BE TRUE
Sugar and spice and everything nice! Senior year of college found a staggering number of us co-ed cupids sans steadies, or even the potential for same. What were girls of a certain age to do about this? Answer: celebrate the plain and simple fact that whilst boys may come and go, girlfriends are forever--aka, celebrate the sisters of Eve with affection and aplomb. To this end, we declared the motto for that year's V-Day to be No Lovin' and made up signs to that effect and posted them all over the house. We used our latent decoupage skills to create personal ad valentines for ourselves and our friends, each with her own slogan and the silliest photo we could find (mine was "date with an angel.") I have no idea what we did that Valentine's Day proper, but I imagine it involved black and tans at the local quackhouse and a lot of laughing. And all the prixe fixe menus, long-stemmed roses, and Victoria's Secret outfits in the world cannot in my estimation hold a candle to the romance of a lifetime--the one you can have, if you are lucky, with your gal pals.
I am a lucky chick in oh-so-many respects. And the one aspect of my life that makes me hands-down the luckiest girl in the world? I have the best girlfriends going. As Charlotte York once observed, "Maybe we could be each others soulmates? And then we could let men be just these great nice guys to have fun with?" Well said, you little Park Avenue princess. Coupled or estranged, my favorite V-Days have never lacked for lovin'--just not the wham-bam-thank-you-man kind. Two years back a crowd of friends (both men and women) had a good dinner and caught a movie--that was a good V-Day. In years past I have indulged in fun girly things like bath oils and Jane Austen novels as tokens of my affection for the ladies who lunch with me. These bitches throw down all E.E. Cummings-style--they have my heart, and they carry it with them wherever they go, and I carry theirs. No fancy gestures. No false promises. No delusions of grandeur. No sex either because, well, as we collectively discerned about the time No Lovin' V-Day was declared, we all like Dick Whitman. Before we knew who that was.....
Point made, point taken. It's a groovy kind of love, that of the sisterhood. And it makes us all that much more ready and able to romance those great nice guys that come along--if and when they do. In the meantime and in-between time trust me, we got fun. Lesson #3, barely legal: equal pay for equal work sometimes means benefits that far outweigh the occasional bonus.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Conversation Hearts, Part Two
SWEET TALK
In was the days of 99 red balloons, and I was cast in a tale of much [eventual] woe, playing the penultimate Juliet to my hands-down all-time Romeo. What follows is Act III, designed to show just how lovesick teenagers will bring nothing but tragedy upon themselves and everyone around them.
The prologue and Acts I and II of this epic disaster offered plenty of foreshadowing that this star-crossed alliance was doomed from the start, but I was head-over-heels. And I was thrilled to be one-half of an honest-to-goodness relationship during Valentine's Day--a completely novel experience for this little Capulet. Sure, I had my shares of fine young Paris-like callers in the past, but none of them ever lasted until or coincided with the so-called Hallmark holiday (completely false by the way, like most holidays this one sprung from pagans and got all mixed up with Church matters. Calling it the H.H. is merely a defense mechanism for people who do not wish to get all immortal beloved on their someone. I say, love is all around you and celebrate however that comes to you on V-Day. Don't ruin it for the rest of us who appreciate the sentimental journey even as a singleton.)
But back to the hallowed halls of Tara--for once my big romantic dreams would come true on Valentine Hearts' Day--there would be music, and wonderful roses, and all sorts of lovey-dovey goodness. I was eager for the big day. I fretted over appropriate gifting for the boy who clearly had everything already (a.k.a, me.) My dear pal Deerslayer was also eagerly anticipating celebrating this holiday with her honey, who being a responsible R.A. type was scheduled to be on duty in his hall that night--hence, no romantic dinner a deux for them. Deerslayer was not overjoyed at this prospect. But being as compassionate and charming and courageous as Natty Bumpo before her, she planned to thoroughly love-fest the love-nest by renting a gigantic helium tank and purchasing 84,000 balloons and ribbons. Idea being, when her said hunk o' burning love returned to his cell on lockdown, he would find it filled with the very Plathiest of guileless orbs of red and white. In the meantime, it was quite exciting for the rest of us, who got to use the helium tank to blow up the balloons (and subsequently huff a few in order to munchkin-up our voices) as well as participate in the sweet subterfuge involved at keeping 84,000 balloons a secret from said HOBL.
Mid-day, Project Luft Love was starting resemble Project Panic Mode. My pals enlisted the aid of my Romeo in my absence. I returned home to find him gossiping and deftly working the tank and tying on ribbons with them. Supportive guy, be still my heart. Old Romes then told me to leave the room and come in again when he gave the go-ahead. I complied--and when I walked in he was in the process of grinning his fool head off at me whilst blowing up one of the handful of the balloons that were imprinted with three little words. Yes! I thought. What better time to be told for the first time, officially, by your boy toy that he loves you? There is no better time than the fourteenth of February for that shit! Love, love me do buddy is what I thought, and later on when we are alone on our awesome evening date you have surely planned for us, I will let you know that I love you too.
So that evening I accompany Ro on an audition. The drive there is as swell as our drives always were. Post-audition as we drove homeward, I kept expecting us to stop at one of the 500 restauants we passed along the way. We didn't stop at any of them, not even the last one which was a Wendy's (hey, loaded baked potatoes could be very romantic to poor college kids, right?) I was a bit disappointed, but still flush with success regarding the big step he had taken earlier. We decided to check in on the balloonists, since the big reveal had occurred in our absence. On our way in, swinging hands through the parking lot and being not a little sentimental, I said what I wanted to say ever since big red was blown up in front of me, for me--"hey R....I love you."
