancer is so incredibly cruel, if for no other reason than it doesn't seem terribly important to pay attention to until it is far, far too late. But a person only has so much energy to devote to activism of any sort and so my cause du jour is kidneys. So when the random people on the corner who have asked me at least 8 times if I have 5 minutes to talk about gay rights, Greenpeace, or beautiful starving kids, I say no (politely), even though they phrase the question to make you feel like an ass and horrible human being when you say you don't have time for all of those important issues.
But back to mom. I finally guilted her into coming for a visit for Columbus Day and now I've got to firmly address the room of shame so that it can serve as her clean room to do her exchanges. I also promised I would have an IV pole here so she doesn't have to worry about transporting one or taking the one she uses at work (I know, I don't know why the woman insists on working, all I need is the suggestion of a scratchy throat to call in). So this wild and crazy single girl is hanging out on a Friday night canvassing Google for IV poles and working herself into a funk.
I know I've mentioned this before but she's single, boys.
At any rate, my browsing and clicking eventually brought me to the National Kidney Foundation page. I thought about the activism that comes from understanding how a particular disease ravages you or a person you love. I watched part of the previously aired Patrick Swayze interview this week. Pancreatic cancer is so incredibly cruel, if for no other reason than it doesn't seem terribly important to pay attention to until it is far, far too late. But a person only has so much energy to devote to activism of any sort and so my cause du jour is kidneys. So when the random people on the corner who have asked me at least 8 times if I have 5 minutes to talk about gay rights, Greenpeace, or beautiful starving kids, I say no (politely), even though they phrase the question to make you feel like an ass and horrible human being when you say you don't have time for all of those important issues.
But back to mom. I finally guilted her into coming for a visit for Columbus Day and now I've got to firmly address the room of shame so that it can serve as her clean room to do her exchanges. I also promised I would have an IV pole here so she doesn't have to worry about transporting one or taking the one she uses at work (I know, I don't know why the woman insists on working, all I need is the suggestion of a scratchy throat to call in). So this wild and crazy single girl is hanging out on a Friday night canvassing Google for IV poles and working herself into a funk.
I know I've mentioned this before but she's single, boys.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Shhhh
I need a quiet mind. I don't understand how my head can move like molasses all day long and leap into overdrive at the mere suggestion of a pillow.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Backstabbing (but still whiny-ass) co-worker,
It's completely unhealthy, these fantasies you provoke in me. Today, while you were trashing people who weren't around to defend themselves to our boss, I had a daydream about jumping up out of my chair and punching you repeatedly in the mouth. *Sigh* It just feels so good to think about it now. It's like a cigarette after sex. But I didn't punch you, I left the room for your safety and my career.
You're welcome.
It's completely unhealthy, these fantasies you provoke in me. Today, while you were trashing people who weren't around to defend themselves to our boss, I had a daydream about jumping up out of my chair and punching you repeatedly in the mouth. *Sigh* It just feels so good to think about it now. It's like a cigarette after sex. But I didn't punch you, I left the room for your safety and my career.
You're welcome.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
A Watched Pot
I called my mom tonight, seeking comfort and reassurance that someone would eventually want me. I should have known better. My mom is a lot of things but neither one of my parents should be on speed dial for reassurance and comfort when it comes to stuff like that. Instead I got off the phone feeling my own mother is doubtful a man exists that would want me. It is not reassuring to tell someone there must be someone for them because so many really jacked up people manage to find someone willing to marry them. It would have been worse if I talked to my father so at least he didn't answer the phone. If it happens, it happens but the particular torment of the moment is the sickness of magical thinking I've become susceptible to since moving here. I know all about the gravity of small decisions that change your life. Going to the pound on a whim and leaving with an animal that changes your life. Going to a meetup and meeting someone who lives one floor above you. Even the magic of catching the 48 bus delights me for the precision of how my morning has to unfold to catch that bus as it literally waits at the light ready to leave me.
Since moving here, a feeling has seized me that each time I say 'no', every time I consider an event and don't go, I might be missing him. I might be missing that 'how I met your mother' moment. It is the feeling that makes people feel certain slot machines are lucky, keeps them sitting at the machine even when they are losing, keeps them at the craps table, keeps them engaged in any game that depends almost entirely on chance. I am watching the pot too closely. I know it's not going to boil while I watch, I know I'm not going to see him coming and have no idea where he's going to come from, or if he even exists. But every single time I go out, almost every encounter with the opposite sex, I'm wondering, is this going to be the night? is he the one? is he the one who is going to lead me to the one? It is a total bi-polar cocktail of hope and crushing disappointment.
