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.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
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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