Big kiss finish right? Wait for it...wait....keep waiting....nope. No, he isn't responding. Maybe....no. He isn't responding. That seems odd. Awk-ward. In fact, "panic bells it's red alert there's something here from somewhere else." Huh? Okay then, moving on.....?
Moving on was us infringing upon our friends whose love did dare to say its name for a slightly uncomfortable meal of take-out from some local place, for which I. Paid. Half. Happy V-Day to you, sucker. For dessert, we were on our own, so treated each other to a chat that began with "You say you love me, but I don't know that you know me well enough to say that," (note: we had "known" each other two-and-a-half years at this point, and college years are like dog years so really like 18 years, and we had been having a torrid affair for the past six months at this point--just saying.) I pointed out that I was not the one who had started this shit, that Mr. Montague here had gone there first with his balloon-blowing-upping move earlier in the day, and I was only responding in kind. The next words out of his mouth? Ah yes, the classic, "I do not know what love is." Here's the full for you Monty, if you don't know what love is, don't blow up a balloon on purpose for your girlfriend on V-Day that claims you know enough about it to have it for her.
So, no, the night did not end well. And though we floated back into each other soon after and there was no lack of the love, he ended up cheating on me for some fascinating piece of non-me trash. Somehow that surprised me at the time. Clearly when I review the lay of this scene, it should not have. And I am pretty sure, "just to prove the world was here" that I still have that deflated motherfucker somewhere--as my little souvenir.
And so love lesson number two, aged 19: getting it in writing by no means seals the deal, and a verbal contract could table negotiations. Otherwise known as, "here is a red balloon; I think of you, and let it go."
In was the days of 99 red balloons, and I was cast in a tale of much [eventual] woe, playing the penultimate Juliet to my hands-down all-time Romeo. What follows is Act III, designed to show just how lovesick teenagers will bring nothing but tragedy upon themselves and everyone around them.
The prologue and Acts I and II of this epic disaster offered plenty of foreshadowing that this star-crossed alliance was doomed from the start, but I was head-over-heels. And I was thrilled to be one-half of an honest-to-goodness relationship during Valentine's Day--a completely novel experience for this little Capulet. Sure, I had my shares of fine young Paris-like callers in the past, but none of them ever lasted until or coincided with the so-called Hallmark holiday (completely false by the way, like most holidays this one sprung from pagans and got all mixed up with Church matters. Calling it the H.H. is merely a defense mechanism for people who do not wish to get all immortal beloved on their someone. I say, love is all around you and celebrate however that comes to you on V-Day. Don't ruin it for the rest of us who appreciate the sentimental journey even as a singleton.)
But back to the hallowed halls of Tara--for once my big romantic dreams would come true on Valentine Hearts' Day--there would be music, and wonderful roses, and all sorts of lovey-dovey goodness. I was eager for the big day. I fretted over appropriate gifting for the boy who clearly had everything already (a.k.a, me.) My dear pal Deerslayer was also eagerly anticipating celebrating this holiday with her honey, who being a responsible R.A. type was scheduled to be on duty in his hall that night--hence, no romantic dinner a deux for them. Deerslayer was not overjoyed at this prospect. But being as compassionate and charming and courageous as Natty Bumpo before her, she planned to thoroughly love-fest the love-nest by renting a gigantic helium tank and purchasing 84,000 balloons and ribbons. Idea being, when her said hunk o' burning love returned to his cell on lockdown, he would find it filled with the very Plathiest of guileless orbs of red and white. In the meantime, it was quite exciting for the rest of us, who got to use the helium tank to blow up the balloons (and subsequently huff a few in order to munchkin-up our voices) as well as participate in the sweet subterfuge involved at keeping 84,000 balloons a secret from said HOBL.
Mid-day, Project Luft Love was starting resemble Project Panic Mode. My pals enlisted the aid of my Romeo in my absence. I returned home to find him gossiping and deftly working the tank and tying on ribbons with them. Supportive guy, be still my heart. Old Romes then told me to leave the room and come in again when he gave the go-ahead. I complied--and when I walked in he was in the process of grinning his fool head off at me whilst blowing up one of the handful of the balloons that were imprinted with three little words. Yes! I thought. What better time to be told for the first time, officially, by your boy toy that he loves you? There is no better time than the fourteenth of February for that shit! Love, love me do buddy is what I thought, and later on when we are alone on our awesome evening date you have surely planned for us, I will let you know that I love you too.
So that evening I accompany Ro on an audition. The drive there is as swell as our drives always were. Post-audition as we drove homeward, I kept expecting us to stop at one of the 500 restauants we passed along the way. We didn't stop at any of them, not even the last one which was a Wendy's (hey, loaded baked potatoes could be very romantic to poor college kids, right?) I was a bit disappointed, but still flush with success regarding the big step he had taken earlier. We decided to check in on the balloonists, since the big reveal had occurred in our absence. On our way in, swinging hands through the parking lot and being not a little sentimental, I said what I wanted to say ever since big red was blown up in front of me, for me--"hey R....I love you."
Big kiss finish right? Wait for it...wait....keep waiting....nope. No, he isn't responding. Maybe....no. He isn't responding. That seems odd. Awk-ward. In fact, "panic bells it's red alert there's something here from somewhere else." Huh? Okay then, moving on.....?