We met a ridiculously hot guy today on the street. I was holding a Burger King bag and pretty preoccupied with getting to my fries before they became inedibly cold. The guy, who considered me the way one considers the sidewalk, walked past me, a tour guide, and two other people to approach OG who was ordering a smoothie from a fruit cart to ostensibly ask her if she knew if the Megabus stopped at the corner we were at. I stood at the light for a few cycles waiting for the guy to close the deal with OG so we could go sit down in the park and I could devote my full attention to my rapidly cooling french fries. But they got to talking (of course) and eventually OG noted to hot guy (his name is Steven) that I was waiting for her and I walked over. He seemed pretty amazing, said a lot of things in three minutes that made me think we would get along like peas and carrots. He spent most of the weekend writing (ding!), went to Princeton (not really on the 'list' but ding!), helps out disadvantaged kids (holy crap! ding!) not really into Facebook (amen, brother and ding!). And he was stunning. Just a beautiful man. Steven got our e-mail addresses though I'm pretty sure if he writes either of us, it will be OG. Nevermind the weirdness again with guys taking out their phones to get your e-mail address. WTF is that about? He did not give us his. Probably because he didn't want me writing him.
That guy was out of my league by dozens. I would have air time with this guy only if he considered me disadvantaged (and I am, Steven. Ask anyone. Here you are this beautiful man and while I noticed your stunning looks, I was frankly pretty absorbed in getting to a park bench to dig into some fries I did not need. I think that is some pretty compelling evidence of profound mental challenge). OG could be enrolled in the guy of the month club, she's still trying like all of us to gain traction with just one guy but she has every reason to be confident that men ARE interested in her. And not just the usual suspects that are interested in all women (street sweepers, bus drivers, the occasional homeless man) and who remain my core demographic in terms of expressed interest in dating. I'm naturally a little jealous but happy too that she could have the self esteem boost of having a ridiculously good looking guy approach her like that.
My pot is filled with glacially cold water and the burner is set to 'warm.' I wish I could just give up. Stupid f-ing pot.
Since moving here, a feeling has seized me that each time I say 'no', every time I consider an event and don't go, I might be missing him. I might be missing that 'how I met your mother' moment. It is the feeling that makes people feel certain slot machines are lucky, keeps them sitting at the machine even when they are losing, keeps them at the craps table, keeps them engaged in any game that depends almost entirely on chance. I am watching the pot too closely. I know it's not going to boil while I watch, I know I'm not going to see him coming and have no idea where he's going to come from, or if he even exists. But every single time I go out, almost every encounter with the opposite sex, I'm wondering, is this going to be the night? is he the one? is he the one who is going to lead me to the one? It is a total bi-polar cocktail of hope and crushing disappointment.
We met a ridiculously hot guy today on the street. I was holding a Burger King bag and pretty preoccupied with getting to my fries before they became inedibly cold. The guy, who considered me the way one considers the sidewalk, walked past me, a tour guide, and two other people to approach OG who was ordering a smoothie from a fruit cart to ostensibly ask her if she knew if the Megabus stopped at the corner we were at. I stood at the light for a few cycles waiting for the guy to close the deal with OG so we could go sit down in the park and I could devote my full attention to my rapidly cooling french fries. But they got to talking (of course) and eventually OG noted to hot guy (his name is Steven) that I was waiting for her and I walked over. He seemed pretty amazing, said a lot of things in three minutes that made me think we would get along like peas and carrots. He spent most of the weekend writing (ding!), went to Princeton (not really on the 'list' but ding!), helps out disadvantaged kids (holy crap! ding!) not really into Facebook (amen, brother and ding!). And he was stunning. Just a beautiful man. Steven got our e-mail addresses though I'm pretty sure if he writes either of us, it will be OG. Nevermind the weirdness again with guys taking out their phones to get your e-mail address. WTF is that about? He did not give us his. Probably because he didn't want me writing him.