Moving on was us infringing upon our friends whose love did dare to say its name for a slightly uncomfortable meal of take-out from some local place, for which I. Paid. Half. Happy V-Day to you, sucker. For dessert, we were on our own, so treated each other to a chat that began with "You say you love me, but I don't know that you know me well enough to say that," (note: we had "known" each other two-and-a-half years at this point, and college years are like dog years so really like 18 years, and we had been having a torrid affair for the past six months at this point--just saying.) I pointed out that I was not the one who had started this shit, that Mr. Montague here had gone there first with his balloon-blowing-upping move earlier in the day, and I was only responding in kind. The next words out of his mouth? Ah yes, the classic, "I do not know what love is." Here's the full for you Monty, if you don't know what love is, don't blow up a balloon on purpose for your girlfriend on V-Day that claims you know enough about it to have it for her.
So, no, the night did not end well. And though we floated back into each other soon after and there was no lack of the love, he ended up cheating on me for some fascinating piece of non-me trash. Somehow that surprised me at the time. Clearly when I review the lay of this scene, it should not have. And I am pretty sure, "just to prove the world was here" that I still have that deflated motherfucker somewhere--as my little souvenir.
And so love lesson number two, aged 19: getting it in writing by no means seals the deal, and a verbal contract could table negotiations. Otherwise known as, "here is a red balloon; I think of you, and let it go."
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Conversation Hearts, Part One
BE MINE
Love is in the air everywhere you look around, because it is fast-approaching February 14, also know as St. Valentine's Day, also know as a day of excruciating pressure for both couples and singletons, also know as a day in which this Juno has been treated pretty, pretty badly.
It wasn't always the case. Growing up, my mom made sure we had the nicest reminders that we were in fact loved beyond all measure--heart-shaped boxes of chocolates at the breakfast table, a gaily wrapped memento to give us joy. I dubbed this holiday Valentine Hearts Day and loved every minute of it. When I came of age and was delighted by all things Victorian, the quaint gestures and ineveitable decoupage that accompanied this beloved celebration made me swoon as the sheer romance of living, of dreaming, of true love's potential swept me off my feet. In school we were all very fair-minded and those tiny little cards featuring kittens or Smurfs dotted the desks so that everyone, even those you hated, had a chance at a little love on this sacred occasion.
By high school, the stakes through the heart became pointier, as all-important first dances loomed and no teacher was sending home notes dictating in no uncertain terms that no child would be left behind without a valentine. A girl had to work it if she planned to satisfy her sweet tooth in the big leagues. So, this is how that went down: Claire and a pal plot to snare two doofuses into taking us to the Valentine's Day Dance. Claire was up first because she had 7th period English with a young lad we will call Amos. During the traditional vocab quiz that opened every class, Claire hisses to Amos who is blatantly cheating off her paper, "You are taking me to this dance, okay?" Cue confused Amos, who whispers back frantically "Is that the definition for #4?" Claire rolls eyes, smacks Amos on the shoulder, informs him of the correct definition for "kismet", then repeats the command-question. As the reality of the situation sinks in, Amos turns purple with terror and stutters something along the lines of "Um, I guess that is okay I don't know are you sure do I have to does that mean I am supposed to buy the tickets?" At which point the teacher arrives to stop this lover's spat and remove Amos to a desk at the back of the room, where he will remain in solitude for the rest of the school year, this falling in placement and seriously hurting his chances at graduating in the top ten.
But I digress. Re the dance, I ensured my desires would be fulfilled by cornering old Amos at his locker the next day after 3rd period, and dragging him down to the Activities Office for the golden tickets that would lock this deal down. Ah, the memories. My first high school dance with a date, my first requiring semi-formal attire, and despite my take-charge 'tude I had a bit of a crush on this hapless honey. I had high hopes. For what, I have no idea.
Here is where these hopes led: I went against my better instinct for romantic beflowered Gunne Sax dresses and instead decked myself out in a hot little pink and black number that featured gag-worthy little pink bows down the back. It was so cute you could die. On the big night, after dealing with my mother who raged and cried because my entourage refused to go 30 minutes out of their way to retrieve me, my dad dropped me off at my friend's house where we spent some excruciatingly awkward moments in front of a camera and her 6 siblings. I believe I scored a sweet wrist corsage. When we arrived at the high school cafeteria which was a miasma of eau de donut and fries, our dates immediately left us alone for a good 20 minutes. Upon their return we saw that my friend's date (we'll call him "Hilary") was sporting suspenders. She nearly fainted with the dorked-out horror of this. She stumbled a bit as well when, upon reaching us, he gave a vigorous snap to them and commented with a big grin, "Ya like 'em?" We did not.
Then came the dancing. Ah, the dancing. Moving around in a circle game with room for about 50 Holy Spirits between me and Amos. Who I should mention was wearing a navy blue suit that clearly had been with him since his First Communion since the wrist and pant cuffs were riding almost to the elbow/ankles. Yet still, we danced. On rotation #1 I saw we were in proximity with a couple making out furiously, the girl part of which was wearing the same dress as me but in blue. Party foul, no? I commented this to Amos, who looked at me blankly (the only time all night he did make eye contact) and blurted out "You don't move your feet much when you dance." I retorted back "This isn't dancing" and then we orbited a piece of tile for what was surely the the three-hour live and in concert version of "Heaven" by Bryan Adams.
After the dance ended, Bub's sister and her boyfriend--bored seniors--picked us up and we went to a diner that was not heated. This did give me the opportunity to snag Amos's jacket since every girl knows that is how to mark your man when in post-dance territory. We ate fries and drank sodas and finally got back in the car to be driven home. By this point we had picked up another couple, with whom I shared the back seat along with Amos, Bub, and my friend. Said other couple spent the entire trip ramming their tongues into each other's mouths and fogging up all the windows in the car while the rest of us sat in uncomfortable silence, speaking up only when we realized that we had missed the girl's house. Eventually we rid ourselves of them, and the next stop was Amos's house. We rolled up his driveway, and he leapt out of the car so fast I worried for a second that a Godfather-style hit was about to occur on the rest of us. No such luck. No good night kiss. Not even a "good night." Ah, young romance.
Amos and I stayed good buds, despite this auspicious beginning, throughout high school. He even wrote in my yearbook senior year "I've always wanted you, but when I had the chance I was a scared little sophomore. Damn me." Which was nice except he followed it up with "KIT have a good summer." I did have a good summer, but I did not KIT. Lesson number one learned at the tender age of 15.....the rate of return does not always meet or exceed expectations where love is concerned.
Love is in the air everywhere you look around, because it is fast-approaching February 14, also know as St. Valentine's Day, also know as a day of excruciating pressure for both couples and singletons, also know as a day in which this Juno has been treated pretty, pretty badly.
It wasn't always the case. Growing up, my mom made sure we had the nicest reminders that we were in fact loved beyond all measure--heart-shaped boxes of chocolates at the breakfast table, a gaily wrapped memento to give us joy. I dubbed this holiday Valentine Hearts Day and loved every minute of it. When I came of age and was delighted by all things Victorian, the quaint gestures and ineveitable decoupage that accompanied this beloved celebration made me swoon as the sheer romance of living, of dreaming, of true love's potential swept me off my feet. In school we were all very fair-minded and those tiny little cards featuring kittens or Smurfs dotted the desks so that everyone, even those you hated, had a chance at a little love on this sacred occasion.
By high school, the stakes through the heart became pointier, as all-important first dances loomed and no teacher was sending home notes dictating in no uncertain terms that no child would be left behind without a valentine. A girl had to work it if she planned to satisfy her sweet tooth in the big leagues. So, this is how that went down: Claire and a pal plot to snare two doofuses into taking us to the Valentine's Day Dance. Claire was up first because she had 7th period English with a young lad we will call Amos. During the traditional vocab quiz that opened every class, Claire hisses to Amos who is blatantly cheating off her paper, "You are taking me to this dance, okay?" Cue confused Amos, who whispers back frantically "Is that the definition for #4?" Claire rolls eyes, smacks Amos on the shoulder, informs him of the correct definition for "kismet", then repeats the command-question. As the reality of the situation sinks in, Amos turns purple with terror and stutters something along the lines of "Um, I guess that is okay I don't know are you sure do I have to does that mean I am supposed to buy the tickets?" At which point the teacher arrives to stop this lover's spat and remove Amos to a desk at the back of the room, where he will remain in solitude for the rest of the school year, this falling in placement and seriously hurting his chances at graduating in the top ten.
But I digress. Re the dance, I ensured my desires would be fulfilled by cornering old Amos at his locker the next day after 3rd period, and dragging him down to the Activities Office for the golden tickets that would lock this deal down. Ah, the memories. My first high school dance with a date, my first requiring semi-formal attire, and despite my take-charge 'tude I had a bit of a crush on this hapless honey. I had high hopes. For what, I have no idea.
Here is where these hopes led: I went against my better instinct for romantic beflowered Gunne Sax dresses and instead decked myself out in a hot little pink and black number that featured gag-worthy little pink bows down the back. It was so cute you could die. On the big night, after dealing with my mother who raged and cried because my entourage refused to go 30 minutes out of their way to retrieve me, my dad dropped me off at my friend's house where we spent some excruciatingly awkward moments in front of a camera and her 6 siblings. I believe I scored a sweet wrist corsage. When we arrived at the high school cafeteria which was a miasma of eau de donut and fries, our dates immediately left us alone for a good 20 minutes. Upon their return we saw that my friend's date (we'll call him "Hilary") was sporting suspenders. She nearly fainted with the dorked-out horror of this. She stumbled a bit as well when, upon reaching us, he gave a vigorous snap to them and commented with a big grin, "Ya like 'em?" We did not.
Then came the dancing. Ah, the dancing. Moving around in a circle game with room for about 50 Holy Spirits between me and Amos. Who I should mention was wearing a navy blue suit that clearly had been with him since his First Communion since the wrist and pant cuffs were riding almost to the elbow/ankles. Yet still, we danced. On rotation #1 I saw we were in proximity with a couple making out furiously, the girl part of which was wearing the same dress as me but in blue. Party foul, no? I commented this to Amos, who looked at me blankly (the only time all night he did make eye contact) and blurted out "You don't move your feet much when you dance." I retorted back "This isn't dancing" and then we orbited a piece of tile for what was surely the the three-hour live and in concert version of "Heaven" by Bryan Adams.