That guy was out of my league by dozens. I would have air time with this guy only if he considered me disadvantaged (and I am, Steven. Ask anyone. Here you are this beautiful man and while I noticed your stunning looks, I was frankly pretty absorbed in getting to a park bench to dig into some fries I did not need. I think that is some pretty compelling evidence of profound mental challenge). OG could be enrolled in the guy of the month club, she's still trying like all of us to gain traction with just one guy but she has every reason to be confident that men ARE interested in her. And not just the usual suspects that are interested in all women (street sweepers, bus drivers, the occasional homeless man) and who remain my core demographic in terms of expressed interest in dating. I'm naturally a little jealous but happy too that she could have the self esteem boost of having a ridiculously good looking guy approach her like that.
My pot is filled with glacially cold water and the burner is set to 'warm.' I wish I could just give up. Stupid f-ing pot.
Bacherlorette Casualties
Went for our weekly grocery shopping with OG yesterday and much to her horror and disgust, picked up this:
That's right, it's pancake batter (organic!) in a whip cream dispensing device. I'm not sure how something as unnatural as pancake batter in that device can be USDA organic but I think I might give it a try today. I've titled this post as if such an unholy thing would never come into my house if I shared it with someone. But if the guy I'm with couldn't humor my curiosity/horror/mirth about the Batter Blaster, I'm not sure how long we would last. I'll keep you posted on whether you should make haste to get yours before they all run out.
That's right, it's pancake batter (organic!) in a whip cream dispensing device. I'm not sure how something as unnatural as pancake batter in that device can be USDA organic but I think I might give it a try today. I've titled this post as if such an unholy thing would never come into my house if I shared it with someone. But if the guy I'm with couldn't humor my curiosity/horror/mirth about the Batter Blaster, I'm not sure how long we would last. I'll keep you posted on whether you should make haste to get yours before they all run out.
Friday, September 11, 2009
An Obligatory 9/11 post
While taking a shower this morning I remembered my Grandmother, still wrapping my head around her no longer being around but didn't remember it was 9/11 until I got to work and saw the flags at half-mast. I don't have anything more significant to say about this day than anyone else; this day belongs to us all and yet it belongs to none of us. No one has the singular 9/11 experience, even those who lost loved ones are part of something bigger in their lonely community of grief. We have all lived out the ripples of that day in our own little ways. Some of us were there, some of knew people who where there. Some who were in junior high are now serving around the world supporting the decisions made by our leaders in the aftermath. For many of us far far away from it all, the terror was in the uncertainty of what might be coming next and in the mild hysteria, gas lines, and Armageddon grocery shopping that followed. My personal story is unremarkable but my incredulity at how quickly a day's priorities, worries, and frustrations can be reordered lingers.
When I started working at the Pentagon about a year after 9/11, I was amazed at how quickly they had restored the wounded side and standing in the yellow glow of the memorial chapel, it was easily the quietest place in the entire building. During my time there, I met a woman who took one of the shuttles that run between the Pentagon and some of the offices in Crystal City and Rosslyn on 9/11, leaving minutes before the attack and even saw the plane cross the highway before it hit. Amazingly, planes still regularly fly right over the Pentagon and you can sit in the courtyard in the center of the building (nicknamed Ground Zero long before 9/11) as their shadows pass over you.
note: The title of this post--specifically the choice to use the word 'obligatory' is not meant to convey glibness about remembrance of the day, rather to convey my inner chagrin at even posting something 9/11 related because a part of me resists having anything to say about a day that defies definition and in which I found myself, gratefully like most of the country, merely an observer. My post 9/11 tangential connections to the events of that day (e.g. working at the Pentagon) are equivalent to taking a picture with Dan Aykroyd. There is folly in imbuing the encounter with significance. Or, on a lighter note, like the Dr. Evil rap where he says he knows Jay-Z and then admits he only saw him in a restaurant. And on an even lighter note, a very tongue-in-cheek (and explicit) version of some of feelings I had that day as a (former) member of the Armed Forces itching to get deployed somewhere I could help this never happen again. We have A LOT to work on but America rocks.