After the dance ended, Bub's sister and her boyfriend--bored seniors--picked us up and we went to a diner that was not heated. This did give me the opportunity to snag Amos's jacket since every girl knows that is how to mark your man when in post-dance territory. We ate fries and drank sodas and finally got back in the car to be driven home. By this point we had picked up another couple, with whom I shared the back seat along with Amos, Bub, and my friend. Said other couple spent the entire trip ramming their tongues into each other's mouths and fogging up all the windows in the car while the rest of us sat in uncomfortable silence, speaking up only when we realized that we had missed the girl's house. Eventually we rid ourselves of them, and the next stop was Amos's house. We rolled up his driveway, and he leapt out of the car so fast I worried for a second that a Godfather-style hit was about to occur on the rest of us. No such luck. No good night kiss. Not even a "good night." Ah, young romance.
Amos and I stayed good buds, despite this auspicious beginning, throughout high school. He even wrote in my yearbook senior year "I've always wanted you, but when I had the chance I was a scared little sophomore. Damn me." Which was nice except he followed it up with "KIT have a good summer." I did have a good summer, but I did not KIT. Lesson number one learned at the tender age of 15.....the rate of return does not always meet or exceed expectations where love is concerned.
Monday, February 7, 2011
The Toast of Mayfair
"It'll all work out." I realized yesterday in a slightly teary fit of one-beer retro blues that this has been my modus operandi for as long as I can remember being me. And that in point of fact, thirty-odd years of said m.o. flies in the face of all truths I hold to be self-evident--because very little in my life has actually worked out in a way that has been satisfactory in the long run. I have had much joy in life, and much success, and many de-lovely delights this time around, and I am grateful for every last one of them--but a consistent hum of hurt, confusion, and ultimate defeat buzzes low with sporadic crackles sprinkled over the airwaves.
And yet, in reality, although I have a streak of the melancholic Irish coursing through my mixed-up veins, I am not fatalistic. Sarcastic, yes; practical, often; stubborn, absolutely. But I have never been one to live out my days with wholly tragic outlook. Tragicomic, yes; the whole if one doesn't laugh one will, well, cry, aka find oneself fetal in the back room of Suncoast Pictures....but even in those days of no light, like a certain teenage diarist I have always believed that people are really good at heart--even when my heart is broken by what happens to and around me. I always think things will work out--and notice this quote has no "best" or "somehow" or "in the end" attached to it. Diagram this baby and it's all quite clear "It" will be "out" (whatever that means, tangled time will tell.) Believing that it'll all work out speaks to an optimism that may feel refreshing in the heat of these fiery times we live in--but I have to wonder if it is (as it was for the speaker) merely a naivete that has long lost its power to soothe the savage beast.
"It's only politics." Party line(s) aside, it is surprisingly easy to de-loop oneself. The information superhighway offers both destination anywhere and destination overload, so it's a matter of self-preservation to filter out at least 90% of what Tammany Hall is throwing at you. And that is just the world view, at large, where cities are burning like Gomorrah and health care becomes a dish best served to Salome and immigration problems belie the phenomena of crossing the Red Sea. The suburban microcosm where you hang your hat offers its own constant streaming downloads of crazy. And suddenly your social networking begins to define your reality, when in fact it has very little to do with the living, breathing you--it is the Madame Tussaud's version of you, the molded waxen exterior that mere mortals can tour and say "cheese" beside. The political ramifications of cyberspace are staggering, and sow the seeds of discontent into its furthest-flung static IPs, where greed and malice and unadulterated evil sprout and destroy your bill of rights, your code of conduct, your fight for what is right over what you believe in. And yet we ignore the divisiveness because it is far easier to just go along--it will all work out--why sweat the small stuff even though small become big overnight and smacks you in the face?
And finally, "What does that have to do with us?" Everything, and nothing, you rhetorical double fantasy you. How many times do you get up onstage and do your routine before it defines you so wholly that there is no escaping the inevitable gaslight chamber? How much do you cling to what you know when dancing cheek-to-cheek with everything you don't? How do you reconcile then with now, now with later, once with forever? I have absolutely no fucking idea. But I will keep asking.
A bien tote....
And yet, in reality, although I have a streak of the melancholic Irish coursing through my mixed-up veins, I am not fatalistic. Sarcastic, yes; practical, often; stubborn, absolutely. But I have never been one to live out my days with wholly tragic outlook. Tragicomic, yes; the whole if one doesn't laugh one will, well, cry, aka find oneself fetal in the back room of Suncoast Pictures....but even in those days of no light, like a certain teenage diarist I have always believed that people are really good at heart--even when my heart is broken by what happens to and around me. I always think things will work out--and notice this quote has no "best" or "somehow" or "in the end" attached to it. Diagram this baby and it's all quite clear "It" will be "out" (whatever that means, tangled time will tell.) Believing that it'll all work out speaks to an optimism that may feel refreshing in the heat of these fiery times we live in--but I have to wonder if it is (as it was for the speaker) merely a naivete that has long lost its power to soothe the savage beast.
"It's only politics." Party line(s) aside, it is surprisingly easy to de-loop oneself. The information superhighway offers both destination anywhere and destination overload, so it's a matter of self-preservation to filter out at least 90% of what Tammany Hall is throwing at you. And that is just the world view, at large, where cities are burning like Gomorrah and health care becomes a dish best served to Salome and immigration problems belie the phenomena of crossing the Red Sea. The suburban microcosm where you hang your hat offers its own constant streaming downloads of crazy. And suddenly your social networking begins to define your reality, when in fact it has very little to do with the living, breathing you--it is the Madame Tussaud's version of you, the molded waxen exterior that mere mortals can tour and say "cheese" beside. The political ramifications of cyberspace are staggering, and sow the seeds of discontent into its furthest-flung static IPs, where greed and malice and unadulterated evil sprout and destroy your bill of rights, your code of conduct, your fight for what is right over what you believe in. And yet we ignore the divisiveness because it is far easier to just go along--it will all work out--why sweat the small stuff even though small become big overnight and smacks you in the face?