When I started working at the Pentagon about a year after 9/11, I was amazed at how quickly they had restored the wounded side and standing in the yellow glow of the memorial chapel, it was easily the quietest place in the entire building. During my time there, I met a woman who took one of the shuttles that run between the Pentagon and some of the offices in Crystal City and Rosslyn on 9/11, leaving minutes before the attack and even saw the plane cross the highway before it hit. Amazingly, planes still regularly fly right over the Pentagon and you can sit in the courtyard in the center of the building (nicknamed Ground Zero long before 9/11) as their shadows pass over you.
note: The title of this post--specifically the choice to use the word 'obligatory' is not meant to convey glibness about remembrance of the day, rather to convey my inner chagrin at even posting something 9/11 related because a part of me resists having anything to say about a day that defies definition and in which I found myself, gratefully like most of the country, merely an observer. My post 9/11 tangential connections to the events of that day (e.g. working at the Pentagon) are equivalent to taking a picture with Dan Aykroyd. There is folly in imbuing the encounter with significance. Or, on a lighter note, like the Dr. Evil rap where he says he knows Jay-Z and then admits he only saw him in a restaurant. And on an even lighter note, a very tongue-in-cheek (and explicit) version of some of feelings I had that day as a (former) member of the Armed Forces itching to get deployed somewhere I could help this never happen again. We have A LOT to work on but America rocks.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Crystal Head Adventures
So I met Dan Aykroyd today. He was signing bottles of his new vodka, Crystal Head (which is a horrible name on so many levels. Am I the only one who thinks of a scabby strung out tweaker named Crystal when I hear the name of that vodka?) My dad met him once and I thought a signed bottle would be a nice and unexpected gift to give him for his birthday or Christmas. When I told my mom yesterday that I planned to give dad a glass skull of alcohol for his birthday or Christmas (his birthday is in December), she offered that he needed polo shirts.
I thought I would have Aykroyd all to myself. I'd tell him about my dad, get a personalized autograph, lament the lean turnout on an overcast day in Philadelphia...a little me and Dan time. I love my imagination, it's such a lovely insulation from reality. I couldn't imagine a massive crowd at the Wine and Spirits store located along a strip of wig and dollar stores cramming in to get a bottle of vodka signed by someone who wasn't in a movie coming out soon. And for someone who isn't a rapper, it seems a little off the standard celebrity path to lend your gravitas to a hard liquor. I imagined a pissed off Aykroyd sitting in the store twirling his Sharpie and glaring at his agent, surrounded by cases of his skull shaped vodka bottles as disinterested customers asked eachother who he was.
But I was wrong.
As I approached the store, there was a small crowd outside the store taking pictures of an old black man in a wheelchair singing. He had prosthetic legs, a wireless mike, a little sound system, and he was singing a song about Aykroyd's vodka. I shit you not. Inside, the line wrapped around the entire store. It was madness. Polite and ordered madness but far far more people than I expected. I turned out to be 'that woman' for the guy in line behind me. The one who keeps making you take out your 'don't talk to me' earbuds to engage you in inane banter about Ghostbusters and how surprised I was about the length of the line. I knew I was that woman and I still couldn't stop myself. About the third time I made him pull out his earbuds, he just gave up and left them out. He did tell me he had seen the black guy in the wheelchair before and had seen him put on similar thematic performances possibly for shits and giggles but likely also for spare change. I don't think it was serendipity that found him in front of the Wine and Spirits store.
I spent my hour in line watching others get their skulls and random other things signed and saw quite a few get pictures taken. People waiting in line took pictures of the line or held their camera above their head paparazzi style hoping to get a random shot of Aykroyd. I only had my camera phone and wondered with the line still snaking behind me if I would insist on having someone take a picture of us with my camera phone once I got up front. I toyed with the idea of documenting the encounter, struggling with the inherent folly of it all. What did it matter if I took a picture of Aykroyd? I could get one off the Internet far better than the one I would take with my crappy camera phone if having his picture was important to me. And what would I do with this picture? Put it in a photo album? Christmas letter that I never get around to writing? So I resolved that I wouldn't try to take his photo like he was in a zoo.
Next to consider was asking to have a picture taken with him. I watched person after person scoot in close for a photo like they and Aykroyd were close personal friends and had started to poo poo any mental preparations I was making to explain how to work my camera phone to the lady at the front of the line I had seen others hand their camera to. Aykroyd didn't know who I was and again, what would I do with this picture? And then it came to me, I would give both the vodka and a picture of me and Aykroyd to my dad. I get to ask for a picture without feeling like a tool and I have a reason for taking the picture that doesn't make me feel weird. But by the time I had my chance with him, the handlers were moving people through the line with increased urgency and would not take pictures for anyone. It kind of hurt my feelings. He did shake my hand which was decent of him, especially since I didn't have my right hand free to shake his and a mini-awkward moment ensued because I was trying to get the hell out of dodge, embarrassed because I had a camera phone ready and because they were all simultaneously apologizing to us for not being able to accommodate any more pictures.