And finally, "What does that have to do with us?" Everything, and nothing, you rhetorical double fantasy you. How many times do you get up onstage and do your routine before it defines you so wholly that there is no escaping the inevitable gaslight chamber? How much do you cling to what you know when dancing cheek-to-cheek with everything you don't? How do you reconcile then with now, now with later, once with forever? I have absolutely no fucking idea. But I will keep asking.
A bien tote....
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
because
It has been recently pointe dout to me that I make excuses for certain people in my life. I do not think this is true, but then I only see inside myself and not what everyone else is treated to on a regular basis.
I am a big believer in taking responsibility for one's actions. I know that being aware that one is responsible is sometimes all that can be done in any given situation, and that does not always translate into puppy dogs and baskets of kittens. And so-called taking responsibility means a wide variety of things.
So I wonder where the responsibility and the excuses meet--or do they--and all I have are reasons.
1. because iced tea, pitcher, head, and I didn't stop it?
2. because I mean what I say when I say it and I don't know how to stop meaning it later?
3. because I was careful with my heart and got confused when you were the opposite?
4. because I hate to be rigid and i hate to be wrong so I am too thinky?
5. because you suck?
I am a big believer in taking responsibility for one's actions. I know that being aware that one is responsible is sometimes all that can be done in any given situation, and that does not always translate into puppy dogs and baskets of kittens. And so-called taking responsibility means a wide variety of things.
So I wonder where the responsibility and the excuses meet--or do they--and all I have are reasons.
1. because iced tea, pitcher, head, and I didn't stop it?
2. because I mean what I say when I say it and I don't know how to stop meaning it later?
3. because I was careful with my heart and got confused when you were the opposite?
4. because I hate to be rigid and i hate to be wrong so I am too thinky?
5. because you suck?
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Brunettes do have more fun
I done dyed my hair dark reddish brown. And I like it.
I used to dye my hair incessantly. And as I have recently been musing on a lot of things, it occurs to me that this says something about who I am and keep forgetting I am, and it is nice to be reminded.
It all started many moons ago. From the time I hit adolescence, I wanted red hair. Actually I probably wanted red hair since I was seven and saw Annie, but I don't recall it being a sticking point until I was in high school. I didn't grow up in the kind of family that would let me goth out like my peers with the Manic Panic, or go to the kind of high school wherein that behavior would be rewarded with less than 10 and 2, or come of age in a time where emo-experimentation was the rule rather than the exception. So, I stayed towheaded throughout four years of high school, aware that it was enough of an accomplishment to have gone from looking like a blonde version of said Little Orphan first day of freshman year (my one and only perm, which I did not want, having naturally curly hair, but was advised by my mom-manager to get instead of the cool assymetrical bob I wanted) to having long curly hair by graduation. The color was a-ok by me so long as I didn't look like a tool.
As a freshie at university, it was all I could do to get my sorry arse to class every morning. I walked around like a bun-head the entire first semester--get up, shower in gross communal dorm bathroom, pile hair atop head, secure with elastic, and go. I have a slide somewhere of me pensive in Spanish class looking like I was being tutored per child labor laws backstage at ABT. Judging from a photo taken the last day of that year, I began to wear it down or half-up, and I can't say it was an improvement over my corps de ballet look.
Sophomore year the long and curly trend continued as it seemed to go best with the frighteningly oversized striped button-down shirts which were my hot-to-trot frat party outfit du jour. Stayed blonde. It was what it was. I was trying on a life I was never meant to live for a while, and the notion of straying from that path was but a heartbeat away. By spring (I love how life is measured in school terms, because it does not involve the word "winter") things were slowly turning out to be different, but I held onto the locks out of fear of going where I wanted to go. What was framing my face--or hiding it from the world--became a foundation on which to slowly start building the me I was supposed to be.
By junior (mints?) time, it was hair today--gone tomorrow. That year was one of the most exhilarating and painful 365 days of my life. I was in love with an unattainable boy who told me I should bob my hair a la Fitzgerald's Berniece and dye it red if I wanted to. The idea that I could actually radically alter my appearance was a novel one. What, he asked, was the big deal? What, I asked myself, indeed? I don't really remember a lot about being that girl, but I do know that she made a clear and bold (for her) decision to change it up. The circumstances of home life that year made this possible--for the first time ever I did not care what my parents would say about pretty much anything I did. And in an interesting side note, the unattainable was attained. Perhaps there was a connection, perhaps not. I do know that one box of Nice'n'Easy and 25 minutes revealed a whole new me. And I rocked the redheaded look for most of that year, enduring sighs and downright insults at the holiday table (from which I subsequently bolted in order to get on with the attaining.) I didn't care. I thought I looked swell, and I know I felt swell. I was rebelling against everything I knew and ever resented and also achieving something I had wanted since belting out "Tomorrow" in the basement circa '85.
Senior year began well. Back to blonde by that fall, I entered the last year of non-reality-based living excited about everything. That year I cut my hair myself into an awesome Reality Bites inspired 'do that made me feel so fucking good, I still remember every snip of the scissors. That was the year I really settled down into being me. Yes, I would change and grow and develop scads over the next decade plus--and my hair would be every shade of the rainbow in the meantime.