There is another blog post nesting on how seriously I take photography in a venue that is trading on his celebrity to generate interest in fifty dollar vodka. It's not like I accosted him at an airport (I did this to Larry Bird when I was 20-he seemed pretty annoyed) or snapped photos of him while he was eating (have not done this to anyone-not even friends-okay maybe my sister that one time). But for now just imagine with me, the delight I will bring on Christmas day when my father discovers the heavy gift under the tree for him is a vodka filled skull with an indecipherable signature he will have to trust is actually Dan Aykroyd's. Yay Jesus!
p.s. As I was leaving the store, the security guy holding the door told me I was pretty and had "good hair." He liked that (his words). Not sure if he was also moonlighting at one of the five beauty supply stores on that block and thus had some strong feelings about hair but the comment made me laugh. I can't do the encounter justice but all I could do is thank him and wish him a good night. My dad is calling him his future son-in-law.
I thought I would have Aykroyd all to myself. I'd tell him about my dad, get a personalized autograph, lament the lean turnout on an overcast day in Philadelphia...a little me and Dan time. I love my imagination, it's such a lovely insulation from reality. I couldn't imagine a massive crowd at the Wine and Spirits store located along a strip of wig and dollar stores cramming in to get a bottle of vodka signed by someone who wasn't in a movie coming out soon. And for someone who isn't a rapper, it seems a little off the standard celebrity path to lend your gravitas to a hard liquor. I imagined a pissed off Aykroyd sitting in the store twirling his Sharpie and glaring at his agent, surrounded by cases of his skull shaped vodka bottles as disinterested customers asked eachother who he was.
But I was wrong.
As I approached the store, there was a small crowd outside the store taking pictures of an old black man in a wheelchair singing. He had prosthetic legs, a wireless mike, a little sound system, and he was singing a song about Aykroyd's vodka. I shit you not. Inside, the line wrapped around the entire store. It was madness. Polite and ordered madness but far far more people than I expected. I turned out to be 'that woman' for the guy in line behind me. The one who keeps making you take out your 'don't talk to me' earbuds to engage you in inane banter about Ghostbusters and how surprised I was about the length of the line. I knew I was that woman and I still couldn't stop myself. About the third time I made him pull out his earbuds, he just gave up and left them out. He did tell me he had seen the black guy in the wheelchair before and had seen him put on similar thematic performances possibly for shits and giggles but likely also for spare change. I don't think it was serendipity that found him in front of the Wine and Spirits store.
I spent my hour in line watching others get their skulls and random other things signed and saw quite a few get pictures taken. People waiting in line took pictures of the line or held their camera above their head paparazzi style hoping to get a random shot of Aykroyd. I only had my camera phone and wondered with the line still snaking behind me if I would insist on having someone take a picture of us with my camera phone once I got up front. I toyed with the idea of documenting the encounter, struggling with the inherent folly of it all. What did it matter if I took a picture of Aykroyd? I could get one off the Internet far better than the one I would take with my crappy camera phone if having his picture was important to me. And what would I do with this picture? Put it in a photo album? Christmas letter that I never get around to writing? So I resolved that I wouldn't try to take his photo like he was in a zoo.
Next to consider was asking to have a picture taken with him. I watched person after person scoot in close for a photo like they and Aykroyd were close personal friends and had started to poo poo any mental preparations I was making to explain how to work my camera phone to the lady at the front of the line I had seen others hand their camera to. Aykroyd didn't know who I was and again, what would I do with this picture? And then it came to me, I would give both the vodka and a picture of me and Aykroyd to my dad. I get to ask for a picture without feeling like a tool and I have a reason for taking the picture that doesn't make me feel weird. But by the time I had my chance with him, the handlers were moving people through the line with increased urgency and would not take pictures for anyone. It kind of hurt my feelings. He did shake my hand which was decent of him, especially since I didn't have my right hand free to shake his and a mini-awkward moment ensued because I was trying to get the hell out of dodge, embarrassed because I had a camera phone ready and because they were all simultaneously apologizing to us for not being able to accommodate any more pictures.