Traumatic events often led to a change in appearance. So do acting parts. I moved to California as a barrette-wearing blonde when I was 21. I came back and got dumped and dyed my hair mahogany--it went well with the red-rimmed eyes--I just looked at a picture--I eventually got undumped and for the most part stayed blonde for my twenties, with some dye jobs (including one ill-advised experiment with henna and yak hair extensions) every few years, and lots of growing-it-out-only-to-go-chop-chop again in between. Eventually I decided to stay goldilocked--I thought it was time to settle into me and not be obsessed with switching it up every few months. And it worked. For a long, long time. And for everything else, there was wigs. I went dark again a few years ago because I felt pissed on and pissed off. It was a statement. It was an attempt to make myself as ugly on the outside as I felt I was on the inside. It worked--and after a while I went back to the b. And it was all fine and dandy.
Recently, though, I colored my hair dark, really dark for me, for the first time in about 10 years. And what I have discovered is that, while you can never recapture the hour of splendor in the grass, you can reclaim yourself for yourself--and from yourself--with some Loreal. I know this new look will not last, but there is something refreshing about realizing that the basis for who I am--which was celebrated way (way way) back when with some rebellious cut-and-color action, is still the basis for whom I am now.
It's a bit of a hair-raising situation, to be sure, but as they say on TV, I'm worth it.
I used to dye my hair incessantly. And as I have recently been musing on a lot of things, it occurs to me that this says something about who I am and keep forgetting I am, and it is nice to be reminded.
It all started many moons ago. From the time I hit adolescence, I wanted red hair. Actually I probably wanted red hair since I was seven and saw Annie, but I don't recall it being a sticking point until I was in high school. I didn't grow up in the kind of family that would let me goth out like my peers with the Manic Panic, or go to the kind of high school wherein that behavior would be rewarded with less than 10 and 2, or come of age in a time where emo-experimentation was the rule rather than the exception. So, I stayed towheaded throughout four years of high school, aware that it was enough of an accomplishment to have gone from looking like a blonde version of said Little Orphan first day of freshman year (my one and only perm, which I did not want, having naturally curly hair, but was advised by my mom-manager to get instead of the cool assymetrical bob I wanted) to having long curly hair by graduation. The color was a-ok by me so long as I didn't look like a tool.
As a freshie at university, it was all I could do to get my sorry arse to class every morning. I walked around like a bun-head the entire first semester--get up, shower in gross communal dorm bathroom, pile hair atop head, secure with elastic, and go. I have a slide somewhere of me pensive in Spanish class looking like I was being tutored per child labor laws backstage at ABT. Judging from a photo taken the last day of that year, I began to wear it down or half-up, and I can't say it was an improvement over my corps de ballet look.
Sophomore year the long and curly trend continued as it seemed to go best with the frighteningly oversized striped button-down shirts which were my hot-to-trot frat party outfit du jour. Stayed blonde. It was what it was. I was trying on a life I was never meant to live for a while, and the notion of straying from that path was but a heartbeat away. By spring (I love how life is measured in school terms, because it does not involve the word "winter") things were slowly turning out to be different, but I held onto the locks out of fear of going where I wanted to go. What was framing my face--or hiding it from the world--became a foundation on which to slowly start building the me I was supposed to be.
By junior (mints?) time, it was hair today--gone tomorrow. That year was one of the most exhilarating and painful 365 days of my life. I was in love with an unattainable boy who told me I should bob my hair a la Fitzgerald's Berniece and dye it red if I wanted to. The idea that I could actually radically alter my appearance was a novel one. What, he asked, was the big deal? What, I asked myself, indeed? I don't really remember a lot about being that girl, but I do know that she made a clear and bold (for her) decision to change it up. The circumstances of home life that year made this possible--for the first time ever I did not care what my parents would say about pretty much anything I did. And in an interesting side note, the unattainable was attained. Perhaps there was a connection, perhaps not. I do know that one box of Nice'n'Easy and 25 minutes revealed a whole new me. And I rocked the redheaded look for most of that year, enduring sighs and downright insults at the holiday table (from which I subsequently bolted in order to get on with the attaining.) I didn't care. I thought I looked swell, and I know I felt swell. I was rebelling against everything I knew and ever resented and also achieving something I had wanted since belting out "Tomorrow" in the basement circa '85.
Senior year began well. Back to blonde by that fall, I entered the last year of non-reality-based living excited about everything. That year I cut my hair myself into an awesome Reality Bites inspired 'do that made me feel so fucking good, I still remember every snip of the scissors. That was the year I really settled down into being me. Yes, I would change and grow and develop scads over the next decade plus--and my hair would be every shade of the rainbow in the meantime.
Traumatic events often led to a change in appearance. So do acting parts. I moved to California as a barrette-wearing blonde when I was 21. I came back and got dumped and dyed my hair mahogany--it went well with the red-rimmed eyes--I just looked at a picture--I eventually got undumped and for the most part stayed blonde for my twenties, with some dye jobs (including one ill-advised experiment with henna and yak hair extensions) every few years, and lots of growing-it-out-only-to-go-chop-chop again in between. Eventually I decided to stay goldilocked--I thought it was time to settle into me and not be obsessed with switching it up every few months. And it worked. For a long, long time. And for everything else, there was wigs. I went dark again a few years ago because I felt pissed on and pissed off. It was a statement. It was an attempt to make myself as ugly on the outside as I felt I was on the inside. It worked--and after a while I went back to the b. And it was all fine and dandy.