There is another blog post nesting on how seriously I take photography in a venue that is trading on his celebrity to generate interest in fifty dollar vodka. It's not like I accosted him at an airport (I did this to Larry Bird when I was 20-he seemed pretty annoyed) or snapped photos of him while he was eating (have not done this to anyone-not even friends-okay maybe my sister that one time). But for now just imagine with me, the delight I will bring on Christmas day when my father discovers the heavy gift under the tree for him is a vodka filled skull with an indecipherable signature he will have to trust is actually Dan Aykroyd's. Yay Jesus!
p.s. As I was leaving the store, the security guy holding the door told me I was pretty and had "good hair." He liked that (his words). Not sure if he was also moonlighting at one of the five beauty supply stores on that block and thus had some strong feelings about hair but the comment made me laugh. I can't do the encounter justice but all I could do is thank him and wish him a good night. My dad is calling him his future son-in-law.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
My Romance
The honeymoon is over. What I once took delight in, I dread. What used to be inspired is increasingly contrived and my best thoughts come to me at the worst times. With me and writing, I feel the relationship is truly analogous to the first moment you consider not being with someone who until that point hung the moon. It's not easy anymore. I have no flow. Using the word flow makes me feel like a rapper.
I have more posts in draft than I have ever had. I normally sit down at the computer bursting with words to type and just let it loose. Now nothing seems to be at the end of the threads I pull, now feels like writing is work and not just a natural expression of my thoughts and feelings. Now I feel that I may actually have to try. I might have to approach writing with some measure of discipline and effort. I'm not qualified to compare this development in my writing life to a relationship due to my dearth of experience, but based on my studies of Lifetime movies and sitcoms, I think the analogy works. I took words for granted because they were there always. No matter how I was feeling, the words just knew how to tell the story, how to bring a sense of resolution to whatever I was trying to say. I realize that words don't actually have to be failing me for me to feel that they are. Like all relationships, my feelings about my partner may or may not be supported by reality. But in this lull, imagined or real, I am thinking of how to supplement the waning abandon and passion for something more sustainable, something I can grow old with.
And that concludes the writing-as-a-relationship analogy.
I will end this post with a note to my dog who may or may not puke on the carpet tonight. As I was typing this, she started making dry heave noises that may or may not be associated with the mystery food she reclaimed from the sidewalk this evening; if you do get sick tonight, please, please, PLEASE do not get sick on the new rug. There are 4 other rugs closer to you, please don't get out of bed, walk over two other rugs and around the couch to vomit on the new rug. Please.
And if that dry heave thing was a ploy to get my attention for some belly rubbing and neck massages, nicely done. Moms like to feel like their touch is healing and having your dry heaves subside, and body relax as I loved on you is good for the maternal part of my ego. I feel good, you feel good...I have mis-underestimated your cunning. You are a Jedi.
I have more posts in draft than I have ever had. I normally sit down at the computer bursting with words to type and just let it loose. Now nothing seems to be at the end of the threads I pull, now feels like writing is work and not just a natural expression of my thoughts and feelings. Now I feel that I may actually have to try. I might have to approach writing with some measure of discipline and effort. I'm not qualified to compare this development in my writing life to a relationship due to my dearth of experience, but based on my studies of Lifetime movies and sitcoms, I think the analogy works. I took words for granted because they were there always. No matter how I was feeling, the words just knew how to tell the story, how to bring a sense of resolution to whatever I was trying to say. I realize that words don't actually have to be failing me for me to feel that they are. Like all relationships, my feelings about my partner may or may not be supported by reality. But in this lull, imagined or real, I am thinking of how to supplement the waning abandon and passion for something more sustainable, something I can grow old with.
And that concludes the writing-as-a-relationship analogy.
I will end this post with a note to my dog who may or may not puke on the carpet tonight. As I was typing this, she started making dry heave noises that may or may not be associated with the mystery food she reclaimed from the sidewalk this evening; if you do get sick tonight, please, please, PLEASE do not get sick on the new rug. There are 4 other rugs closer to you, please don't get out of bed, walk over two other rugs and around the couch to vomit on the new rug. Please.
And if that dry heave thing was a ploy to get my attention for some belly rubbing and neck massages, nicely done. Moms like to feel like their touch is healing and having your dry heaves subside, and body relax as I loved on you is good for the maternal part of my ego. I feel good, you feel good...I have mis-underestimated your cunning. You are a Jedi.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
I'm going to take myself to bed soon. I've spent a whole 3 days away from the computer and managed to squeeze some living in. Hope this finds all well and watching the early evenings creep upon us all as summer slips and fall arrives. This seems like an earnest fall, one that won't mess around with the indian summers of past falls; one that will gradually require more and more clothing to be comfortable. I've just read something that resonated with some of the spaces my head is at right now and wanted to share.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Open Letters: part deux
Dear cashier at almost every clothing store I've ever been to (but especially Ross, Old Navy, Marshalls, and Kohls),
You move with the deliberation of a geisha; from the intricate (but somehow still rough) removal of the anti-theft tag, to the delicate folding and deliberate stacking of my purchases. Bag selection is another nail-biting moment and I love, love, love, it when you leave the register to get the perfect bag for my purchase, even if there is a winding line behind me. I love being the person who makes the wait just a little longer for all the hateful eyes boring into my back. No matter how long the line is (especially you, Ross), you absolutely never betray a sense of urgency. I've watched you, I've watched groups of you to see if there is an industrious one among the bunch that doesn't want to discourage shoppers with slow moving lines manned by disinterested cashiers. But nope, if you notice people having second thoughts about how much they really need that sweater because they have been in line long enough to start weighing the costs and benefits, you don't dare betray it by moving any faster. There is something else too, an undercurrent of resentment. Like I'm putting YOU out by being in your line, making purchases, spending money. I know, I'm such a jerk. I'm incredulous that absolutely no one ever, ever moves quickly. It's like there's a gas leak in your store.
I keep telling myself to bring a book....
Ava
---
Dear Aubry from LA Ink,
Holy crap. How do you spend so much time on your eyes and an inverse amount of time on absolutely everything else? You are truly the picture that belongs next to 'hot mess' in the dictionary. I've never seen questionable hygiene, unflattering clothing, and prodigious amounts of make-up come together in such an unholy stew. I suspect that you are or were a man. Wow. I just figured out that you were on Rock of Love. That explains everything. But what bothers me more than your hard to look at face, is your lack of respect for yourself or your willingness to do anything to be on television. Or both. I know good reality television is editing for maximum drama but I can't for the life of me figure out why you are still at the shop and on the show.
I also can't figure out why I'm watching. Makes me want to write a letter to myself.
You move with the deliberation of a geisha; from the intricate (but somehow still rough) removal of the anti-theft tag, to the delicate folding and deliberate stacking of my purchases. Bag selection is another nail-biting moment and I love, love, love, it when you leave the register to get the perfect bag for my purchase, even if there is a winding line behind me. I love being the person who makes the wait just a little longer for all the hateful eyes boring into my back. No matter how long the line is (especially you, Ross), you absolutely never betray a sense of urgency. I've watched you, I've watched groups of you to see if there is an industrious one among the bunch that doesn't want to discourage shoppers with slow moving lines manned by disinterested cashiers. But nope, if you notice people having second thoughts about how much they really need that sweater because they have been in line long enough to start weighing the costs and benefits, you don't dare betray it by moving any faster. There is something else too, an undercurrent of resentment. Like I'm putting YOU out by being in your line, making purchases, spending money. I know, I'm such a jerk. I'm incredulous that absolutely no one ever, ever moves quickly. It's like there's a gas leak in your store.
I keep telling myself to bring a book....
Ava
---
Dear Aubry from LA Ink,
Holy crap. How do you spend so much time on your eyes and an inverse amount of time on absolutely everything else? You are truly the picture that belongs next to 'hot mess' in the dictionary. I've never seen questionable hygiene, unflattering clothing, and prodigious amounts of make-up come together in such an unholy stew. I suspect that you are or were a man. Wow. I just figured out that you were on Rock of Love. That explains everything. But what bothers me more than your hard to look at face, is your lack of respect for yourself or your willingness to do anything to be on television. Or both. I know good reality television is editing for maximum drama but I can't for the life of me figure out why you are still at the shop and on the show.
I also can't figure out why I'm watching. Makes me want to write a letter to myself.
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