Recently, though, I colored my hair dark, really dark for me, for the first time in about 10 years. And what I have discovered is that, while you can never recapture the hour of splendor in the grass, you can reclaim yourself for yourself--and from yourself--with some Loreal. I know this new look will not last, but there is something refreshing about realizing that the basis for who I am--which was celebrated way (way way) back when with some rebellious cut-and-color action, is still the basis for whom I am now.
It's a bit of a hair-raising situation, to be sure, but as they say on TV, I'm worth it.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Auld Lang Syne
The day after the new year came upon us, I attended a birthday party for some petite ya-yas that featured the four senior partners of the sisterhood empire. At one point the quartet of us was sitting together, laughing our fool heads off at some inappropriate conversation (cause that is how we do) and I looked over to see the baby wandering contentedly in our sphere with happy toddler-style oblivion, and the queen petite in the corner observing the scene--looking at her mom and the sister-wives with a look of sheer delight in her eyes and a big gap-toothed smile on her beautiful face. And I thought, how cool is that. I hope that somehow this is a memory she will always have in her treasure trove of good times. One of four beautiful women who have been best friends for a terribly long time. Members of a sacred tribe who can finish each others' sentences (even when they should keep their mouths shut), who have weathered many storms and all the births and deaths and celebrations and mean reds that accompany such natural wonders, who have been to hell and back and never let go of each other's hands. And that she (and her sister) will be as lucky as we are, to find so many soulmates on this earth to travel through time with.
After the party, I was driving homewards solo and thinking of all that had happened in 2010 and I thought, I want--no, I need--to write it all down. A top-ten list of 2010 that encompasses the best of the best. And as I was running through the magic moments that had brought me here, I found myself crazy-overwhelmed by one steel thread running through it all--that all you need is love. I wasn't thinking about the lack of cash flow that trumped most months, the everyday trauma of car problems and heath issues and family dramas and heartbreak and ennui and work bullshit and the type-A worry about everything and everyone at any given moment throughout the capstone of the first decade of the millennium.
Not at all, even though some if not all of these events were preceded by such petty concerns at one time or another. Once into the breach, however, all I recall is the sheer joy of laughing with people I love, and sharing experiences that enriched us all, and I thought there has never been a time I have not been loved. At least, circa 2010-style.
The list includes two weddings, several productions of theatrical and musical natures, a few va- and stay-cations, a few parties, general hang-time with cool people, a standing date for a miniseries event, and some ballgames. The number of people involved in all these things is staggering--new pals and old (silver and gold), family near and far and ever-expanding, neighborhood peeps, and a healthy sprinkling of puppy dogs and pussy cats and one rescued betta fish. I met some dandy folks in 2010 who made my life so much better. I experienced seismatic changes in relationships that gave me the strength for what lies ahead. And generally speaking, I laughed until I cried over and over again and one hell of a time.
I am glad I am me. I hate that my highs must be balanced by some serious lows, but when I look back on 2010 it isn't the lows that stand out, and the highs seem less momentous than just the norm, the way it is, how we roll. Dancing, laughing, kissing, toasting, cheering, working, talking, cooking, eating, singing, whispering, sunning, sharing, enjoying, sleeping, breathing--essentially, it was a whole lotta loving the one(s) you're with.
So, beginning 2011 surrounded by more of the same was pretty swell. Start as you mean to go on as my dear neighbor R. says. I am going to try. I hope that the new year is a happy one for me and mine.
After the party, I was driving homewards solo and thinking of all that had happened in 2010 and I thought, I want--no, I need--to write it all down. A top-ten list of 2010 that encompasses the best of the best. And as I was running through the magic moments that had brought me here, I found myself crazy-overwhelmed by one steel thread running through it all--that all you need is love. I wasn't thinking about the lack of cash flow that trumped most months, the everyday trauma of car problems and heath issues and family dramas and heartbreak and ennui and work bullshit and the type-A worry about everything and everyone at any given moment throughout the capstone of the first decade of the millennium.
Not at all, even though some if not all of these events were preceded by such petty concerns at one time or another. Once into the breach, however, all I recall is the sheer joy of laughing with people I love, and sharing experiences that enriched us all, and I thought there has never been a time I have not been loved. At least, circa 2010-style.
The list includes two weddings, several productions of theatrical and musical natures, a few va- and stay-cations, a few parties, general hang-time with cool people, a standing date for a miniseries event, and some ballgames. The number of people involved in all these things is staggering--new pals and old (silver and gold), family near and far and ever-expanding, neighborhood peeps, and a healthy sprinkling of puppy dogs and pussy cats and one rescued betta fish. I met some dandy folks in 2010 who made my life so much better. I experienced seismatic changes in relationships that gave me the strength for what lies ahead. And generally speaking, I laughed until I cried over and over again and one hell of a time.
I am glad I am me. I hate that my highs must be balanced by some serious lows, but when I look back on 2010 it isn't the lows that stand out, and the highs seem less momentous than just the norm, the way it is, how we roll. Dancing, laughing, kissing, toasting, cheering, working, talking, cooking, eating, singing, whispering, sunning, sharing, enjoying, sleeping, breathing--essentially, it was a whole lotta loving the one(s) you're with.
So, beginning 2011 surrounded by more of the same was pretty swell. Start as you mean to go on as my dear neighbor R. says. I am going to try. I hope that the new year is a happy one for me and mine.
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